Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter I

And I don't want the world to see me

'Cause I don't think that they'd understand

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

–

Iris

Goo Goo Dolls

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca Mitchell lives for silences; lives for the serenity in between; between the chasms of separated conversations, of background chatter, of the sounds of her parents fighting.

She finds solace between the crevices of quiescence, finds the music buried and hidden in them, and she listens for them, commits them to memory. She remembers every pitch, every tone, every change, and she immerses herself in it, drowning herself in the music that only she is privy to. 

And when she had first received her (still) favorite pair of headphones from her father as a miserable excuse of an apology for the pending divorce, she had accepted them wholly, without much restraint, before shutting the door in her father’s face.

And she would use them to suffocate the sounds of the chaos around her, to accompany the wondrous silence. The music comforted her. The beats were familiar, the harmonies were easy to understand, and the melody was simple to control.

And Beca likes being in control. She likes knowing what comes next. Likes knowing exactly what she has to say or do to get it right.

Music understands that. Music understands Beca.

It was good for Beca, who only ever needed the music and the silence. It was convenient and it was pleasant enough.

And then she met Chloe.

Chloe’s an entirely new set of music for Beca. She’s uncharted territory, the music sheets that she’s never revised before, a silence that’s not quiet, but not deafening.

Beca had felt overwhelmed, like the stable ground, which she had once situated herself with, had crumbled beneath her. She had been rid of every one of her senses, and she was terrified, alarm clutching at her chest like a vice grip, relentless in its pursuit of inflicting apprehension in her.

She told herself to maintain a sure distance, until she could become familiar with this new form of music, to give herself some time to grasp the concept of this unique brand of melody.

But then, the epiphany that should’ve occurred never happened. And Beca was left in the lurch, never knowing what to expect from Chloe – every moment with the redheaded a capella singer was as unprecedented as the woman herself.

Slowly, painfully, Beca had learned to cope, to let go of her inhibitions for a moment, to read the notes at a prima vista. She learned to become versatile with Chloe’s sui generis way of living. She bent in ways she never knew she could, and she was surprised at how well Chloe complimented her.

Because where Beca was hard, Chloe was soft. Where Beca was a raging sea, Chloe was calming waters. Where Beca was at adagio, Chloe was at allegretto.

Chloe has always been just enough for Beca. Always filling the spaces that she didn’t know were missing.

Their personalities are at other ends of the spectrum, so different, but yet so alike.

And gradually, surely, Beca had started living for more than the silences – she had started living for the music that was Chloe Beale. She began to live for the swift, exciting beat drops and for the effortless syncopated melodies.

She started – starts – to live for Chloe Beale.

And she finds it ironic, how she became one of the very things she loathed; she was a walking rom-com cliché, and while she didn’t like the thought of it, she didn’t hate it entirely either.

Chloe makes her feel like that – like she couldn’t truly hate something that Chloe helped bloom.

It had felt strange for Beca to start to live for something other than silence. She never would’ve thought she could ever come to value something more than that.

But now the silence is deafening for Beca.

For the first time in her life, Beca wishes for noise.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca sits stiffly on the plastic chair, fingers incessantly twisting the loose piece of string that’s hanging limply at the end of her sweater. She keeps her eyes front, never daring to let it stray anywhere else. She forces every part of her to remain still, and she tries to let the silence, the music, comfort her, like it always did, but all it does is smother her in a way she’s never felt before.

She resists the urge to check the time on her watch – she refuses to let herself acknowledge that’s she’s been here for hours. She refuses to let herself to lose hope.

Instead, she lets the silence suffocate her. She lets the music torment her.

She grips her knee tightly, driving her fingertips roughly into the cap, and she’s wincing as she can feel the seconds creep by, taunting her with each excruciating tick.

She’s pretty sure that she would’ve sunk her fingers into her skin if someone hadn’t placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

She flinches harshly at the touch, and then immediately lurches to her feet, a tired apology already slipping past her lips.

She pivots and then steps back, taken aback. She furrows her brows, taking a tentatively step towards the woman in front of her. “Aubrey, wha-“ her throat cracks pitifully at the end and she clears away the hours of misuse in her voice. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in Atlanta right now?”

Aubrey regards her with a feeble smile, drained of its usual Aubrey Posen sureness. “Well, I couldn’t just leave her and you to deal in this mess alone,” she tells Beca, before adding a shrug like an afterthought. “And besides, I'm still one of her emergency contacts."

Beca laughs humorlessly. “Right, of course.” Beca offers, because she knows Aubrey needs this. That Beca, herself, needs this too.

Beca lets her eyes flit back to the door, disgruntled that she had allowed herself to stray away for more than five seconds.

Aubrey scrutinizes her closely before putting her hand on Beca’s arm, a little tentatively at first, and Beca is slightly perplexed by the older woman’s unusual hesitancy.

“How long has it been Becs?” She asks softly.

Beca runs her hands through her hair, tugging through the tufts carelessly. “I…honestly don’t know. I haven’t looked at the time.”

Aubrey keeps quiet, because she knows what Beca truly means. She knows that Beca doesn’t want to think how long it’s been. That Beca doesn’t want to know how many hours have passed without any news. 

And as Aubrey watches Beca stare so fiercely at the door, her heart tugs achingly in her chest, rattles so sharply against her ribs, that she has to take in quiet breath to quell the wave of empathy that’s flooding every part of her now.

She needs to sit down.

She moves forward, grasping Beca’s arm and forcing the both of them to sit back on the rigid chairs.

She watches Beca settle into the chair, fingers digging into her kneecap again, and Aubrey exhales out a shuddering breath, leaning her head back, resting against the wall as she composes herself.

She hadn’t had time to fully absorb what had happened when she was on the plane, but now that’s she here, every one of her senses are slowly dimming, diminishing like the dying embers of a snuffed out flame.

She closes her eyes and takes another moment to restructure every part of her usual Aubrey Posen assuredness and then she’s leaning up again, head held high, posture perfect and graceful.

She turns to Beca to offer words of alleviation. “Becs…she’s going to be fine. She’s a fighter.”

Beca doesn’t look at her; doesn’t take her eyes off the door. Instead she regards Aubrey with an air of restrained anguish. “I know she is. She’s always the strongest of the two of us.”

Aubrey smiles a little at that. She looks down at her hands, plays with them. “S-“ Before she can utter a word out, she’s interrupted by Beca’s abrupt jerk from her seat. Her head whips up and she see the younger woman lurch towards the door, small frame propelling her forward at an ungodly speed.

She stands up herself, slightly more composed but still quick and light on her feet. She makes her over to Beca and the woman that had exited out of the door. She only hears the ending of the conversation, which has her almost jumping in joy.

“The swelling’s gone down, and we’ve given her enough of a morphine dose to help cope with the pain before she wakes up.” The woman tells the both of them, a light smile playing on her lips.

“Thank you. Thank you so much, Doctor,” Beca says, voice tinny and small and full with gratitude. “Can we go and see her now?” She queries, voice thick with recently released tears.

Aubrey doesn’t realize that she’s crying too when she offers her hand to thank the doctor. It’s only when she hears her own voice overcome with emotion that she notes the hot tears that are tumbling down her cheeks.

The doctor gives them the green light, but tells them that she needs to continue to do further testing, but Beca’s already down the hallway, crashing through the room.

Aubrey apologizes on behalf of her friend and then chases after her, sliding into the room and shutting it with a click.

And when Aubrey turns around, she can’t help but let out a small gasp.

Because Chloe is there, face bruised and bloodied, red hair straggly and chaotically splayed across the pillow, several tubes and needles sticking into every part of her, and Aubrey feels her heartbreak before she sees it coming, and then she’s breaking down before she can stop herself.

She allows the tears to spill down, unrestricted, and she sees Beca through the haze of tears. Beca is a hunched, crumpled mess next to Chloe; her petite body trembling with relief – or grief, Aubrey can’t tell because she’s become too busy trying corral back the tears.

They’re even harder to control than Fat Amy, Aubrey thinks.

And she walks over towards the other side of Chloe, and collapses against the rail of the bed, because Chloe is here.

Chloe is bruised. Chloe is unconscious.

But Chloe is alive. 

(Unedited) 

Chapter Text

Chapter II

You've been deep in a coma

But I stood right here

When you thought there was no one

I was still right here

You were scared, but I told you

Open up your eyes

Never stopped being someone who could love you well

Had to show you the hard way

Only time will tell

Revelations and heartaches make you realize

-

Wake Up

The Vamps

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

When Beca could feel Chloe’s pulse beating against her fingertips, she felt the air go out of her like a deflated balloon. She had felt like she could finally breathe. She’s taking in sharp puffs of air now, fingers splayed across Chloe’s palm, and then she stills, taking a moment to commit everything to memory; from the slant of Chloe’s forehead to the small scar above her eyebrow; from the thin stretches of stitches at the left side of her cheek to the loose clench of her jaw.

And Beca can’t help but think that Chloe looks horrible, pale and pallid, but also beautiful nonetheless, because she’s still fighting, spirited and tenacious underneath the mess that the accident left behind in its wake.

But then, suddenly, Beca’s pulled away by Aubrey, who tells her that the doctor wants to explain the extent of Chloe’s injuries, and Beca fights the urge to stay, because every fiber of being is bellowing for her to plant her feet, to grasp Chloe’s face in her hands and kiss her until she wakes up.

But she feels the fight leave her in an instant when Aubrey sends a knowing glance, and she obeys, follows the blonde towards the doctor, who greets them at the entrance of Chloe’s room. She directs them towards a board that holds up a dozen photographic scans.

The doctor starts to slowly begin the process of her explanation, informing them that Chloe has three broken ribs, a crushed lung, a broken arm, and a fractured skull. The doctor also informs them that Chloe needs to be kept in a comatose state due to the intracranial hemorrhaging in her skull.

“The brain needs to heal itself as the swelling subsides,” The woman tells Beca quietly but surely. “Once she’s stable, we’ll start to slowly wean her off it.”

“And how long will that take?” Aubrey asks, and Beca’s once again thankful for the former Bella’s presence, much to her surprise and muted dismay.

“It’s hard to say. Different patients recover at different rates,” the woman replies. “We’ll monitor her daily to see if there’s any changes in her CT scans that can tell us if the swelling’s gone down.”

“All we can do is wait,” The doctor advises, when they've been quiet for too long, gently giving a comforting nod of acknowledgement that’s aimed at Beca.

The woman continues to explain every injury that Chloe has sustained in extensive and grave detail, and all Beca can do is try not to cry.

She can barely look at the scans without feeling nauseous. She averts her gaze from it, and settles it anywhere else. She knows she should pay close attention, and she usually does. She usually gives everything related to Chloe some careful consideration, but now, she finds herself at a standstill, where she can’t look but she can’t not look as well.

So she does what she does best and keeps to the silence, mute throughout the whole conversation between the doctor and Aubrey and herself, nodding occasionally to acknowledge her understanding of the matter.

The doctor makes it short and simple but Beca is struggling to keep up, because all she can hear is how it’s difficult to tell if Chloe might fully recover, or if she’d even wake up at all.

Beca briefly wonders why they hadn't informed her of this from the get do, but then the doctor tells her that it was only difficult to tell when they had run further examinations and tests.

The plausibility of the last outcome, however, terrifies Beca to her very core. It rattles and shakes her, thrusting her violently off her axis, and she’s left reeling, breathless and gasping as she feels everything around her cave in at once, staggering and devastating and paralyzing.

And she’s thankful for Aubrey’s steady hand on her shoulder because she can feel herself beginning to buckle, trembling and crumbling like crushed glass as she eases herself into the chair tucked to Chloe’s side.

She sinks down, languid and weighed down by the information that was disclosed to her. Her hand absentmindedly reaches for Chloe’s, feathery and light as she plays with Chloe’s bruised fingers, touching every contour, every curve, fingers tenderly treading over the band on the ring finger. She feels every ridge, every crevice of the band, finding absurd at how the stress of the proposal seems so trivial now.

“Beca,” She hears Aubrey breathe behind her, and she glances up, realizing that the doctor’s already left them to their own devices.

She turns around, away from Aubrey’s steely gaze and sets her sight on Chloe. Her beautiful Chloe, who’s perpetually thrumming and abundant in her elegance, her casual and effortless magnetism always pulling Beca along, and Beca can’t help but react, circling around her like she’s the only sun Beca sees - which she is.

She’s just a little muted now. Just a little ripped at the edges, Beca thinks sadly, her other hand grazing across Chloe’s discolored cheek reverently.

“Beca,” Aubrey says again, more insistent and Beca purses her lips in recognition.

“You need to eat.” Aubrey tells her, and Beca knows she has no room to argue, but she still does anyway, because Beca is still a stubborn asshole even in the face of adversity.

“No, I don’t. You’re not my mother or Chloe, Aubrey. You can’t force me to.” Beca tells her, albeit a little too childishly for a twenty-nine year old, married woman. She can feel the exasperation radiating off the former Bella.

“Please, just do what I ask for once. I’m honestly too tired to drag your Hobbit ass down to the cafeteria right now.”

Beca throws a glance over her shoulder, her free hand clenching the loose blanket that’s thrown over Chloe’s legs. “I can’t leave her, Bree.” Her voice is almost small. Tinny.

Aubrey softens for a fraction of a second. “She’ll still be here, Becs.” She assures the younger girl, hand on her arm.

Beca cringes as something in her snaps, stinging and fierce, ricocheting inside her like a misfired bullet. And then Beca’s lurching to her feet, fingers still intertwined with Chloe’s, and she feels every part of her resolve crack, fracturing in the middle, and shattering everything that’s bottled within, and the anger is sharp and hot in her belly. She feels it seize her and wrap her up in its clutch.

“She’s here because of me, Bree!” Beca shouts, and Aubrey’s startled by her sudden outburst, which is bizarre, because she’s been prone to plenty of Beca Mitchell breakdowns, but this one feels different, because something in her says that this might end up being irreparable. And the thought alarms her a little. Alarms her enough to rouse from her stupefied demeanor.

“It’s not your fault,” She says, using the voice she’d normally use for stressed out business executives at her Lodge. One she remembers using on a stressed out super senior Chloe Beale as well.

Beca actually looks appalled. She recovers quickly, neck straining as she leans forward. “I was the one who had asked her to come and pick me up from the airport,” She exclaims in a splutter, finger jabbing at her own chest. “If I had just taken a cab, if I was just a little more patient at the thought of seeing Chloe, she wouldn’t be here.”

“I-“

“If it wasn’t for me, she would be awake and unscathed!” Beca’s yelling then, hot tears spilling out from the corners of her scrunched eyes. “She would be telling us those damn puns or showing us those cute animal pictures she always manages to find with that stupidly, adorable smile of hers!”

Beca quiets down then, hiccupping a little as she leans down to brush away a flyaway strand of hair out of Chloe’s face. “If she didn’t come to pick me, she would be home right now, telling me about her students. And we’d be home having dinner and laughing at things that don’t even make any sense,” Beca says, strangled, as she presses a kiss to Chloe’s temple, delicate and benevolent. “If it wasn’t for me, Chloe wouldn’t have so many odds stacked up against her.”

Beca turns to Aubrey then, eyes red and blotchy at the edges. What she whispers next causes Aubrey’s second heartbreak for the day.

“I put Chloe in this hospital bed.”

Aubrey honestly can’t take a third heartbreak. She’s afraid she might go into cardiac arrest.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca had taken off after that declaration, excusing herself as she’d rubbed at the corner of her eyes, smudging her heavily applied eyeliner.

Aubrey had fought the urge to pull Beca back, and let the woman go, watching her small frame scurrying off and out of sight.

So much for not leaving Chloe’s side, Aubrey remarks to herself pensively.

Aubrey pushes out a dense sigh, and drops next to Chloe, hand reaching for the woman’s forearm, searching for that tiny ladybug tattoo that’s that tucked there. Her fingers skim against soft skin, and she trails her hand up to Chloe’s wrist, feeling the steady pulse there.

“Oh, Chloe, please wake up,” She tells the woman, pushing herself up from her seat a little to plant a kiss at Chloe’s temple. “The world will be a dimmer place without you if you don’t.”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The rest of the Bellas arrive slowly, trickling into the hospital and into Chloe’s room like molten lava. In their hands holds the gifts for their former co-captain, and they settle it down at the table across from Chloe’s bed.

Jessica and Ashley had brought in a scrapbook filled with the events of Chloe’s life, post-graduation, - which, to a certain extent, had included Beca’s as well, because whenever there had been a significant moment in Chloe’s life, Beca was always there to witness it or experience it – and Aubrey gives them a small smile of quiet gratitude as they briefly flip through the pages.

Cynthia Rose and Flo had brought in flowers and balloons, while Lily had placed a suspicious-looking package on the end table beside Chloe, telling Aubrey in that usual imperceptible tone of voice, to “not open it until she is awake,” which prompted Aubrey to swiftly put it as far away as possible from Chloe when Lily turned her attention somewhere else.

Stacie had brought in empty beer bottles, greatly confusing the rest, but she’d claimed that it’s an inside joke between her and the redhead, and the Bellas had decided to not question it when they saw the sharp looks the leggy brunette had sent their way.

Fat Amy just told them that her presence was enough of a gift for the recovering redhead.

“Where’s Beca?” Stacie asks Aubrey, after all the Bellas had settled down in the room.

“I don’t know,” Aubrey replies. “But we should give her some space...you know Beca needs more time to process things than the average human.”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca’s sat between the vending machine and the janitor’s closet, laptop perched precariously on her knees as she fingers glide over the track pad, sliding and syncing tracks into place as she feels the steady beat of the music pulse heavily against her skull, the bass shrouding over her like a cozy blanket.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been there; wedged uncomfortably in the small space she’d slotted herself in. But she keeps mixing, putting everything that’s pouring out of her like a steady stream, a ceaseless current of melody spouting out from the tap of her inspiration, borne from the grief and the shame and guilt.

And she mixes, and mixes, and mixes, until she can’t feel anything else besides the flutter of the rhythm taking over her. Slowly, she saves her work, and puts the song on replay, closing her bloodshot eyes.

She lets herself drift into the cadency of the song, and steels herself for what’s about to come. Steels herself for the trials and tribulations that sure to come to Chloe’s way. Steels herself for she needs to do. What she needs to prepare for if Chloe doesn’t truly wake up.

She lets the tears fall freely then – lets them slip down her cheeks and drip onto her shirt, and she’s properly sobbing now, sniveling and blubbering like a child, and she can’t help but laugh, because she shouldn’t be crying. She should be there by Chloe’s side, relentless and hopeful for her recovery, and Beca wants to. She wants to be that.

But she can’t.

Beca knows she’s a realist. She knows that life doesn’t always work out like the movies that Jesse and Chloe always made her watch – oh, how she wishes that it did though. She wishes on it so much.

“I’m really impressed, Becaw. You’ve managed to fit into the smallest of places,” His voice startles her, drawing her out of her thoughts, and she looks up, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Jess?” Beca whispers, voice croaky.

“Hey,” He greets her with a wistful twist of his lips.

He slides down next to Beca as she tries to compose herself.

“How is she?” Jesse asks, his voice a little too solemn for Beca’s liking.

“Doctor says there’s a lot of swelling in her brain, and they’re not sure if she’s gonna wake up after they take her off the drugs,” Beca tells him reticently.

He’s quiet for a second, lips pursed, before he sighs, scratching at the back of his neck. “God, Becs…that’s sucks…I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, I know. It sucks ass,”

“Anything I can do?”

“Build a time machine and stop the bastard from crashing into Chloe.”

“I suppose I can try…can’t guarantee it though.”

Beca can’t but smile. It’s imperceptible and it’s tired and it’s barely even a smile, but she feels the weight lift of her shoulder for a fleeting moment. And then she’s cradling her head in her hands, leaning forward as she burrows herself between her knees.

“God, Jesse…What am I doing? I should be there with her, not crying my damn eyes out,” Beca murmurs through her fingers. “I’m the worst wife ever.”

“No, it doesn’t. It just shows that you’re human. That you have feelings and that you’re afraid of losing her,” Jesse replies. “Despite the badass façade that you like present to others, you are human, Beca. You do care.”

Beca sighs, coughing a little to relieve the remnants of the hoarseness her cry fest had left behind. “Thanks, asshole.”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca doesn’t know how long’s she been at the hospital. She can remember going back to their apartment and packing her and Chloe’s clothes in a duffel bag and checking into a motel near the hospital, but then days had seemed to blur together, uniting like two trailing raindrops meeting at the end.

Days had turned to weeks and weeks began to turn into months and Beca just gave up on counting and keeping track of the days.

Instead she starts to focus her days on waiting at Chloe’s side and begins her mornings working on her laptop from the uncomfortable chairs of the hospital as well as rigorously and religiously depending on stale vending machine coffee.

She ends the day with daily updates on Chloe’s progress. So far, the doctor tells her that it’s hopeful. And Beca’s relieved, but there’s this nagging feeling at the back of her head that tells her that it’s not going to be that simple.

She pushes these thoughts back though; shoves it into the deepest depths of her mind, and opts for optimism – key word on opts – and so far it’s working. Beca’s not breaking down at the thought of Chloe never fully recovering – in fact, the thought hardly ever crosses her mind now.

Beca’s working on editing the latest song her newest artist had recorded, and she’s bleary eyed and coffee deprived when Aubrey pops by, her signature composed, unflappable smile reigning on her face.

“Here,” She says, handing Beca a large cup of steaming, hot coffee.

Beca eyes the cup warily. “Why have been you so nice to me recently?” She questions dubiously.

Aubrey rolls her eyes and lets out an aggravated sigh. “Because Chloe would want me to take care of you. Now drink your coffee before I take it away.”

“…Fine,” Beca relents, taking the cup into her hands and taking in a whiff, enjoying the scent that engulfs her senses. “Bless your soul,” Beca mumbles, around a mouth full of scalding caffeine.

Aubrey shakes her head at the brunette’s antics and treads over to Chloe. “How is she?” Aubrey asks, settling down by her side. She runs her hand over the woman’s cheek.

“The doc says that Chloe might fully recover. The swelling’s gone down a lot, and they’ve started to wean her off the drugs already.”

“So, she might wake up?”

“They’re pretty sure,” Beca says with a small smile.

Aubrey turns to her, a thinly veiled grin of delighted twisting her lips. She opens her mouth to question whether Beca’s showered recently as she takes in the younger woman’s appearance, when she’s interrupted by Beca’s sudden lurch towards the bed.

“She- Chloe’s waking up!” 

Chapter Text

Chapter III

I knew it once, but I forgot

I'm going through changes now

We want everything but what we got

I'm going through changes now 

-

Changes

Langhorne Slim & The Law

Chloe wakes up with a horribly peculiar taste in her mouth.

Her head throbs like someone’s been playing the drums all night long in there, and she groans, squinting and blinking her eyes rapidly as she comes to, bright lights flooding her senses before her headache increases tenfold.

She’s greeted by the faces of Aubrey, Beca, and the doctor, who’s surrounding her bed with quiet smiles on their faces.

She smacks her lips a little, wetting them as she croaks out her confusion. “Whe- where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital, Chloe. You’ve been in a car accident recently. You hit your head, but you’re all right now.” The doctor tells her warmly.

“Wha- I was in an accident?” Chloe wheezes out, eyes still squinted to protect her from the sudden harsh glare of fluorescent lights.

“Yes,” The woman says, stepping forward to examine Chloe better. “How do you feel?”

“My head hurts, like someone’s been playing bad music very loudly, for a very long time,” Chloe informs her. Beca and Aubrey glance apprehensively at the doctor who shoots them an assuaging glance back.

“Well, that’s perfectly normal,” the dark-haired doctor assures. “I’ll get you something for that.”

She turns to a nurse and starts to prescribe Chloe some morphine.

Chloe faces Aubrey as the doctor continues to reel off what she needs. Chloe’s red curls bounce haphazardly across her shoulders as she pivots. “Bree, how long have I been out?” She asks the blonde, who smiles at her tenderly.

“Two and a half months,”

Chloe’s taken aback. So much so that her mouth drops open. “Two months?” She utters incredulously. “I must’ve missed auditions then! Shit, what happened? Did you manage to recruit new members?”

Aubrey furrows her brow in response, glancing at Beca for an explanation. A mirror of her own bewilderment greets her as Beca settles by her side.

“Chloe…what auditions?” Aubrey asks, softly; carefully.

Chloe frowns, the space between her eyebrows crinkling. “The auditions for the new Bellas?”

Beca feels her stomach drop then. Hears it clatter noisily at the bottom. She leans forward a little, licking her lips in tepid anticipation. “Chlo…you know who I am, right?”

Chloe purses her lips and scrutinizes the brunette for a considerable amount of time before slowly nodding her head. “I think so…I think we met at the Activities Fair? Beca, right?”

Beca feels her heart implode on itself. Hears its downfall as it meets its fateful end. “Um…Chloe...I’m your wife.” She whispers, settling down next to her.

She watches as Chloe leans back, shock overwhelming her as she exhales out a breath of disbelief. Beca tilts forward, reaching for Chloe’s hand to offer some sort of comfort but the older woman shies away, and Beca stops short, retracting her hand back hastily. She tries to veil the look of hurt that flashes on her face with a passive purse of her lips.

Warily, as if Chloe’s afraid of damaging something, she raises her left hand, examining the beautiful golden band with astonishment. Beca can’t bear to look at her anymore, can’t stand to feel the look of empathy that Aubrey must sending her now.

She lurches to her feet, ignoring the calls of her name as she stumbles down to the hall, already feeling the familiar of tears form behind her eyelids.

“Mrs. Beale-Mitchell!” She attempts to ignore the doctor’s call for her, but then she feels a hand yank her back with a sudden and swift tug. She wrenches away, continuing her pace down the hallway.

“You said that everything was good,” Beca cries out in exasperation, running her hands through the tangled strands of her unwashed hair.

“Mrs. Beale-Mitchell, brain injuries aren’t like broken bones or cuts. They’re not as predictable,” The woman, informs her, pivoting to face her. “Sometimes when the swelling tissue presses against the skull, it can cause some impairment.”

“Some impairment?” Beca utters out in disbelief. “My wife doesn’t remember me!”

The woman presses on when Beca tries to turn away again. “Even when she’s awake, the swelling might cause confusion or memory loss – even mood swings.”

“What?” Beca coughs out, a sour taste in her mouth as she pushes past to doctor.

“But that’s normal!”

Beca responds by punching the wall.

Not the smartest move.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Chloe watches the petite brunette race out of the room dazedly. She feels awful, as if she had committed a wrongful act. She feels the remorse pull at her, but she’s uncertain of the cause. She knows she hasn’t done anything wrong – well, anything that she can recall.

Chloe tips forward, reaching for Aubrey’s hand to relieve the turmoil that’s raging within her. She pulls the blonde close as she holds up her left hand, displaying the wedding band that’s placed so delicately on her finger. “Bree…how can I be married? I was just with Tom yesterday!”

“Chloe, you haven’t been with Tom since senior year,” Aubrey informs the redhead, twisting her hand so it intertwines with Chloe’s.

“What?” Chloe squeaks out, almost inaudible. “Aren’t we still in our senior year?”

Aubrey sends her friend a strained smile as she runs her thumb over her knuckles. “You graduated eight years ago, Beale.”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Chloe hasn’t seen the tiny brunette for hours. She stirs in her bed restlessly, fidgeting with the gold band on her finger as she keeps a vigilant watch for the brunette’s arrival.

It’s almost two a.m. when she gives up and shifts out of her bed, tugging on the jacket that was provided for her. She wrestles it over her shoulders with minimal difficulty and treads out of her room. Her feet lead her down the hallway, where it expands to the waiting area, and she spots the petite woman immediately.

She makes her way towards the woman, and prods her shoulder with a gentle poke.

The brunette stirs brusquely, glancing over her shoulder with an icy glare, as if casting a curse upon those who had dragged her out of her slumber. She springs up from her position on the couch when she realizes that it’s Chloe.

“Chlo? What are you doing out here?” She croaks out, sleep still quite evident in her voice as she rubs her eyes.

The redhead smiles softly, brushing away the stray strand of hair that had managed to free itself from the ridge above her ear. “Beca, right?”

Beca nods and shifts on her feet, stiff and slightly uncomfortable.

“Yeah, I couldn’t confirm that when you ran out of the room.” Chloe says softly.

Beca lets out a puff of stiff laughter. “Yeah…sorry about that.”

Chloe can’t help but think the brunette’s awkward unease is endearing. Adorable even. She tries to quell down the smile threatens to overtake her face. Tries, but ultimately fails.

“What are you up to now?”

“Sleeping…?”

Chloe grin grows a little bigger at the brunette’s tone. “Right…well, Becs, I was wondering if I could confirm some stuff with you…mostly about me and about…us.”

Beca arches one of her eyebrows with an artful curve as she tries to calm the thrumming of her heart at the word “Becs”. It’s funny how a little alteration of her name could cause her heart to somersault so violently in her chest. “I’m surprised that Aubrey hasn’t filled you in about everything.”

Chloe shrugs, lets out a brief chuckle. “She wanted to, but she told me that I should let you tell me,” Chloe drawls, tugging at the ends of her jacket. “Since you’re my…wife.”

Beca deflates a little at Chloe’s hesitancy of the title that she’d once so proudly announced, but complies at the request nonetheless. “Come on. Let’s get some food and I’ll try to answer anything you’re unsure about.”

The redhead falters a little as Beca strides forward, feet shuffling towards the cafeteria.

“I-“ Chloe pauses, the tugs at her jacket becoming more forceful.

Beca, recognizing the signs of distress in her wife, stops and offers her a pacifying smile. “I can’t think on an empty stomach,” She tells Chloe dryly, who lets out a giggle of quiet reprieve.

“That’s understandable,” The redhead says with amusement. “You haven’t been eating the jello that they’ve offering me after all.” She adds in a wink for good measure. “It’s utterly divine.”

Beca lets a laugh escape, which had sounded so distant and foreign to her own ears. Beca feels like she hasn’t let out a laugh like that in a long time.

“Well, that’s a blessing in disguise I suppose,” She murmurs, and gestures for Chloe to go before her.

“Ladies first,”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

“So…we’re married.” Chloe asks Beca, testing how the word tastes on her lips – it tastes bittersweet for Beca, foreign but not unwelcome for Chloe - as she shuffles down, loading an apple to her tray.

Beca smiles faintly. “Yeah,”

“And I graduated from Barden three years late,” Chloe adds, sounding almost resentful of her previous decision.

Beca falters a moment then, hand frozen midair during her reach for the packed salad. “Um…you stayed for the Bellas,” Beca replies thickly, grabbing two of the boxes of salad and loading it onto their trays.

“And for me,” Beca adds later, struggling to cover up the silence on Chloe’s part.

“I stayed for you?” Chloe’s not surprised, just…taken aback - if it makes any sense. She’d always believed she’d do anything for the person she loves, but she just didn’t expect herself to delay her graduation for someone she met at college.

She’d always thought that those she had flings with in college would just be, well…flings. Until she had started dating Tom, and it was terrifying because she had assumed that that was the real thing, and well, she supposes that it must’ve just been a lapse in judgment when she looks at it now.

I must’ve really loved Beca a lot, Chloe thought pensively.

“I mean, you said that you were afraid to leave Barden as well, but…yeah, you told me that it was mostly because of…me.” Beca finishes with an awkward cough.

“Did I get my degree in Russian Lit?” Chloe asks.

“No…you ended up getting a major in education instead,” Beca tells her, leaning forward to put a hand on the redhead’s arm.

“What?”

“Wel-“

“The last time I wanted to be a teacher, I was eighteen.” Chloe mutters, turning away. “What changed?”

Beca sighs, feeling like she was transported back to her sophomore year, visions of memories that send snapshots of a thoroughly conflicted Chloe Beale, pacing back and forth in her room, fiery hair flouncing about in a flaming blur as she rattled off about her indecision in majors.

What I would give to go back to that time now, Beca thinks with a hearty sigh.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

“I think you need to see that Chloe losing her memory is a good thing,” Fat Amy says, reclining in her seat.

“Yeah, because traumatic brain injury is such a blessing, Amy.” Beca remarks caustically, her sharp tongue getting the better of her.

“You’re an idiot,” Stacie comments, taking a swig out of the bottle of wine that’s passed to her.

“It is! I mean, since Chloe doesn’t remember her, she won’t remember all the stupid stuff that Shortstack’s done,” Amy drawls on, planting her feet onto the coffee table before her. “And let’s admit it – it’s Beca, so like ninety-five percent of their arguments are most likely built upon her stupidity.”

“No offense,” the Australian offers, after Beca shoots her a particularly biting scowl.

“But if she doesn’t remember who Beca is, then she won’t remember that she’s in love with her,” Emily pipes up from her position beside Stacie, tone almost forlorn.

“Frankly, I’m surprised that you two even managed to get together,” Amy admits, taking the bottle of wine from Stacie’s grasp.

“Yeah, I mean, you’re the not the most adept in noticing signs of attraction,” Aubrey agrees from her perch on one of the couches.

“Gee, thanks, Bree.” Beca says with a dramatic roll of her eyes.

“Becs, we practically had to almost drown you two so you could finally realize that you were in love with her,” Stacie says, crossing one long leg over another. “I’d say that’s pretty oblivious.”

“I just didn’t want to screw up our relationship,” Beca protests, but as per usual, the Bellas steamroll over her objection in favor of teasing their former captain.

“Yeah, and if anything, you’re not even the most attractive or experienced lesbian in the pile here,” Amy says, depositing another generous amount of wine into her system. “That goes down to Cynthia Rose, and well…me, if I ever do decide to bat for the other team.”

“God, you guys are relentless,” Beca says, yielding to their teasing by burying her face in her hands. “And I’ve told you guys, I’m bisexual, not lesbian.”

“They’re just trying to relieve some of the tension, Beca,” Emily offers kindly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Beca pauses for a moment, silent, before she lets out a sigh.

“I know,” Beca mutters through her fingers, before straightening up and squaring her shoulders to offer her gratitude for the Bellas’ support.

It’s strange, because Beca hardly ever offers any grateful regard to any of the Bellas, but she’s been feeling like this is long overdue.

“Thank you, guys. Really,” Beca says. “Chloe and I are grateful for the support. And…I guess I couldn’t have made it through this without the support that you weirdos gave me.”

“Our fearless leader, as eloquent and sentimental as ever,” Stacie says with a small smile, swiping back the bottle and raising it above her head like she’s giving a toast.

Beca smiles in response but it’s tired, and half-hearted and the group quiets down out of kind courtesy. Stacie puts away the bottle and lurches to her feet, coming to pause in front of Beca. She places her hand on the smaller woman’s.

“What if she doesn’t remember me, Stace? Like, ever?” Beca questions, voice small and tinny and so vulnerable - a sight that all of the Bellas are hardly ever allowed to witness.

“She’s going to remember you, Becs. She’s gonna remember all of us, alright?” Stacie says.

“Yeah. We’re her family.” Emily adds, and the rest of the Bellas murmur in agreement.

“Yeah, Shortstack…the Bellas are for life. We’re always going be here for you and the Ginger,” Amy says, voice becoming unusually somber. “She can’t forget us.”

“Yeah...you’re right.” Beca acquiesces, though her tone suggests that she’s not so easily convinced.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The ride back to their apartment is a strained one. The silence suffocates Beca in every corner, crawling and wriggling into every crevice and ridge that she’s trying so hard to block out.

For the second time in her life, Beca wishes for noise. For noise to fill up the silences that had once settled in after a session of witty banter or lewd suggestions (courtesy of one incredibly turned on Chloe Beale, which was almost always supported by an equally turned on Beca Mitchell) had dwindled to a gentle halt.

Beca dares to cast a glance over to Chloe, who’s peering out of the passenger window, hands twisted in the fabric of her sweater. Beca’s hands itch to move and soothe the tightened muscles, to run her hands over to the whitened knuckles, but every fiber of her being is locked tight.

So, Beca does what she does best. She tries to ignore everything. She stems down this feeling of hopelessness; this feeling of choking unfamiliarity. She buries it into every part of her, snuffing it out like an open flame.

She forces herself to keep her eyes on the road, hands readjusting their deathly grip on the steering wheel. Her hand, now wrapped tightly in white bandages, strains sorely against the sudden tension.

God, punching the wall was such a genius move, Beca winces, an absolutely freaking brilliant move.

“What happened to your hand?” Chloe murmurs out softly, fingers brushing against the bandages in worry.

Beca feels every part of her alight with such a feathery touch, and for a moment, she feels utterly pathetic, as she fights against the desire to turn her hand and wrap her fingers around Chloe’s.

“Oh, it’s nothing. It was an accident,” Beca said with a shrug of her arm.

Chloe lifts an eyebrow in disbelief, but does not voice it out.

They continue to drive in silence.

Beca wants to scream.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

“So, erm…welcome home.” Beca says, shuffling into the hallway. She yanks out the keys from the lock, lugging the duffel bag that holding her and Chloe’s clothes and setting it down. She flicks on the lights as she moves to stand in front of Chloe.

“This is our place?” Chloe says in muted wonder, glancing around to take in her surroundings.

It’s a comfy place – big and spacious, but not as daunting as most gigantic houses seem. It’s decorated warmly, with pleasant colors and décor, and Chloe sees splashes of herself adorning every section of Beca’s home.

Sorry…their home.

Her heart sinks a little.

Beca rubs her hands together, keys dangling in noisy succession as she nods. “Yeah,” She glances around, loops her hand around the strap of the duffel bag, and flicks her head towards the direction of the living room. “Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa.”

Beca cringes at what came out of her mouth. Chloe can’t help but find that incredibly adorable. “I’ll just go and put our stuff away now.” She nods, pivoting on the heel of her foot and making her way to their bedroom.

As Beca busies herself with stowing away their things, Chloe liberates herself to take a look around. Her eyes wander around the populous amounts of pictures that have made a home on the walls and shelves.

Most of them consist of her and Beca, in many different settings and attire, but with the same over joyous grins, and she chooses to turn a blind eye on them, focusing on the photos that feature other people instead of just them, and some stand out to her in jarring familiarity, and for a moment, she’s tracing her fingers across Aubrey’s beaming face, a tender smile on her face, and then she’s frowning at the faces that hold the similar significance akin to a stranger for her, and Chloe suddenly feels sick to her stomach.

Chloe tries to squash down this feeling of queasiness, trying not to accustom herself with these friendly, smiling faces, but she can’t because all she’s seeing a beautiful life that she no longer knows and then she struggling to breathe – this is too much to take in, too much to understand, too much lost memories to recollect. Suddenly, she feels herself being pulled away and wrapped into slim but strong and sure arms.

She feels her face being pressed into a shoulder, and there’s a strange dampness that greets her. It takes Chloe a moment to clear up her cluttered mind to recognize that she’s crying, and then just a quick as the realization came, she rips herself away from Beca’s hold, scrambling a few feet away.

She blurs out the look of distress and agony that’s on Beca’s face and turns away to compose herself.

“I-I’m sorry,” She utters out with a hiccup, and she hates how she sounds.

“No, Chlo, no,” Beca says, taking a step closer to Chloe before she even realizes it, and then she’s reeling back, squeamish at the unusual distance between them.

“Just…Just give me a minute,” Chloe says, waving her hand away in dismissal.

Beca swallows down the dry lump in her throat and gently eases herself to Chloe’s side, making sure to keep herself at a respectable distance. For all of Chloe’s need for personal touch, Beca knows that Chloe needs space when overwhelmed. “I-“ Beca licks her lips, and gives herself a few seconds to compose herself. “I know it’s hard, Chlo. It’s a lot to take in, but just know that I’m here for you, okay?”

“I barely know you, Beca,” Chloe states stonily.

“Then you can get to know me again,” Beca offers her a soft smile.

“I don’t think it works that way,” Chloe responds, but there’s a faint laugh bubbling up her throat, so Beca doesn’t take it too much to heart.

“Says who?” Beca replies and Chloe shakes her head, a small smile shining through the haze of diminishing tears.

“God, are you always such a smartass?”

“Hey, you found it very endearing,” Beca shoots back quickly, but as though realizing the brevity behind her word, quietly retreats, sinking a little into herself. “Once upon a time.”

Chloe forces a tight smile onto her, silently glancing down at her restless hands. Her mother always said that this was a result of being such a blazing, spirited soul. Chloe breathes a little better at the thought. At least there are still some memories in that ol’ noggin of hers.

“Yeah, I’m sure I did,” Chloe relents, brushing away a rebellious curl of hair.

Chloe dispels out a long puff of air, and turns to Beca, running her hands through her hair in slightly frazzled manner. “Look, Beca, I just…I just need some time…and some space,” She says, and rushes to explain further as she watches Beca’s face fall. “I’m just not feeling very myself right now, and I need a moment to gather my thoughts.”

Beca nods. “Yeah, of course,” She stands up and brushes off her jeans. “Why don’t you head into the bedroom, and I’ll make some dinner? If you’re hungry?”

Chloe offers her a polite, but foreign, smile. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

Beca returns it back with a lackluster smile of her own. “Great.”

Just great.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca wakes with a painful kink in her neck – she groans as she flips over, tossing aside the blankets with reckless abandon. Slowly, she lifts herself up, wincing as she works at the knot on the back of her neck.

She briefly thinks about how she needs to buy a better bed for the guest room. 

Groggily, she trudges her way to the bathroom, and knocks over a nude Chloe Beale. Well, almost nude.

She grabs hold of Chloe, who nearly topples over, and rights her. Chloe shuffles away for a moment after that, anxiously scratching the back of her neck.

“Sorry – I didn’t see you there,” Chloe lets out a loose laugh, brushing aside the wet strands of hair that managed to stick to her cheek.

“It’s okay. It’s the morning,” Beca replies, squinting her sleep-lidded eyes.

Chloe laughs again for a moment, before pausing. She glances down, as if remembering where she was – which was standing around, half-naked, with her hot wife (of whom she cannot remember. Ah, life’s such a bitch).

“Um, I should probably get changed.”

This snaps Beca out of her daze. “Right. Yeah, of course.”

She’s a little amused when she notices that Beca’s still staring. “While I’m pretty confident about all of this, a girl still needs some privacy.” She says, gesturing to herself.

Beca raises an eyebrow. The words fall out of her mouth before she can stop herself. “You should be,” She replies, before letting out a small chuckle.

Chloe cocks her head to the side in confusion. “What?”

Beca offers her a tender smile. For the first time in months, she feels as if things could really be all right. “Get changed, Beale. I’ll explain it to you later,”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

“So, do you normally do this everyday?” Chloe asks, glancing down at the gorgeous presentation of pancakes that stacked onto her plate.

Beca hides her smile behind her coffee cup. “Sometimes.”

Chloe raises an eyebrow as she takes a bite. “Well, a girl can get used to this.”

Beca lets out a laugh as she finishes up her pancakes. She scrapes off the last bit and watches Chloe polish off hers.

“How are you feeling?” Beca asks, setting aside her coffee.

“Don’t worry about me, okay? Just go about your normal routine.” Chloe tells her, fiddling with the edge of her sweatshirt.

Beca furrows her brows and opens her mouth to protest, but Chloe beats her to it. “The doctor said that I needed to re-establish myself with my old routine,”

“Okay, fair enough.” Beca relents.

“So, do you have a job?” Chloe asks, after a moment of silence as she pushes aside her empty plate.

Beca purses her lips in amusement. “Yeah. I do. I’m a music producer.”

“What? That’s so cool!” Chloe exclaims excitedly, semblances of the old Chloe bubbling up. She’s leaning forward, coffee mug tightly clasped in her hands. “Who are you working with? Or are you an artist as well?”

Beca chuckles and can’t help but lean closer to Chloe. She lowers her voice to a faux conspiratorial whisper. “Well, between you and me…I’m currently working with Justin Timberlake,”

Beca watches Chloe’s eyes light up, and then she leans back, smirking as she takes a slow sip of her coffee. “I can’t say anything else. Producer/client confidentiality.”

“That’s so not fair! You can’t just drop a bomb like that and not tell me anything else,” Chloe pouts, pushing away her mug and folding her arms.

Beca just shrugs, grabbing all the dishes and placing them into the sink, dismissing Chloe’s protests that she can clean. “It’s fine. We take turns. It’s mine today.”

Beca can feel Chloe narrow her eyes at her as she faces the sink. “So, um, what is my routine? What do I normally do all day?”

“Well, you normally wake me up at the ass crack of dawn,” Beca says, turning around to pointedly gesture at the clock on the wall. “Which, thankfully, didn’t happen today.” She adds, turning on the tap to rinse the plates.

Chloe lets out a breathy laugh. “I’m guessing that we can’t check that off the list then,”

“No, we can’t. Um, then you check your emails and pay the bills…which I’m guessing you don’t remember the passwords to…” Beca says, stopping for a second to brush away a stray strand of hair from her face. “So, I’ll do that.”

Chloe smiles weakly. “Heh, thanks…so, what do I do after that?”

“Well, since it’s a Saturday, we usually go to the farmer’s market or you normally go upstairs to your studio to paint,” Beca says, shutting the tap off and placing the dishes on the rack to dry. “I could take you up there. Show you what you’re working on.” She suggest, drying her hands on a towel.

Chloe squirms in seat, shaking her head after a moment of thought. “No, it’s fine. We don’t have to go through all the motions today.”

“You sure?” Beca asks skeptically.

Chloe offers her a strained smile. “Yeah. We could just go to the farmer’s market instead. Or maybe go for a movie?”

“Uh-“

“I’m fine, Beca. I just want to…go back to my life again,” Chloe tells her quietly.

Beca pauses, before reluctantly nodding her head. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

Chapter IV

This is the first day of my life

Swear I was born right in the doorway

I went out in the rain, suddenly everything changed

They're spreading blankets on the beach

Yours was the first face that I saw

I think I was blind before I met you

I don't know where I am, I don't know where I've been

But I know where I want to go

And so, I'd thought I'd let you know

That these things take forever, I especially am slow

But I realized that need you

And I wondered if I could come home

First Day of My Life

Bright Eyes

Chloe wakes up the next morning with a small smile on her face. She brushes her teeth, showers, and puts on a Bella sweatshirt before padding over to the kitchen. She makes both Beca and herself some coffee, absentmindedly playing with the hem of her sweatshirt while waiting for the coffee to brew.

As she does so, yesterday’s events play through her head like a slideshow. Screenshots of Beca and her at the farmer’s market; screenshots of them at the movies, hands nearly touching.

Being with Beca feels…nice. Chloe feels different with Beca. Different than anything she’d ever felt before. It felt different from all those times she’d spent with her past boyfriends, like Tom, or her ex-girlfriend, Ally.

It’s a strange feeling to battle with; her body is attuned to Beca’s––she can tell by how her hands ache to reach out for Beca’s and how she needs to remind herself to take a step back. She doesn’t want to give Beca any false hope when it comes to her recovery; she doesn’t want to inflict any more damage than she already has.

She goes through the motions as best she can, filling their mugs as she tries in vain to ignore the light flutters skimming her stomach at the thought of being close to Beca. Behind her, from the living room adjacent to her, she hears Beca’s phone buzz brazenly on the wooden surface of the coffee table. She hears Beca stir from her position on the couch.

“Hello?” Beca coughs out brusquely, rising with the grace of a clumsy two-year-old learning to walk. She pads into the kitchen, hair in various states of disarray, fly away strands sticking up in a particularly amusing manner.

Chloe briefly wonders why Beca was sleeping on the couch instead of in the guest room, but she files that thought away for another time.

She hides her grin behind her coffee mug as Beca relinquishes the other from her grasp. Beca mouths her gratitude with a small smile, before replying back to the person on the other side of the line with a curt “okay”.

She ends the call with a soft sigh, tucking her phone into the pocket of her joggers. Chloe raises her eyebrows questioningly.

“That was my boss. I have to go to the studio today to record some stuff with this artist they’re hoping will sign with us,” Beca says, tugging her free hand through her hair as she sips from her mug.

“Wow, that’s great, Becs!” Chloe tells her exuberantly.

Beca glances at her apprehensively. Unsurely. “I don’t want to leave you bu-“

“Beca, I’ll be fine. Please change and get to work,” Chloe tells her.

“I-“

“You’ll be gone for a few hours. I can manage on my own. I’ve managed to do it for the past…erm, wait…how old am I again?”

Beca offers her a strained, but amused smile. “You’re thirty-one, Chlo,”

Chloe feels her hand fly up to cradle her forehead. “Thirty-one? Wow, that’s…um…”

“Dirt old?” Beca offers with a sweet smile, before setting down her mug and pivoting on her heel, heading over to the bedroom.

Chloe bites back a laugh, plastering on an affronted look. “Well, I wouldn’t call it dirt old…”

Beca pops her head out of the door of their bedroom, blouse half-buttoned. “It’s okay. I’ve always liked older women, you know.”

Chloe coughs, blushing furiously, her face hot.

Beca slips out of their bedroom then, her movements hurried and panicked as she comes to stand in front of Chloe. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,”

Chloe waves her hand dismissively in attempts to assuage Beca’s sudden spike in anxiety. “No, no. It’s fine, I just–” Chloe pauses for a moment, lips pursed as she tries to formulate her thoughts. “I just wish I could remember everything about you, is all.”

Beca softens at the smallness of Chloe’s voice. She steps closer to the redhead, arms twitching as if wanting to reach out to intertwine her hands with Chloe’s, before she stops herself, hands stilling at the small space between them.

“You will,” Beca says hoarsely before clearing her throat. “It’ll just take time. Like the doctor said.”

Chloe takes in a shuddering breath and glances away from stormy blue eyes, because it’s suddenly all too much––the intensity of Beca’s gaze, the charged atmosphere in the room, the thundering stomps of her heart lurching in her chest. All of a sudden, Chloe feels like she can’t breathe again; it’s like the walls are closing in on her.

“I-I’m sorry,” She chokes out when her hazy brain realizes that she’s about to go into a panic attack. “You’re wonderful and I just feel so…guilty that I can’t remember you. I hate it.”

“Shh…You don’t need to apologize, Chlo,” Beca says, tentatively reaching for Chloe’s hands. She slowly slips her fingers through her wife’s and watches the tension slow seep away from Chloe’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault.”

Through the muddled fog, Chloe briefly registers how comforting Beca’s hands feel in hers and how they seem to fit together so effortlessly, as if their hands were sculpted to fit only with each other’s.

Chloe allows herself to be led to their dining table, and watches as Beca eases her in a chair across from hers as she instructs her to take deep, calming breaths.

They stay in relative silence for the next few minutes; Beca patiently coaching and guiding Chloe through what feels like a tightening spiral, her voice low and soothing. Once Chloe’s breaths have evened out, she leans forward and rests her forehead on Beca’s forearm.

“You’re good at that,” Chloe comments after a long stretch of silence.

Beca raises an eyebrow. “At what? Calming you down?”

“Yeah,”

“Well, I’m glad that my own experience with panic attacks and general anxiety helped,” Beca says lightly, trying to aim for a joking tone that falls flat.

Chloe doesn’t answer and then, it’s silent again, save for the sounds of their breathing.

“Thank you,” Chloe finally heaves out, after what feels like an hour later, the words coming out as a sigh and a sob all at once.

She feels Beca press a light kiss at the top of her head, tensing for a moment, before allowing herself to sink into Beca’s soothing touch and presence.

“Never apologize, Chlo,” Beca whispers, her breath skimming across Chloe’s head, brushing away several flyaways. “I’m here for you. Always.”

Chloe feels tears spring to her eyes then, and she can’t help but acquiesce to the several tears that threaten to escape. Beca, upon noticing the rapidly forming dampness on her arms, pulls Chloe into her lap and into a warm embrace.

The redhead heaves out a sob, wrapping her arms around Beca’s middle while Beca slings her arms around her shoulders.

“I-I don’t know why I’m crying,” Chloe blubbers out.

“You’ve been through something very traumatic, honey,” Beca assuages, hands rubbing comforting patterns on her back. “I think you’re allowed to cry.”

Chloe lets out a wet laugh, burying her face into the crook of Beca’s neck. She breathes in Beca’s scent––a mix between vanilla and honey, warm and saccharine, like the feeling of hot peppermint tea on a frigid winter day––and feels her body hum with approval, as if on autopilot.

She’s abruptly overwhelmed by the amount of love radiating off Beca, as if she was slapped harshly across the face. She’s aware she doesn’t fully deserve it. Not with everything that they’re going through right now.

With everything that she feels like she’s putting them through right now.

And, yet.

And, yet, all she wants to do is allow herself to sink further into Beca’s embrace.

So, she does, despite the feeling of every part of her bones aching with guilt and anxiety.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

“Come to work with me,” Beca says, after Chloe has calmed down significantly. They’re no longer settled in their embrace, as Chloe felt that she had taken enough advantage of Beca’s kindness and compassion, and had pulled away, moving back to her chair.

Chloe looks up at her through her lashes, still a little damp from the tears. Beca has never seen her look so small and unsure. “Are you sure?”

Beca leans forward, tucking away an errant strand from Chloe’s face before she can really help herself.

(Hey, old habits die hard, all right?)

“Of course, I’m sure,” Beca replies, quickly leaning back in case Chloe started to feel uncomfortable from the lack of personal space. “Besides, you used to come to the studio often.”

Chloe perks up a little at this. Beca can’t help but smile at slight excitement, happy that she can still read Chloe like a book. “Really?” The redhead asked.

“Yeah. You’d usually come by during your lunch breaks––or mine, depending whether you worked on those days or not––and I’d play you something I’d been working on,” Beca tells her. “Sometimes you meet some artists and sometimes…I’d record you.”

Chloe stills at this, eyes slightly wide with disbelief. “You did?”

Beca, for the life of her, can’t figure out why she blushes at Chloe’s tone. “Yeah, you’d usually sing your favorite song, or we’d sing our favorites together,” Beca informs her.

She forces away the lump from her throat when her mind wanders to a surprise visit Chloe had paid her a couple of weeks ago at her studio––suffice to say, it was a very nice surprise and Beca still blushes violently at the thought of it. However, it’s not something she’d like to think about at the moment, considering her wife is currently recovering severe head trauma.

(Oh, but wouldn’t her mind love to replay that moment.)

Beca banishes those distracting thoughts away and chooses to send Chloe a soft smile instead. “I have some of them, if you’d like to listen.”

Chloe’s whole face lights up then and Beca feels her heart swell at the beauty she is witnessing right now.

Her wife is gorgeous, inside and out, and she will never forget how lucky she is, despite the circumstance they’re in currently.

“I would love to,” Chloe replies quietly, and Beca nods, because she gets it. Chloe gets music, just like Beca does.

That will never change, and Beca hasn’t been so grateful for it until now.

Beca pulls out her phone and opens us a playlist titled Us, hitting shuffle and hearing their cover of Meghan Trainor’s Like I’m Gonna Lose You play through the Bluetooth speaker that sits on their counter.

The song starts out slow and Chloe’s thrown off by how well their voices blend together. She slips her eyes closed and tries to take everything in.

Beca watches as Chloe succumbs to the melody; the beat; the rhythm; and the cadence of their voices filling the room.

I found myself dreaming

In silver and gold

Like a scene from a movie

That every broken heart knows

We were walking on moonlight

And you pulled me close

Split second and you disappeared

And then I was all alone

I woke up in tears

With you by my side

A breath of relief

And I realized

No, we're not promised tomorrow

She watches as Chloe sinks into the comfort of music, watches as Chloe sways and follows the music as if it were a siren’s call or the light at the end of the tunnel.

Beca feels her body go into autopilot as she follows the upcoming chorus, her voice starting out low before ringing out clearly and steadily.

So I'm gonna love you like I'm gonna lose you

And I'm gonna hold you like I'm saying goodbye

Wherever we're standing

I won't take you for granted

'Cause we'll never know when, when we'll run out of time

Chloe takes in a sharp breath as she hears Beca’s voice wrap around the words, and she’s struck by how absolutely sublime Beca’s voice sounds to her. As the song winds down, she finds herself joining in, the chorus feeling familiar to her now.

And as they sing together, Beca feels like they’re back at the studio again, Chloe wrapped up in her arms and giggling as they sing out the final chorus. It’s like they’re transported back in time, as if the accident never happened and it’s all been a terrible dream.

The bubble is popped when the song ends, the final piano notes ringing out in the suddenly suffocating silence.

Beca presses pause when the next song winds up to play and clutches her hands together anxiously, eyes searching Chloe’s face for a reaction.

Chloe’s eyes are still closed and Beca’s starting to get a little worried. She feels so unsure of how Chloe will react, as she knows that the redhead is still feeling very frazzled and out of place.

“Chlo?” Beca whispers out, and Chloe can’t help but think that her name sounds like a prayer on the brunette’s lips.

Chloe feels like her throat is dry, a strange, tightening sensation building in her chest. She can’t really place her finger on it, and it scares her, because she can almost always figure out what her emotions are telling her.

“I loved it,” Chloe finally says, feeling a rebellious tear slip from the corner of her eye. She brushes it aside quickly, in attempts of preventing Beca from seeing it.

Beca leans forward to cup the apple of Chloe’s cheek, her thumb brushing softly across it. “Yeah?” She breathes, feeling like a freshman again, wanting Chloe’s approval.

“It was so beautiful, Beca,” Chloe says, gradually opening her eyes and revealing her twinkling, illuminating cerulean eyes.

Beca sucks in a sharp breath, because holy crap, for the nth time today, she ruminates on how beautiful her wife is. It’s strange and staggering, because it’s a look she has seen on Chloe before, but she can’t really place her finger on it––it’s like she’s staring at a fogged-up mirror, the image discernable but muddy.

It’s a look that Beca doesn’t quite understand.

And that alarms her.

The moment becomes a little too charged for a moment and Chloe pulls back slightly, clearing her throat to alleviate some of the pressure building there.

“I-I can see why I fell in love with you in the first place,” Chloe says lightly, in attempts to ease the strange tension filling the room.

Beca lets out a laugh. “I’m told I’m pretty hard to not fall for,” She replies, throwing in a somewhat salacious wink.

“Dork,” Chloe scrunches her nose, shoving her shoulder gently.

“Aca-nerd,” Beca bites back, earning a mock-offended gasp.

“Beca Mitchell, you take that back,”

“Make me,” Beca says in retaliation, sticking her tongue out, earning the desired effect she was hoping for when Chloe laughs.

“What were you doing, sleeping on the couch anyway?” Chloe asks after the laughter dies down, remembering her curious thought from earlier.

Beca just gives her a lackluster shrug. “Just couldn’t sleep, so I decided to watch some TV to see if it would help.”

Chloe bites her lip, now beginning to notice the dark circles under Beca’s eyes.

I wonder how much sleep she’s lost worrying over me, Chloe thinks, feeling that wave of guilt seep into the crevices of her mind again.  

“Did it help?” Chloe finds herself inquiring.

“Yep,” Beca says, and Chloe can’t help but think she’s lying.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

They arrive home just as the beautiful LA sun is beginning to set, bathing the foyer in blends of bronze and pink hues.

Chloe can feel Beca’s gaze on her as she slips her shoes from her feet and sets them aside neatly. She knows Beca has been worried about her since she’s been so uncharacteristically quiet, but she can’t find any strength in her to assuage the brunette.

Mostly because she’s currently nursing the worst headache she’s ever dealt with.

She rubs at her temples in attempts to soothe the harsh thumps against her skull. She hears the shuffle of Beca’s feet as she comes to stand in front of her.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, voice coated with concern.

Chloe shakes her head gently, blinking her eyes to rid herself of the sudden haziness clouding her vision. “It’s nothing. I just have a terrible headache.”

“I’ll get you some ibuprofen,” Beca says, already moving to the kitchen before Chloe can stop her.

Chloe swallows down the sudden wave of nausea that hits her, groaning slightly from the uncontrollable ache. Her ears begin ringing too, which Chloe thinks is the cherry-on-top-of-the-fucking-cake.

“Do you want to sit down?” Chloe hears Beca call out from the other room.

Chloe nods even though she knows Beca can’t see her. She moves into the living room, plopping down and closing her eyes, the lights suddenly becoming too bright and too much.

She hears Beca crouch down next to her and feels a glass of water and some pills pressed into the palm of her hands.

“Here, let me help you sit up,” Beca offers, easing her arm across Chloe’s shoulders to lift her up. Chloe keeps her eyes closed as she takes the medication. She feels Beca rub comforting circles on her back as she fights off another wave of nausea.

“How are you feeling?”

“Not great,” Chloe tells her through a grimace, moving to lie down again.

Beca opens her mouth to respond but is interrupted when Chloe bolts up abruptly and sprints for the bathroom. It takes a second for Beca to realize that the redhead is throwing up and she quickly dashes after her.

She crouches down next to Chloe and pulls her hair up as Chloe retches out her lunch, and unfortunately, the ibuprofen. As Chloe chokes out the rest of her stomach contents, she feels Beca rub her back again and it’s a strange comfort to cherish.

“Feel better?” Beca asks.

Chloe shakes her head and rests her forehead on her arms as she cradles the toilet bowl. “The lights are too bright,” She chokes out, leaning over to throw up again, feeling absolutely disgusting as the bile burns her throat. The lights above them seem to thrum tauntingly at her.

“Too bright?” Beca utters out, slightly puzzled.

“Turn off the goddamn lights,” Chloe snaps, and then, feeling guilty for doing so, adds in a soft “Please.”

Beca nods and gets up quickly to flick the lights off. The lights finally stop tormenting her and they are immediately bathed in darkness, save for the last rays of sunlight trickling through the small window in the bathroom.

“Thank you,” Chloe whispers, tiredly leaning her back against Beca as the smaller woman helps her sit down on the tiled floor.

“Okay, I’m calling Stacie,” Beca declares after a long stretch of silence, hand moving to pull her phone out of her back pocket.

Chloe’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Who’s Stacie?”

Beca pulls the phone up to her ear as it starts to ring. “She’s a friend of ours. She used to be a Bella as well.”

“Why are you calling her?”

“Because she’s a doctor that I trust,” Beca informs her, quieting once she hears Stacie’s voice resound from the phone.

Chloe watches as Beca relays everything that transpired, slightly bewildered as to why Beca felt the need to call Stacie when all she did was throw up and have a headache. Though she admits it’s slightly unsettling that she threw up from a mere headache.

“Okay, thanks, Stace,” Beca says after a moment. “We’ll see you at the hospital.”

Chloe whirls and hones in on Beca at that, crowding the smaller woman as she ends the call with Stacie.

“Why are we going to the hospital?” Chloe asks, albeit a little too aggressively, but she can’t find the energy to care right now.

“Because Stacie is worried the headaches and nausea is a sign of a bigger issue,” Beca tells her simply, standing up in order to help Chloe up.

Chloe opens her mouth to argue, not too keen on the idea of going back to the hospital again, but Beca beats her before she can get to the punch.

“Listen, Chlo, I’m not going to risk it if it’s something major,” Beca says sharply, twisting her lips to corral back her frustration and anger borne from concern and fear. “I’ve almost lost you once––do you think I’m going to let that happen again?”

Chloe feels the fight leave her before she can really allow it at the sound defeat in Beca’s voice. She nods instead, allowing the brunette to lead her to their car.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

They arrive at the hospital in less than ten minutes and then she’s whisked away for a CT scan by a nurse.

By the time she’s done, she’s exhausted. As the nurse finishes up, he tells her to wait and sit on an exam table after she’s done changing back into her clothes. She’s directed to a room, where she finds Beca and Stacie already waiting in.

Chloe stops short when she notes Beca’s body language as she talks to Stacie; her hair is wild, strands and tufts sticking out of place; her shirt is crumpled from the amount of scrunching her hands have been doing to the fabric––long story short, she can see that her wife has been worried sick but is trying to appear calm.

She realizes that she’s been getting good at noticing the nervous ticks that tell her that Beca’s worrying.

“I’m just worried, Stace,” Chloe hears Beca tell their friend. “What if it is something majo-”

Stacie interrupts Beca before she can continue spiraling any further. “Becs, you need to take a breath. There is no use to you worrying yourself into a panic attack.”

“But-”

“Beca. You know that I would tell you if there was anything to worry about,” Stacie says sternly, but not unkindly. “I advised you to bring Chloe to the hospital because I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t a blood clot from the traumatic brain injury. Not because I wanted to add on to your worries.”

Chloe sees Beca shuffle in her seat next to Stacie before sighing in acquiescence. Chloe decides that the momentary lapse in conversation is a good time to make her presence known.

“Hey,” Chloe says in lieu of a greeting as she walks into the room. Both the brunettes are slightly startled as they watch Chloe prop herself up on the exam table.

“How was the CT scan?” Beca asks and Chloe shrugs noncommittally.

“Long,” She replies, feeling too tired to say more.

“They can be a pain in the ass,” Stacie offers, in attempts to make her smile.

Chloe shoots her a soft smile and allows her posture to sag a little. “How long more do we have to be here?” Chloe asks, voice small.

“Hopefully not long,” Stacie replies, after Beca looks to her for answers. “Doctor Danvers is a good friend of mine, so she’ll try to attend to you as quick as she can.”

“Thank you,” Beca says, hoping to convey enough of their gratitude.

“Always,” Stacie replies easily, sending the two women a small smile.

The rest of their time waiting is spent on Stacie regaling some stories of their Bella days––with some interjections from Beca––to Chloe to help the redhead feel relaxed while not needing to really engage in conversation. She could tell that Chloe was beyond exhausted.

The redhead was very grateful for her friend at the moment.

Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes and something painful tinges at her nose when the reality of what the accident truly took away from her sinks itself deeper into her chest, creating and leaving a more prominent cavity there in its wake.

Years of beautiful friendships, experiences, and significant moments gone in an abrupt turn of events.

Luckily, Chloe’s macabre thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door. A sharply dressed woman in a lab coat enters, a placating smile on her face and a folder in her hands.

“Hi, Chloe” The woman greets, stepping further into the room. She sends a nod of acknowledgment to Stacie.

“Thanks for helping us out, Angela,” Stacie says, smiling softly.

“Of course,” Angela responds in kind, sending her a quick wink. “Anything for the woman who kept me sane through residency.”

Angela steps closer to Chloe then, coming to stand a few feet away from her. “How are you all today?”

“We’ve been better,” Both Beca and Chloe reply simultaneously, causing Stacie and the doctor to laugh.

Chloe lets a giggle slip out as Beca shares a secret glance with her.

“Well, then, I’ll try to get you guys out as quick as you can,” Angela assures, pulling the x-rays out of the folder. She holds it up for all of them to examine. “Would it be alright for me to call you Chloe?”

Chloe nods.

“So far, everything is fine,” Angela states, quick to assure everyone. “Which is a good sign because a blood clot can sometimes occur during a head trauma as severe as yours.”

“If that’s the case, why have I been having headaches?” Chloe inquiries, absent-mindedly playing with the hem of her blouse.

Angela sends her a sympathetic glance. “At times, they can occur as a side effect of the TBI,” She informs them, setting the x-ray aside. “Thankfully, there are ways to remedy it.”

She pulls out a flashlight from the pocket of her coat and clicks it on. “However, I’d like to double check everything first before prescribing you any medication. Would you be alright with that, Chloe?”

Chloe simply nods and lets Angela do and ask what she needs to. At the end of the examination, Angela sets everything she used aside. She pulls out a pen and notebook from her seemingly depthless coat pocket and begins scribbling instructions on it.

“So, from my examination, I am going to prescribe you a sedative to help with the symptoms as well as help alleviate any agitation that might occur,” Angela tells her, causing Chloe and Beca to scrunch up their eyebrows in slight confusion.

“What are the other symptoms that may come with the TBI?” Beca asks.

“Good question, Beca,” Angela says, taking a moment to stop scribbling. “You may experience changes in mood, confusion, fatigue, changes in sleep pattern, dizziness, distractedness, increased sensitivity to light or sounds, or ringing in your ears, Chloe.”

“Great,” The redhead mutters.

“It will get better in time,” Angela assures. “I reviewed your case and the doctors who monitored you took good care of you, so all you need to do is allow your body to heal.”

“How long will that take?” Chloe asks.

Angela twists her lips at that, quiet as she ponders for a moment. “It’s hard to say,” She tells her truthfully. “The fastest improvement happens in about the first six months after the injury.”

Beca looks to Stacie, who nods in silent confirmation.  

“However, rate of improvement varies from person to person. What I can narrow it down to will be from six months to two years.”

“Two years?!” Chloe exclaims out in slight horror.

Angela, taken aback by Chloe’s outburst, looks at her strangely. “Did your previous doctors not inform you of this?”

“She was pretty out of it when they were talking to us about it,” Beca explains, glancing worriedly at Chloe.

“That’s understandable,” Angela says. “I am optimistic about your recovery time, Chloe. Because of how long the doctors kept you under a medically induced coma, it allowed your brain to heal what it needed to heal.”

Chloe nods numbly when she realizes the doctor is waiting for a response.

“I’d say that you will not experience these symptoms after six months,” Angela says. “In the meantime, I’m going to prescribed Profanol, which is a sedative, and Prozac, which is an antidepressant that will help regulate any potential mood swings that may come your way.”

Chloe swallows at the dry lump in her throat and nods, breathing deeply in times to assuage the sudden wave of anxiety that washes over her. She knows she’s starting to feel overwhelmed and she knows that she just needs to breathe.

Beca, sensing Chloe change in demeanor, reaches over and intertwines the fingers together. Chloe squeezes her hand to convey her silent gratitude.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Angela says gently. “So, take it easy during these next few months. I’d highly recommend that you have a doctor that can check in with you frequently for the first six months. I’d be happy to continue on as your primary doctor, if that’s what you want.”

Beca looks to Chloe, raising her eyebrows questioningly. “What do you think, love?” Beca asks quietly, biting her tongue down when she realizes the slip. She hopes it’s not adding to Chloe’s anxiety.

Chloe silent for a long time, before she blurts out, “Can I have Stacie as my primary doctor?”

Stacie, to her credit, doesn’t look surprised at all. She sends Chloe an affectionate smile. “Of course, sweetie.”

“Sorry, Angela,” Chloe says with a wince. “It’s not that I don’t want you to be my doctor b-”

Angela waves her hand dismissively. “You don’t need to apologize at all,” she says. “All I care about is that you’re receiving the care you need and you’re recovering properly.”

Chloe sends her a tight smile in response. “Thanks, Doctor Danvers.”

“Call me Angela,” she tells her, starting to leave the room. “I also highly recommend that you go through some cognitive therapy. It will help with the memory loss. I can recommend some great professionals.”

“That would be great, Angela,” Beca responds, when she realizes that Chloe just wants the consultation to be over.

Angela nods and sends them another kind smile. Chloe feels slightly guilty for being so aloof when her doctor has been nothing but empathetic and professional.

“I’ll leave you guys to it, then. I’ll have the nurse bring your medication at the front desk,” she says. “If you have any questions, I’m sure Stacie will be happy to answer them.”

With that, she bids them goodbye, stopping for a moment to squeeze Stacie’s shoulder amicably and leaning to whisper, “I’ll get all the paperwork done and transferred to you.”

And then, she’s gone, leaving the three women to their own devices.

Chloe, completely spent and exhausted, crashes against Beca.

“Can we go home now?” She asks thickly, feeling the familiar prickle of tears tickling at her nose.

Beca nods and tries not to let Chloe hear her heart splinter in two. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca closes the door of their bedroom just after midnight, leaving a heavily drugged Chloe to rest for the night.

She pads to the living room, crumpling heavily on the couch with a loose sigh.

“Is she out?” Stacie asks, coming up behind the smaller woman.

Beca nods. “Like a light.”

“Good. That sedative will have her out for more than 20 hours.”

Beca nods again and turns a little, catching sight of the bottle of beer and glass of wine clutched in Stacie’s hands.

Beca raises an eyebrow at the taller woman questioningly.

“Just thought you could use a drink,” Stacie explains, lifting her shoulder in a shrug.

“You thought right,” Beca murmurs, grabbing the beer as it’s being handed to her. “Thanks for coming back with us. You didn’t have to.”

Stacie had driven home with them after Chloe was free to go, stating that she wanted to ensure that everything was going smoothly for Chloe. She had played the “primary doctor” card when Chloe tried to argue against it.

Beca has never been more thankful for her friend’s stubbornness until tonight.

“I wanted to,” Stacie assuages her, taking a sip of her wine as she sits down next to Beca. “How have you been holding up?”

Beca takes a swig of her beer and lets out another sigh. She briefly thinks she’s been sighing too much lately.

“As well as one could in a situation like this,” she says. “Which is not very well. Seriously, where’s the ‘How to Deal with Your Spouse Forgetting You and Dealing with Traumatic Brain Injury for Dummies’ book when you need it?”

Stacie laughs at that, knowing that Beca needs the brief comfort of humor right now. “Unfortunately, I think they discontinued it.” She jests.

Beca rolls her eyes and laughs a little. “Crap, I could’ve really used it.”

“All joking aside, I think you’ve been doing a great job,” Stacie tells her.

Hearing this, Beca sobers, sinking a little more into the couch as she meekly plays with the wilting label on her beer bottle. “It really doesn’t feel like I am.”

Stacie narrows her eyes in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

Stacie allows Beca to have a moment, knowing that the producer usually needed a moment to process her thoughts for articulation.

“I mean, I feel so…so helpless right now,” Beca finally confesses. “She’s been struggling so much lately, and I feel like everything I’m doing isn’t helping her.”

“That’s complete bullshit, BM,” Stacie chides, turning to face Beca directly when she feels the woman gear up to disagree. “You’ve been doing the best you can, with what you have available.”

“Well, what do I do then?” Beca asks, slightly frantic. “Every time we take a step forward, I feel like we end up taking three steps back.”

Stacie frowns at that, heart contracting painfully in her chest as she watches one of her oldest friends drown in distress. She reaches over to place a hand on Beca’s shoulder.

“Listen to me, Beca. You’ve done everything you could. You’ve been supportive throughout this entire thing,” Stacie informs her sternly, forcing the other woman to hold eye contact with her to convey the brevity of her words. “So, cut yourself some slack, will you?”

Beca gives her a rueful twist of her lips. “I’m not very good at that.” She admits.

“I know,” Stacie retorts. “We all know you’re a bit of a control freak, Mitchell.”

“That’s Mrs. Beale-Mitchell to you,” Beca says pointedly.

“Beale-Mitchell,” Stacie corrects, sharing a soft smile with her best friend.

They settle in comfortable silence for a moment before Stacie speaks up again.

“Did the police find the person who hit her?”

Beca shakes her head, pulling a sip from her bottle. The now lukewarm beer leaves a nasty taste on her tongue, fueled by the thought of her conversation with the detective a month ago. “No. They declared it a shut hit-and-run case, since they couldn’t find the bastard who hit her.”

Stacie purses her lips and takes a swig of her wine. “Well, that’s fucking shitty.” She says after a long moment.

“Tell me about it,” Beca responds bitterly, feeling a pang of white-hot anger overtake her. “I mean, who fucking does that? What kind of person leaves an injured woman alone and runs away?”

Beca’s shaking at the end of her sentence and Stacie pulls her in for a comforting hug.

“I’m just grateful that she’s alive, because I would’ve killed the asshole who crashed into her,” Beca whispers, allowing a few errant tears to roll down her cheeks.

Stacie feels her eyes water, feels the unpleasant prickle tickle her nose, as she tugs her friend closer to her. She knows her heart is splintering slowly, webs forming and cracking through her usual cool façade.  

What a thing to be grateful for, indeed.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The next few days are uneventful for the Beale-Mitchell household. Chloe spends several days just sleeping and eating, her body still trying to get regulated to the new medication. After the fourth day, Chloe develops a terrible case of cabin fever and needs to be doing something, stat.

Unfortunately, Beca has been watching her like a hawk, much to her dismay. She hasn’t been letting Chloe do anything. Once, Chloe was so close to loading the dishwasher, but that was before Beca swooped in and banished her to the living room to watch a movie.

She almost blew up at Beca but ultimately decided to be mature. Instead, Chloe had settled herself on the couch and sulked the rest of the night, maintaining her façade even when Beca had sang a song from the musical they were watching in order to amuse her.

So, yes, read: very mature.

After the nth time of Beca hovering over her, Chloe has had enough. She snaps at the brunette after Beca stops her from chopping vegetables they’re planning to use for dinner. Chloe feels instantly remorseful of her actions when she sees a look of hurt flash across her wife’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Chloe apologizes, feeling the abrupt spike of agitation disappear as quickly as it came.

Beca offers her a tight purse of her lips. Chloe can tell she’s trying to rein in her own frustration. “It’s okay. I understand that coddling can be very annoying.”

“So, you’re aware that you’ve been babying me?” Chloe asks teasingly, curving an eyebrow, trying so hard to mitigate the tension.

“Oh, one hundred percent.”

“Why are you doing it then?” Chloe asks incredulously.

“Because you’ve suffered a severe head trauma and I almost lost you!” Beca bursts out, and there it is.

Months of bottled up emotions pour out in a steady stream and no matter how hard she tries, Beca can’t hold in it anymore. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-// 

Chloe blinks, slightly taken aback. Somewhere, faintly in the back of her head, she can feel a headache blossoming. She blocks the throb out, swallowing the lump that has formed in her throat, speechless as Beca continues on, undeterred.

“Don’t you recognize that, Chloe? You almost died,” Beca says heatedly, lips twisting into scowl. “You were so close to being gone! So, forgive me for wanting to make sure you’re alright!”

Chloe feels her mouth mirror Beca’s. She somehow finds her voice again, amidst the heady wave of pent-up frustration broiling between them.

“Of course, I do!” Chloe spits out, her hands moving erratically in the air, her headache intensifying tenfold. “I’m the one who has to deal with the effects of it! Not you!”

Chloe regrets her words the moment they tumble of her lips. She bites back the wave of hurtful words that are threatening break the loosely built dam in her throat. They bubble to the surface, scratching and kicking against her self-control.

The dam breaks before Chloe has a chance to stop it.

“You aren’t the one that has to deal with the headaches, the mood swings, the fatigue, the ghost of my former self!” Chloe snaps, knowing that she’s not being fair.

She knows that Beca feels a lot and feels deeply for her pain. She knows that Beca stays up worrying about her and she knows that Beca lost her too.

But she can’t stop the words that are pouring like a tidal wave, flooding and drowning the discontentment that had been surrounding them the past few days.

Beca seethes at her words, taking a step back as if stung. Her lips contort into a snarl, steely gray eyes turning turbulent.

Chloe’s heart clenches briefly at the sight, but she knows it’s already too late.

“That’s not fair, and you know it, Chloe. God forbid that I care about you,” Beca bites back, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “So, stop being a bitch and stop trying to make me the bad guy.”

“Excuse me-” Chloe bristles, truly incensed by the conversation, but Beca cuts her off.

“You know what? This isn’t worth it,” Beca says, the fight leaving her as she huffs out in exasperation, pinching the bridge of her nose in consternation. Her eyes are no longer stormy, just…tired. It’s a tiredness that’s bone-deep, etched and carved into every crevice of her body.

Chloe feels all kinds of horrible as she takes in Beca’s defeated posture.

“I’m going to bed. We just need some time away from each other tonight,” Beca croaks out, her tone clipped.

Chloe grits her teeth, her heart thudding wildly in her chest as she tries to fight her massive headache and infuriation. She wants to chase after this conversation like a dog with bone, wants to fight until the frustration, hurt, and angry leaves her body, but she doesn’t want to hurt Beca.

That’s the last thing she’d ever want to do, but knows she has already committed that awful act.

She bites back the retort that on her lips, nodding her head stiffly in agreement instead.

Beca raises her eyebrow slightly, as if she was surprised that Chloe didn’t try to extend the argument further.

Chloe looks away, feeling the guilt weave its way into the anger still rolling in the pit of her stomach. She finds herself focusing on the abandoned, half-chopped vegetables on the counter to avoid Beca’s burning gaze.

She hears the brunette let out a soft sigh, and there’s a palpable moment smoldering under the cloud of thick silence enveloping them, signaling that Beca wants to say something.

She doesn’t. Instead, she sighs again, and Chloe hears her shuffle her feet in discomfort.

Beca’s silent for a long time, terrifyingly so.

“Goodnight, Chloe,” She finally says, tone quiet and soft, a far cry from the disdain that was permeating her voice earlier.

Chloe swallows the guilt-ridden tears back roughly, the anger finally leaving her in the flick of a switch. She looks up, an apology already on the tip of her tongue, but she finds that Beca is already gone.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Chloe doesn’t sleep well that night. She tosses and turns in their bed, the sheets tangling messily between her legs as she tries to chase the elusive Mr. Sandman, but finds herself coming up empty.

She glances at the alarm on the bedside table, the numbers blinking back at her tauntingly. Chloe groans as her mind registers the time––it’s 4 a.m. in the goddamn morning, for heaven’s sake––turning over again to bury her face into her pillow.

Her mind keeps replaying all the different ways the argument could’ve ended, and she’s exhausted, but her trouble mind won’t let her rest.

She figures she deserves this rightful punishment. After all, she kept picking at that fight, knowing full well that she could’ve tried to assuage the situation.

She huffs in exasperation, frustrated with herself this time, and finally gives up trying to sleep. Instead, she gets up, throwing the covers away haphazardly as she throws on her Barden sweatshirt. It’s a little shorter at the torso and she figures that it’s Beca’s.

She pads out of the bedroom and makes a beeline for the kitchen for some tea but is stopped short when she hears the hum of the TV. She pauses, twisting her head towards the living room.

And there, past the entryway, is Beca. She’s awash with the soft, blue glow reflecting from the TV and Chloe sucks in a sharp breath, because Chloe swears, she looks ethereal.

She creeps in closer, her presence still unknown to the other woman. Her ears catch snippets of the video playing but her eyes are fixed on Beca.

She notes that Beca is sitting crisscross apple sauce on the giant rug, gazed locked onto the screen. There’s a weary slump to her shoulders and Chloe can’t but feel terrible all over again.

There’s a sharp laugh that sounds from the TV, drawing Chloe out of her reverie. She glances up and catches a snippet of herself and Beca, lips locked in a fiery kiss.

She feels the air leave her lungs as she sees her past self pull away from the kiss with an ecstatic grin. Her hazy brain briefly notices that they’re both dressed in beautiful wedding attire as she continues watching, unable to tear her gaze away.

She has never seen herself so happy, as strange as it sounds.

It’s with staggering realization that Chloe registers only Beca truly made her happy.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been standing there, eyes glued to the flashing screen, until Beca calls her name, shaking her out her stupor.

Everything snaps back into focus at the sound of Beca’s voice.

Beca’s staring at her, and there’s something indecipherable flickering in her eyes. Chloe stares right back, dazed.

“Hi,” Chloe says, after what feels like an eternity.

“Hi,” Beca utters back, eyes cloudy with…something. Something that Chloe doesn’t understand.

“Um,” Chloe mumbles back intelligently.

“How long have you been standing there?”

Chloe swallows loudly. “A while,”

Beca looks at her. “Oh.”

“Was that a video of our…wedding?”

Beca looks down, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt awkwardly. Chloe hears her swallow loudly before she answers. “Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Silence fills the room, and they’re both struggling to find the right words. Chloe so desperately wants to apologize but her voice is currently unattainable. After a tense moment, Beca bites the bullet, noticing the conflict warring on Chloe’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Betty says, stepping a little bit closer.

“For what?” Chloe asks, cocking her head to the side. It’s not Beca’s fault, it’s hers. She’s the one who instigated her; who pushed and prodded her in order to fulfill some unbidden disgruntlement.

She knows she’s the one responsible and her heart tightens agonizingly in her chest at the thought of Beca thinking she’s wronged her instead.

Because Beca has been wonderful and the best wife possible.

Chloe knows she doesn’t deserve her, and her heart constrict painfully in her chest again.

“For what happened tonight,” Beca says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Chloe frowns, stepping closer to Beca this time. “It wasn’t your fault,” She tells her. “It was mine. I shouldn’t have picked a fight.”

“Chlo-”

“I’m sorry about all the things I said. It was uncalled for,” Chloe apologizes with a rueful twist of her lips. “It was wrong of me. You were right, I was being a bitch.”

Beca shakes her head sadly. “No, Chlo. It was my fault, too. I was being kind of a bitch,” She says. “It takes two hands to clap, and I willingly lit that fire. I didn’t try to reel in the situation, and for that, I’m really sorry.”

Chloe feels herself get misty-eyed. “God, I really don’t deserve you,” She voices out, laughing humorlessly.

She watches the brunette step closer through blurry eyes, so close that their breaths are mingling together, barely a foot of distance between them.

Beca reaches for her face hesitantly, tentatively sweeping aside the tears that are threatening to spill. Her thumb reverently grazes Chloe’s cheek and Chloe feels her entire body seize up at the touch, startled by Beca’s gentleness.

Chloe’s heart is thudding so hard in chest because Beca is leaning in closer and closer…

Close enough to kiss her if she wanted to.

Chloe finds herself thinking what it feels like to kiss Beca.

She notices that she finds herself thinking a lot recently. Thinking about Beca; about their life; about pre-accident her; about the friends she can’t remember but fiercely wants to.

But mostly, she thinks about what it would be like to accept the love Beca’s giving her and feel like she deserves it.

So, yeah, she finds that she’s been thinking a lot.

Probably a little too much, lately.

Her heart stops in her chest for a fleeting moment when Beca brushes a soft kiss across her forehead.

She pulls back and fixes her gaze at Chloe, unflinching and unwavering.

“Oh, Chloe,” Beca says, voice soft and earnest, tinged with muted sadness. It’s so earnest that it terrifies Chloe. “You deserve me and the world. I’m sad that you can’t see that yet.”

Chloe’s trying so hard not cry, tears pooling at the edges of her vision as she drinks in Beca’s words.

She plows into Beca’s arms, seeking comfort. The brunette meets her in the middle, tugging the redhead closer to her chest.

I can see why I fell in love with her in the first place, Chloe muses hazily, arms wrapped tight around the other girl’s torso.

Chloe concludes that it’s a terrifying, but weirdly comforting thought to have.

Chapter Text

Chapter V

And all my days were young and wasted

When I was waiting, oh for you

And all the plans that I've been chasing are always fading

But ever since I found you

A little light is breaking through

-

Little Light 

Lewis Watson

Chloe is roused awake by the soft, early morning light streaming through the blinds of her bedroom window. The morning larks sing chirply in the distance. She finds herself buried face first in her pillow, red curls wildly enveloping the entire surface. 

She rolls over, laying on her back as she scrubs at her eyes, wiping away the last remnants of sleep from her hazy vision. She jostles a little as she struggles to blink away her sleepiness and the drowsiness that’s left behind by the medication Stacie had prescribed her. 

She knows that the medication helps, but she can’t help but think of how much she loathes it, at times. She hates how the medication dampens her usually jovial morning mood, replacing it with slow steps and a muddled mind. 

She tries and fails to remember the last time she had woken up happy and energized. 

She shakes her head, desperately trying to clear those intrusive thoughts from her consciousness. Instead, she focuses on getting up, propping herself on her forearms as she fights the sudden exhaustion that fills her bones.

It’s a bone-deep kind of exhaustion, the one that burrows its way into every part of your body and makes a home there; the kind that feels like no amount of sleep can cure. Still, Chloe forces her way through—like the fighter she is—and sits up fully, letting out a soft sigh. 

She stretches as she swings her legs off the bed and onto the chilly, hardwood floor, the sudden coldness sending a shock up her spine and waking up her senses. She rises after, noting that her physical injuries from the accident are almost like a faded dream now, only sending little, sore tingles down her sides. 

It’s nice to see some progress, Chloe thinks, even if it’s only physically. 

Chloe crosses the room and shirks open the blinds, allowing sunlight to fill the previously darkened room. She glances out briefly and notes that it’s relatively early in the morning, eyes surveying the dreamlike quality that only a fresh morning can have. 

She catches a glimpse of the time on the clock that’s on her bedside table and sees that it’s five minutes to seven. 

“Yay, I love getting less than three hours of sleep,” She mutters dryly to herself, briefly noting how Beca’s sarcasm has already rubbed off on her. 

She decides to make her way to the kitchen, stopping by the bathroom to brush her teeth quickly and comb through her curls before she reaches her final destination. Her body moves on autopilot, and it startles her how the muscle memory of being in their home is still there. 

She pulls out two mugs for her and Beca, places a kettle on the stove, and turns on the coffee maker all in one fell swoop, movements smooth. She leans her hip against the counter, allowing her thoughts to drift a little as she waits for the water to boil for her tea. 

Her thoughts move in a tangled tandem, momentarily touching on yesterday’s events and the emotions that led up to it, feeling abruptly saddened again by the harm her reaction caused Beca. She shakes her head and reminds herself that it’s water under the bridge now. 

Instead, she chooses to focus on the memory of Beca smiling softly at her, features awash in the faint glow of the TV, thumbs brushing against the apples of her cheeks. It sends a ripple of warmth that blooms from her chest and trickles its way down to the tips of her toes. 

She frowns, furrowing her brows a little as she tries to unravel this strange emotion that’s suddenly sitting on her chest. She can vaguely identify it as a fond emotion, but there’s something mingled with it that she can’t quite put her finger on. 

Chloe lets out a sigh, frustrated at the lack of clarity of her emotions. She doesn’t appreciate the uncertainty that is stemming from these emotions. 

She decides to push away those confusing thoughts for a moment, filing it away in the recesses of her mind. Her mind wanders to itch she has wanted to scratch since yesterday, right as she had gone to bed for the second time that night.

She feels the telltale twitch of her hands and she knows that her body is beginning to get restless, aching to start painting again; to hold a paintbrush in her hands and create life on white canvases. 

She sighs for the nth time this morning, and then remembers Beca’s comment about her art studio in the house. 

Does she dare to, though…?

She allows herself to entertain the thought of making her way to the studio and setting up her canvas on an easel, hands gliding with practiced familiarity, body stilled, and mind quiet for a moment. 

Before she can even think back to why she stopped painting in the first place, she finds her feet shuffling away from the kitchen, down the hall, and up the stairs to her studio. 

She loses courage then, feet stopping at the threshold, a lump forming dryly in her throat. She prods the door open gently, letting it swing wide open so that she can observe the contents of the room without needing to set a foot in it. 

Her eyes glide across the studio, across the multitudinous amounts of artwork that seem to litter every corner of the room. Her gaze then lands on a piece that’s sitting on a shelf to her right. She steps into the room tentatively, wanting to be able to peruse it fully without obstruction. 

Her eyes rove across the canvas, taking in the figure and the atmosphere that surrounds it, mouth going dry for a moment. 

It’s a painting of Beca, but she looks younger, more carefree. Her eyes are covered by dark eyeliner and there’s a giant pair of headphones hanging over her thin neck. Chloe muses how this version of Beca seems to be a little darker and rougher around the edges compared to her current counterpart, but she’s still beautiful, nonetheless.  

Despite the edgy, standoffish vibe this Beca is portraying, the happy expression on her face shows otherwise. Chloe notes that she had painted Beca against the backdrop of Barden’s quad, the stark and vibrant colors blending well with Beca’s darker attire. 

She can’t help but smile at how she had illustrated Beca. The other woman looks so carefree and content, lips upturned in a grin, head cocked back mid-laugh. 

The corners of her eyes start to prickle and she forces the tears back, tired at the fact she’s been crying so much lately. There’s a bittersweet feeling humming at her collarbone and she swallows down the urge to cry again. 

She can see this scene play out in her mind’s eye, and she’s instantly transported back to Barden; back to the days when all she worried about were the Bellas, Aubrey, her classes, her family, and whether she was ready for adulthood. She thinks about how her biggest challenge back then was overcoming the grief that had consumed her, at the abrupt death of her father that occurred during her sophomore year at Barden. 

She wonders how she got out of that haze of grief. She wonders how it had felt like to see Beca for the first time; how it was when they first talked; how she’d felt when they first kissed. 

She starts backing away, practically propelling herself backward as she scrambles away from the room. She knew she wasn’t ready and she felt so stupid, angrily chastising herself as she feels a tear slip down her cheek. 

She bumps into something solid and warm then, bouncing back and spinning around, startled. She comes face-to-face—well, more like chin to forehead—with Beca, who looks deeply concerned. 

“Chlo? Are you okay?” Beca asks, voice soft and cautious, as if she were approaching a spooked animal. 

Chloe thinks she must look like a deer caught in the headlights. “What’re you doing here?” 

Beca shoots her an amused look, mouth twisting to give her a dry remark. “I live here,” 

Despite the rush of emotions flooding Chloe’s system, she lets out a laugh. “Shut up,” she says, tears still gathering up at the corner of her eyes. “I meant, why are you up so early?” 

Beca sobers up then. “I didn’t get much sleep so I’ve been in my studio instead, working on some stuff,” she takes a step towards the redhead, hand coming to lightly rest at her elbow. “I heard you go into the studio and came to check on you.”

“Oh,” 

Beca nods, rolling her lips. She pauses, seeming to think through the words she’s about to say. “Are you okay? I know that thinking about anything remotely close to art was...is...hard for you.” 

Chloe laugh humorlessly at that. “It’s still hard,” she responds, voice a little bitter. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone in.” 

“No, it’s good that you did,” Beca says. “Art has always been healing avenue for you. Even when…”

“When my dad died,” Chloe supplies, finishing the other woman’s sentence. 

“...Yeah,” Beca replies quietly. 

It’s silent for a moment, and Chloe can tell that Beca’s allowing her the time she needs to gather her messy, jumbled thoughts. 

“How did I get over it the first time?” Chloe inquiries, voice muted. 

“The grief, you mean?” 

Chloe nods numbly. 

“Here, let’s go ahead and sit down first,” Beca says instead, wrapping her hand around Chloe’s wrist gently as she tugs her down the stairs and into the living room.

Beca sits Chloe down on the plush couch before plopping down on it herself. She turns toward her, hand still wrapped delicately around the redhead’s wrist.

Chloe tries not to think how distracting Beca’s touch is.

“It wasn’t easy, but talking through it helped a lot,” Beca starts slowly, always understanding, always considerate. Chloe has never been so thankful. “Talking with Bellas and me and a therapist that walked you through it.” 

Chloe’s head was swimming. The grief she had felt was hard to explain or put into words; it was like she was drowning but she could breathe underwater; it was like she was watching herself try to live life through a glass box or a TV screen; it was like trying to smile through the pain and quiet her thoughts all at once. 

She still feels it now, but it’s a numbing, distant kind of grief, like a part of her remembers what it was like to get through it and it’s still holding on to that progress somehow. 

She swallows down a wave of tears as she thinks about how hard it was for her to get up in the morning some days, years after her father’s death. 

“It was so hard for me to talk about it to my mom or Aubrey, even,” Chloe manages out, mind still reeling. “Even during my senior year, it was hard. By then, it was easier to not give in to it, but it still got really tough some days.”

Beca nods, sympathetic. “I know,” Beca responds, and Chloe shoots her a look of surprise. “Like you said, it’s still hard for you now. Especially when it’s his birthday or Father’s Day. Christmas, at times too.” 

“How’d I use to get through those days?” 

Beca leans back a little, scratching the back of her neck as she does so, her hand lightly touching the back of Chloe’s now. “As cliche as it sounds, I would to take you out to your favorite places here in LA,” Beca says, her face flushing a little, stormy-blue eyes cloudy with...something Chloe can’t quite figure out. 

“Really?”

“Yeah. You told me that it helps remind you that you’re alive, that you’re present, and to enjoy the moments you have with the ones you love,” Beca responds. “I like that I’m able to help you with that.” 

Chloe gives her a soft smile, one that’s tinged with a little sadness at the fringes, but filled with a rush of affection for the brunette. “Where would you normally to take me to?”

Beca flushes again, cheeks lighting up, eyes looking a little distant now; remembering. “It’s usually different places. I..rented out Griffith Park one year and took you out there for a picnic.”

Chloe’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. “You rented out Griffith Park? Is that even possible?”

Beca looks a little sheepish as she shrugs. “I’m pretty sure it’s not, but then again, they were happy to rent it out when they heard Beca Mitchell was willing to pay for it.” 

Chloe aims an amused look her way, causing Beca’s lips to twitch up slightly in response.

“What?”

“I forget that you’re famous sometimes.” Chloe answers, smiling a little when Beca laughs. Her heart swells at the sound and at the thought that Beca has planned all that to help her. “And I never figured you to be the type to reference yourself in third person.” 

“First off, rude,” Beca tells her. “And I’m still me. I just happen to be a little better off, financially.”

“What? I couldn’t tell,” Chloe gives her a mock gasp, giggling when Beca reaches over to shove her lightly. 

“I don’t see you complaining at how comfortable our lifestyle is,” Beca fires back, a playful smile on her lips. 

Chloe holds up her hands in surrender. “Hey, I didn’t say anything remotely close to complaining. That was all you.” Chloe responds with a shit-eating grin, and Beca curses. 

“Dammit, you got me there,” Beca relents, delighted at the sound of Chloe’s melodious laugh. 

Once they’ve sobered up, it’s quiet again before Chloe leans in to give Beca a hug. “Thank you,” Chloe says, voice muffled into Beca’s t-shirt. 

“For what?” Beca asks, a little confused at what Chloe thinks is glaringly obvious. She wraps her arms around Chloe’s waist, sending a ripple of warmth through the redhead’s body. 

“For being here for me. For being so patient, amidst everything,” Chloe says, cheeks tinted with pink, still warm from Beca’s touch. “I know it mustn’t have been easy helping me deal with my grief, and...what happened to me. To us.” 

Beca leans back a little, just enough so that she can Chloe’s eyes clearly. Bright, cerulean blues stare into stormy-blue ones, and Chloe’s so close that she can count the specks in Beca’s irises and see the light laugh lines at the corner of her eyes. 

Her breath hitches in her throat as Beca reaches out to tuck a stray strand of hair away from her face. 

“You don’t have to thank me, Chlo,” She says, tone thoughtful and gentle, like a cool breeze on a sweltering summer’s day. “I’m glad I could help you through your grief. I’ve been through it myself and I know how consuming it can be.” 

“What do you mean?” Chloe asks, eyebrows furrowing. She realizes that it’s something pre-accident her knew, by the look that flashes across Beca’s face, and the thought alone bothers her again.

“I...Iost my mom when I was seventeen,” Beca utters out, a little hesitant. “She died, after three years of fighting cancer. She died a couple of years after my dad left us.”

Chloe feels her heart splinter into two. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Beca.” 

Beca waves a hand dismissively. “It’s okay. I’ve learned a lot from it. You know, I used to be so angry at the world, at my dad,” Beca explains, absentmindedly drawing patterns on the back of Chloe’s hand, her touch burning the redhead’s skin. 

Chloe fights hard to not be distracted by the small movements, but her skin’s on fire, the goosebumps erupting a strong indication of it. 

Beca must notice Chloe tense up because she stops the trail her fingers are blazing and pulls back her hand instead. Chloe tries to not be dissapointed. 

“But then I realized that I was just dealing with a lot of unaddressed grief. I felt a lot of grief over losing my dad in my life because I was so angry at him that I pushed him away.” Beca continues on, her hands folded on together on her lap now. “I didn’t allow myself time to grieve over my mom. I didn’t really allow myself to feel at all, because I was afraid of feeling.” 

Chloe’s at a loss for words--she’s coming to find out that this only occurs when she’s around Beca--so she stays silent, allowing the brunette to continue on instead. She tries to imagine an angry, shut-off Beca, but it’s hard for her. She can’t see any other version of Beca besides the kind, understanding, and mellowed one before her. 

“You helped me a lot with that, actually,” Beca informs, pulling Chloe away from her brief thoughts. Chloe raises an eyebrow in response. “With being okay in letting myself feel. With being more truthful about my feelings and being vulnerable.”

“Really? How?” 

“Well, I’m not sure if you’ve realized this by now, but you’re kind an unstoppable force,” Beca says, voice serious, though she has a light smile on her face. 

Chloe laughs. “I’ve been told that once or twice in my life.” 

Beca gives her a sweet smile, enough to make the redhead’s heart stop for a moment in her chest. 

“I’m glad that you are, though,” Beca shares, sincere. Chloe feels a little floored with how vulnerable she looks right now. “You helped me realize a lot of things and taught me how to grow from it. You made me, and still make me better.” 

Chloe feels another rush of affection for Beca, eyes prinkling with the telltale sign of impending waterworks. She swallows loudly, fighting back the urge. 

“I...I’m glad I was able to help,” Chloe chokes out. “Even when I was a mess myself.”

Beca sends a knowing smile, as if she were privy to a secret Chloe was unaware about. “In the spirit of being honest, I never saw you as a mess. You were--are--beautiful and..real to me, even when you felt like you were anything but.” 

Chloe can’t help it then; she allows a few tears to slip down her cheeks. She can’t help but feel a rush of affection for Beca and she thinks that she doesn’t deserve Beca. Guilt burrows its way into her gut again, knocking the wind out of her.

Chloe feels so angry and so tired, feeling unworthy all the affection, care, and concern Beca is sending her way.

Beca, who has been nothing but patient and kind; Beca, who goes out of her way to ensure that Chloe is always comfortable; Beca, who is safe and understanding; Beca, the person she’s been trying to avoid hurting since she woke up, which Chloe knows she has been doing a piss poor job at it. 

Chloe swallows down the urge to scream, already feeling a headache building at the back of her head. 

Instead, she lets the tears continue to fall, finding some relief from being able to express some of her frustration, anger, guilt, and unworthiness. Beca’s eyes widen at the sight of Chloe’s distress and she rushes to apologize. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. Are they good or bad tears?”

Chloe forces out a wet laugh. It sounds robotic to her ears. She doesn’t want Beca to know what she’s thinking right now. “Yes. They’re good tears,” Chloe lies, brushing away her tears. She needs to switch gears now for her sanity. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a big softie, Becs?”

Beca shoots her a playful glare, folding her arms across her chest, somewhat akin to a petulant child. “Oh, hush, you. I’m badass, even when you like to tell people otherwise.”

“I don’t think you’re doing a good job of keeping up that rep,” Chloe fires back, laughing at Beca’s indignant, dramatic gasp. 

“First of all, how dare you,” Beca says, playing up the theatrics, which sends Chloe into a fit of giggles. “Second of all...how dare you.” 

Chloe shrugs and sends her a mischievous look. “Just calling it how I see it.” 

“Oh, that’s it!” Beca declares, jumping onto Chloe and tickling her sides. 

Chloe gasps out her protests, body trembling from laughter. A full blown out tickle war ensues and as Chloe sprints around the couch, dodging Beca’s wiggling and wandering fingers, she finds herself selfishly wanting to hold onto this moment for just a little while longer.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca finds herself selfishly wanting today to go on for a little while longer. It’s admittedly one of the best days they’ve both had since the accident and Beca doesn’t want it to end. A part of her brain scrambles to remember every single moment that happened today, locking it and sealing it tight into a box in her mind. 

They’re both laying haphazardly across the couch, breathless from their tickle fight (get your mind out of the gutter). It’s quiet for a few moments before Chloe speaks up again, her voice coated with slight fatigue. 

“Beca?” 

Beca hums in response, nudging her knee against Chloe’s thigh to let her know that she’s listening. 

It seems like Chloe’s hesitating for a moment and Beca raises her head up, cocking it to the side to encourage her to go on. 

“Would you, um, mind sharing more of your music?” She asks haltingly. 

That’s what she’s nervous about? 

Beca sends her a smile and nods. She’s about to pull her phone out of her pocket before an even better idea pops into her mind. 

She gets up then, swinging her legs off the couch and pushing herself up to stand before Chloe. “I have an idea,” She tells Chloe, holding her hand out to pull the redhead to her feet. 

“What is it?” Chloe asks, grabbing Beca’s hand. 

“You’ll see,” Beca tells her, heart hammering in her chest as she lets her hand seamlessly fit into Chloe’s. She finds it ridiculous that she’s acting like they’ve first started doing that dance again, the ‘will we, will we not’ dilemma, all fleeting glances and hesitant touches. 

Chloe sticks her lower lip out in an adorable pout as she lets Beca guide her down the hall. “Awh, c’mon, Becs.” 

Amazingly, Beca preserves through Chloe’s patented puppy dog look. She’s surprised she didn’t succumb to the redhead’s persuasive abilities. 

She leads Chloe into her studio and pulls a chair for the redhead when they get into the booth. She places the chair in front of the studio mic she has set up and positions it to fit Chloe’s height. 

She walks over to the corner where all her instruments are located at and grabs her acoustic guitar, pulling the strap over her shoulder. As she busies herself by setting up everything in the booth, she feels Chloe’s gaze following her movements. 

“I didn’t know you could play the guitar,” Chloe says, voice quiet, as Beca flits around the room, gathering all the equipment she needs. 

“I mean, it’s not like I could work that fact casually in a conversation,” Beca responds teasingly, plugging her guitar in. 

She plugs in a loop pedal board to the pedal power brick and grabs the remote that controls her recording rig from a music stand. 

She makes her back to Chloe and moves her guitar to her front. “Follow my lead?” Beca asks, glancing at the redhead, who nods back. 

She instructs Chloe then, telling her to sing a few different series of harmonies and melodies into the mic as she fiddles around the pedal board, recording certain snippets as she joins Chloe in a few riffs, harmonizing. 

After they’re done recording several harmonies, Beca holds up a finger and steps on a button on the pedal board by her feet and shuffles over to a mini keyboard and plays 2 measures worth of notes, fingers gliding elegantly over the keys. 

Once she’s done, she walks back toward Chloe and settles in front of the board again, this time stepping on another button. The harmonies and melodies they recorded, accompanied by the keys, start flowing clearly out of the speakers in the room, and Beca starts strumming a catchy riff on her guitar after a beat, the rhythm weaving in effortlessly with the other moving parts. 

Beca chances a glance at Chloe, who looks mesmerized by how everything seamlessly fits together. She can’t help but smirk as she sings the first few verses of David Guetta’s ‘Titanium’. 

The notes, lyrics, melodies, and harmonies are easy to fall into, so Beca falls. She feels the music seep into her bones, settling across every expanse of her skin, and she welcomes up with a satisfied smile. Her fingers glide across the fretboard deftly as she moves back into singing the chorus a second. 

She turns slightly and sends Chloe a pointed look, encouraging her to join in. The redhead, seeming to be in a stupor with her blue eyes blown wide and lips slightly parted, snaps out of it after a moment. 

She joins in Beca, their voices blending together like a rich, dark cup of coffee. 

You shout it out

But I can't hear a word you say

I'm talking loud not saying much

I'm criticized but all your bullets ricochet

You shoot me down, but I get up

I'm bulletproof nothing to lose

Fire away, fire away

Ricochet, you take your aim

Fire away, fire away

You shoot me down but I won't fall, I am titanium

You shoot me down but I won't fall

I am titanium, I am titanium, I am titanium, I am titanium

Beca circles them back to sing the chorus again, knowing that Chloe knows this song well; she can see it in the way Chloe relaxes her shoulders, the way that Chloe’s lips turn up a little in a smile. 

Beca ends the song with a final strum of her guitar and stops the recording. She sets her guitar down and it is silent for a long time. Beca fidgets under Chloe’s gaze. 

“Wha-” 

Before Beca’s finished with her sentence, she’s cut off by Chloe slamming into her, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She lets out a resounding oof and scrambles to keep them upright as their combined weight threatens to knock her off her feet. 

“I love Titanium,” Chloe says, voice muffled into Beca’s shirt. 

Beca feels something form in her throat, thick and constraining. She wraps her arms around Chloe. “I know. You once told me that it was your jam.” 

Your lady jam, Beca thinks. 

Something shifts in the air between them then. There’s this crackle of something that Beca can’t really begin to process or understand yet.

Chloe, ever the socially graceful, pulls herself out of Beca’s grasp to break through the tension. She steps back and puts a foot of distance between them, her eyes looking everywhere else. 

There’s a definite shift in her demeanor and Beca feels slight exasperation and frustration build up in her chest. She wishes that she could know what Chloe’s thinking. 

It frustrates her that she used to be able to read Chloe like the back of her hand and now she’s struggling to understand what a simple furrow of the redhead’s brow means. 

She just desperately wants Chloe to stop holding her at arms length; to stop looking at her like she’s still a stranger.  

It hurts her, to look into Chloe’s eyes and watch those cerulean eyes swirl with frustration, guilt, and so many other emotions that Beca is unable to unpack. She wishes she could take away all of it for Chloe; that she could just transfer Chloe’s pain and take the burden upon herself instead. 

Beca opens her mouth to ask if anything’s wrong, but Chloe beats her by asking her if she wants breakfast before nearly dashing out of the room. 

Beca sighs. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Things are a little weird between them for a few days. Chloe knows that she’s responsible for the awkwardness, but she can’t help but try to distance herself a little. 

It’s not that she really wants to, but she thinks this is for the best. It’s definitely better than looking into Beca’s eyes and seeing hurt flash over and over again when she mentions what Chloe used to do. 

She knows Beca misses the...old her, and she wants her back. She wants to give Beca that, but it’s an impossible task. It frustrates her and pisses her off a little, because she doesn’t even know who the hell she is. All she knows that she’s not Beca’s Chloe anymore and she feels horrible that she’s not. 

The thought is enough to carve an ugly mar unto her heart. 

She knows just Chloe now. Broken, angry Chloe that has amnesia and a wonderful wife she can’t remember. 

Those thoughts churn and fester in her head, eating away at her. They build and build until she can’t take it anymore. She’s sitting on the couch, trying to read a book when the thoughts reach Chloe’s limit of self-loathing. She slams the book shut, irked. She finds herself wishing that Beca was here rather than at the studio recording with an artist. 

She runs her hands through hair but she shoots up, deciding to distract herself in the best way she knows how.

She throws her hair up into a ponytail and runs to her room to change into some workout clothes. She grabs her phone and headphones as she heads out of their place. 

Her feet hit the pavement and she stretches for a few moments before taking off in a nice pace. She runs and runs and runs until she feels her lungs burn and her legs ache. Her music blares through her headphones, filling every crevice of her mind and flooding it with lyrics, melodies, harmonies, and drop beats. 

Chloe finds herself smiling slightly, knowing she probably looks crazed. She can’t help it; the pain that comes with running is a welcomed distraction and she embraces it with open arms. 

When she gets back to the house, she feels a tad lighter. It felt nice to burn off some of those heavy thoughts and she’s thankful for the small reprieve. 

She bounds into her room to take a shower, heading over to the closet to get a change of clothes and a towel. As she’s reaching up on her tiptoes to swipe the towel that’s sitting on a higher shelf--seriously, why is up so high? It’s not like Beca or she is particularly very tall--when her fingers brush across something smooth. 

Brow furrowing, Chloe brushes her fingers across it again, realizing that there’s a box up there. Curious, she pushes herself further up, straining to grab hold of it. She finally finds purchase and pulls it down. It’s a little heavier and smaller than she expected as it slides into her hands. 

It’s a nicely lacquered small wooden box that opens up from the top. Chloe finds herself shuffling to the bed, her path to the shower derailed. She plops down, sitting criss cross as she opens the box. 

She peers in and sees that there are several documents in the box. Perplexed, she sifts through them, eyes skimming them until she lands on a picture of an ultrasound buried under a few loose documents. 

She holds the photo up between her pointer and thumb, eyes studying the ultrasound. There’s an uneasy feeling building in the pit of her chest as she runs a thumb over the photo. 

She sets the photo aside and sifts through the documents, the uneasy feeling growing into a flutter that swarms her belly. She feels like bees are buzzing around in her stomach as she finds a death certificate for a miscarriage. 

A sob escapes from deep within her chest and she feels something in her splinter into a million pieces. 

A myriad of emotions are piling up within her and she’s struggling to process through this abrupt influx. At first, she’s sad, immensely so...and then she’s upset and appalled that Beca didn’t tell her about this. 

She’s still trying to dissect her cloudy thoughts; trying to let herself feel so that she can try to understand them and acknowledge them, when Beca knocks on the bedroom door. 

She steps into the room cautiously, the light from the room flooding her face and illuminating the dark hallway behind her. Chloe looks up, not realizing that she’s been sitting here long enough for the sun to have set. 

“I saw that the lights were off so I was worri-” Beca begins, concerned, before she stops herself. Chloe thinks that she probably notices her bloodshot eyes. “Is everything okay?”

Chloe can’t find the strength to lie. She shakes her head and holds up the ultrasound and the death certificate. Nausea churned, unrestrained in her stomach. “Why did you not tell me that we lost o-our...child?”

Beca’s eyes widen and then she’s making her way to Chloe, steps still tentative. She slowly sits next to the redhead, hands reaching out to slowly grab the documents from Chloe’s grip. 

She sets everything back into the box gingerly, as if she’s worried that they will get crumpled up or lost. There’s a strained, choppy way to Beca’s movements as she turns to face Chloe, stormy blue eyes clouded with anguish. 

“I wanted to tell you,” she begins slowly, fingers flexing as if she was about to touch her. “But everyone thought it would’ve been better if I waited a little bit.”

Chloe flinches, reeling a little as if slapped. “I understand why you did it but,” she starts, hurt. “It’s been months, Beca. Months of keeping me in the dark!” 

“I know, Chlo,” Beca answers, looking lost. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to tell you.” 

Chloe frowns. “I understand why you did it...it’s just,” she tells her, struggling to formulate a coherent thought from her racing mind. “It’s just...you want me to get better and try to remember... something, but I feel like you just end up telling me nothing.” 

Beca opens her mouth helplessly before shutting it close again. A heavy silence settles over them then, charged with despondency beyond description. 

Chloe sighs, turning away from her as she feels tears pool at the edges of her vision. She felt nauseous again at the question she was about to ask. “What happened to...our baby?”

“She...died at 21 weeks,” Beca replies, voice broken and thick with emotion. “She was a...stillborn. The doctors tried everything but nothing could be done.”

Chloe feels her heart contract painfully in her chest and she’s never experienced such an enormous heartache before. “She...We...I can’t,” Chloe chokes out, feeling herself crumple forward. Beca catches her and winds her arms around Chloe’s shaking shoulders. 

Chloe can feel Beca’s breath tickle the top of her head as she presses her cheek to the redhead’s temple. “I-I know,” she whispers defeatedly. “It fucking sucks.” 

They sit in the suffocating silence then, Chloe’s sobs slowly starting to fade into hiccups. There’s a numbness settling deep into Chloe’s bones, leaving her dazed and her head swimming. Her heart feels as if her blood had just become tar, struggling to pump it through her veins. 

The pain she feels is indescribable and she can’t imagine Beca must feel. 

“How long has it been since?” Chloe asks suddenly, her voice startling against the disheartened air around them. 

Beca tightens her hold on Chloe as her next breath comes out in a sigh. “It happened a year and a half ago,” she informs quietly, and Chloe tries to find comfort in Beca’s arms and the sound of her heart beat against her ear--she really tries--but it sends a sharp ache through her chest instead. 

Chloe swallows down a sob as she thinks over Beca’s words. 

A year? She thinks feverishly. A small part of her is filled with anger, anguished at the thought of everything that Beca and she had to endure and cope with. A bigger part of her feels sorrow flood through every crack on her heart, strangling and drowning her. 

It feels like a waves are crashing over her and it just all becomes too much that Chloe starts to feel a headache build, throbbing harshly against her temples. She extracts herself from Beca’s grasp and settles her gaze on the floor as she tries to stamp down the migraine that’s thrashing against her skull. 

“I-I think I need to be alone for a little bit,” Chloe finds herself saying, her voice sounding far away, as if she’s underwater.

Many emotions flash across Beca’s face as she pauses, hesitant. She seems to be having an internal debate for a few moments before she concedes with a brief nod. 

She tells Chloe that she’ll be right outside, voice wavering, and then she’s gone, leaving Chloe to freely cry alone. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

When Chloe had felt like she was unable to cry anymore, her tears drying up against her cheeks, she jumps into the shower, feeling like absolute shit. 

She’s desperately hoping that the hot water will wash some of the tiredness from her bones as she lathers shampoo into her hair. Her thoughts are swirling violently in her head, an all-consuming inferno that she could not make heads or tails of. The heartache she had first felt had dulled slightly; it now feels less like a red, hot fireplace poker was being placed on her chest, and more like her heart was being rung out, until she was completely dry inside. 

Chloe attempts to push through all the emotional clutter that was surrounding her on all sides, hurriedly finishing up her shower, afraid to lose control of her buzzing thoughts. 

It’s when she hops out of the shower that a singular, clear thought makes itself known. 

I need to be home in Portland, she thinks briefly. She feels those thoughts derail when she thinks about telling Beca and a feeling of guilt and apprehension gnaws their way into her chest. 

She begins to mull over whether it would be a good idea to be home, but a big part of her feels like it’s a necessary action to take. She thinks back about the times when her frustration and lack of identity swallowed her whole and thinks about how she can’t continue to drag Beca through it with her.

She thinks about Beca’s unwavering support and about how Beca pushes away her own comfort in favor of Chloe’s; she thinks about how much heartache Beca must be going through and thinks about how she can’t continue to her in that way anymore. 

Just like that, her mind’s made up. And that’s that. 

She’s contemplating how to approach Beca with this as she dresses into comfortable clothes. As she’s drying her hair with her towel, the woman in question appears by the door. 

Chloe can sense she’s hovering, hesitant and cautious. Chloe doesn’t blame her--it’s been a very emotional few months. 

“Beca?” She calls out, watching Beca’s flinch with surprise, her shadow shifting against the light. 

Beca steps into the room, footsteps tentative as she comes to stand in front of Chloe. She’s twisting the wedding band on her ring finger, fidgeting it this way and that. Chloe briefly thinks back to her own, glancing back at the rings that are sitting on the vanity, still where she had left them the first night she’d come home from the hospital. She couldn’t bear the sight of them because she felt like she was fraud for wearing them, so she took them off and delicately aside.

She turns her eyes away from the vanity and faces Beca, stomach coiling tightly as she says her next words.

“I need to go home.”

Chapter Text

Chapter VII

I don’t want a love that holds us back

I don’t want a life that I can’t have

‘Cause people need a melody to open their eyes

Like a key to a memory frozen in time

Holding onto everything, you’re stuck in the past

When are you gonna learn the world moves fast? 

-

People Need A Melody

The Head and The Heart

Moving home gives Chloe a weird sense of heavy comfort, like a well-worn blanket has been draped over her shoulders. 

Her mother and sister greet her with happy smiles and a cute homemade sign with her name on it and the familiarity of it all engulfs her whole. They’re collecting her from the Departures section in the Portland airport and Chloe can’t find the strength in her to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over when she spots them.  

Chloe’s sister, Clara, bounds over to her first, squealing as she gathers Chloe into her arms. 

Chloe clutches onto Clara like she’s her lifeline, releasing her hold on the handle of her suitcase to hug her properly. 

“Missed you, little sis,” Clara breathes out. 

Chloe pulls back to examine her older sister. Chloe notes that she doesn’t look too different--just a little older and thinner, but still all sharp features and strawberry blonde hair. 

While Chloe was told she was a spitting image of her mother and sister when she was younger, she was the only one that inherited her father’s fiery red hair. 

“Missed you, too,” Chloe murmurs, hugging Clara for a second longer. They pull apart to allow their mother to greet Chloe with a hug. 

“I’m so happy you’re home,” her mother whispers, kissing her forehead. 

“Me too,” she manages out, burying herself into her mother’s arms. It feels like she’s a freshman again, coming home during the holidays after an exhausting first semester at Barden. 

Her voice is thick with emotion. “Me too.” 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Returning to her old room feels like a dream. It’s weird how her room hasn’t changed much from what she vaguely remembers. It throws her in a loop--makes her feel like she’s only been out of her childhood home for 4 years (if you don’t count those extra 3 years she spent at school), and not the actual 8 years since she’s lived there. 

She can’t believe that she spent 6 years pining after Beca Mitchell. 

Beca swims back into her thoughts and she quietly groans at the overwhelming wave of emotions that well up inside her. 

It’s frustrating, honestly. 

She tries to rid those distracting thoughts from her head, a headache already blooming at the center of her forehead. She pushes those feelings aside stubbornly and continues to unload her clothes into her dresser.

Clara is at her closet on the opposite end of the room, neatly helping her hang up the rest of her clothes.

They work in silence and Chloe thinks that it feels nice to have Clara’s warm and calm presence around her once more. 

As Chloe finishes up with the last drawer, she hears a knock on her door. She looks up to see her mother standing at the doorway, a soft smile on her face. 

“Someone’s here to see you,” her mom says, stepping aside to reveal her brother, who’s standing behind her. 

“Connor,” she greets happily, rushing into his arms. His six-foot-four frame engulfs her and she sinks into his comforting warmth. The familiar scent of his musky cologne washes over her. “I didn’t know you were in Portland!” 

He tightens his hold on her. “I couldn’t miss coming to see my little sister,” he says before his next words come out in a rush. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t come to see you at the hospital or in LA. I couldn’t get a day off work until now.” 

“It’s okay,” she assures. “You’re here now. And...I’m just glad to have something...normal right now.” 

“There’s nothing normal about our family. You know that,” he says and she pulls away from their hug, just to take him in for a little bit. 

He definitely looks different from the last time she remembers seeing him. His auburn hair is no longer a bedraggled mess; it’s now fashioned into a neatly cropped style. His face has a little more lines and he looks much older with the thick beard he’s sporting.

But he still feels and looks so much like the brother she remembers and it gives her such a crushing sense of ease. 

Clara greets him next, pulling him in for a hug. “Hey, Con. I see you haven’t gotten rid of that ratchet beard yet,” she teases, causing Connor to jostle her shoulder as they pull apart. 

“Shut up. Not all of us can be put together like you,” he fires back lightly, and the three of them laugh, as if they were kids again. 

Chloe smiles at the interaction unfolding before her, feeling warm all over. 

“Anyway, what’re you losers doing right now?” Connor asks, moving to sit down on Chloe’s desk chair as Clara and she settle down on her bed. He spins in the chair for a few rounds before stopping abruptly, facing the two women. They’re sitting directly across from each other and he has a strange expression on his face.

She knows that look well. She doesn’t see it often, but she knows that he’s struggling to decide if what he’s thinking is actually worth saying.

She saves him the trouble. “Just spit it out, Con.”

“How’s...Beca?” He asks tentatively, careful and slow like he’s afraid that she might break at the sound of the brunette's name.  

It drives her insane, how much everybody’s been tiptoeing around her. 

It’s weird, trying to cling onto any semblance of normalcy. It’s as if she’s stuck between two worlds--one that’s a ghost of everything she’s lost, like it’s trapped in time, as if frozen in amber. It feels like she’s trying to hold onto sand; everything just slips through her fingers every time. 

“Beca is...all right. I know that she wishes she could be with me every step of the way,” Chloe tells him, mind briefly flashing back to the painful conversation they had a couple of days ago. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

“What...what do you mean, Chlo?” Beca asks, furrowing her brows in a way that infuriatingly attractive to Chloe. “You’re here.You’re home .”  

“Beca, I…” Chloe’s voice dies in her throat when she chances a look at Beca. She looks at her with such a heavy look of hurt that it makes Chloe recoil. It pains the redhead so much that she has to turn away from a moment. 

There’s a suffocating silence that stretches for an infinite amount of time between them before Chloe takes in a shuddering breath, attempting to formulate her thoughts again. 

“I just...it’s just too much, Beca,” Chloe spits out, tired and voice strained. “Being here with you...God, it’s like a dream.” 

Beca looks so small--smaller than usual--as she comes to sit next to Chloe, shoulders drawn in, as if she was trying to make herself disappear. It makes something rise up within Chloe instinctively. It makes her want to hug her. To hold her hand. To pull her close and kiss her senseless. 

“I...I’m so sorry for the pain that I’ve caused you,” Chloe says hurriedly. “And all the pain I’m causing right now.” 

Beca shakes her head firmly. “No, don’t apologize. None of this is your fault,” she assures, but it falls deaf on Chloe’s ears. 

“I just...I don’t understand how you can keep loving me,” Chloe huffs out, hands gesturing wildly in frustration. “I’m not worth all this trouble. Not when I’m such a mess right now.” 

Beca sits up straight then, as if all her senses were awakened by the bitterness coloring Chloe’s voice and seeping into her words. It sends a deep feeling of alarm through Beca’s body, reverberating wildly in her bones. 

“Chloe, how can you say that? You’re not a mess. You’re worth everything,” Beca whispers out, heart breaking and splintering into a thousand fragments. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just been on my mind lately, I guess,” Chloe says quickly. “Honestly, I’ve been thinking about us and everything a lot lately.”

Beca perks up a little at that. “You have?” she asks, hopeful. “Does that mean that you reme-”

“-It means that I’m trying to,” Chloe emphasizes, still unable to meet Beca’s eyes. “I’ve never stopped trying, but it’s been so...hard. Especially after what I found out about...” 

The words die in Chloe’s throat. She can’t bring herself to acknowledge the fact they had lost a baby. 

Our baby.

My baby.

It’s still a hard pill for Chloe to swallow, let alone process. She can’t help but still feel heartbroken about the discovery, but she mostly feels...detached. 

Like she’s watching herself experience all of this from a different astral plane. 

Beca is quiet for a moment, brow furrowed as she ruminates over the redhead’s words. Chloe tries to savor a little bit of Beca’s presence before it’s gone while the brunette gathers her thoughts. 

Then, Beca takes in a deep breath. 

“You are worth everything. Everything that we’ve been through is worth it.” Her words come out in such a quiet and hoarse whisper that Chloe almost misses it. 

“God, Beca,” she breathes out. “I-”

“I love you because I can’t imagine doing anything else, Chloe,” Beca says quietly. Earnestly. “You’re like the melody in a song or like the first ray of sunlight that streams through the blinds in the morning. You just make everything better. When I’m with you, everything just makes sense. You quiet all the noise in my head.” 

“When you first got me involved with the Bellas, I never understood why I was so drawn to you. Why I was so willing to do anything to make you happy,” Beca starts to cry then, her voice breaking. “And then I realized that you are everything that is good and wonderful in this world. I realized that I was blessed with such a treasure. And while I tried to fight it for God knows how long...I never really stood a chance. It didn’t take much for me to fall for you after that.”

Beca takes a shuddering breath then, pausing as the words soak into the atmosphere and deep into Chloe’s bones. 

“I don’t regret falling in love with you, Chloe. I don’t regret dating you, marrying you, and wanting to have a future with you.” 

Chloe feels overwhelmed by the honesty of Beca’s words. Many emotions flare up within her; sympathy, love, passion, hope, adoration, but also-

All-consuming anger. 

It’s something that Chloe’s not unfamiliar with. In fact, she feels that she has had so much anger building beneath the surface, always threatening to spill over. It melds with the frustrations and thoughts that have been lingering in her head. 

She’s so angry because she knows that Beca doesn’t deserve this--that she’s alone in this...this sham of a marriage. In this sham of a life they had built so beautifully together. It doesn’t even feel like they’re married some days anymore. It makes her upset because Beca doesn’t need to get hurt, and yet-

She still does. 

Chloe has come to realize time and time again that it’s so easy to be in love with Beca Mitchell and it makes her want to cry or scream. 

Because Chloe can’t give Beca the world right now. She can’t even wrap her mind around who she was with who she is now. 

Her thoughts are muddied and messy and she’s furious. 

“I love you for who you are, Chloe,” Beca says, as if she were reading her mind. “You are it for me. You’re you and I’m me and we just make sense. That’s how it’s always been and I know that’s how it’s always going to be for me.” 

Chloe isn’t sure if she wants to scream, or cry, or yell at Beca to go away, or grab Beca and kiss her senseless. Every part of her body cries out to touch Beca; to pull her into her orbit so that they can circle around each other, their course righted and their axis fixed. 

Chloe desperately just wants everything to be...good, again. 

Instead, everything comes crashing down on her.

“I don’t even know...” Chloe chokes out. “I-I don’t think...I can’t love you right if I don’t know who…”

“It’s okay,” Beca assuages, demeanor infuriatingly gentle and kind. Her eyes shine with unshed tears. Chloe hazily thinks that she looks so, so beautiful. 

“I’m not me anymore,” Chloe gasps out, swallowing down a sob. “So...so, who am...I now if I’m not...me?”

“You’re Chloe Beale. You’re a wonderful human being who I love very much,” Beca tells her. “And I will always love you and whoever being Chloe is to you now.” 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Chloe is pulled out of the memory and she swallows down the array of emotions that are sitting heavily on her chest. 

She holds that interaction close to her heart, drawing strength from Beca’s unwavering and steadfast belief in her and their love for each other. It’s a bittersweet interaction to cherish, inspiring and agonizing all at once. 

“She just cares about you,” Connor says sympathetically. Clara nods in agreement, glancing worriedly at Chloe. 

“We all do,” her sister adds. 

Chloe turns away from them, rolling her lips in thought. “I just..I just want to be able to remember everything. Everyone else can remember my life but I can’t. How is that fair? How messed up is that?”

“It’s not fair,” he agrees, moving over to sit next to her. “I don’t know why this happened to you and it makes us upset that you’re upset, but just know that a lot of people are here for you.” 

“Yeah, we’re here with you ‘till the end, Bean,” Clara informs, bumping her shoulder with the redhead’s. The familiarity of her childhood nickname wraps around her comfortingly. “You’re stuck with us, remember?”

Chloe draws her knees up to her chest and props her chin atop her knees. “That’s one of the things I didn’t forget. Unfortunately,” she jests, trying to make her voice light when she notices her siblings tense up at her statement. She tries to laugh it off, but her words come out as watery and breathy instead. “Thanks, guys. I’m so glad that we’re related.” 

“Where was that attitude fifteen years ago when I borrowed your teal top?” Clara responds. Connor snorts in response and Chloe sticks her tongue out in retaliation.

“Stole is a more appropriate word for what you did,” Chloe says pointedly, laughing a little at her sister’s faux hurt expression. 

Chloe thinks that this feels very warm and nice, sharing such a light moment with her siblings, cocooned in the safety of her childhood bedroom. 

It gives her a little bit of a reprieve from the heaviness of her reality and she savors this small taste of normalcy. Saves it up to have it as a buoy in the sea of harder future days. 

“Just remember that you have a lot of people in your corner, sis,” Connor says, a moment after they’ve all sobered up. “People who care deeply about you.”

“People like my big brother and sister?” Chloe asks, trying to lighten the mood. It falls a little flat amidst the tenderness of the moment that lingers in the air. 

“Yes. People like us. Like Aubrey. Like the Bellas,” Clara says, pausing as she pulls Chloe in for a side hug. “Like Beca.” 

The words echo hauntingly in her head, jostling around until it settles deeply into the recesses of her mind. 

Like Beca . 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Aubrey FaceTimes Chloe on her third night in Portland. 

They chat about almost everything and nothing for a good 30 minutes, and Chloe can tell that Aubrey desperately wants to say something. She can tell by how the blonde’s words are more clipped than usual. 

“Just spit it out, Bree,” Chloe tells her.

She sees Aubrey hesitate for a moment before she lets out a deep sigh, her face pixelated on the phone screen. “I just...I was wondering if you wanted an update on how Beca’s been doing,” she says cautiously. Calculative and measured, like she’s won to do when Chloe’s feelings are especially raw and tender. “If you don’t, that’s all right. I don’t want to overwhelm you.” 

“No, no,” Chloe says quickly, immediately sitting up from her previously slumped position on the couch. Beca has been on her mind lately--more so after her conversation with her siblings--but they’ve haven’t spoken since Chloe texted her about landing safely in Portland a few days ago.

She still remembers the text Beca had sent back. 

I’m glad. I hope you’re doing alright. 

Those simple and short words sent a strange flutter through Chloe and she’s still struggling to figure out what to make of it.

“How is Beca doing?” she asks, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. She doesn’t really care if she doesn’t. 

If Aubrey is surprised by Chloe’s eagerness, she certainly doesn’t show it. “She’s been...better. But I've been making sure that she’s been eating. Made her socialize with Stacie and me too.” 

There’s a feeling of sadness settling on the center of her chest. She feels terrible, wishing that she could stop inflicting so much pain upon Beca. “Thanks for taking care of her, Bree.” 

“Of course. She’s my best friend too,” Aubrey informs her softly. There’s a pregnant pause after that and Chloe feels something deep break within her. 

“I just...I wish I could stop hurting her,” Chloe whispers brokenly into her phone. 

“Oh, Chloe,” Aubrey replies, voice steady and calm against the rough waters of Chloe’s turbulent emotions. “You’re not. Trust me. You’re not.” 

It’s a steadiness, strength, and truth that Chloe feverishly wishes she could have and believe in. 

But then again, she knows that she’d be lying to herself. So, she latches onto Aubrey’s steadfastness like it’s a lifeline instead. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca’s lying on her couch, laptop perched on her stomach as she listens to a hook she’s been struggling to figure out for the past 4 hours. It’s been playing on a loop and as time creeps by the fourth hour, she gives up.

She finds herself numbly scrolling through her phone instead, looking at pictures of Chloe and her--she keeps wondering why she’d torture herself like this--when Stacie and Aubrey break into her house, arms laden with tupperwares of food.

“What the hell? Why are you guys here?” she exclaims gruffly, but her tone lacks her usual sharp bite. 

Aubrey makes her way over to Beca, tugging the smaller woman up into a sitting position and ignoring her indignant protests. “You know, Chloe would be furious if she knew you were starving yourself,” the blonde states, shoving a flask filled with tea into Beca’s hands. “Stacie and I have been feeding you for weeks, but you can’t keep living like this, Beca.” 

“Aubrey’s right!” Stacie’s voice flits in from the kitchen. She’s stuffing food into the refrigerator, the glass tupperwares clinking together loudly as they slide onto the shelves. 

“Whose side are you on?” Beca gripes back, thoroughly annoyed. 

“The side where you’re taken care of,” Stacie quips back, voice tinny as it floats into the living room.

Beca doesn’t say anything then, simply choosing to mutter under her breath as she takes a sip of the peppermint tea--her and Chloe’s favorite; Chloe had gotten her addicted to them after the first winter break they’d spent together during their freshman year at Barden--Aubrey had given her. 

It’s been around four weeks since Chloe’s departure and Beca hasn’t been in the mood to do anything but mope around, drink, make depressing music (read: super depressing music. Beca’s kind of concerned about how dark everything has been sounding), and look at photos of them together. 

Chloe has contacted her throughout her absence, but her messages have been sparse and in between. Mostly, Chloe has been either sending her texts asking her how she’s been or sending her pictures of Portland and of her family, as if Beca hadn’t seen them before from the multiple visits they’d made to visit Chloe’s family. 

That revelation stings like a thousand paper cuts, but she can’t fault Chloe. She supposes that in Chloe’s world, she hasn’t really been to Portland or met her family. 

It’s a strange and awkward reality to live in--it’s as if they’ve been in limbo, which, when Beca really ponders on it, is essentially an accurate descriptor for the state they’ve found themselves in. 

Beca sends her texts back with her own updates, but she can’t help but wish she was there with Chloe. 

Aubrey’s voice brings Beca out of her thoughts like a lighthouse shining on a foggy ocean night.

“When was the last time you went to work? And how long has it been since you’ve last...showered?” Aubrey asks, nose wrinkling a bit when Beca stares at her blankly. “How long has it been since you’ve...cleaned up around here?” 

“What’s the point?” Beca responds grouchily. “Chloe’s not here anymore. It’s not really a home at this point.”

Aubrey just looks at her, gaze pointed. She’s in her usual General Posen stance; hands on hips, head held high. Commanding. Authoritative. “Mopey is an unbecoming look on you, Mitchell. You have to stop doing this to yourself. You can’t just stop living your life, Beca,” she says, grabbing the smaller woman by her arm to drag her to the kitchen table. She pushes Beca down into a seat. 

“Chloe would never forgive you if she knew you were planning to sullenly sulk the rest of your life away,” she states, arms folded across her chest.

Beca kind of wants to lash out at Aubrey, say stinging and bitter words like “But Chloe’s not here, is she?”, but she knows that she’s just being helpful. A good friend. So she just sighs instead. 

Before Beca can say anything else, Stacie is putting a bowl of steaming vegetables in front of her. 

“Eat,” the leggy brunette directs sternly. 

“You’ve been spending way too much time with Aubrey,” she grumbles, scraping up the food and filling her stomach as much as she can, despite being absolutely not hungry. 

Stacie and Aubrey watch her with vigilant eyes. Beca feels like she’s an exhibit at the zoo. So much so that she considers baring her teeth and giving them a sarcastic wave of her hands like a showman at the circus. 

“Beca, you know that we’re doing this because we care about you, right?” Stacie says softly, plopping down on a chair next to her. Aubrey flanks Beca’s left, seated in her Proper Posen Position™ (patent still pending).

“Yes. If you need someone to talk to about...everything that’s been going on, Stacie and I are here for you. You can call or text us. We’ll come over if you need us to. Whatever you need,” Aubrey’s voice is steadily getting softer and quieter as she speaks. “We all need each other to get through this together.” 

“I...what if she falls in love with someone else while she’s in Portland? Or worse...What if she remembers everything and decides that she doesn’t want to be with me?” Beca asks instead of acknowledging Aubrey’s and Stacie’s words. Her voice comes out broken and small. She hates it. “What do I do then?” 

Stacie and Aubrey shoot each other concerned looks. “Beca, she just needs time. It’s been very traumatic few months for her. For the both of you. For all of us.” Aubrey placates. 

“Yeah. Injuries and accidents like Chloe’s don’t have a clear, linear path to recovery,” Stacie adds rationally. “Time is the best cure for her now.” 

“Time,” Beca barks out a bitter laugh, playing with her wedding ring nervously. “It just takes the fucking cake that she can remember everything until she met me. It’s so fucking unfair.” 

Stacie places a gentle hand on Beca’s shoulder. “It is, but there’s nothing that we can do except be there for Chloe and hope for the best.”

Beca shrugs her hand off, feeling anger and sadness well up within her. “You guys don’t understand. You don’t have a wife that doesn’t remember you.” The words fly out of her mouth before she can stop it. 

Aubrey recoils, as if struck. Stacie flinches, a look of hurt flashing across her features. Beca instantly feels like an asshole and the worst person on the planet. 

“Beca, you know that’s not true. I’m devastated--we both are--about what happened to Chloe and you. You guys are my family.” 

“Mine too,” Stacie pipes in quietly. 

“I...I guess I’m just furious that she remembers you, Aubrey,” Beca says, turning her head toward Aubrey, voice faint. “I know it’s shitty of me to think that, but I can’t help it.” 

Aubrey sighs, patience growing thin very quickly. “Beca, it’s not shitty to be angry. In fact, I’d be concerned if you weren’t. But it is unfair to me, to Chloe, to Stacie, and to you,” she reasons. “You can’t let your frustration, sadness, and anger get the best of you. Not when Chloe needs you.” 

“You know that Chloe’s trying her best,” Stacie adds. “Hell, everyone can see that you two are meant for each other. You know this, so stop doubting Chloe and yourself when you told Chloe that you believe in the both of you.” 

The dam breaks then; Beca breaks down, tears springing out from the corners of her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Beca blubbers out, fully coming undone. “I’m sorry. You guys are right. I didn’t mean what I said.” 

“We know you are,” Stacie says, pulling Beca into a hug. 

“Stacie and I just want you to be okay. You need to be whole when Chloe finds her way back to you,” Aubrey says. 

“I just...What if she does remember and decides that she doesn’t wanna be with me? That she doesn’t love me?” Beca stutters out, sobs quelling into quiet sniffs. The thought alone terrifies her but she needs to know what to prepare for, in case of a fallout. 

“Beca…” Aubrey starts off, exasperated.

“What if, guys?” Beca presses on, brushing past the chastising tone in Aubrey’s voice. “I know I need to let her go, but-”

“Then you move on,” Stacie tells her bluntly, often not one to mince words. “It’ll be hard and it’ll be shitty, like someone shoved your heart through a meat grinder-”

“Thanks for the visual, Stace,” Beca says, sending her a glare that lacks any sharpness.

“-But like Aubrey said, you can’t stop living your life. Chloe would be majorly pissed at you. Hell, Bree and I would be pissed at you. And so would the rest of the Bellas.”

“You and Chloe will get through this,” Aubrey adds, reaching over to pat Beca’s arm. “We’ll all be with you every step of the way.”

“Yeah,” Stacie chimes in, smiling gently. “Bellas for life, right?”

Distantly, Beca recalls a time when Chloe had told her that too. 

Yeah, Beca muses, the memory leaving behind a bittersweet taste. Bellas for life. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Chloe spends the remainder of her first two weeks back in Portland attending several sessions with her new cognitive rehabilitation therapist—one recommended by Stacie, of whom was well-versed with situations like Chloe’s—and she’s been quite helpful, despite Chloe’s initial reservations about obtaining her expertise while she’s in Portland.

The first few sessions had been particularly very...painful, to be brief. It left her feeling exhausted and strangely very sore all over—like her muscles just ached every time her fleeting memories were put to the test. In fact, she had been reasonably skeptical of her new therapist, Charlie, as the professional had begun their first appointment by suggesting that she keep a journal. She stated it was an attempt to ‘exercise’ Chloe’s brain in order to potentially bring back some of her lost memories. 

“ You see, the human brain is quite flexible and malleable,” Charlie explained one chilly September morning. “Its plasticity is one of the reasons why the brain—and its reactions—are quite unpredictable at times.”

After receiving further assurances from Charlie, Chloe had begrudgingly followed the therapist’s orders, mind already resigned to the fact that it would most likely be proven as a flop.

Much to her pleasant surprise, she was proven wrong. As the next few weeks passed by, she felt herself recalling small details as she sat in the quiet confines of her room, the top of her pen tapping a steady beat as she employed some of the cognitive training tools that were given to her.

It was physically painful to try and recall these memories, as a wicked headache would always bloom at the base of her neck and make their way to the front of her forehead, but Chloe was never known to be a quitter.

So, instead, she had fought against the throbbing pain and scratched and etched those memories on paper, her usually neat handwriting coming off a little sloppy due to her feverish excitement.

During one session, she’d excitedly told Charlie that she remembered how Beca liked to have Chinese takeout on rough days.

“I’d usually pick up Chow Mein for her when she’d have a rough day at the studio,” lamented Chloe, hands gesturing about in wild enthusiasm. “And she’d pick up some wine and Rocky Road ice cream if I had a bad day.”

“That’s great, Chloe,” said her smiling therapist. “Do you recall anything else?”

She had deflated then, shoulders drooping down as her hands fell back down to her sides. 

“No,” she huffed out. “I wish I could remember more, but it’s been exhausting trying to remember even one tidbit.”

Chloe knew the soft smile on Charlie’s face was meant to be reassuring, but it made her stomach churn instead. “These things take time,” she explained and Chloe held back a sigh. 

She dreaded hearing that phrase by now, as it felt banal and trivial. 

“Yeah,” Chloe muttered out. “I know.”

Time, Chloe had come to realize, was a luxury she could afford at the moment. She loathed it at times, feeling like everything was eluding her each time she caught up and discovered a fragment of her own life. She found herself trying to find hobbies outside of therapy, but all she really ended up doing was struggle to latch onto floating pieces of her memory, read whatever books that caught her interest, listen to music, and head out on runs.

During her runs, she’d intermittently think about her lost child, and while her heart ached each time she thought about her, she discovered that she was starting to process through it. She was healing slowly and surely. 

After a few sessions of processing through it with Charlie, she no longer felt weighed down by grief and helpless.

At least, not for her child anymore.

As her days carried on and she continued her routine, she found other thoughts to be occupying her mind. 

Thoughts about Beca. 

Oh, she thought about Beca endlessly then. 

At first, she had tried not to. She had fought against it this tidal wave, afraid that if she were to succumb to thoughts about Beca—of Beca—she’d fall into a pit of self-hatred, anger, and heartbrokenness again, but the tidal wave eventually crested and crashed, pulling away every bit of Chloe along with it. 

It was hard for her at first—to recognize that her body remembers loving Beca while her mind did not. That level of cognitive dissonance lead to many headaches at even the mere attempt of dissecting it. 

So she had left that thought alone. For now.

Of course, Beca herself isn’t largely the cause of these mixed emotions. Chloe knows that she still has a lot to process through before she could fully diverge from the path of anger and self-loathing and truly forgive herself.

She knows that Beca had told her countless times her memory loss wasn’t her fault, but she could not digest the truth enough to believe it.

However, this was a tangent for another day.

Chloe had thought a lot about Beca for the first month she’d been home, her mind always wandering to the brunette when she did her cognitive exercises in the morning.

It seemed like Beca would never leave her mind as much as she tried to avoid opening that door.

Avoiding it had left Chloe feeling more exhausted than before, so she’d eventually succumbed to those traitorous thoughts. Thoughts that wondered what Beca was doing that exact moment; what she was having for breakfast; whether she was having a good day.

Beca , Chloe had mused one dewy morning, her pen scratching on paper, it seems like no matter how hard I try, I can’t really get you to leave my mind. 

Those thoughts had flowed out so easily on the papers of her memory journal, and they were the catalyst to unlocking a few bits of Chloe’s memory.

The irony isn't lost on Chloe; the very subject she’s been trying to avoid—in fear of hurting Beca further—became the key to freeing the mental block that had been stunting her recovery for months.

For the first time in months, Chloe had a bright light at the end of the tunnel. The hope warned her from head to toe, like bright rays of sunlight on a clear summer day.

And that’s more than Chloe ever dared to let herself hope for. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

As September slips into October; as the leaves begin changing to a multitude of muted colors, Chloe spends that transition period further acclimatizing herself to everything, both at home and in Portland. 

During the last week of October, she’d managed to snag an accelerated early childhood education refresher online course at Portland State University and a part-time job at a bookstore she used to work at as a teenager. She’d decided that she needed to start solidifying practical steps if she actually wanted to get her life back on track. 

She also figured it was time that she got back on her feet and did something productive instead of moping around the house, staring sadly at the closed cover of her journal.

The cause of her temporarily downtrodden mood was that she had hit a large roadblock in her memory. No longer were the little bits of what was left of her memory surfacing, no matter how hard she tried. 

The last thing she could recall was how she chose to decorate her second grade classroom one spring. And that was it.

She shakes herself out of her line of thought and chooses to reframe her focus on present things instead.

At least, that’s what her therapist had advised her to do.

So, she muses that she probably has Clara to thank for instead. Her sister had kicked her butt back into gear, deciding to hound her in starting to assemble her life back together. 

“So, when do your classes and new job start?” Clara asks, tugging Chloe out her thoughts. 

Chloe blinks, taking time to sort her muddled mind in order. “I start my job on Monday, and classes start after Christmas.” She informs her, reaching over to the coffee table in front of them and snagging her wine glass off of it. 

They’re both seated on Clara’s couch, tucked comfortably inside the warmth of her older sister’s apartment. Clara has her legs thrown over Chloe’s lap as an episode of F.R.I.E.N.D.S plays on the flatscreen in the background. They’re both freshly showered after their evening run and are just lazily around as they await the arrival of UberEats order. 

“Are you excited?” Clara asks after a moment, taking a sip from her own wine glass. 

Chloe cocks an eyebrow questioningly, in a way that is eerily reminiscent of Beca’s. “For which one?”

Clara shrugs. “Both,”  

Chloe ponders for a moment, swirling her wine glass in her hand. “I think I am. I’m just more excited about getting back into the swing of things, I guess.”

Clara hums in response. Chloe can tell she wants to say more by the purse of her sister’s lips. 

“What is it?” Chloe asks. 

“Does Beca know? About all of this?” 

Chloe thinks back to the text she’d sent Beca when she found out that she was accepted into the course, smiling as she recalls the brunette’s words.

That’s great, Chlo. I’m so proud of you!

Chloe nods. “Yeah. She said she was really proud of me,” 

Clara puts her glass away and leans over to capture Chloe in a tight embrace. “We all are, Bean,” she whispers into Chloe’s shoulder. “You’ve been so strong and I’ve never been more proud of my baby sister.”

Chloe feels the telltale pricks of tears behind her eyelids as she hugs Clara back with equal fervor. She chokes out a watery thank you before pulling away, surreptitiously brushing away an errant tear as she does so. 

“How...has everything else been with the therapist?” Clara asks, her question coming out haltingly as she tries to word in the gentlest way possible. 

Chloe can’t help but roll her eyes at her sister’s overcautiousness. “You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me, Clara. I’m a big girl,” she tells her, finishing up the last of her wine. “It’s been going well. Charlie said that I should be able to recall more bits and pieces with the help of the exercises she’s got me doing. And over...time, of course.” 

Clara watches as a flash of emotion clouds over Chloe’s eyes. “That’s great news, right?” she asks. 

“It is, but she also said that I may never really remember everything fully. No matter how hard I try,” Chloe informs with a frown as she sets her glass away. “The weird thing is that she’s been pretty accurate with her diagnosis so far--I mean, I‘ve only managed to remember the smallest of things, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Like what?” 

“Like how I decorated my classroom one semester,” Chloe supplies, suddenly self-conscious as the words tumble out.

“Do you remember anything else?” probes Clara, curiosity significantly peaked.

“Well...the other day, I was at Spella and I had gotten my usual order when I accidentally ordered Beca’s too,” Chloe says hesitantly, brows furrowed in thought. “It was...off-putting in a way.”

“Why?” Clara asks softly. 

Chloe blinks, as if coming back to herself. “Why...?”

“Why is it off-putting?”

Chloe purses her lips. “I...don’t know. I was just in line, and then I just blurted out Beca’s order. It was so different, because I normally have to try really hard to recall...anything. Instead, I just said “can I get a dark roast coffee with a splash of caramel?” Like I ordered her drink every day.”

“I mean, you kind of did, Chlo,” Clara says, gentle. Bemused. “You guys are married, you know that right?”

“It probably doesn’t really feel like a real marriage to Beca,” the words are out of Chloe’s mouth before she can stop them. Recognizing that her tone is colored with bitterness, she turns away, avoiding her sister’s concerned gaze.

“What else have you been able to remember?” Clara inquires again, voice soft. 

“It-it’s just been really random things,” Chloe says, turning her attention to her hands in order to avoid Clara’s questioning gaze a little longer.

“Random things like…?” 

Chloe sighs, knowing that Clara is not going to let it go until she answers her question. 

She’s like a dog with a bone, I swear, muses Chloe. 

“Random things like how Beca likes her eggs made in the mornings; her favorite laundry detergent—the song she hums under her breath when she’s happy,” the confession tumbles out of Chloe’s lips, the dam finally breaking.

Chloe had been mulling over these flashes of memories for three weeks now—even more so, since they had stopped surfacing. 

“How long has this been going on now?”

“Two or three weeks after I started my sessions with Charlie,” 

“Chloe! Why didn’t you tell us that?” 

Chloe flinches at the hurt laced in Clara’s words. “I just didn’t want to give you, mom, or Con false hope,” she rushes out, hoping to explain away her lapse in judgement.

Clara’s brows pinches forward together. “You...you need to tell us these things, Chlo,” she chastises, and for a brief moment, she reminds her of Aubrey. “We’re your family and we just want to help you.”

Chloe just nods quietly in acquiescence.

Clara’s quiet for a moment then. Chloe can see the cogs turning over and over in her head. “Have you told Beca about this?” she finally utters out.

“I…” Chloe falters. “I haven’t. I don’t want to give her any false hope either.” 

“I don’t think you would be giving her false hope, Chlo,” she reasons, reaching over to tangle her fingers with Chloe’s. “I think it’s just keeping her in the loop. Like you should’ve kept the rest of us in the loop. We both know that she wants to be here with you, but she chose to let you process everything on your own terms. Don’t you think she deserves to know what’s going on?”

Chloe opens her mouth in disagreement, wanting to protest that telling Beca would be very different from telling Clara or their mother, but the words don’t come. The excuses die on her tongue, tasting bitter, because that’s what the truly were; empty excuses meant to justify her (misguided) actions.

Chloe begins to process her sister’s words when the doorbell goes off, signaling that their dinner has arrived. 

“Just think about it, Bean?” Clara says gently, proving that she’s a mind reader as she gets up from her perch on the couch. 

She bounds over to the door, thanking the delivery man as she gathers the food into her hands. As Clara arranges their dinner--a simple sushi platter--on the wooden coffee table, her words swirl around in Chloe’s mind.

The words echo in her head many hours after she settles into her sister’s guest room, eyes wide awake and staring at the flashes of car headlights passing by the window. 

Don’t you think she deserves to know what’s going on? 

The thoughts plague her late into the night and when the words become too much, Chloe rolls over on her side and snatches her phone off the bedside table. She unlocks her phone, blinking against the harsh brightness of the screen before she opens up her messaging app. 

iMessage

Today, 2:15 a.m.

Chloe [2:15 a.m]

I remember your coffee order

She fires off the text without further preamble, out of fear of backing out. Beca’s text comes back a few seconds later. 

Beca [2:15 a.m.]

Chlo

Chloe’s heart hammers violently in her chest, turning this way and that as her eyes narrow on the three dots that appear on the screen. Her breath catches when she reads Beca’s next message. 

Beca [2:16 a.m.]

Not that I’m not glad to hear from you

Cause I mean

I am but like

Dude

What are you doing up so late? 

Chloe smiles at Beca’s use of the phrase “dude” but doesn’t know why her hands are shaking so much as she types out her response. 

Chloe [2:16 a.m]

couldn’t sleep

What are you doing up so late?

Beca [2:17 a.m.]

Couldn’t sleep either.

You said that you...remember my coffee order?

Chloe [2:18 a.m]

Yeah 

I do

Chloe bites her lip in thought before sending her next message. 

Chloe [2:18 a.m]

Dark roast coffee with a splash of caramel, right?

Beca doesn’t respond for a long while, sending Chloe’s anxiety skyrocketing. She tries to rationalize her thoughts, eventually concluding that Beca’s probably fallen asleep. She goes to set her phone aside, heart still lodged in her throat, before her phone lights up, signaling that Beca’s responded.

Beca [2:27 a.m.]

Yeah

That’s right 

Do you remember anything else? 

Chloe worries the bottom her lips as she thinks about how she should respond. After a long moment of contemplation, with Clara’s words ringing in the back of her head, she decides to tell Beca the truth. She knows that she owes the brunette that much. 

Chloe [2:30 a.m]

Just a few little things

Beca [2:30 a.m.]

Little things like…?

Chloe [2:30 a.m]

Things like

Chloe takes in a shuddering breath as she finishes her sentence. 

Screw it, she thinks, pressing the little arrow button at the corner of the text box. 

Chloe [2:31 a.m]

How you like your laundry folded

How you like your eggs made

How you prefer a plaid button-up even on a hot summer’s day

Unbeknownst to Chloe, about 926 miles away, Beca’s heart is hammering very loudly against her chest as well, making it hard for her to breathe. Her hands are shaking as she types out her message. 

Beca [2:33 a.m.]

Can I call you? 

Chloe’s heart leaps further up her throat as her eyes scan the words over and over. The rational part of her brain is adamantly advising to not play with fire and hurt Beca further, but a bigger part of her just wants to hear the brunette’s voice. The need tugs strongly at her heartstrings and she finds herself giving in to the temptation. 

Chloe [2:35 a.m.]

Yes

Not a minute later, her phone buzzes vibrantly in her hand. With a shaky breath, she answers the phone. 

“Chlo,” the brunette breathes out in a low whisper.

It sends a shiver down Chloe’s spine, satisfying and terrifying all at once. 

“Becs,” she utters out, fingers wrapping themselves tighter around the shape of her phone. She takes in the sound of Beca’s voice, raspy from hours of misuse.

“I’m sorry for calling you so late,” Beca rushes out, as if she deeply offended the redhead.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Chloe tells her, pausing for a second before letting the rest of her sentence out. “Besides, I wanted to hear your voice.”

It’s silent at the end of the end, and Chloe would’ve thought the call had disconnected if she didn’t hear the sharp intake of breath on the other line. 

“You did?” Beca chokes out. 

“Yeah,” Chloe confirms, hesitant. “Is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay, Chlo,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve been wanting to hear about how you’ve been doing but…”

“But you wanted to give me space,” Chloe finishes the sentence for her.

“Yeah,” Beca assents. 

“Well, thank you,” Chloe says, her voice coming out way too formal for her liking. It causes her to cringe a little. “It’s been...helpful. Having time apart.”

“Oh,” 

Hearing the brokenness behind that one simple word sends Chloe scrambling, as she recognizes what she’d said could be misconstrued. “Not that I-“

“Chlo,” Beca interrupts, voice quiet and gentle. “I get it. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

Chloe’s smiling in relief in response before she realizes that Beca can’t see her face. “So, what’s got you up so late?” she asks, wanting to change the subject to something lighter.

Beca itches to say you, but she isn’t sure how well that would go. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong with this track I’ve been working on,” she says instead.

Chloe’s eyes widen slightly in excitement. “Can I listen to it? Maybe I can help!”

Beca huffs out a laugh at the redhead’s enthusiasm. “Sure. Hold on,” she says as she shuffled around. Chloe can hear things being pushed aside and the wheels of a roller chair slide across hardwood floors.

In her mind’s eye, she sees Beca hunched over her equipment in her studio. The imagery alone makes her smile a little.

“This is something I’ve been working on with Khalid and Taylor Swift,” Beca says, voice coming in slightly tinny, informing Chloe that she was now on speakerphone.

Chloe tries not to freak out at those names. She really does. “Taylor Swift?! And Khalid?! That’s so cool, Becs!”

She’s practically bouncing in her perch on the bed. She hears Beca laugh in fond amusement.

“You know Khalid?”

“Um, do I live under a rock? Of course I do! I just discovered him a couple weeks ago!” Chloe says, and Beca’s suddenly struck, those similar words from what feels like a lifetime ago sending a painful ache throughout her chest.

“Beca? Are you still there?” Chloe prompts, unsure if the call’s been disconnected. Beca scrambles to utter out a response, realizing that she’s been quiet for a while now. 

“The title’s still a work in progress, but they’re calling it ‘Bad Habit’,” Beca says as a way of explanation before she plays out the entire song for Chloe.

Chloe, not for the first time, is struck by how truly talented Beca is. She takes in the breadth of the song, letting the rhythm, the melody, and the lyrics wash over her like summer evening rain. 

As she continues to listen intently, she can hear Beca nervously drumming her fingers on her studio’s desk, and faintly her mind fills the blanks, informing her that it’s a nervous tick of Beca’s. 

Though it’s been a natural occurrence for her to remember some small details about Beca, it still startles her how clear these thoughts echo in her mind. It becomes increasingly evident the level of love past her had for Beca. 

It terrified her before and it terrifies her still. 

“So, what do you think?” Beca asks, interrupting Chloe before her thoughts could cause her to have another large headache during her attempts to make sense of them. 

“It’s...it’s amazing, Becs,” Chloe says genuinely, awestruck and struggling to figure out the words to encompass how talented she thinks Beca is. 

“Yeah?” Beca’s reply is abashed and shy. 

“Totes! It was aca-amazing! You’re just so talented, Beca. Your songs haven’t stopped in rendering me speechless!” Chloe gushes out. 

“Wait--songs?” Beca questions.

“Well, yeah. I’ve been listening to the songs that you’ve produced,” Chloe explains, pink beginning to tint her cheeks, as if she was caught doing something she shouldn’t have been doing. “They’re honestly so...ethereal. Special.” 

“That’s what you are to me,” Beca says simply, as if she were commenting on the weather. Her tone is filled with affection, awe, honesty, and pure, unadulterated love. 

It sends a zing of thrill down Chloe’s spine. Her stomach churns pleasantly at the unexpected compliment and for a brief, fleeting moment, she allows herself to enjoy it.

Then, somewhere deep inside her, a voice chastises her. 

You can’t enjoy it. Not when you’re going to give her false hope. Not when you’re not you yet, it reminds mockingly. 

Chloe swallows down the dry lump that’s formed in her throat as the pleasant churn in her stomach changes, twisting tightly instead, like a knife was shoved in there. 

She’s figuring out how to respond, weighing the pros and cons of answering sincerely or playing it off jokingly, as Beca rushes out an apology, her words awkward and stilted. 

“I’m sorry, Chlo--shit, I didn’t mean to make you feel--I mean, I--” Beca rambles on. Chloe, mercifully, decides to stop her before she spirals further. 

“Becs,” she interrupts softly. Beca’s words die in her mouth. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” 

"O-oh,” Beca breathes out, relief evident in her tone. 

“I mean, I know I’m great and all, but I appreciate the validation. Sometimes a girl just needs to hear that she’s ethereal ,” Chloe teases, hoping to break the tension and just make Beca laugh. 

Her mission is accomplished when Beca lets out a hearty chuckle and grumbles out a playfully disgruntled “shut up”. 

“You’re just grumpy because you know it’s true,” Chloe giggles out in a sing-songy voice. 

“How do you get through doors with a head that big?” Beca fires back, causing Chloe to let out a fuller laugh and she clamps her mouth shut as quickly as she can, in fear of waking Clara up. 

It feels good, to just laugh with Beca and enjoy her company. 

It’s with a quiet resignation that she realizes she’s missed Beca. A lot. 

“It’s not my fault,” Chloe volleys back, smiling because she can definitely hear Beca’s smirk. “You’re the one that’s inflating my ego with adjectives like special and ethereal.”

Beca groans in response and just like that, the tension dissipates, leaving them room to settle down in a comfortable conversation. Chloe lets Beca know what she thinks is missing on the track and Beca yelps in her own personal Eureka moment. 

They talk throughout the night then, discussing their days, routines, funny occurrences in their days, and everything and nothing in between. 

Chloe falls asleep with her phone pressed to her ear and a smile on her face.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Things shift after that. 

Chloe and Beca start texting each other more, though it is still sporadic and in-between. Sometimes Beca regales her with tales about some of the artists she works with and Chloe almost always responds with funny gifs to make the brunette laugh. On other days, Chloe sends her the pictures of dogs she encounters when she’s out and about, which always makes Beca smile because it’s just so Chloe. 

They never call after that night, but Chloe’s not complaining.

Because every time Beca texts her, it quiets the noise that’s been surrounding Chloe since she woke up in that hospital seven months ago. Chloe finds herself savoring these still periods of time, reveling in the comfort Beca brings.

It just feels nice to be away from her intrusive thoughts for a pacifying moment. 

It just feels nice...to be with Beca for a moment.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Chloe comes home one late October Thursday morning, disheartened and exhausted from her cognitive therapy session. She’s hanging up her coat--Portland has been especially cold this October--and shucking off her boots as she mulls over what they’d discussed during the session. 

“I want you to know that I’m coming from a place of care and concern when I say this, Chloe,” Charlie begins seriously, her voice quiet. “You may never remember anything else. It’s something you may need to accept and process through if that’s the case.” 

Those words, jarring but realistic, came after Chloe had expressed her frustration over her lack of progress in recalling her memory over the past two weeks. 

Charlie’s diagnosis was bouncing around her head as she made her way back to her childhood home, plaguing her as she traveled on the metro as she struggled to swallow the weight of their conversation. She can recall her reaction upon hearing the news; livid, at first, then reasonably annoyed, before she resigned with a slump of her shoulders. 

She sighs as she tucks away her scarf, hoping to force her way through her cloudy thoughts. She stops by the kitchen to ransack through purse, hoping to find a bottle of aspirin. She fills up a glass with water and pops in two tablets, praying that it’ll fight off the headache that’s been ceaselessly beating against her left temple since she left her therapist’s office. 

She empties her glass in one swift chug and makes her way to the living room instead of her bedroom since Charlie had advised her to take a break from journaling. At a loss of what to do, she walks around the living room, simply taking in how different everything looks. 

Her home seems so small now. The furniture has been moved from the spots she last remembered seeing them in. The shelves are lined differently and there’s an array of photographs that’s unfamiliar to her. 

It’s odd enough already, having all these gaps in her memory. It’s even stranger seeing them manifest so clearly before her.

Charlie has informed her that feeling displaced or out of sorts was common for someone in her case, but Chloe can’t help but feel a little bit like a stranger in her childhood home. 

She’s perusing the living bookshelves before she comes across a photo album. She pulls it out of curiosity. It’s a simple, but elegant light gray cover that looks like a family photo album. 

On the top, written in cursive is “The Beale Clan”. 

Chloe’s heart wrenches at the sight, fully aware that this album houses the last pictures she has with her dad. The masochistic part of Chloe pushes her to open up the album. Hesitantly, she thumbs through the pages with slight apprehension. She’s greeted by an array of pictures of her family, chronicling the time when her and her siblings were toddlers to when they had become full-grown adults. She stops at a picture of her and her dad, fingers absently brushing across the grin that’s plastered on her dad’s face. 

It was a picture that was taken during the Christmas after her first semester at Barden. They’re both dressed in matching Christmas sweater and she has her arms around her dad’s shoulders in a haphazard hug. 

She pauses for a minute, her smile subdued as she commits the picture to her memory before turning the page. She flips through them with careful consideration, taking in the years of forgotten moments before her eyes land on a page. 

She sucks in a deep breath sharply, exhaling out shakily. The last picture is of her and Beca. They’re in beautiful wedding dresses, eyes glistening with unshed tears and smiles pulled taut in absolutely blinding smiles. They’re surrounded by both sides of their family; Chloe with her mom and siblings and Beca with her dad and stepmother.

Chloe is completely unprepared by how blissful she looks, fingers tracing and sweeping across their faces before she’s slamming the album shut and tossing it haphazardly unto the coffee table, eyes squeezed tight to prevent any tears from spilling out. 

It’s a fruitless task, anyway. 

Tears spill out from the corner of her eyes and she pulls her knees to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, as if she could shrink into herself. She doesn’t know how long she sits there, eyeing the album warily as a thousand thoughts swirl through her head, but her mom finds her shortly after. 

She’s just put away the groceries and Chloe’s name is on the tip of her tongue, but it dies out quickly when she spots her daughter. 

“Honey? Is everything alright?” She asks worriedly. Chloe greets her with a blank look and a face full of dried tears. 

Her mom's eyes track over to the album that’s sitting on the coffee table and realization dawns on her face. She rounds the couch to sit next to Chloe, her arms already wrapping themselves around Chloe’s shoulders before she even meets the cushions.

Chloe trembles under her embrace, burying her head into the crook of her mother’s neck. She savors the comfort it brings as she chokes out a muffled sob. 

“Why can’t it just stop hurting, mom?” Chloe whispers, already feeling another wicked headache blooming from the back of her skull. 

“What’s hurting, sweetheart?” her mom murmurs, face contorted in empathy. 

“Everything,” Chloe sobs out, crumbling and falling apart before her mother’s eyes.

“Oh, honey,” her mom says, the heartbreak palpable in her voice. 

“I just--I can’t--” 

“Deep breaths, Chloe.” 

Chloe nods stiffly, attempting to suck in puffs of breath to regulate her breathing. 

Panic attack, she thinks, disoriented. 

Once Chloe’s breaths have evened out and she feels less like the ground is going to open up and swallow her whole, her mother speaks. 

“What is hurting right now?” she asks. 

Chloe, feeling a little more calm, manages to formulate a more coherent sentence. 

“Just...I was looking at our family’s picture album and I came across a picture of me and dad,” she utters out, warily eyeing the album that’s sitting on the coffee table. “And then I saw my wedding picture with Beca and it just became too much.” 

“That’s understandable. You’ve been through a lot these last seven and a half months,” her mother empathizes. 

“I--” Chloe pauses then, licking her lips as she mulls over what she wants to say. She decides, to hell with it. “I still miss dad so much. I’m not as sad anymore, but I wish that he would still be here sometimes.”

She can tell her mom’s still processing over her words as she cards her hands through Chloe’s tresses. Her eyes are narrowed slightly as she stares off the side, clearly in thought. 

“I...miss him too,” she finally says. “Every day. But we still carry a piece of him with us, even if he’s in a better place now.” 

Chloe nods in agreement. She has never been particularly very religious, but her parents were, when she was growing up. They’d take her to church every Sunday and they believed in God; it was terrifying when she came out to her parents as bisexual, but they had simply hugged her and told her that they loved her. 

Hearing her mother’s words now, she finds some sense of comfort that her father was truly in a better and happier place. 

“How do you do it, mom?” Chloe asks after a long while. 

“Do what, sweetie?” 

“Carry on with life,” Chloe says. “How did you deal with the grief?” 

Chloe feels a little apprehensive as she waits for her mother’s response. Her father’s death has been a taboo topic to discuss and she doesn’t want to open up any old wounds. 

“Time,” her mother responds. Chloe groans inwardly at her answer, desensitized from hearing that from so many different people. “And a good support network.”

“That’s what Beca said too,” Chloe murmurs, her lips turning up in a small smile. 

“She’s a smart girl,” her mother concedes, smiling as well. 

“She said that I had a therapist walk me through my grief,”

“You did. It helped you a lot,” 

“Beca said that she got me to talk about it with her, too.” 

“Yes, you once told me that talking to Beca about your dad’s death helped you feel less alone,” 

“I said that?” 

At her mom’s assenting nod, she heaves out a shaky breath. The words that have been swirling around her head for months tumble out of her lips.

“I wish I could stop hurting her,” 

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re not hurting her at all. It’s not your fault and you need to stop thinking it is,” her mom soothes. 

“That’s what the Bellas have been saying too. I wish I could believe it but—“

“No more buts, young lady,” she tuts disapprovingly. “I’ve watched you spiral into this pit of guilt and self-loathing for too long. You need to snap out of it. Your memory loss has never been your fault and it never will. Whatever happens next--that, you have control over.”

“I..I just can’t help but feel guilty, Mom,” Chloe explains. 

“Why do you feel guilty?” 

“Because I feel like I don’t have the right to love her,” 

Her mom’s gaze softens then. “Why do you feel like you can’t?” 

“It’s not fair to Beca,” Chloe rushes out. “I know that she loves me. I felt it, so much, every day when I was in LA, but I...”

“But you don’t feel the same yet,” her mom finishes for me. 

Chloe nods. “I don’t want to string her along and break her heart again. It’s not fair. She’s...God, she’s amazing. And she deserves the world.” 

Her mom smiles at that, like she’s in on a private joke that’s only privy to her. Her mom pats her on the arm soothingly. “Beca will love you no matter what happens. Remember that, Chloe.” 

“She said that to me before I left,” Chloe shares. 

Her mom smiles knowingly. “I figured.” 

There’s a pregnant pause before Chloe explains.

“I just...I just wish I could remember what everyone else remembers,” Chloe explains, tired. 

“I know you do, sweetie. But like I’ve been saying--you’re not giving yourself enough time or grace,” her mom reasons, somehow soft and stern at the same time. “You’re still grieving, Chloe.”

“I...am?”

“Of course. Not so much over your dad, but you’re grieving over who you were, and over your relationship with Beca,” her mom reassures. “You’ve been struggling with so much guilt that you couldn’t have even begun to grieve over what you lost.”

“You’ve got to be nicer to yourself, Chloe. I don’t want you to be guilty over something that is out of control for the rest of your life. So, snap out of it, get your head out of your ass, and give Beca a call. Maybe invite her for Thanksgiving.”

“We’ve been talking a lot more the past few weeks,” Chloe says in a weak attempt of explaining herself. 

“Even better. You don’t have an excuse not to her invite then.” 

Chloe’s mom leaves her with a quick kiss on the top of her head and a “Just think about what I’ve said”. Chloe watches her mother’s figure disappear from the room before turning her attention to her phone.

She pulls up her last text conversation with Beca, tucking her lower lip between her teeth as she ponders over if she should text Beca. After several moments of contemplation and internal back and forth, she thinks “screw it”. The cursor blinks back menacingly as she stares at the empty text box, mulling over her next words.

She just decides to bite the bullet and go for it.

iMessage

Today, 2:45 p.m.

Chloe [2:45 p.m]

What are you doing for Thanksgiving? 

Her phone buzzes back a minute later with Beca’s response.

Beca [2:46 p.m.]

Got nothin’ planned at the moment. 

Why? 

Chloe [2:47 p.m.]

Mom invited you to come over for Thanksgiving

If you want to, of course :) 

Beca doesn’t respond within the next few minutes, causing Chloe to worry that she’s overstepped.  

Chloe [2:49 p.m.]

I just don’t want you to feel like you have to come!! 

But just know that I’d be happy for you to join

Beca [3:01 p.m.] 

Sorry. I’m back

I was dealing with a really annoying, prepubescent teenage boy who thinks he knows everything.

are you sure?

Beca [3:02 p.m.] 

I’d love to come, don’t get me wrong.

I just...wanna make sure that you think it’s a good idea.

Chloe [3:04 p.m.]

Please, come. I think it’ll be...good for us

Chloe [3:05 p.m.] 

I think it’ll be a good first step into really getting back to normal

Beca [3:06 p.m.]

okay. 

Sounds great 

I’ll call you tonight?

Beca [3:07 p.m.] 

To talk over the details?

Even through text, Chloe could sense the hopefulness in Beca’s tone. 

Chloe [3:08 p.m.]

Tonight sounds great

Chloe [3:09 p.m.]

:D

Beca [3:09 p.m.] 

Awesome sauce. I’ll call you around 7:30?

Chloe giggles at the fact Beca used “awesome sauce”.

Beca [3:10 p.m.]

Please omit and ignore that I used ‘awesome sauce’.

Beca [3:11 p.m.] 

Not my finest moment.

I’ve probably been hanging with Legacy too much

Chloe [3:11 p.m.]

Oh, I don’t know...I thought it was adorable

So I’m probably never going to ignore it 

Legacy?

Beca [3:12 p.m.]

Dammit, Beale. I’m badass, not adorable.

Beca then proceeded to send a gif of a cat grumpily staring off into the distance as it sat on a couch. 

Chloe laughs.

Beca [3:12 p.m.]

And Legacy’s Emily

Chloe [3:13 p.m.]

Oh, you’re right. My mistake :O

You’re adorably badass

Chloe [3:14 p.m.]

Better?

And Emily! Yeah, I think she visited me when I was at the hospital

She’s a sweetheart

Beca [3:15 p.m.]

Yeah, she is. 

...and you’re lucky you’re cute, Beale.

Chloe’s heart skips a beat at Beca’s flagrantly placed comment. She bites her lip, before deciding her somewhat risky text.

Chloe [3:16 p.m.]

Thanks

Takes a cutie to know a cutie ;)

Chloe watches the three dots appear and disappear several times with mild amusement. She thinks that Beca might be experiencing tachycardia. She feels bad about yanking Beca’s chain like this, but it’s so easy to fall into conversation with Beca that she can’t help it. 

Beca [3:17 p.m.]

Are you flirting with me, Beale? 

Chloe [3:16 p.m.]

What if I was?

Beca [3:18 p.m.]

Then I’d say you’re getting rusty

Chloe [3:19 p.m.]

GASP

You take that back, Mitchell!!!!

I’ll have you know that I’m perfectly well-versed with the art of flirting

Beca [3:20 p.m.]

Mhmm

Beca sends her the Sure, Jan gif then, causing Chloe to bite back a snort. Chloe sends back a gif in retaliation. 

Chloe [3:21 p.m.]

You know, for someone who claims to be a ‘certified badass’

You sure are familiar with meme culture

Beca [3:21 p.m.]

Um, excuse me, memes and gifs are two entirely different things, Chlo

Chloe [3:22 p.m.]

You keep telling yourself that, Becs ;)

Beca [3:23 p.m.]

Ugh, you’re the worst

They continue their banter, shooting each other quick quips before Chloe’s mom calls her into the kitchen to help prepare their dinner, as Connor and Clara are coming around five. 

Chloe [3:40 p.m.]

Gotta go, Becs

Helping mom prepare for dinner with Con and Clara

Beca bids her farewell, asking her to say hi to her family on her behalf. Chloe fires away her responds before making her way to the kitchen. 

She helps her mom pull out all the necessary ingredients, subconsciously smiling to herself and humming the catchy song she heard on the radio the other day under her breath.

“So, I’m setting aside a seat for Beca, then?” her mom asks, an eyebrow cocked teasingly as she gathers the vegetables on a chopping block. 

Chloe nods, still smiling. 

“Good,” her mother says, turning away to wash her hands. “I was going to invite her if you weren’t, so thanks for saving all of us from what might’ve been a very awkward Thanksgiving dinner.” 

Chloe laughs, rolling her eyes at her mother's shenanigans. As she follows the older woman’s instructions in preparing the salad, her phone buzzes on the counter. Her eyes catches sight of Beca’s text. 

Beca [4:01 p.m.]

Lemme know when you’re done with dinner

I’m looking at flight tickets rn

Did you know if you looked for flights at 4:01 p.m. on Thursday, tickets are cheaper?

Who knew

Chloe smiles at Beca’s musings. She wipes her hands on a kitchen towel before responding. 

Chloe [4:03 p.m.]

You know that you’re literally a millionaire, right? 

Beca [4:03 p.m.]

Doesn’t mean that I can’t enjoy a good deal 

I love a good deal

Anyways, I’m gonna let you go. 

Can’t wait to visit, Chlo. 

Thanks for inviting me again. 

Chloe smiles at Beca’s response before she resumes her sous chef duties.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

True to her word, Beca calls Chloe after dinner. They FaceTime this time, and Chloe can see that Beca’s laying in bed, donning a messy bun, sweats, and a clear framed glasses. Chloe thinks she looks unfairly attractive. 

They chat about Chloe’s family for a good while before hashing out the details of Beca’s visit. 

They plan for Beca to arrive in Portland two days before Thanksgiving and for her to stay for a couple of days after. By the time they get done figuring things out, Beca has her tickets booked for November 26. 

They move onto other topics then, talking about other tracks Beca’s been working on and about Beca’s upcoming celebrity events. Chloe, in turn tells Beca about the strange questions she’s been getting as a bookstore clerk and how nervous she’s about her accelerated online class. 

And for the second in the last few weeks, Chloe falls asleep with a smile on her face. 

Chapter Text

Chapter VII

Nothing is as it has been

And I miss your face like Hell

And I guess it's just as well

But I miss your face like Hell

Been talking 'bout the way things change

And my family lives in a different state

And if you don't know what to make of this

Then we will not relate

So if you don't know what to make of this

Then we will not relate

Rivers and roads

Rivers and roads

Rivers 'til I reach you

-

Rivers and Roads

The Head and The Heart

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

For the second time in the last 3 months, Beca is nervous about seeing Chloe.

(The first being the FaceTime call they had in October. Beca had worn a tread into her bedroom rug hours before that call.) 

She’s mostly excited too, but she can’t deny that the butterflies swarming in her belly are mostly from nervousness. She’s been a restless mess from the moment she’s roused from her slumber by the shrill alarm on her phone to the moment she boards her flight. 

It’s ridiculous, really. 

Beca knows that she shouldn’t be nervous, and yet, she undeniably is.

She surmises that it’s mostly due to the uncertainty surrounding their relationship at the moment. Since that initial late-night phone call, Beca had felt something shift in their dynamic. It was so glaringly discernable that it felt almost tangible, real and concrete enough for her to reach out and grasp it with open hands. 

Suddenly, it had felt like they were sophomores at Barden again, sharing musings and laughs under the cover of a starry night. It seems like an unspoken agreement had recurred between them now; it was that neither of them were to acknowledge that there was anything beginning--or truthfully, was continuing--to simmer between them.

Beca, admittedly, got a strangely pleasant headrush from the momentum of it all. 

The mere initial interaction alone, however, had simultaneously gratified and frustrated Beca to no end. So much so that she had started to seek temporary solace in diligently reminding herself she needed to approach... whatever it was between them with measured caution, rather than with the ardent enthusiasm she so desperately wished to succumb to. 

In fact, that tectonic shift in their entire situation was, at first, astonishing and confounding enough to truly trouble Beca, since she had spent weeks trying to convince herself to hope for anything than what had transpired between them. 

And when Chloe had invited Beca to visit and attend--to stay, to partake in--(honestly, it makes Beca embarrassingly giddy when she thinks about being in the same room with Chloe again) the Beales' annual Thanksgiving dinner, well...well, it was hard to decline the prospect of hope when it was being handed so cavalierly her way. 

You see, optimism was a concept that eluded Beca during most of her life--like a capricious lover--and she can say that she’d only really experienced it the moment Chloe had entered into her life, so it’s still an emotion she struggles to identify at times.

And in that moment, when everything started to change between them, she felt the stirrings of hope flutter up in her chest, dizzying and gentle all at once. It was enough to embolden some of the aplomb she had originally reassured Chloe with, many months ago. 

She knows that she’d fight tooth to the nail to bring Chloe back to her. As cheesy as it sounded, she’d travel five hundred miles, trek over rivers, mountains, and roads, if that meant that Chloe would be in love with her again. 

However, despite the affirmative steps forward they’d both taken, it still leaves Beca with one question to pontificate during her flight: When Beca steps off the plane and sees Chloe waiting for her, how should she greet her?

She knows what she wants to do, of course. Every fiber of her being wants to throw her arms around Chloe and kiss her senseless, again and again and again until the gaping distance between them disappears and all that would be left would be them; Beca and Chloe (or Bhloe, as predetermined by Fat Amy), as it once was. But she certainly knows that it would:

1. Not end well
2. Make Chloe feel wildly uncomfortable

The last thing Beca wants to do is make Chloe feel uncomfortable. After all, she values Chloe’s comfort over her own, and she’s not going to do anything that could compromise that. Or the fragilely built sense of familiarity and camaraderie that they’d managed to salvage. 

As she ponders further on these apprehensive concerns, the plane begins its final descent to the Portland airport, and Beca’s maddening nervousness returns full-force. Thoughts swirl chaotically in her mind; thoughts like: How are things going to be with Chloe now that they are to see each other in person? Would they get along better or would things still be unbelievably awkward and absurdly heavy? 

Beca finds herself, again, being concerned about the paparazzi, as well. Somehow a few gossip media outlets had caught wind of Beca’s planned visit to Portland, and when she had first found out, it incensed her to no end. She hated this aspect of her life with a burning passion, but the anger had quickly fizzled into concerned, as she was unsure how Chloe would react to the sudden attention.

While she’s well aware that pre-accident Chloe knew how to handle the paparazzi, she also knows that Chloe might not know how to deal with them now. She’d expressed her concerns one day over text and Chloe had reassured her; told her not to agonize over it. 

She’d tried to let it go--told herself that they would handle it like they always did, but the worry had wormed its way into lulls in her day. In those moments, she found herself onerously agonizing over it, perturbed by the thought of not being able to control the situation in the case of it stressing Chloe out.  

Realizing that these worries were not going to go away on their own, Beca compartmentalizes them away and focuses on taking deep, even breaths, closing her eyes as the plane touches down, hands gripping tightly onto her seat’s armrests. 

When the plane’s wheels bump and skid to a stop on the tarmac, Beca releases a shaky breath, thankful to be on the ground again. She absolutely loathes flying--it gives her so much unease and the Valium she’d taken earlier was decidedly unhelpful , so she’s certainly ready to be off the plane.

The captain announces that the passengers are free to disembark and Beca unbuckles her seatbelt quickly in response. Since she was in First Class, she’s one of the first people out of the plane. She heads directly for the exit, grabbing her suitcase from the overhead bin, turning on her phone as she makes her way to the security checkpoint.

She fires off a text, informing Chloe that she had already landed and was about to make her way to the Arrival gate. She stashes her phone away and makes swift work of going through the motions of the checkpoint; ensuring that she’s out within minutes.

Her phone buzzes in her hand when she’s through and she smiles at Chloe’s message. 

iMessage

Today, 8:28 a.m.

Chloe [8:28 a.m]

Look out for a sign with your name on it!!!

That’ll be us!!!

Beca shakes her head as she reads Chloe’s message, grinning stupidly at how on-brand it is for the redhead.

Beca [8:29 a.m.]

Ugh, you’re so embarrassing, Beale

And why a sign? You do know that I’ve seen your face before, right? 

Chloe [8:29 a.m.]

I try :) and don’t lie, you love it

And stop griping, grouchy

 Now come find us!!!

Beca rolls her eyes fondly before stuffing her phone in her back pocket. As she takes the escalator down toward the Arrival hall, her roller suitcase trailing behind her, she worries her bottom lip. 

She spots Chloe and her sister before they notice her and she takes a deep breath, attempting to quell down the jittery way her stomach flops. 

Relax, Mitchell. You’re going to give yourself a coronary if you don’t. 

As Beca makes her way toward them, she feels her phone buzz in her hand. Chloe’s face pops up as the call rings on and Beca picks it up with a grin. 

“Where are you?” Chloe’s voice is tinny and crackly through the speaker. 

“Geez, impatient much, Beale?” Beca teases, baiting her. She quickly weaves her way through the crowd and sidles up behind them as she waits for Chloe’s response.

She hears Chloe’s laugh, full and vibrant, and Beca’s heart lurches in her heart, bittersweet and pleasant. She taps the redhead on her shoulder before she can come up with a witty rebuttal. Chloe whirls around to find Beca grinning at her, her phone still pressed to her ear. 

“Beca!” she exclaims with a surprised huff of laughter. 

“Chlo,” Beca greets, still smiling like the lovesick fool she is. She takes in Chloe then, noting that she’s dressed in a pale yellow sweater, jeans, and white high tops. Her hair is tucked into a half-up bun and Beca thinks, as her heart stutters in her chest and her breathing hitches, that she’s unfairly stunning.

And it hurts like hell--the reality of how much she’s missed her hitting her squarely in the chest.

She quickly turns to Clara to hide the emotions that she’s so sure are clear on her face. The older woman greets her with a hug and a knowing raise of her eyebrow. 

“Haven’t seen you in a hot sec, Shortstack,” Clara says, squeezing her once before letting her go. 

“Ugh, I genuinely wish that Fat Amy hadn’t revealed that nickname to you,” Beca grumbles, rolling her eyes as she briefly recalls Clara’s insistence that she would always greet Beca with that irksome moniker. 

“Where would the fun be if I didn’t call you names?” Clara challenges, quirking an eyebrow jokingly. 

“What are you? Every second-grade bully?” Beca fires back, unimpressed. 

“Only to you, Mitchell,” Clara answers dismissively, leaning over to relinquish Beca’s grasp on the handle of her suitcase. “Here, lemme help you with your bags.” 

She then leaves with a wave, stating she would retrieve the car and pull it up to the front. Beca sends her a grateful look, as Clara had given them an excuse to catch up on their own. 

Chloe turns to Beca as Clara heads off, a bashful expression on her face. 

“So-” They begin simultaneously. 

Beca heaves out a breathy chuckle while Chloe giggles at their awkward blunder. 

“Sorry. Ladies first,” Chloe prompts, ever the gracious one.

Beca sends her a genial smile in return. “Thanks for coming to pick me up, Chlo” 

“Of course,” she says, rocking back on forth on her heels as she toys with the ends of her hair nervously. 

“How was your flight?” she inquires haltingly and Beca starts to wonder if coming here was a mistake; if it was too soon for Chloe and their delicate relationship. 

“It was good,” Beca tells her, praying that, just this once, she could be the less awkward one. “I had a very interesting seatmate, though.” 

That comment piques Chloe’s interest. “Oh, really?” 

“The dude next to me thought he was God’s gift to women,” Beca begins, rolling her eyes as she thinks back to the passenger she was lumped with on her first connecting flight with great distaste. “He kept trying to flex how much money he made a year as a flirting tactic. He was all like ‘Oh, Rebeca, let me tell you all about that trip I took to Ibiza’, and ‘Look how douchey and puffy my hair looks’. Ugh. Suffice to say, he was lucky that he didn’t walk away with a black eye.” 

Chloe’s full-on snickering now, open-mouthed and unrestrained. Beca thinks she looks so, so breathtaking. 

Just like how she’s supposed to be, Beca muses in wonder, Chloe’s laughter ringing melodically in her ears. Joyful and free. 

“Please tell me that you put him in his place,” Chloe chokes out between laughs.

Beca smirks. “Oh trust me, his fragile masculinity was succinctly annihilated.”

“Look at you,” Chloe teases, her lips pursed as if in deep thought as they fall back into their easy banter. “Destroying the patriarchy one bro-y dude at a time.” 

“Honestly. I’m like a superhero or something,” Beca contemplates, flipping her hair over her shoulder. 

Chloe looks thoughtful for a moment. “Hmm, well if that’s the case, then you’re the tiniest superhero I’ve ever seen.” 

Beca places a hand over her heart in faux offense. “You know, words hurt, Beale.” 

“You’ll get over it,” she quips haughtily. 

“Ouch...When did you get so cold?” Beca fires back, biting back a smile, their rapport welcoming and a familiar, like an old friend. 

“Must be because of the weather,” Chloe speculates, the corner of her lips turning up in amusement. “We should get going though. Clara is going to kill us if we make her wait.” 

“Oof. Yeah, I wouldn’t want to get on your sister’s bad side,” Beca agrees, moving forward to take the lead. 

“Wait!” Chloe calls out abruptly, reaching out to clutch Beca’s wrist. 

“What? What is it?” she coughs out, startled. 

“I-just,” Chloe’s cheeks start to colour, tinted to the shade of mulled wine. Her next question is hesitant. Apprehensive and uncharacteristically shy. “Can I hug you?” 

Beca’s alarm melts away as she processes Chloe’s words. Wordlessly, she tugs Chloe closer to her, close enough for their breaths to mingle and for their bodies to press together. The redhead’s body slots perfectly into her own and she tries to calm the rowdy way her heart is rejoicing in her chest. She wraps her arms around Chloe’s waist and slides her chin onto her shoulder, reveling in her wife’s warmth. 

It sends an electric tingle down her spine as she takes in Chloe’s unmistakable scent--a sweet, drowsy mix of lilacs, lavender, and lilies, fresh and crisp, like the act of breathing in the smell of rain or waking up during a dewy spring morning--her body thrumming with content. 

It’s overwhelming and indulgent all at once, since she hasn’t seen or hugged Chloe in months. It seems like her body is readjusting and recalibrating again, careening and unstable as it falls in line with Chloe’s orbit once more. 

It’s delightfully saccharine, something akin to being on the peak of a rollercoaster or the cusp of something extraordinary. It’s reminiscent of watching the sun set over an ocean horizon on a summer’s day or falling in love for the first time. 

It’s safe; it’s warm; it’s revitalizing. 

It’s home.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca finds it sort of amusing how nervous she was. Right now, it seems to her like her worries were unfounded and baseless. 

Well...almost all except for one. 

As predicted, the paparazzi swarms them the moment they step out of the Arrivals hall, circling them like vultures poised for a noontime meal. They’re shouting probing and invasive questions, pushing in all around them. Beca has her patented ‘Do not fuck with me’ shades on, but the flashes from their cameras are jarring nonetheless. They leave dark splotches in their vision, fading into burning bright stars that flutter behind their eyelids as they try to wade through.

“Are you and Chloe back together?” A voice yells above the chorus of questions.

“Is Chloe still recovering from her injury?” Another hollers, causing Chloe to flinch and tense up. 

Beca, feeling protective, whirls around to give them a piece of her mind and throw hands, when she feels Chloe grab her hand, anchoring them together. The contact sends a tingle up Beca’s arm and she allows herself to be tugged along instead, like a sheep to a shepherd as Chloe leads them away from the paparazzi and toward Clara’s car. 

Beca’s shuffled into the backseat and Chloe crawls in after her, the cacophony of inquiries disappearing with a whoosh as she shuts the door behind her. The silence that greets them is welcome and staggering, and Beca finally feels herself relax. She slides her shades up to perch on the crown of her head as she exhales out a strained breath. 

They both sit in silence as the car pulls away from the curb. Clara, ever the emotional clairvoyant, chooses not to say anything.

Chloe’s dazzling cerulean eyes on Beca’s immediately after she gathers her wits. “Are you okay?” she asks, her eyes scanning for any signs of distress as her forehead wrinkles with worry. Beca wants to reach over and smooth it out with her fingers. 

“Huh?” Beca chokes out, dumbfounded by her question. “I should be asking you that, Chlo.” 

Chloe shakes her head, her half-up bun bouncing with the motion. “I’m okay, Beca. You don’t need to be worried about me,” she assures, leaning back in her seat and inching away from Beca a little. Her left hand lies in the space between them. 

Beca can’t help but feel a pang of loss at the small distance between them. 

“Are you sure? Because I know those assholes can be a lot to handle,” Beca replies, itching to reach over and slip her hand into Chloe’s. 

“I’m really okay,” Chloe asserts placatingly. “I can’t believe you have to go through that all the time.” 

Beca gives her a noncommittal shrug. “Eh, it comes with the territory.” 

“It doesn’t mean it’s okay!” Chloe exclaims, hands flying out wildly in front of her. 

Beca smiles at her indignation, briefly reminded of the time when they both had encountered the paparazzi on such a visceral level. Chloe’s reaction had been of horrification and outrage, which was akin to her current response. 

Beca watches with unveiled amusement as Chloe carries on her rant. It’s an adorable sight to behold and Beca shares a look with Clara as she catches her eye in the rearview mirror. 

After Beca has deemed that Chloe has effectively displayed her distaste for the paparazzi enough, she reaches over and places her hand gently on Chloe’s bicep. 

“Chloe, I’m fine,” she tells her. “Really,” she adds at Chloe’s pointed look. 

Chloe surveys her with an attentive eye before slumping in her seat. “I’m sorry that I lost it and started ranting,” she states, the initial shock and fury beginning to ebb away. “It’s just--I could tell that they stress you out. It pissed me off.” 

Beca smiles at the redhead’s concern. It warms her heart and sends her stomach fluttering at the thought of Chloe being contentious on her behalf. 

“Awh, were you really that worried? My knight in shining armor,” she teases, mostly out of self-preservation, afraid that she might lean over and kiss the redhead senseless. 

The moment, once charged and tense, dissipates at Beca’s jest. 

Chloe sends her a charming grin in response, playing along with Beca. “I can’t help it. Once I see a damsel in distress, I’ve got to rescue her,” she says facetiously, her face schooled in mock solemnity. 

There’s something dancing behind her eyes, but Beca can’t exactly put her finger on it. It looks like relief, but Beca isn’t quite sure. 

“Shut up. I had it handled,” Beca tells her, bumping her shoulders with Chloe’s. 

“I mean, it honestly looked like you were going to deck someone,” Chloe admits in agreement, before her face splits into a devious grin. “I didn’t want you punching someone three times above your bodyweight though. You’re so tiny and it would not have ended well.” 

“Hey! I’ll have you know that I’ve decked a guy twice my size before!” Beca cries out in mock indignance. 

Chloe’s jaw drops at that. “What? No way.”

“It’s true,” Clara pipes up from the front seat, in attempts to corroborate with Beca’s claim. 

Beca’s face is smug when Chloe whirls around to face her. “Told you,” she responds, folding her arms across her chest. 

“What? Now I’ve got to hear this story,” Chloe says, the shock still evidently written across her face. 

Beca still has a smug smile on her face while she relays the story from freshman year. When she finishes her story, Chloe’s looking at her with an unreadable look on her face. 

“What?” she asks, suddenly growing warm under the redhead’s scrutiny. 

Chloe shakes her head as she leans back in her seat. “Nothing,” she says. “I still can’t believe that you, Beca Mitchell, in all your five-foot-two glory, took down a grown man.” 

“Sorry, that’s just how badasses roll,” Beca responds, giving her a two-finger salute. 

Chloe giggles as she cringes at her awkward gesture. 

“Please forget I did that,” she says. 

“Oh, never,” Chloe tells her, still laughing. 

“The entire state of Oregon will never forget that you did that, Becs,” Clara teases, adding another coal to the fire. 

Beca huffs grumpily in response, and just like that, the three of them settle down into their routined banter. 

And as they start to near their destination, Beca surveys the gentle sibling ribbing and bickering unfolding before her, leans back in her seat, closes her eyes, and smiles. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Chloe’s entire body is still humming after their hug. It’s a foggy feeling that trails after her from the airport to the foyer of her home, where she’s now witnessing her family flock around Beca, all excited and coddlesome. Chloe is somewhat accustomed to the sight; her family tends to act like this when in close proximity to someone they love and cherish. 

It’s strange, seeing her family interact with Beca and vice versa. There’s a calming familiarity that lingers in the air and Chloe’s struck again by the fact that she's witnessing the fruits borne from a life lived long ago. 

Chloe briefly wonders if she would ever get over this restless, dissatisfied feeling that settles on her chest every time her cognizance of their situation rears its head. 

She feels the telltale tingle of tears burn behind her eyes, nose, and throat, and she quickly stamps down the tears before they can escape. She looks away for a moment, gathering her wits about her. When she’s certain that she’s not under the threat of breaking down, she glances back to the raucous scene before her.

This time, instead of being engulfed in hugs by the Beales, Connor has Beca locked in a loose headlock. Chloe smiles affectionately at the scene as Beca slides out of his grasp easily after delivering a swift kick to his shins.

“Con! What did I tell you about roughhousing?” Chloe’s mom, Catherine, chastises, leaning over to flick her brother on the ear. 

“Ow! I didn’t do anything!” he exclaims with mock innocence. 

“Yeah, nice try, dude,” Beca scoffs, giving him a punch on the shoulder as she rubs her neck with her free hand.

“Ow! Again! Why do I even come around this house if I’m going to be subjected to torture?” 

“It’s because you deserve it,” Chloe calls out from her perch against the doorway that leads into the living room. She’s been leaning on it for the past ten minutes, watching it all unfold from a distance. 

“Don’t try to fight it, Con,” Clara adds before he can respond. “You’re outnumbered.” 

“I came out to have a good time and I’m honestly feeling so attacked,” 

Beca speaks from the side of her mouth, whispering in a mock conspiratorial voice. “Dude, know when to quit.”

“Dude,” Connor mimics back sardonically, leaning closer to bump into Beca, causing her to lose her balance slightly. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Beca sends him a glare, but it lacks its usual bite and sharpness. There’s an expression of fondness behind her stormy grey-blue eyes. “Not when you’re being an annoying idiot.” 

“Ouch, you really know how to wound me, Beca,” he exclaims, dramatically placing a hand on his chest and clutching his heart. 

“You’ll get over it,” Beca fires back with a laugh. 

“Okay, okay, enough roughhousing you two,” Chloe’s mom gently chastises again, a peaceful smile on her face. “Chloe, help Beca get settled in before these two get into an arm-wrestling competition again.”

“Or worse...beer pong,” Clara adds with a shudder. 

“You’re just salty cause Chloe and I beat you last time,” Beca interjects. Clara sticks her tongue out in response. 

“Do I need to separate you two as well?” Their mom asks, shaking her head fondly at their antics. 

“It’s okay, mom,” Chloe jumps in before the others can respond. “I’ll make sure they play nice.” 

“Ah, my Chloe,” her mom sighs, walking over to pat her on the cheek affectionately. “Always the peacemaker.” 

She sends her mom a gentle smile in response as she brushes past her to head into the kitchen. 

“Suck up,” Connor hisses after their mother is out of earshot. 

Chloe scrunches up her nose and sticks her tongue out in retaliation. “Come on, Beca,” she says, grabbing a hold of the brunette’s hand. “We don’t need to grace our presence with the likes of them.” 

“Boom. Suck it,” Beca adds as they move past them, the sounds of Connor and Clara’s laughter fading as they make their way up the stairs. 

Chloe leads them into her bedroom, watching as Beca dumps her duffel bag on the spare bed they had made up for her. 

For some reason, Chloe feels substantially nervous as she watches Beca observe the ambiance of her childhood bedroom. She watches Beca’s eyes roam over the numerous trophies and awards--all documenting her participation in extracurriculars like dance, theater, track, and cheerleading--, pictures, and books. 

Beca’s attention settles on a picture of Chloe, her siblings, and both of her parents. It’s perched on her wooden writing desk, tucked away safely in the corner. There’s a soft smile on her face, unrestrained, quiet, and tender, as she eyes the photo. 

Chloe treads over the threshold of her room to stand next to Beca. She takes in the photo fully now--it’s a picture of her in her high school track uniform. There’s a silver medal hanging loosely on her neck and her face is red and sweaty, but she has on the most dazzling grin, captivating and charming all at once. Her family surrounds her, their faces filled with expressions of pure, unadulterated pride.  

“I remember that day,” Chloe says, her voice startling, but not unwelcome in the previously silent space. It comes out raspy at first, soft around the edges. “It was my first track meet and I trained so hard for it. My dad made sure to run with me every morning so that I’d be prepared.” 

She swallows down the lump in her throat, eyes watering at the thought of her father. Her mind’s eye flashes back to the misty spring mornings they'd ran in, all sweaty and filled with laughter as they attempted to race against the rising sun. 

When she comes back to the present, she realizes that she hasn’t spoken in a while. Beca is watching her carefully, lips pursed and forehead wrinkled in thought.

Chloe clears her throat, blinking back away the swell of emotions that are crescendoing in the pit of her stomach. “I won second place that day,” she says. “My dad wouldn’t stop trying to take credit for it.” 

“Didn’t he say that he was the only reason why you were a great track star that was ‘on the rise’?” Beca asks, lips twisted in amusement. 

Chloe blinks, slightly taken aback before she realizes that she’s probably told Beca this story before. She feels a little guilty about being a broken record. “Yeah. Mom slapped him on the arm so many times that day. He had a huge bruise the size of Africa the next morning. It was great.” 

Beca sends her a little quiet smile in solidarity, eyes flashing with understanding, and Chloe’s struck again, not for the first time, by how ridiculously stunning Beca is. Chloe so desperately wants to wrap her hands in her own and pull her into a hug, greatly tempted by the softness and openness that’s so earnestly displayed across her face. 

There’s a pregnant pause that lulls heavily between them as Chloe tries to shove the desire to just simply touch Beca aside. Beca, in turn, looks like she is fighting the same temptation, but Chloe isn’t sure if she’s just projecting. 

There’s a myriad of emotions that flicker across Beca’s face before she’s taking a step back. Chloe, now noting the considerable distance between them and unsure why she’s despairing over it, briefly mourns the close proximity they’d previously shared. 

Beca, seeming to be the first to break out of the bubble they were in, walks around the redhead to plop down on the spare bed. “Your dad sounds like he was a great man,” Beca’s voice comes out low in the serenity and stillness of her room. “I’m so glad that you had a dad that loved you so much. You deserve that and more. I only wish that I could’ve met him.”

Chloe pivots around and leans her hip against her desk. “He would’ve loved you.”

Beca’s face is sanguine and ardent. “Yeah?” 

Chloe feels her lips twist into a half-smile. “Well, considering how my family swarmed you the moment you walked through the door...I have no doubt that you would’ve been his favorite.” 

Beca sends her a cocky smirk. “Well, I do have that special Mitchell charm.” 

Chloe scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Apparently The Mitchells also have unparalleled humility.” 

Beca chuckles, tucking her hands behind her head as she falls back into the mattress, the plush quilt swallowing a little of her small frame. “Don’t be jealous that you can’t have both, Chlo,” her voice comes out muffled. Chloe thinks it’s the most adorable sight she’s seen today. 

“You keep telling yourself that, Mitchell,” Chloe fires back, smiling to indicate her amusement. 

It’s silent for another moment as Chloe makes her way to sit next to Beca, jostling her in the process. She finds the brunette humming to herself, her eyes lazily half-closed. Chloe’s trying to pinpoint the melody that Beca’s humming under her breath when she realizes it’s Crosses by José González.

Without any further prompting or preamble, Chloe hums a harmony in response, getting lost in the simplicity of the moment. She notices the small smile gracing Beca’s lips and how her foot jiggles according to the beat. 

Chloe watches as Beca’s entire being comes alive with the music and she concludes that Beca is truly music’s human incarnate. Her whole body thrums with the frequency and timing of a well-loved song, lively, flexible, melodious, mellow, steady, smooth, and strong all at once. There’s a hypnotizing way that she expresses herself through the vestiges of music--arrhythmic, untethered, wild, passionate, and otherworldly. 

This isn’t the first time that the thought of kissing Beca greets Chloe in the stillness of a quiet moment. 

“What are you staring at, weirdo?” Beca’s voice is deep and gruff, but her tone is facetious. 

You, Chloe itches to say. 

“Just thinking about you and your dad,” she says instead.

Beca’s nose crinkles in disgust. “Gross. Why were you thinking about that?”

Chloe shrugs and picks at the hem of her sweater. “You just sounded...wistful when you were talking about my dad. I just wondered if you were close with your dad.” 

Beca, knowing that Chloe doesn’t really understand her relationship with her father anymore, nods in understanding. “I...it was...hard between us when I was growing up. Not that I made it any better,” Beca starts off, settling and splaying her hands across her stomach. “You may not have guessed it, but I was a bit of a terror in high school.”

“A bit ?” Chloe asks incredulously. 

Beca sends her a flat glare that lacks any real bite. “Anyways, it was pretty estranged until my junior year at Barden.” 

“What changed?” she asks, coming to settle down and lie next to Beca. 

“You,” Beca tells her honestly, feeling her heart rate spike at their proximity. 

She furrows a brow, face lighting up earnestly. She watches Beca’s face soften, which sends a warm rush through her stomach. “Me?” 

“Yeah. It was Christmas break and you stayed in Barden that year. My dad invited me over to spend Christmas with him and Sheila--my stepmom--and at first, I declined. Then, you made me go.”  She rolls her eyes like it was the most inconvenient thing of her life, but her eyes are light and her lips are twisted up to stifle a smile. 

“Oh, come on, I probably didn’t make you,” Chloe scrunches up her nose, but Beca can tell she enjoys hearing this particular story. 

“Oh, no, you absolutely did. You tricked me under the pretense of purchasing groceries and then you drove me to his house. You said that you wouldn’t leave until I realized that I needed to give my dad a chance again.” she says, sending a pointed stare at the redhead. 

“Past me was wise,” Chloe shrugs, shoulders scrunching up to her ears. “Which isn’t surprising.”

“At first, I argued with you-”

“Naturally,” Chloe interjects, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. 

Beca shoots her another pointed glance. “-Do you want to hear the story or not, Beale?” she bumps her shoulder with hers playfully.

“Okay, okay. Sorry,” she says, holding her hands up placatingly before mimicking zipping her lips shut, locking it, and throwing away the key. She can see that Beca is biting back a smile with the way her lips twitch. 

“Anyway, I argued with you, but you were right. You reminded me about needing to enjoy the time that I had with my dad because I wouldn’t know when time would run out,” Beca continues. “Suffice to say, it kind of woke me up. We spent Christmas with my dad and Sheila that day, and in a surprising turn of events...I didn’t implode from spending more than an hour with them!” 

Chloe rolls her eyes again at Beca’s facetiousness. She’s surprised her eyes haven’t gotten stuck to the back of her head. It’s the most Beca-like habit that she’s picked up so far. “So what I’m hearing is...I’m a miracle-working goddess that brings families together.” She declares, her voice mockingly flat and serious, though her lips turn up in amusement. 

“All right, don’t let it get to your head,” Beca says exasperatedly, but there’s a small smile on her face. 

“I can’t help it if I’m a miracle-working goddess, Becs,” she explains plainly. “I didn’t choose this life. It chose me.” 

Beca lets out a snort of laughter, her shoulders shaking. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“I know. Thanks,” Chloe responds, like it’s the best compliment she could’ve ever gotten. There’s a shift in Beca’s face then; it’s a minimal change, just a softening of her eyebrows and then way her lips thin out less. It’s a look that Chloe can almost put her finger on, like she’s hovering on the edge of it, but it's still too far to actually reach it. 

“Now who’s the one smiling like a weirdo?” Chloe says, taking in Beca’s introspective gaze. 

“You must be rubbing off on me,” she explains with a shrug. 

Chloe lets out an exaggerated gasp. “Beca Mitchell, you take that back right now.” 

Beca raises an eyebrow challengingly. “Or what?” 

Chloe pouts for a moment, folding her arms across her chest loosely. Beca smirks for one triumphant moment before she’s whacked in the face, full force, by Chloe’s favorite pale yellow pillow. 

The smirk slides right off Beca’s face and leaves behind a slightly stunned drop of her jaw. Chloe is giggling, the sounds bubbling up from her chest and out her lips. 

Then, chaos ensues. 

“Oh, it’s on, Beale,” Beca growls, launching herself at Chloe as she sends the pillow flying back to the redhead’s face. The other woman dodges it with a squeal, twisting further away from Beca as she grabs another pillow for protection. 

She’s fending off Beca’s blows (she is very scrappy), as the brunette plants her weight into her efforts, forcing Chloe off the bed. She stumbles but pushes back when she feels Beca lose steam, her smacks becoming less concentrated and messier. 

Finding a pause between Beca’s attacks, she twists around, managing to circle around Beca so that the smaller woman’s back is facing the bed. She arches her arm the same time Beca raises the pillow overhead and squarely hits her straight in the chest. 

Beca falls back onto the bed with a breathless exhale, Chloe crashing on top of her, the pillow pressed between their chests. Beca’s weapon of choice falls listlessly away from her limp hand and they’re so close that Chloe can see the swirling flecks of gray and blue in her eyes. Their breaths mingle and Beca’s eyes start to close a little, half-lidded like she doesn’t have a care in the world. 

It’s a sight that sends a thrill down Chloe’s spine, an ache in her chest, and a churning in her gut. They’re so close, their faces just a breadth apart, near enough for Chloe to tilt her head just so to kiss her proper and wow, what a thought to have, Beale. 

Those thoughts still terrify Chloe, but she’s slowly starting to discover that it’s not terrifying enough to make her want to leap up and ensure that there’s enough space between them. She knows that whatever she had once felt for Beca before the accident is slowly starting to return in small, but sure fragments, and she doesn’t want to say or do anything until she is completely sure. Until she knows herself again. Until she can understand things with a little more clarity again.

She won’t settle for less. Beca doesn’t deserve anything less. 

Beca must notice the sudden pause in her movements and the slight flush that’s slowly creeping up her neck, because she’s the one who eases the moment between them. She pushes herself up on her elbows, silently giving Chloe the chance to put some distance between them as she pulls herself up. 

“You cheated,” Beca grouses, but there’s no bite to her tone. Her teeth are bared in a smile; it's slightly awkward, very Beca-like, and truly adorable. 

Chloe’s eyes widen indignantly as she comes to sit next to Beca. “I did not!” 

“You did too! You used your height to your advantage!”

“It’s not my fault you’re tiny!” 

“Wow, low blow, Chlo,”

“You would know,” 

“Ugh, you’re the worst, Beale,”

“You set yourself up for it, Mitchell. You know that, right? I just saw an opportunity and I took it,” 

They continue bantering and bickering, shooting quips back and forth until the conversation dwindles down naturally. Chloe suggests that they watch a movie on Netflix (with Beca only lightly protesting against her movie choice) and they’re halfway through when Beca falls asleep, cheek gingerly brushing up against her shoulder. 

She revels in the moment, enjoying the warmth and comfort that Beca’s presence brings. Zombieland (Chloe had chosen it because she thought Beca would enjoy this movie this most) continues to play out its last few scenes when Clara knocks on her bedroom door as a call for dinner. 

Chloe gently shakes Beca awake and watches as the brunette drowsily comes to, an expression of adorable confusion etched across her face. 

“It’s dinner time, Becs,” she whispers, almost afraid of shattering the comforting stillness surrounding the room. 

“Just gimme five more minutes,” Beca slurs out sleepily with a groan, flipping over to her side and burying her face into a pillow. 

“Okay...but it’s your loss. You’re going to miss Momma Beale’s Special Lasagna,” Chloe says in a sing-songy voice. 

Beca is up in seconds, her hair still messy from sleep. “Why didn’t you lead with that?” she combs her hands through her hair, her voice raspy as she speaks. It sends a flutter through Chloe’s stomach and she folds her arms, presses them against it in hopes of calming it down. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you move that fast, Becs,” she points out, watching as Beca rummages through her bag to pull on a sweatshirt. It’s turned inside out, but Chloe can see that it has the Barden logo emblazoned on the front. She recognizes that it’s hers--it was a gift from her dad during her freshman year--and she resists the urge to reach out and run her fingers across the softly faded fabric.

“Uh, it’s ‘cause your mom’s delicious lasagna is at stake, Chlo,” Beca says, twisting the knob of her door and pulling it open. 

“Uh, Becs?” Chloe calls out when Beca’s halfway through the door. 

She stops halfway and leans back, dropping her head back so she can see Chloe. Her hair flops backs a little and Chloe smiles at that. “What?” 

“You might want to fix that,” she says, glancing pointedly down at the reversed logo. 

Beca’s eyes track hers. She lets out a sigh and huffs out a quiet son of a bitch, before she twisting and wrestling the sweatshirt off. Chloe brushes past her, muffling a laugh as she heads down the stairs, Beca’s arms still stuck halfway through the sleeves. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Dinner is a fun, delicious, and equally rowdy affair. 

Chloe’s mom has a gigantic spread set up on their classy dining table. It’s filled with her Special Lasagna™, freshly made garlic bread, a large bowl of tossed salad, chocolate fudge brownies, and mozzarella sticks. 

Beca starts loading up her plate, and when she’s not looking, Chloe’s mom piles on more onto her plate. When she looks back, she’s about the protest, but stops herself, knowing it’s already a lost cause. Instead, she takes her place near to Chloe at the table with her mountain of food balanced precariously on her plate and studiously shovels everything down. 

Halfway through, Connor has pelted both Clara and Chloe will pieces of garlic bread and chucked an entire mozzarella stick at Beca’s face, which was the straw that broke the camel’s back. It ultimately ends up starting a tiny food war. 

“Don’t get any stains on my nice table!” Chloe’s mom yells out, ducking as Beca fires some kale across the table. It ends up stuck in Clara’s hair, a stark contrast against her strawberry blonde locks. 

Clara narrows her eyes at Beca before firing back in retaliation. Chloe glances back at her mom apologetically, but finds the older woman smiling, eyes brimming with love and unbridled amusement. 

“Well, since my children won’t let us have a nice meal…” she starts, before she grabs a handful of salad and launches at directly at Connor, who tries to dodge, and sadly misses. The bits of salad go flying in the air and her mom is laughing. The air is warm with affection, humming at the edges like the haze of a lovely daydream. 

The dinner ends messily and they are all tasked with cleaning up their messes and the plates. Chloe works with Beca to scrub and dry the plates, which ends up with them forming an impromptu assembly line. Chloe flicks some suds toward Beca, laughing as she flinches and shrieks when Beca grabs the sprayer hose and fires a stream of water her way. 

Her face lights up in that patented Chloe-like way; all pure, earnest, and joyful. A familiar ache flares in Beca’s chest at the sight.

She’s smiling that smile at Beca as they wrestle over the hose--the smile that reminds Beca of early, tender Christmas mornings, late-night confessions breathed through bedsheets, impromptu 3 a.m. dance sessions, all together delicate, soft, and intimate. It’s a smile that Beca has missed witnessing and experiencing, and it sends a tingle of warmth down her spine.

Sufficiently distracted by Chloe, Beca doesn’t notice that the redhead has gotten control of the hose and is directing it her way. She splutters when she’s sprayed directly in the face without mercy. 

The kitchen floor ends up being slightly flooded when Catherine enters the room, finding Chloe and Beca utterly soaked to the bone, their clothes sopping wet. She shakes her head at their antics, tsks in that achingly familiar motherly way, and hands Beca a mop. 

“You’re nothing but trouble, Beale,” Beca comments jokingly as she sweeps the mop across the wooden floors. 

“Guess you just bring that out in me, Mitchell,” Chloe winks, resuming her dish drying duties. 

“Oh, don’t blame me for your troublemaker tendencies,” 

“But then who else would I blame?”

“...Has anyone ever told you that you’re such a weirdo?”

“Yep, every day! Thanks!”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The day of Thanksgiving is a flurry of nonstop activity. Beca wakes up around 11 a.m. to Catherine moving around, very flustered as she yells out directions and commands. It's a little amusing to Beca, the fact that her mother-in-law is running around like a chicken with her head cut off. 

When Beca reports for kitchen duty, Catherine puts her and Chloe in charge of preparing mashed potatoes and green beans while she assigns different tasks to Clara and Connor. 

“I forgot how intense your mom gets with Thanksgiving,” Beca whispers conspiratorially, her shoulders brushing against Chloe’s. They’re at one of the counters near the fridge, the small space forcing them to huddle closer together. The close proximity sends a thrill down Chloe’s spine. It makes her a little giddy. 

“Oh, yeah, Momma Beale doesn’t play around when it comes to Thanksgiving,” Chloe agrees with a joking twist of her lips. “One Thanksgiving, during my junior year of high school, she made Connor cry.” 

“Oh, man, what I would pay to have been able to see that,” Beca says and Chloe sends her a brief glare in chastisement. 

“Be nice, B. It was truly a traumatizing time for him,” 

Beca scrutinizes her for a moment. “Yeah, there’s no way that you didn’t make fun of him.” 

“Oh, constantly. I didn't let him live it down until my senior year at Barden,” Chloe nods solemnly. 

Beca snorts just as Chloe’s mom sweeps in. 

“Let’s talking, more mashing!” she cries out with almost manic glee. It’s strained, borderline insane, and Beca shoots Chloe a panicked look, causing the redhead to tamp down a giggle. 

“Sorry, mom!” Chloe offers with a meek smile. 

Catherine shakes her head minutely. “Sorry, my sweets. The entire Beale clan will be attending this Thanksgiving and I’m just a little stressed.” 

“A little?” huffs out an exasperated and already overworked Clara from the island. 

Catherine swivels toward Clara to smack her lightly across the shoulder. “Oh, hush you. Or you’ll be grounded!” 

Clara laughs heartily. “Mom, I’m thirty-three. I think I’m way past being groundable.”

Catherine swats her on the bum as she passes by, heading for the oven to check on the turkey and ham. “Not while you’re still in my house, sweetie!” 

They all laugh.

“But we’re still ungroundable outside, right?” Connor calls out from the dining room. 

There’s some movement behind Beca and she glances over to witness the exact moment that Connor is being slapped in the face with a dishtowel.

She bursts out, fully cackling. Connor’s glaring daggers at her. They don’t finish mashing the potatoes until twenty minutes later. 

It's a moment that fills Chloe with unbridled joy. It's a moment that reminds Chloe that it's a memory to keep and treasure (especially with how fleeting and unreachable certain memories are for her now). It's a pleasant and tender feeling that had always grown within her when she would be on the cusp of experiencing the biggest moments of her life. She'd gotten that same fluttery feeling when she'd fallen in love for the first time; when she'd decided to join the Bellas; when met Aubrey...when she'd woken up to worried steely eyes in the confines of an unfamiliar hospital room. 

It's a feeling that Chloe dearly cherishes, because it's never steered her wrong. It's led her in forming lifelong friendships and experiencing new things, and she's learned to follow it with a steady march. 

That same elation is growing within her now, brushing against the tips of her toes, and she grins, welcomes it with open arms. Because Chloe’s never felt so thankful for her family and Beca. So thankful to be alive right now. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The entire Beale clan--Chloe's cousins, aunts, uncles--all pour into the house at 5 p.m. sharp. They all greet Beca like she’s a fellow Beale--which, Chloe has to remind herself that she is--pulling the brunette in for bone-crushing, spine-cracking hugs. 

Beca, bless her soul, takes it in stride. She hugs them with very little fight or flightiness, and at one point, when Chloe had glanced over, she'd noticed Beca slipping the youngest Beale cousin--Brianna, an excitable and adorable six-year-old--some candy and a mug of hot chocolate. 

Chloe couldn’t stop smiling at that, as she chatted with her Aunt Kathy, strangely filled with warmth and wonder from being able to witness that level of softness from Beca

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

At 6 p.m, the entire family are called into the dining room. They’re all greeted by an exorbitant amount of food that's neatly arranged on a separate serving table. The table is filled with the classic Thanksgiving dishes--green bean casserole, turkey, glazed ham, pumpkin pie, and yeah...you get the idea. 

Beca’s mouth waters at the sight. When everyone has gotten a helping of each dish, they all spread out across the dining table. Beca finds herself sitting in between Chloe and Catherine, and right across from Clara and her husband, and Connor and his girlfriend. 

They all go around, sharing what they’re thankful for, (all 20 Beales) and Beca--as terrible as it sounds--tunes out for most of it. It’s only when it's Chloe’s turn that she’s all ears. 

Chloe’s twisting the ring on her forefinger as she waits for the brief buzz of conversation to die down. “As you all know, these past few months have been hard for me. Nevertheless, I’m thankful that I’m alive. That I get to be here with my family again. And most of all, I’m thankful for mom and Beca.”

Beca’s surprised when she hears her name, and she shrinks in her seat a little when all eyes turn to her. She feels Chloe wrap her fingers around her wrist, a silent comfort. “Thank you guys for sticking by me, even when I probably wasn’t the easiest person to deal with.” And then her hands are gone again. 

The Beales take a swig of their alcoholic (or non-alcoholic, for the kiddies) drinks in a toast-like manner before all eyes land on Beca again. 

“Uh,” she begins intelligently, rolling her eyes at her own awkwardness as she wipes her sweaty hands on her jeans. “Like Chloe said, this year has been pretty hard. But I’m thankful that Chloe’s safe and okay, and that I’m here with you guys again this year. So, yeah.” 

Everyone steps over her awkwardness and cheers again, some sending soft and caring smiles her way. She bares her teeth in her classic “I want to melt into the seat or disappear completely” smile. 

The sharing ends with Chloe’s Uncle Rick, and then a prayer is said before everyone’s digging in. Beca eats until she can’t eat anymore; until the very thought of pumpkin pie becomes unappetizing to her, and she can't bear the sight of any more food. 

She decides that it's the best time to get up and help clear the dishes. She gathers several plates into her arms and loads them up into the dishwasher when she reaches the kitchen. She rearranges all the dishes in their respective slots, breathing out for several breathes, thankful for this moment of solace. She breathes in for another count before shutting the dishwasher. She leans her hip against the counter, already feeling a lot calmer, and thinks briefly about her first Thanksgiving with Chloe’s family. 

It was her third year at Barden (and Chloe’s fifth), and she had been invited by Chloe’s mom. She had tried to avoid being awkward, but she knew that it was a futile effort. She was first slightly overwhelmed by the amount of friendliness and touching, but really, should she have been that surprised? It's Chloe’s family. 

She had been first bewildered (and slightly concerned) over how eerily similar Chloe and her family looked to one another. It was like she walked into an alternate universe filled with Chloes when she'd stepped off the plane and into their home. And then it became more insane when she had met most of Chloe’s uncles, aunts, and cousins. It had suddenly become a festival of Chloe and Chloe look-alikes. Despite the alarming amount of genetic resemblance, it was still extremely easy for Beca to know which Chloe was hers. 

She'd always found her with ease, even when she was buried in the sea of her family. It would sometimes be her smile, her laugh, or her exuberant, expressive gestures and movements that would catch the corner of Beca’s eye, and then like a moth to a flame, she’d follow the signs until she found the woman who frequently had occupied her thoughts. 

(The woman who is still occupying her thoughts.) 

“Music note for your thoughts?” Chloe’s voice brings her back to the present. 

“Hmm?” 

“You looked like you were trying to decipher Chopin’s No. 5,” Chloe teases with a gleam in her eye. 

“Nope. Just catching a break,” Beca says with a tired smile. 

Chloe leans in close and Beca’s senses are just filled with her. It’s almost too much. She takes a step back and breathes in for four counts. Breathes out for another four.

“I figured. Thanks for hanging in there. I know it can be overwhelming for you when it comes to people,” Chloe says. 

“Your family’s amazing, but yeah, it can become…a lot for me,” Beca shares, grimacing at her choice of words. 

Chloe waves her off before she can apologize. “Don’t worry about it. I get it. How about you take a little break up in my room? Maybe take a shower? I can clean up the rest of the dishes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep! Now, go and shower. You stink,” Chloe wrinkles her nose for further effect.

“You stink,” Beca fires back without much thought.

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I asked you to shower first, so I could shower too,” Chloe laughs. “Unless…”

Beca raises an eyebrow. “Unless what?” 

Chloe pauses, then shakes her head. “Nothing. Go shower!” 

“Okay! Geez, you Beale women are so aggressive sometimes,” Beca grumbles as she makes her way toward the stairs.

“You love it, Beca!” Clara calls out from the living room. 

Beca's eyes are wide as she whirls around, pausing at the base of the staircase. "How the hell did she hear that?" 

"Beale super hearing!" answers Clara. 

"What the fuck?" mouths Beca, an incredulous look on her face. 

"I still heard that, Beca," Clara responds, and Chloe almost giggles at the tiny squeak Beca lets out. 

"You're not the most subtle, Bec," Chloe says, when the brunette looks to her for answers. 

Beca scowls and holds up her middle finger in response as she turns away and makes her way up the stairs. Chloe bites back her laughter. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca finds Chloe sitting outside in the backyard after her shower. Almost all of Chloe’s extended family has already left and the house is silent once again, save the sounds of the scratching cicadas that sing in the yard. The fire they’d started earlier is still roaring, and she has her legs spread out in front of her, a glass of wine in her hand. 

“Thought I’d find you here,” Beca announces her presence, her voice cutting through the crackling of the fire. She wraps a blanket around Chloe’s shoulders as she passes by to take the seat next to her. 

She splays out, a bottle of beer in her hand and her own blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon. 

“Thanks,” Chloe says, and clicks her glass with Beca’s bottle in a silent cheers. They fall into companionable silence, eyes slightly glassy and tired as they watch the flames roar and dance in the firepit. 

“I’m really glad you came,” Chloe tells her after a long moment. 

There’s a soft smile on Beca’s face. Unguarded. Earnest. “Yeah?” 

Chloe turns to her and shares a little smile of her own. “Yeah. My family loves you.” 

It’s quick, so quick that it gives Chloe whiplash, but her smile morphs into a smirk. “What can I say? It’s the patented Mitchell charm.” 

Chloe hums. She knows she should say “Whatever helps you sleep at night” or “Sure, Becs”, but she can’t find it in herself to be anything but truthful. 

“Yeah, it certainly worked tonight,” she says. 

“Wait, you feeling alright, Beale? It’s unusual for you not to give my own crap back to me,” Beca says, but there’s mirth in her eyes. 

“Maybe I'm just in a Thanksgiving mood,” she laughs. "I heard it's a season that promotes gratefulness."

Beca hums at that, smiling softly. 

“Chloe, can I ask you something?” she asks after a lapse in conversation. 

“Sure, Becs," she hums out. 

Beca hesitates then. Her lips move, but no words are uttered out. Tentatively, she asks, “Are you glad that you came back to Portland?” 

“Yeah, I am,” Chloe says earnestly. Because she honestly is. It was the best decision she could’ve made in regard to her predicament. “I’m glad that I’m starting to find myself again here. It’s nice. Like a dream. It almost makes me never want to leave.”

Beca stiffens beside her. “But...you’ll eventually come back to LA, right?”

Chloe freezes then. Her stomach drops as she turns to Beca. “I...I don’t know, Beca,” she sighs. She knows that her next words are bound to disappoint. She takes a second to brace for it. “I don’t think I am.”

Beca blinks, leaning back a little as if slapped. “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

Chloe shifts in her seat, taking a sip of her wine to cover up the pile of rocks that have suddenly appeared in her stomach. They weigh and drag her down. “It...it just means that I don’t know, Beca! It means that I don’t have an answer right now!” Her words come out more exasperated than anticipated. 

“Could you try explaining to me, Chlo?” Beca asks, her voice borderline on pleading. It sends an ache throughout Chloe’s entire being. Her stomach twists, upset. 

Chloe sighs again, pinching the bridge of her nose as she feels the beginnings of a migraine form at the back of her skull. “I just...thinking about this gives me a headache, Beca. I can’t talk about this now. Please.”

“When do you want to talk about it then? Never? You can’t run away from your problems, Chloe!” Beca’s voice picks up an octave; there’s slightly exasperation coloring her tone. Her eyes are wild and a little panicked. 

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you,” Chloe mutters out bitterly, selfishly wanting the words to sting just a little bit. She can’t find the strength to figure out why now. 

Beca jerks back, away from Chloe. Her brows pinch together and her eyes flash dangerously. “What?”

“Aubrey told me about what happened freshman year. She said you ran out on the Bellas. And how you tried to run our senior year too,” Chloe says, her voice rising and her headache growing. Somewhere, a voice in the back of her mind screams at her to stop--to stop feeding and giving into this anger, frustration, and irritation, but Chloe’s tired, too tired to keep a reign on her feelings. The mental dam of impulse control snaps as she gives in. 

“Are you kidding me? Do you see how insane this is? That you’re using the mistakes I made so many goddamn years ago?” Beca cries out, waving her hands in the air, the beer bottle hanging listlessly between her fingers. 

Chloe, sensing she's truly hit a nerve and feeling the regret set in, rushes to apologize, but Beca stands up abruptly. She backs away from Chloe a bit. The beer has lost its hoppy flavor and has begun to taste stale on Beca’s tongue. 

Her face flinches with hurt, before a cool, indifferent mask slides on, obscuring any remnants of Beca. “You know what? This isn’t even worth it. Despite your best efforts, I’m not going to pick a fight with you,” Beca says, wrapping the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Good night, Chloe. Come find me again when you’re done being a bitch.” 

Chloe blanches at the words as Beca walks away. It burrows deep under her skin, permeating the epidermis and settling heavily in her bones. The sounds of Beca’s boots fade away, the sounds of the cicadas swallowing them whole, as her eyes move mechanically back towards the fire, which has begun to die out, orange glows on stoked embers. Her headache still pounds painfully against her temple. The space around her suddenly feels cold; empty and dismal.

She takes a swig of her wine, but it tastes very dry and astringent on her tongue. The once tangy and oaky flavor is now no longer enjoyable. She tosses it out onto the grass and watches the red seep into the dirt under the low glow of the fire.  

She stays out there until her legs become numb from the cold and the darkness of the night almost fully shrouds her. She stands up when it does, feeling the blood rush through her legs as she puts out the dying fire and makes her way back to her room. 

She finds Beca asleep, covers pulled up to her head, her body facing away from the direction of her bed. 

She hesitates at the foot of the brunette's bed, her hand outstretched, hovering as she waffles between the decision of reaching out to her and apologize, but then the cover shift and rustle, and she pulls her hand back quickly with muted remorse and an unpleasant burn of shame.  

Dully, dimly, she decides to go through her nighttime routine instead, playing the argument in her head over and over again, wondering who that person sitting near the fire was. She falls into bed with a quiet groan.

Sleep is fitful. It doesn't come easy.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Chloe wakes up alone. 

She looks over to Beca’s bed and finds it empty, the sheets crumpled and cold. For a moment, she has a brief panicked thought that Beca has left for the airport without saying goodbye--which Chloe would certainly not blame her for doing so--but then she spots her suitcase packed neatly and stowed away to the side, and it sends back some air into her lungs. 

Her shoulders sag in relief as their argument from last night rests heavy on her mind. She sinks back down into the mattress, pressing her back so firmly into it that it almost swallows her whole. She kind of wishes it would, just so that the guilt that is prickling the edges of her stomach would disappear along with her. 

She’s mentally kicking herself, wondering why she had added fuel to the flame. She thinks that she should be able to have better control of her fluctuating emotions and heated temper by now, but the headaches make it hard and the drugs she’s been taking certainly don’t help. 

She’s still replaying their conversation--how the words were eagerly poised to strike, how quickly she was to react so negatively--when a word of advice from her father flits into the jumbled recesses of her mind, ringing clearly over the other loud thoughts. 

Sometimes we tend to hurt the ones we love the most, Bean. 

The somewhat seemingly random thought sends Chloe’s tangled thoughts to a screeching halt and her heart hammers in her chest, sinking a moment after as she realizes that she does love Beca.

She’s positive that she’s not in love with her at the moment, but there’s a nagging at the back of her mind that she wholeheartedly cares for her and that she only wants the best for her. It’s unnerving and alarming how quickly Beca had found an empty spot in Chloe’s heart and managed to squeeze her way through, filling up all the spaces that Chloe can’t imagine being fulfilled by anyone else. 

It, truthfully, is an exciting and terrifying little thought to have. 

Chloe shakes her head, deciding to examine these thoughts later, preferably when the woman she’d been pondering about wasn’t in such close (and distracting) proximity. She groans and buries her face in her hands, thinking how she’d definitely need to dissect these thoughts with Aubrey or consequently be eaten alive by them. 

“Guess you had a rough time sleeping too?” Beca’s voice surprises Chloe. Amidst her internal dilemma, she didn’t hear Beca enter the room, so she squeaks out a suppressed yelp in response. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Beca says, her lips turned up in amusement. 

Chloe raises her head and spots Beca standing at the open doorway, two steaming mugs clutched in her hands. She’s dressed in dark jeans and a bomber jacket. Her feet are clad in fuzzy blue socks. 

Chloe, for a brief moment, thinks it’s an adorable sight to be greeted by. 

“It’s okay,” Chloe dismisses, rising up to sit criss-cross applesauce on her bed. Beca crosses over the threshold of her room, stopping a few inches away from her. 

“I brought you some of your favorite tea,” Beca says, a nervous and awkward edge to her tone. She holds out the mug, but remains a good distance away still. 

“Thank you,” she says. Beca nods in response, still hovering.

There’s a pregnant pause before Chloe’s patting the empty space next to her. She sends Beca a small, quiet smile in hopes to convey the “I-don’t-bite” manner she’s trying very hard to emulate. 

Beca hesitates for a moment before closing the distance, settling next to Chloe’s side, but leaving three inches of space between them. The small distance cause Chloe's heart to sink a little. 

“Careful, it’s hot,” she says as Chloe brings the mug up to her lips to take a pull of the piping hot liquid. 

Chloe nods and blows on her mug, using it as an opportunity to stall while she tries to find the right words to apologize for her errant and neurotic behavior. She watches the steam sway in the air as she wracks her brain for...something. 

“Listen--”

“I want--”

They both stop simultaneously, letting out a laugh that dissipates some of the tension in hanging heavily in the air. 

“Could I go first?” Beca asks, baring her teeth in that adorably Beca-like manner. Chloe nods and smiles, not trusting her voice to work properly at the moment. 

Beca takes a breath then, inhaling deeply and rolling her shoulders as if preparing to give a big presentation. Her coffee sloshes in her mug, the scalding liquid almost precariously tipping over the rim and splashing onto her jeans. 

“I...I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. It wasn’t right of me to push you into giving me an answer about coming hom--back to L.A.,” Beca starts off, eyes flitting to land everywhere else but on Chloe. “I was...scared briefly by the thought that you might never come back. And--” she swallows. “And I know it was selfish of me to act that way. I know it’s been hard for you and I know that coming back to Portland has been really great for you, I just...I didn’t react in the best way.” 

Her lips twist ruefully. “I can’t expect you to move back. I know that it’s not fair of me,” her eyes shift to meet Chloe’s now, the intensity and sincerity of her gaze sucking the breath out of Chloe’s lungs. “You’re not mine to keep, and...I need to keep reminding myself that.”

Chloe feels her heart crack and splinter into a million pieces at the pensive tone coloring Beca's voice. She bites her lip, rolling them together as she contemplates her response. “Beca, you have nothing to be sorry for. Honestly, that entire argument was my fault. Like it was the last time we argued. I lost my temper and snapped at you when I shouldn’t have.” 

“It's--sometimes it’s hard for me to control my emotions and reactions when I’m tired or when the headaches become unbearable. It's not an excuse for my behavior, but just know that I’m sorry.” 

Chloe watches as Beca’s eyebrows rise up briefly before furrowing in concern. “I didn’t know that you were still getting really bad headaches. Have you talked to your doctor about it? Should I mention this to Stacie?” Beca sounds almost panicked. 

Chloe shakes her head, touches Beca’s wrist fleetingly to expel her worries. “I--no, it’s nothing to worry about. I’ve been taking the medication, and they’ve been helping. Somewhat. It’ll just take some time,” she hushes under her breath. 

Beca’s lips slant in disagreement and her eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn’t push it. Chloe is relieved. “Okay. But if it gets worse, please talk to Stacie or your doctor,” she says. Chloe nods and they leave it at that. 

There’s a long stretch of silence before Chloe speaks again, her words carefully assembled and composed. “I just want you to know that...I want to...try to work everything out with you,”

Beca’s eyes flash with hopefulness. “You do?” 

“Of course, I do, Becs,” she says sincerely. “That’s why I’ve been trying to get my life back on track. I want to find out who I am now before I decide or do anything else. It wouldn’t be fair to you, me, or anyone else otherwise.” 

“I know. I get that,” she says. 

“Just...please be patient with me, okay? I can’t guarantee anything, but I’m trying. I’m going to continue to try and fight.” 

Beca opens her mouth, then hesitates, licking her lips as she mulls over her next words. She reaches out. “I...I’ll give you as much time as you need Chlo. I’m here for you and I’ll do whatever I can to help. You know I just want the best for you, right?” A warm pale hand against her bare forearm; a burst of affection; an escaping moment of warmth. 

The warmth is so unexpected that Chloe feels disoriented almost. It’s all a bit of a mess for her brain. 

“I know. And thank you,” Chloe says, leaning over to bump Beca’s shoulder with hers. “Who knew you were such a sap?”

“Ugh, shut up, Beale. You’re the worst,” Beca gripes back, but she has a smile on her face. It’s soft and unhindered, and it sends a thrill through Chloe. It’s a feeling that makes her feel dizzy and startled and delighted all at once. 

That feeling of tenderness is back; the feeling that has never steered her wrong. The feeling that she's on the cusp of something amazing. 

It tingles and churns in her stomach, swallowing her whole and burning her up from the inside. 

Chapter Text

Chapter VIII

Brought me in from the cold

You give me the kind of love

Oh, that feels like home

Every season together

I'll be there by your side

Through all of the highs and the lows

It’s a wonderful life

I got all I want this year for Christmas

Don't need no presents underneath the tree

'Cause all I want this year for Christmas

Is waking up with you right here next to me

-

This Year for Christmas

Phil Wickham

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The flight back to L.A. gives Beca plenty of time to think.

(Which she’s been desperately trying to avoid, but c’est la vie, the thoughts somehow find a way to consume her.) 

She thinks that maybe it’s her general pessimistic (realistic, she argues back) outlook on life that is causing the anxiety to swell within her, but, nevertheless, it grabs hold of her and takes her down a spiraling and swirling path, leaving her behind with what ifs and the over-analyzation of their past conversations. 

The weight of the entire Thanksgiving visit; the burden she’d carried to be strong--for Chloe, for the Beales, for herself, comes crashing down on her. 

(She thinks that she probably deserves it, the crushing, debilitating, and staggering albatross that presses down on her. She knows she’s spent too much time suppressing and compartmentalizing all her emotions, when all she needed to do to avoid that was to process through everything they’d--she’d--experienced these past few months.) 

Suffice to say, Beca is sufficiently frustrated and irritated by the time she lands in LAX. It’s close to midnight when she leaves for baggage claim. The surly feeling follows her to the Uber she gets in. Halfway through the ride, she tells the driver to stop a block away from her house ( their house, Beca thinks through the haze of her muddled thoughts), when everything gets a little too much. Feeling the undeniable need to get out, to be out, she stumbles out of the car, her suitcase in hand. 

Her navy blue bomber jacket feels hot and constricting; like it’s suffocating her. She strips it off in a hurry, throwing it over the handle of her luggage as she feels the cool November wind blow through the fabric of her sweater. 

Why are you freaking out over nothing? She grouses, struggling to catch a breath. She breathes in for seven counts. Breathes out for another seven. Feels her heartbeat slow and settle more calmly beneath her ribcage.

She can’t seem to figure out why she’s on the verge of having a panic attack--Chloe had reassured her that she was going to try; that she was trying. It should’ve filled Beca with hope and relief (don’t get her wrong, it completely did), but that’s all she should’ve been experiencing. And, yet...she’s overwhelmed by the relief; it hits her like a truck, loud and unexpected. 

She treks down the empty street of the suburban neighborhood the house is located in, thankful for the quiet, breezy howls of the wind as she tries to not feel sick from the way her stomach is performing somersaults. 

She finally reaches the front door and swiftly unlocks it, dragging her suitcase in behind her. She locks the door shut before kicking her shoes off, arranging them neatly to the side. She continues to routinely hang up her coat in the foyer’s closet on autopilot, her mind mentally exhausted from the way its been running back and forth.

She sighs, rubbing her forehead tiredly as she hikes up the stairs. She trudges into their empty bedroom, feeling a sense of heartache and loneliness as she takes in the space. She sighs again, deciding to empty her suitcase tomorrow morning as she deposits it next to their walk-in closet. 

She languidly goes through her nighttime routine and falls into bed, finding the cool sheets to be refreshing for her heated skin. She squirms as she attempts to find a comfortable position, their king-sized bed feeling a little too gigantic for her taste tonight. 

Her phone buzzes on the wooden nightstand next to her. She glances at it, noticing it’s a text from Chloe before she’s unlocking her phone, the brightness of the screen temporarily blinding her. 

iMessage

Today, 1:28 a.m.

Chloe [1:28 a.m.]

Home safe???

Beca, seeing bright spots in her vision, smiles at Chloe’s concern. It sends a feeling of tenderness through her body. 

Beca [1:29 a.m.]

Yep, safe and sound.

Sorry that I didn’t text earlier. Was busy getting ready for bed.

Chloe [1:30 a.m.]

Don’t worry about it! I figured you’d be preoccupied 😉

Beca [1:30 a.m.]

Thanks for checking up on me, though.

You didn’t have to stay up.

Chloe [1:31 a.m.]

I wanted to Becs

Besides, I fell asleep watching nightmare before christmas and just woke up 

Beca [1:32 a.m.]

Ah, a classic

Chloe [1:33 a.m.]

did I just hear THE Beca Mitchell compliment a movie???

Pinch me, I think that I may be dreaming 😮😳

Beca snorts aloud at that as she sends her a gif of Kim Kardashian rolling her eyes. 

Beca [1:33 a.m.]

I can admit when a movie is good 

I just haven’t seen that many movies that I can give a ringing endorsement for

Chloe [1:35 a.m.]

I guess Tim Burton can give himself a pat on the back then

Anyway, I should probably let you sleep

Goodnight, Becs :)  thanks for coming to Portland again

Beca [1:36 a.m.]

Goodnight, Chlo. 

Sweet dreams. 

Beca sets her phone aside then, the unsettling and restless feelings subsiding a little as she mulls over their interaction. 

She falls asleep with the decision that she needs to talk to someone about everything tomorrow morning, their bed feeling less cold and empty now. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca FaceTimes Stacie the next morning, after she’s gathered her human motor functions in a semi-coherent way, silently grateful for the hot coffee that she had chugged first thing after waking up and brushing her teeth. 

She’s sitting at the kitchen island, swinging back and forth on the stool she’s on. She’s worrying her bottom lip in thought before Stacie picks up on the fourth ring. 

“Beca! You’re up early!” Stacie exclaims, sounding breathless. She’s holding the camera suspiciously close to her face as she smiles at Beca, her pupils strangely heavily dilated and fully blown.

“What are— Gross! Dude, were you and Aubrey about to have sex??” She cries out, mortified. Her cheeks are aflame with chagrin. 

Stacie laughs flippantly. “It’s your fault that you called so early and interrupted us.” 

“Ohmygod, I’m hanging up now. I can just call back later, or better yet—burn away the image by gouging my eyes out--” 

“Oh, shush, Becs. Bree and I have caught you and Chloe in much more compromising positions than this,” Stacie says, eyes glinting with amusement as she watches Beca bury her face in her hands. 

“ Stacie!” 

“What? You have to admit, for someone so awkward, you sure are fond of exhibitionism,” 

“It only happened once!”

“What about that time in New Hampshire on New Year's Eve?”

The line on Beca’s side is silent for a moment. “...You promised you wouldn’t bring that up! You took Aubrey’s insane Bella wolves ripping out your vocal cords oath!” 

“I don’t know why you’re still embarrassed by it! I still think it’s cute that you guys couldn’t go one minute without fu--”

“Ohhh-kay, can we put my and Chloe’s sex life on the back burner for a little bit?” Beca calls out, ears burning feverishly with discomfort. 

Stacie laughs again and Beca hears some rustling on her end as the camera jostles with movement. “Boo, you’re no fun, Becs,” she pouts, settling down on her living room couch. “So, how was Portland?” 

From the curious tone in her voice, Beca knows she’s asking more about how Chloe is. 

Beca shrugs in her usual nonchalant fashion. “It was good,” she pauses for a moment, trying to find the words to convey the emotions she’s been wrestling with. “Actually, it was...hard, but still good.”

Stacie raises an eyebrow questioningly. “Way to be vague, Becs. Hard in what way…?”

Beca sighs, taking another sip of her coffee. It’s her third cup for the day and she knows she should stop, but it just tastes amazing at the moment. The hot liquid warms her belly. “Hard in the way where I was reminded that Chloe isn’t really mine to keep. And that she might never be mine to keep.”

Beca watches Stacie’s lips twist and contort in empathy. “That...that is hard, Becs.”

“It’s not only that. It’s—Stace, she said she may never be coming back,”

The camera jostles on Stacie’s end and Beca hears the leggy brunette curse as she rights her phone again. “Wait, what?” 

Beca’s glad that she’s not the only one that has been startled by that revelation. She feels less alone, and in a way, strangely justified. “Chloe told me that she doesn’t know if she wants to come back to L.A.,” she explains, feeling her gut churn unpleasantly. 

“I...I mean, we were preparing for this, but...that’s—that still sucks,” Stacie comments, brows furrowed in conflict. 

“She said she’s trying though. That she wants to try,” Beca rushes to amend. 

Stacie’s quiet for a long moment after that, her lips pursed in thought. “How are you feeling about all of that?” she finally asks. 

Beca sighs, breathing out for seven and then inhaling for another. Finally, she shrugs. “I feel...conflicted,” she says, glancing down and playing with the loose line of fabric on the old Barden hoodie she'd put on this morning. “I mean, Portland has done wonders for her. She’s happier. Less stressed out and flustered.” 

Less overwhelmed and burdened when she’s away from here, Beca wants to say.

There’s a lengthy pause on Stacie’s side before she speaks again. “Well, that’s good. We were hoping that going back would help,” she concludes, her voice lilting in the way that tells Beca she’s trying to point out the silver lining.

“It is! It’s just—” Beca huffs, chagrined and irked by how much she’s struggling to voice her swirling thoughts. “I think going home worked too well.” 

There’s another pause, and Beca knows how terrible it sounds, but she doesn’t give Stacie time to respond. Instead, she forges on, her thoughts finally finding shape, pouring out of her like a steady, flowing river. 

“And I’m trying really hard to not be—or sound—bitter about it, because I’m really happy—really glad —that Chlo’s feeling more like herself now. I’ve only ever wanted the best for her, but,” she breaks off mid-rant, gathering in a breath before plowing on. 

“It’s just...so hard. God, it hurts, Stace,” she heaves out, feeling foolish as she feels the telltale tingle of tears burn in the back of her throat. 

She recognizes—knows—that Chloe’s been going through worse—that she has been going through worse this past year—but there’s still a deadly cocktail of hopefulness and hopelessness lingering in the deep recesses of her mind. They push against the carefully built emotional walls she’s constructed in order to be supportive; to be strong. These emotions are crashing and breaking through her walls like the Kool-aid man now.

“I want to be able to give her the space to find herself again. To find out what it means to be her, but I never thought it’d feel like every fiber of my being is being undone bit by bit,” she chokes out, finally allowing the tears to flow freely now. “I...I just don’t know if I’m ready to let her go, in the event that she needs to move on without...without me. It’s a terrifying thought to me. And I feel like shit, like an asshole, because I know I said I would be okay with it—that I’d try to learn to be okay with it, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do it, Stace.” 

“I don’t think I could do it,” she whispers, falling silent as she runs out of steam. Things are equally silent on Stacie’s end, and Beca briefly wonders if the line has been disrupted when she hears Stacie speak. 

“Oh, Becs,” she breathes out, voice laced with overwhelming empathy. Beca doesn’t dare to look up and meet the other brunette’s eyes. “What you’re feeling is valid. It is a terrifying thought to have. It doesn’t make you a horrible person for feeling afraid of losing Chloe like that. It just means you’re human.” 

Beca looks up at that, swiping at the remaining tears that are splashed across her ruddy cheeks. Stacie readily meets her gaze, her eyes sure as she continues on.

“You know you’re not alone in this, Becs. We’re all afraid that Chloe will decide to move on without us, but we need to recognize that we need to be okay with what she deems best for herself and her recovery,” she says. “Hopefully—I hope to God—that will never happen, but in the event it does, the Bellas will be here to help you through this. You don’t have to be strong enough to do this, because your family is going to help you through this.” 

Beca blinks several times at that, sniffling as she feels appreciation and affection for her family swell within her. 

“You just need to let us in, Becs. Stop trying to handle this on your own. We’re all in this together,” Stacie says, managing to end her spiel softly and gently without sparing her patented Conrad honesty and forwardness.

Things are eerily silent on both ends as Beca processes through everything. She’s silently grateful that Stacie knows her well enough to give her several moments to herself and her thoughts. 

“...Did you just quote High School Musical at me?” Beca says, her voice coming out raspy and scratchy as she tries to alleviate the heavy conversation with light humor.

Stacie rolls her eyes, but lets out a chuckle of laughter at it nonetheless. “It felt right,” she shrugs, a small smile gracing her beautiful features. “Shoving your poor attempt at humor aside—I felt like you needed it.”

Beca sends her a similar smile back. “Well, thanks.” 

Stacie shrugs again. “Always, Becs. Just stop trying to get through this alone,” she says. “We all don’t want you to have to deal with this lone survivor, hermit complex you’ve got going on by yourself. Chloe got rid of that freshman year and I don’t want to see her precious work to go to waste.”

Beca laughs fully at that, recognizing the facetious tone behind her best friend’s words. “I’ll...try. No promises though,” 

Stacie rolls her eyes again, but she’s still got that smile on her face. “I know that’s probably the best response I’m gonna get, but at least try to talk to me before you’re about to have a major freak out slash breakdown next time? Or avoid bottling it up until you explode, like you’re wont to do?” Her words mean business, but her tone is still light with humor. 

Beca puts up her usual grumpy response. “I don’t usually do that,” she grumbles out.

“Not with Chloe, but definitely with the rest of us,” Stacie points out. Beca rolls her eyes.

“Besides,” Stacie’s eyes flash mischievously. “I won’t be so nice in protecting you from...R-rated visuals if you don’t give me a heads up in the future.”  

Heat blooms from Beca’s neck and rushes up to her ears. “Stacie!” she chastises, voice coming out in a squeak as her eyes widen in horror.

Stacie shrugs, her teeth bared in a way that is both impish and vexing. “I’m just speaking the truth. The Hunter gave up some sexy times to be a good friend—”

“I—”

“—Which I will always be okay with.” 

Beca would’ve been touched, if Stacie’s previous words weren’t laced with overt sexual suggestivity. 

“The Hunter also gave up his hunting days a long time ago,” Aubrey adds jokingly, her voice flitting in from behind Stacie. She comes into the frame, her arm loosely wrapped around Stacie’s shoulders. 

Stacie has an insufferable smirk on her face. It makes Beca want to wipe it off. “Obviously, when we had s—”

“Ohmygod! Okay, excuse me, I need to figure out how my sight can survive after I wash my retinas off with acid,” Beca interrupts, face aghast while Stacie’s full-on laughing with delight.

“How are you not horrified with your wife?!” Beca demands, watching as Aubrey settles down beside Stacie.

“Well, hello to you too, Beca,” Aubrey greets, an eyebrow raised. While her demeanor is ever prim and proper, a glint of humor twinkles behind her eyes. “To answer your question—while I am usually...uncomfortable with openly talking about this, I am willing to forego it, if it means that you’ll be squirming out of discomfort.”  

Beca groans, gently dropping her head unto the marble island counter. “Ughhhhh, you guys are the absolute worst.”

“Awh, Becs, you say that about all of us. We just know that it’s Beca-speak for your love for us,” Stacie coos, smiling playfully. 

“Whatever,” she mutters, but she’s finding it increasingly hard to tamp down the smile on her face. 

She really does love these nerds.

“Anyway, speaking aside from your overwhelming love for the Bellas—”

Beca scoffs. “It’s not overwh—”

“Are you still planning to join Bella karaoke night tomorrow?” 

Beca pauses at that. “I...don’t know. I don’t know if I’m really up for it,” 

“I get it, Becs. I really do. But I also think it could be good for you to be with us. Plus, most of the Bellas will be there. We haven’t had the majority of us be in the same place, at the same time, for a while now. Well, not counting the time…” 

Beca senses what Stacie wants to say, but is hesitant to. She knows she wants to mention the Bellas visiting Chloe in the hospital many months ago. 

“Besides, we all really miss being together again,” 

“I do agree with Stacie that it would be good for you, Beca. It would be good for all of us to bond again,” Aubrey adds, though there’s a stilted way to her words as she speaks. Beca understands the weight behind her tone; understands that the Bellas wouldn’t truly be complete without Chloe.

The thought alone makes Beca’s stomach unpleasantly queasy. 

“I...I’ll be there,” Beca acquiesces.

Aubrey sends her a pleased smile in return while Stacie grins widely. Beca finds herself smiling back.

Beca clears her throat after a long moment of them staring back at each other like weirdos. She feels like she’s had enough of an emotional day to continue feeling sentimental. “I’m gonna let you guys go. I have some work to get done at the studio today, so you guys can go back to sucking face. Or whatever kinky shit you both probably like.” 

Stacie’s eyebrows wiggle suggestively, and Beca’s stomach drops a little as she realizes that she’s given the leggy brunette more ammo. “Oh, if we’re talking about kinky shit, then—“

“Okay, goodbye! See you guys tomorrow!” 

Stacie’s and Aubrey’s evil cackles are the last thing she hears before the call is cut off. Her phone buzzes with a message from Stacie a second later.

iMessage

Today, 9:45 a.m.

Sexy Stacie [9:45 a.m.]

you know you love us Becs

Even when you’re being a drama queen about it

Beca sends her a picture of her holding up her middle finger. 

Beca [9:45 a.m.]

...why are you the way that you are?

Also, did you change your name on my phone again??

Sexy Stacie [9:46 a.m.]

Why, I don’t know what you’re talking about

Beca [9:45 a.m.]

…

I’m changing it back

Beca exits the messaging app and clicks on Stacie’s contact, changing it to a different name. She screenshots it and sends it to the leggy brunette.

Beca [9:48 a.m.]

[img.113] 

Pain in My Ass [9:49 a.m.]

you may think this irks me, but I didn’t know you felt this way about me

However, I must decline this obvious come on

Beca [9:49 a.m.]

...I’m leaving now 

Pain in My Ass [9:50 a.m.]

Awhh, love you too, Becs 😘

Beca exits the messaging app once more, scoffing at Stacie’s response while she locks her phone and puts it on the island face down. 

“Ugh, they’re the worst ,” she muses aloud, the smile still ever present on her face.

 /-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca flies back to Portland for Christmas. 

It is almost an unspoken agreement between them when Chloe calls her up on a Tuesday to tell her that she’s coming for Christmas, per Momma Beale’s stern request. Beca had booked her ticket that night after getting off the phone. 

Chloe smiles when she watches Beca bustle into Arrivals, completely encased in a bundle of scarves, her beanie askew on her head and her coat unbuttoned haphazardly as she navigates the crowded airport, avoiding bumping into others as they greet their loved ones. 

Chloe welcomes Beca with a soft smile as the smaller woman approaches, her nose wrinkled as she nods in acknowledgement. There’s a softness to her eyes, but her lips are slanted in her patented Beca frown. 

“I’m sick,” Beca says in way of greeting. Her nose is stuffy and her words come out thick and clumsy. 

The corners of Chloe’s eyes crinkle in thinly veiled mirth. “You sound like death warmed over,” 

“You sound annoying,” 

“Ouch, wound the only person who’s going to take care of you, why don’t you, Bec?” 

Beca rolls her eyes. “I’m fine, Chlo. I don’t need to be babysat,” she says, crossing her arms with a huff. With her red nose, pink cheeks, and eyes slightly watery from her cold, Beca looks anything but fine. Chloe bites back a smile at how adorable she is, with the way her eyes squint as she fights the urge to sneeze. 

“Well, since you’re adamant about not being sick, I guess I don’t need to make the famous Beale winter vegetable soup…”

Beca’s eyes widen comically. “Wait...that doesn’t mean you can’t still make it…”

Chloe pretends to think for a moment before spinning on her heel. “Nah, that would be too much work,” she throws over her shoulder teasingly. 

“If I knew your vegetable soup was on the table…” Beca grumbles under her breath with a huff. 

Chloe leads them through the airport and toward the parking garage, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as the chilly winter wind picks up. 

The walk to the car feels excruciatingly long and the frigid air is excruciatingly cold. She hears Beca cough behind her, the cough leaving a rattling sound in her chest. For a moment, she feels a pang of sympathy for Beca and reaches over to grab the handle of her suitcase.

“I’ve got it, Chlo,” Beca says, her voice almost childishly stubborn as she tugs the handle away. 

Chloe raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t push it. Instead, she picks up her pace as she spots her car and quickly unlocks it. She grabs Beca’s suitcase and places it into the trunk before she hops in, shoving the key in the ignition and turning the heat all the way up. 

She looks over to Beca to see her still pouting a little, her lips tugged down miserably. She has her arms folded across her chest and Chloe can still hear her grumbling and huffing about the soup. 

“You’re adorable,” she comments with a cheeky grin.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m not,” If it were possible, Beca’s pout grows even more evident. Chloe can’t help but think she looks like a petulant child that was told she couldn’t have dessert before dinner. “I’m badass.”

“Nope, you’re adorable. I’ve officially decided that,” Chloe says with a teasing twinkle in her eye. 

Beca gasps dramatically, an equally playful twinkle in her eye. The true brightness of it is slightly dulled by her cold. “You take that back, Beale,” she growls out, but her tone lacks any offense or seriousness.

Chloe pulls out of the garage and within minutes, has them back on the highway and on the way toward her family’s house. “Nope!”

“Ugh, you’re the worst,” 

“Wow...and to think, I was just about to offer to make you some soup, but now I’m rethinking it again,” 

“Wait! I didn’t mean that,” Beca says, her tone a touch too desperate. 

Chloe giggles. “Eager to have some of my soup?”

Beca raises an eyebrow. “You know, I may be high on cough medicine, but that sounded like a euphemism to me,” she coughs again, reaching into her purse for a small pack of Kleenex. “You flirting with me, Beale?” 

Chloe laughs, fully knowing that humor is Beca’s favorite modus operandi. “Right, because I’d try to get with you at your most vulnerable,” she says, glancing pointedly at Beca as she blows her nose. 

“What can I say? I’m attractive even when I’m dying,” Beca says with faux nonchalance. 

Chloe, in response, chooses to hum back instead. Afraid of admitting it to the brunette at the risk of making things a little complicated a little too soon, she presses her lips together as she exits the highway. 

The car is silent for a few quiet moments. It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year plays lowly through the car speakers, and Chloe’s ears perk up when she recognizes it as the Pentatonix version. As she softly sings out the second chorus, she hears Beca tap her fingers on her jeans-clad leg, the beat steady and sure as it matches the song. 

Slowly, Beca joins in, harmonizing It’s the most wonderful time of the year with her, which causes a grin to break out on her face. 

She reaches over to slap Beca’s leg like an excitable puppy. There’s a surprised gleam in her eye as she glances at her. “Beca Mitchell! You didn’t tell me that you were a closeted Christmas lover! You’re full of surprises!” 

Beca slaps her hand away in retaliation. “First of all, how the hell are you that strong, woman?” she cries out, rubbing her bruised leg dramatically. “Second of all, shut the fuck up, I’m not.” 

Chloe sends her a look, unconvinced. “That’s what a closeted Christmas lover would say,”

“I’m not a closeted Christmas lover! I like Christmas, but I’m not a crazy weirdo about it,” Beca defends. “Unlike some people.” 

Ignoring that jib, Chloe plows on. “Uh-huh, sure,” 

“I’m not!” 

“It’s okay, Becs. Your secret is safe with me,” Chloe says with a wink. Beca just gripes in response.

The last notes of the song peter out and it smoothly transitions to Joy to the World, the soft first notes of the song filling the car with its warm melody. 

“Okay, so maybe I like Christmas a little bit more than normal,” Beca’s voice comes out rough, but it’s soft, drowned out by the chorus. 

“What?” Chloe asks, but there’s a mischievousness to her faux confusion.  

“Ugh, don’t make me repeat it, Beale. I’ve got a reputation to uphold,” Beca says, biting back a smile. 

“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to repeat yourself, Becs. I didn’t quite catch that,” 

“Ugh, you’re the worst,” she announces, but she’s smiling softly now. 

“I know,” her tone is amused, borderline gleeful, as if it is the best compliment she could’ve gotten. 

“Anyway, before you were being a boob,” Beca starts off, the childish insult causing Chloe to giggle. “I was gonna tell you that I started to like Christmas because of you, but now I don’t want to tell you.” 

“Awhhhh, come on, Becs,” she shoots Beca her best puppy dog look. 

Beca purses her lips, but she finds herself giving in quickly. Chloe grins, reveling in silent victory.  

The Chloe Beale Charm: 1. Beca Mitchell: 0.

“Ughhh, fine. You win this round,” Beca huffs, folding her arms across her chest. 

“I know! So, quit stalling and dish,” 

Beca sends her an unimpressed look. “What are we? In 8th grade?” 

“You would think so, with how childish you’ve been acting,” Chloe says, but she winks to soften the blow of her teasing jab. 

Beca sticks her tongue out in response. Chloe’s tinkling laughter makes her heart swell.

“So?” Chloe prompts after her laughter dies down.

Beca purses her lips, feigning hesitance before Chloe reaches over and pokes her in the side.

“Hey! Keep your hands to yourself if you still wanna hear the story, Beale!”

“You’re the one being a slowpoke!”

“If you’re gonna keep harassing me, I’m not gonna tell the story,” 

“Becsssssss,” Chloe whines, somehow still managing to look adorable even with an exaggerated pout on her face.

Beca rolls her eyes, but her lips are turned up slightly, signaling her amusement. “Honestly, it all started during freshman year. Aubrey asked—demanded—that all the Bellas attend a Christmas dinner at the house together. It was really awkward and tense at first, before Amy brought out the booze. Naturally, we all got pretty tipsy fast.” 

Chloe giggles. “You must’ve been extra tipsy, with how small you are,” 

Beca shoots her an affronted look. “First of all, rude. Second of all, you’re literally only two inches taller than me. Third of all, quit interrupting me,” 

Chloe laughs again, her laughter a little more full and lovely this time. “I can’t help it,” she shrugs, but falls silent quickly to hear the rest of the story.

“We had exchanged gifts via Secret Santa—you know the spiel. I originally thought I’d hate being there, since Christmas is usually a hard season for me, being a child of divorce and all,” Chloe reaches to squeeze Beca’s forearm gently.

Beca swallows thickly at the contact and the heat radiating from Chloe's tan hand. “But it turned out to be really great. It felt like I actually sorta belonged somewhere, you know?” 

Chloe nods, because she does know. “The Bellas are a family for life.” 

“Yeah,” Beca agrees, taking in a breath at all the unexpected rush of emotions she’s experiencing as she relives their first Christmas together. She still remembers how the night ended, Chloe’s hand in hers as she leads her on a late-night walk around Barden’s famous Christmas light display avenue, the cold nipping at their noses as they tipsily admire the beautiful displays that decorated the area.

Beca could still recall how Chloe’s eyes sparkled under the warm glow of Christmas decorations, her face lit up in childlike wonder and excitement. She remembers how warm Chloe’s gloved hand felt in hers and how she really couldn’t have stopped falling in love with Chloe Beale, despite the years she spent trying to fight it.

Chloe’s voice cuts through the dreamy memory. “Becs?” 

“Hmm?” She says after a moment, briefly realizing that she had spent a good few minutes staring out of the window. 

“Looked like I lost you there for a moment. You alright?” 

Beca bobs her head. “Yeah, yeah. Just got a little distracted,” 

“No worries,” she says easily, her hand still on her forearm. “You still haven’t finished your story though.” 

“Right. Anyway, after the party was over, you dragged me out—into the freezing night, I might add—to see Barden’s Christmas display,” 

“Oh my gosh! I love Barden’s display! They always go all out for it!” Chloe comments, excitedly bouncing in her seat as the car halts at a stop sign.

Beca feels warm, smiling softly as she witnesses Chloe’s patented excitable spirit. “It is good,” 

“It’s really good, Becs,” Chloe corrects, turning her gaze into Beca, her smile as bright as those lights freshman year. “Did the light show really make you love Christmas though?” Her tone is skeptical.

Beca shakes her head. “Nah. If I’m really being honest, I never really stood a chance against you, Chlo. You helped me enjoy Christmas again, with a family that welcomed and accepted me for who I am and—ugh, what did you do to me? When did I become a sap?”

Chloe laughs at Beca’s mock disgusted expression. “Please, Becs. From what I heard from Bree and Stace, and from what I witnessed, you’ve been a big softie your whole life,” she says dismissively, her lips turned up in a wry and cheeky smile. “You’re kinda like a s’more—crackly on the outside, and soft and gooey on the inside.” 

“...did you just compare me to a campfire dessert?” Beca asks, an eyebrow cocked.

“Yup! Because that perfectly describes you,” she says proudly, her eyes still on Beca. They continue staring at each other, grinning like fools before Beca realizes that they haven’t moved since braking at a stop sign. Fortunately, since it’s the holidays, traffic isn’t as heavy. 

Beca clears her throat, breaking the tension that is crackling in the space between them. “I would keep your eyes on the road if I were you,” she says teasingly.

Chloe blinks slowly, as if coming up from a daze. “Oh!” She straightens in her seat then, stepping lightly on the gas pedal. The car lurches forward and begins speeding down the street again. 

Chloe’s hand stays on Beca’s arm the entire time it takes to get back to the house.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca has taken approximately 30 mins to get situated in Chloe’s room before Chloe knocks on the door. Her head pops in, a splash of bold red against the pastel-colored walls.

“Yeah?” Beca calls out from her spot at the closet where she’s stuffing her suitcase in. 

“So, I know you’re fighting a cold, but today’s my family’s annual Christmas ice skating day and I was wondering if you’re feeling well enough to come with?” She asks, leaning against the doorframe as she watches Beca hang up some of her nicer sweaters in the area she’d cleared out for the brunette. 

“Well enough? Yes. Do I want to ice skate though? Probably not,” Beca says, but her tone is full of levity. 

“Becs,” Chloe says warningly, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she makes her way deeper into the room. 

“What? You asked,” she defends over her shoulder, shrugging as she hangs up the last of her sweaters, biting down the smile that is about to appear. 

She feels Chloe approaching, her presence becoming more prominent before her hands settle over her shoulders. It sends an electric thrill down her spine. 

She spins Beca around, affixing those astonishingly breathtaking blue eyes on her petite frame. “Becs,” she repeats, her voice lower and softer this time, and Beca swallows audibly, knowing that she’s already fighting a losing battle. She knows she’d do anything for Chloe Beale. 

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Chlo,” she says, her voice surprisingly firm, despite the fact that her resolve is already crumbling. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Chloe replies innocently, fluttering her eyelashes as she maintains her puppy dog facade. 

Beca frowns, clenching her teeth a little as she heaves out, “...Fine.”

Chloe throws her arms around her as she squeals, pulling Beca tighter against her. Beca’s arms wrap around her shoulders in instinct. “Thanks, Becs! You’re going to have so much fun, I promise. And if you start to feel under the weather again, we’ll leave.” 

Beca’s struggling to maintain her grumpy frown at Chloe’s excitement; she’s never been able to resist Chloe’s infectious joy and happiness for long, anyway. She allows herself to enjoy the familiarity and warmth of Chloe’s hug before the other woman pulls away. Then, she’s down the stairs in a flash. 

“Becs! Get your cute butt down here! We’re going ice skating!” She calls out in a sing-songy voice, her voice distant as she bounds down the stairs.  She’s putting on her boots before Beca can even groan at the thought of physical activity.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca can’t believe she forgot how extra the Beales went out for Christmas. 

She’s standing in the indoor ice rink that Chloe’s entire family had rented out for the day. She spots Chloe’s cousins, aunts, uncles, and family friends the moment she walks through the doors. Several Beales litter the rink and others are getting ready to enter. 

Suffice to say, it’s a full-blown family affair.

(Which Beca isn’t necessarily against. Where her family’s Christmas festivities were a quiet, small, and separate affair, Chloe’s, while albeit stressful, was loud, eventful, fun, and had an air of warmth that always lingered until the new year. She always enjoyed how different Chloe’s family was from hers.)

She feels Chloe poke her lightly in the back as they near the counter to pick up some skates for Beca. Chloe had brought her own and has them slung over her left shoulder. 

“You okay?” Chloe asks, auburn eyebrows furrowing slightly in the concern. The light scar on her forehead is more prominent with her endearing expression. 

Beca nods, sending her a reassuring smile. “I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure? I know I said you have to skate, but if you’re not feeling great, you can take my keys and head back to the house,” Chloe suggests, frowning as she tries to determine Beca’s level of discomfort. 

“No, no. It’s okay. Your family’s expecting us and I know I griped about it, but I’m fine,” Beca states. “I’m just a little nervous. I think the last time I skated was around three years ago.” She explains, nodding in thanks as the bored teenager working the counter hands her the skates. 

“Really? Are you any good?” Chloe prods, curious. They’re making their way to the benches near the entrance so that they can begin lacing up their skates.

“Define ‘good’,” Beca says, leading them over to an empty bench. She plops down on it and begins to tug her boots off.

Chloe laughs, taking a seat next to Beca. “Good enough to avoid falling,” she clarifies, reaching down to unzip her knee-length brown boots. 

“Oh, that I can do. I picked up a few tricks over the years after you brought me home the first time,” Beca informs, sliding one of the skates into her right foot. 

“The first time?” Chloe asks, sensing that there’s more to the story from Beca’s reminiscent tone. 

Beca looks over to her, blowing at the stray strands of hair that have fallen across her face. “Yeah. I bruised my ass the first year I went home with you for Christmas. My ass did not appreciate the number of times I fell.” Her face burns a little with embarrassment when she recalls how many times she had fallen flat on her face from attempting to keep up with Chloe and her family. 

(In her defense, Connor and Clara had egged her on, taking advantage of her competitive nature and convincing her to race against them on the ice. She had tried to keep up, her wobbly legs making her look like Bambi on ice.)

(She’d fallen flat on her face, skidding a couple of feet away from the makeshift finish line.) 

(The pain and embarrassment were worth it, as Chloe has showered her with so much affection, attention, and praise the following days.)

“Don’t worry, Becs. If you start to fall, I’ll catch you,” Chloe says sweetly, finishing up with lacing up her skates.

Beca feels touched by the gesture before Chloe adds, “You’re so tiny, it’ll be easy for me.” 

“Ugh, when will the short jokes end?” Beca laments jokingly, her skates secured tightly on her feet. 

“Thought you’d be used to it by now,” Chloe says, bumping her shoulder lightly with hers.

Beca rolls her eyes in response, amused by Chloe’s cheekiness. 

Suddenly, Chloe bolts up, jostling and startling Beca in the process. “First one to finish five laps wins. Loser buys dinner,” she declares, racing for the entrance into the rink.

“Hey! You didn’t give me a warning, you cheater!” Beca defends, her competitive streak flaring up as she runs after her, Chloe’s melodious laughter filling the entire rink with light and warmth. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Chloe wins by a hair, slipping past Beca a second earlier, sending a spray of ice in her wake as she skids to a graceful stop. 

Beca, grumbling under her breath, demands for a rematch.

(“Best two out of three,” she demands breathlessly, hands on her knees as she struggles to take in a breath. 

“Sorry, Becs. I won. Rules are rules,” the redhead says, shrugging as if to say ‘there’s nothing I can do’.

“You cheated,” Beca defends.)

After a long debate, they both decide to have a rematch in the form of the Beale’s annual Christmas ice hockey game. 

Beca’s team wins by 3-2, evening out the scores between them. However, Beca’s victory is cut short when she’s slips and slams backward, her winning shot propelled from the momentum of her fall.

She lands with a loud thud that rattles her bones and for a moment, she thinks she’s died. She’s blinking stars out of her vision, her ears ringing before Chloe’s voice cuts through the worried chatter and chittering laughter around her.

“Oh my God, Beca!” Chloe calls out, her worried face coming into Beca’s line of vision. Her red curls hover above the brunette like a halo and she hazily thinks that this isn’t necessarily a bad way to go. 

“Are you okay?” Chloe asks, reaching down to wrap her arm around Beca’s shoulders to help her sit up. 

“I think so,” she says, blinking as the ringing fades to silence. “That hurt like a motherfucker.” Her ears are burning and she’s beyond embarrassed. 

(She swears she’s not clumsy.)

“Can you stand?” 

“I think so,” Beca repeats, not really wanting to put effort into saying anything else—not with her butt and left hip throbbing. 

“Here, let me help you up,” Chloe wraps an arm around the younger woman’s torso, lifting Beca up with one strong and swift tug. 

Beca groans as she’s set on her feet.

“Let’s get those skates off of you,” Chloe says, carefully directing them toward the benches. She settles Beca gently on the wooden surface before she’s inspecting Beca, hands dancing across covered skin as she tries to assess the extent of Beca’s injuries.

Beca allows her with minimal protests. Chloe, seemingly satisfied with the fact that it only appears to be a mild injury, crouches down to unlace Beca’s boots. 

Beca watches her silently, enraptured by the way Chloe’s fingers deftly move to undo the secure knots. For a moment, she briefly thinks about how skilled those fingers can truly be before squashing down the thought, a different kind of heat flaring through her entire being. 

“I’m gonna get you some ice,” Chloe says after she tugs off the skates. She’s up before Beca can protest.

 /-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

As Chloe waits for the ice rink employee to bring her a bag of ice, she takes a moment to calm the way her heart is hammering so violently in her chest.

She can’t explain it, but the feeling she’d gotten when she’d witnessed Beca's fall was one of gripping terror and icy worry. It had wrapped its tendrils around her heart and squeezed tight, stopping all heart function for a brief, paralyzing moment, while stealing the breath from her lungs.

Only when she had heard Beca’s resounding groan, she’d been kickstarted into gear. She’d raced over to Beca, heart pounding violently in her chest as she skidded to a stop right next to the brunette. 

Her breathing had once returned to a level of normalcy when she’d concluded that Beca hadn’t shattered a bone, and it was jarring, how concerned she was for the woman.

It was as if she couldn’t function without knowing that Beca was truly okay, and she’d never felt this much worry for another human being. 

(Yes, Chloe is one of the most caring human beings on earth, but the worry that had plagued her was so unexpected and heavy that it left her breathless all over again.) 

Realizing that she didn’t really have time to evaluate her emotions,—Beca was still waiting for her— she decides to process it at a later time, choosing to prioritize Beca over her confusing emotions. 

She thanks the employee when the girl hands her the ice pack before making her way back to Beca. She gently presses the pack against Beca’s bruised hip, settling down next to her.

She shoots Beca a small smile as she unlaces and tugs off her skates. 

“Do you normally get hurt every Christmas when you visit my family? Because that sounds like a very hazardous lifestyle to maintain,” Chloe teases after a long stretch of silence.

Beca chuckles, then winces, her hand still on the pack. “No, it appears to only be a rare occurrence.” 

“Well, that’s good. I’m glad you’re okay, Becs,” she says, tone a little more serious. 

“You and me both, Beale,” Beca agrees, sharing a warm smile with the redhead, many unspoken words understood in the breadth of space between them. 

They both enjoy a moment of silence, soaking each other’s comforting presence before Connor and Clara duck back in to check on Beca. 

“You okay, Shortstack?” Clara calls out, breaking the moment. Beca groans at the nickname, feigning irritation, but her eyes are filled with muted affection. 

“Aside from my bruised ego? I’m fine,” Beca informs, rubbing her hip. 

“If we knew you were going to be such a klutz on the ice, we probably would’ve barred you from our team,” Connor jokes. 

“You’re all bullies,” Beca grumbles with an adorable pout. Chloe laughs in response and bumps shoulders with her. 

“You love it, Mitchell.” 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

They stay at the rink for a couple more hours before Chloe’s driving the both of them to Portland’s annual Christmas Market and Holiday Ale Festival. Chloe’s giddily bouncing in her seat with excitement, trying to dispel some of the enthusiastic buzz to avoid spoiling the surprise she’s prepared for them this holiday season. 

“Sooooo...are you gonna reveal where we’re going?” Beca asks from the passenger seat, her lips quirked up in amusement.

“Nope!” Chloe says, popping the ‘p’ in the word with a charming smile.

“...Can I at least guess?”

“Are you usually like this when it comes to surprises?” Chloe muses. 

“...No,” Beca says quickly. “Maybe. Yes.” 

Chloe laughs. “Well, either way, I’m still not going to spoil the surprise.” 

Beca cocks an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware this surprise was such a big secret,” 

Chloe sends her a look. “That’s what makes surprises great,” 

“You know what would make the surprise even greater? If I knew where we were going,” Beca huffs. 

“Then it would ruin the surprise,” Chloe points out. 

“But Chloeeee,”

Chloe raises her eyebrow in amusement at Beca’s tone. Two can play at that game. “Becaaaaaa,” she mimics back, using it to distract Beca long enough for her to pull the car into the parking lot. 

The warm, twinkling Christmas lights and decor shine gently against the car's windshield, a red, white, green, and yellow swirl of colors that greet them as they exit the car. It’s not long before they’re swallowed up the massive crowd, surrounded by couples, teens, families, and children as they make their way through a sea of people. 

Chloe, after nearly losing Beca in the crowd, slides her hand into hers. She can’t help but notice that their gloved fingers fit perfectly together. Get it together, Beale, she thinks. 

A live band plays popular and classic Christmas songs as they begin to walk around and look at each of the different stalls set out in neat rows. There are an eclectic mix of different vendors, ranging from churros, pretzels, crepes, beer, wine, and other Christmas crafts. 

They go up and down the rows of stalls, Chloe stopping by almost every one to admire the creative Christmas crafts and knickknacks, her lips pulled in a bright smile and her cheeks dusted pink from the cold. She pulls Beca to one vendor and makes her put on an elf hat with bells on them. She snaps a picture of a frowning Beca and sends it to Aubrey and Stacie, who forward it to the Bellas' group chat.

They hop around trying small samples of the different kinds of winter ales on sale, both taking turns to purchase the drinks--Beca had insisted on paying, but they had both bickered until figuring out a solution that they both liked. 

“Can I take this ridiculous hat off now?” Beca asks after a while, looping her arm around Chloe’s and pulling her away from a vendor to prevent her from purchasing any more tiny, wooden Christmas displays. She ignores Chloe’s protests of “They’re so tiny and cute, Becs! Look at them!” 

“But you look so cute, Becs!” Chloe states, flashing her a beaming smile that she knows works on the best of people.  A small part of her feels slightly guilty about taking advantage of it; of how open, how free Beca is with her.

However, she can’t help but feel a little smug when Beca keeps on that hat on for the rest of the time they’re there. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

It’s starting to get dark when they reach the end of the market, the air turning a little more frigid. Flurries of snow begin precipitating in the air as the day fully shifts into the evening. The fuzzy glow of the lights gleam and glimmer brightly against the darkness, and a soft breeze blows by them. Chloe shivers and huddles closer to Beca for warmth, their bodies pressing closely together from that and from the crowd of people bumping into them. 

Chloe stops at the last stall, eyeing the mulled wine and spiked hot cider on the list with interest. Beca pulls out her wallet and buys them one of each, clinking her glass with Chloe’s. Chloe’s looking at her with this undefinable look as she takes another sip of her drink. It’s the kind of look that’s heart-stopping, breathtaking, hair-raising, because Chloe’s looking at her with a look that feels a little closer to adoration; to love.  

But then as quickly as it came, it flickers across Chloe’s face before the redhead’s smiling again and taking a pull of Beca’s hot cider. Beca chastises herself for getting her hopes up and prays that her heart will stop hammering in her chest as Chloe pulls them back toward the entrance. 

She stops in her tracks to watch the band finish out the beginning verses of Christmas Lights, and Beca finds it becoming even harder to overcome the urge to wrap her arms around Chloe and kiss her until they’re both breathless. 

She knows she shouldn’t be looking at Chloe like this, but she can’t help it. It’s hard for her to deny being in love with Chloe when she’s had years of practice. She can’t help the way her heart skips a beat when she takes in the way the snow settles ever so gently on her curls; the way her grin is full of delight and festive joy; the way she sways slightly to the cadence of the music. 

She feels her heart swell at the pinkness in her cheeks and nose and the way she hums along, and there’s a feeling of wistfulness that sits low in Beca’s chest. But it’s also bittersweet because there’s nothing as wonderful as watching Chloe Beale shine as bright as a supernova, mulled wine clutched in her hands, eyes now closed as the music surrounds them. 

Then, Chloe turns her head and fixes those alluring eyes on Beca’s, and Beca’s heart skips another beat. 

“I’m glad you’re here with me,” Chloe says, her voice tender and heartfelt. She loops her arm in Beca’s again, pulling her closer and into her orbit. 

Beca, in a moment of bravery, lays her head on Chloe’s shoulder, not missing the way she huddles closer to her, their shoulders pressing tightly against one another. 

She breathes out a serene sigh. “Me too, Beale. Me too.” 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

When they get back to the house, Uncle Rick is setting up the karaoke machine in the living room. Every year, Chloe’s family spends Christmas Eve singing karaoke, and this year is no different. 

Brianna greets them by the door, hugging Chloe before latching onto Beca’s legs with an excited squeal, while the older kids are huddled in the dining room. 

“Beca! You’re back!” She cheers, her red locks woven into cute little dutch braids. She’s got on a sweater with Rudolph on it and leggings with snowmen on them. 

“Hey, squirt!” Beca replies, squatting down so they’re around the same height. She gathers the six-year-old in her arms and blows raspberries into her cheek. “Did you have fun ice skating today?” She asks, carrying her through the foyer and into the living room as the little girl chatters away. 

“...And then Clara and I beat Con at hockey!” Brianna finishes, a proud on her face as Beca sits them onto a loveseat. She’s got her arms wrapped around the brunette’s neck, and Chloe smiles at how focused Beca is on the youngest Beale as she continues to describe the rest of her day. 

Beca glances at her for a moment, sharing a knowing smile with her, and Chloe would be lying if that look alone didn’t take away the breath from her lungs. 

She only wishes her heart wouldn’t painfully constrict at the sight. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The night ends with Chloe and Beca singing a duet of All I Want for Christmas is You, their voices melding melodically with one another as they sing out of the last line. 

Beca has her eyes on Chloe when she sings out “All I want for Christmas is you, baby”, her velvety Alto voice coming out raspy and sweet. Her gaze is hot and magnetic, rousing deep and fierce in Chloe. 

She can barely breathe, the sounds of her family cheering all around them muffled in her ears, her hands itching to just be close to Beca, to breathe in the crispness of her shampoo and to touch, to feel the smoothness of her palms against hers, and she finally realizes what she’s been blind to for a while now--everything she feels about Beca feels a little bit too close to love. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

It doesn't take long for everyone to turn in for bed. A portion of Chloe’s family leaves for their respective houses or hotels, while Brianna’s parents--who are from out of town--return to the other spare guest room. Brianna had stopped in front of the door, shyly requesting a goodnight hug from Chloe and Beca before bedtime. 

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Beca says, brushing a soft kiss onto her forehead before Chloe wraps her arms around the little girl. She presses a kiss on the crown of Brianna’s head, smiling as she hugs her back tightly. 

“Goodnight, Chlo! Goodnight, Beca!” She exclaims before turning on her heel and dashing into the room, leaving a laughing Chloe and Beca behind. 

They retire for Chloe’s room after, and Beca can tell that Chloe’s tired out from the day’s activities by the way she sluggishly goes through her bedtime routine. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t tired as well. 

As much as she loves Chloe’s family, she’s glad that they had some time to themselves at the market and festival. It was the perfect recharge for the activities her family has planned for the holidays. 

“Is it alright if I use the bathroom to change and brush my teeth real quick?” Beca asks, her question as quiet as the stillness of the room. 

Chloe nods. “Yeah, I’ll just change in here,” she answers, changing quickly into her pajamas as Beca gets ready for bed in the other room. 

When Beca returns in her pajamas and her teeth are freshly brushed and minty fresh, Chloe is already in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. She smiles at how peaceful Chloe looks, moving to flick the light switch off. As she fumbles her way through the dark toward her bed, she feels Chloe catch her wrist, her touch unexpected, but welcome. 

“Sleep with me tonight?” Chloe mumbles sleepily. 

Beca pauses, ears burning as she tries to comprehend what Chloe had just said before the other woman speaks up again. 

“I mean, not in that way. Just in bed with me. With clothes on,” Chloe quickly says, her voice a little more alert now. Her words come out slightly awkward and tilted, and Beca thinks it’s endearing since the redhead hardly ever feels awkward. 

She responds by nervously slipping in next to Chloe, her heart hammering in her chest as she tries not to jostle the other woman. 

Beca settles in, readjusting the duvet so it covers them evenly, her palms sweating as she revels at how close Chloe is. The redhead shifts and turns, slotting close to Beca’s back, but there’s still a sliver of space between them. Beca has never been so grateful for that tiny amount of space because she’s not sure what’d she would’ve done. Probably do something stupid like kiss Chloe senseless. And then ruin whatever they’d managed to salvage. 

“Night, Bec,” Chloe sighs, voice thick with sleep and cutting through Beca’s racing thoughts. 

Beca swallows and tries not to simply die on the spot. “Night, Chlo,” she whispers back, heart almost lodging itself in her throat when she feels Chloe’s hand land on her hip. Her touch burns deliciously into the fabric of her pajama pants and she decides, screw it, because she’s going to enjoy being close to Chloe as she can get. 

She falls asleep with a pleased sigh on her lips. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Christmas morning is absolute chaos; Chloe’s younger cousins--including Brianna--dash around the house, all frenetic energy as they wait for the adults to gather so they can tear into the presents under the Christmas tree. 

Chloe thinks that Beca is especially adorable in the morning, with her slightly squinty, sleep-heavy eyes and the glare on her face as she makes her way into the kitchen for coffee. 

“Can’t function without coffee first,” Beca rasps out when Catherine and Uncle Rick greet them in the kitchen. They laugh in response as Beca pours a cup for Chloe and for herself. 

When she finally takes a sip, she lets out a contented sigh. She leans against the counter, watching with slight and unsubtle distaste as Chloe adds three spoons of sugar and a few dashes of Peppermint cream into her coffee. 

“I don’t know how you can drink coffee like that,” she comments. 

Chloe glances at her and wrinkles her nose playfully in response. “Because some of us enjoy more than plain, boring black coffee,” she answers. 

“Hey! Don’t bash on a classic cup of dark roast just because you lack refined tastes,” Beca defends, pushing up the sleeves of her sweater as she licks her upper lip to rid the leftover bit of coffee. She’s dressed in the ugliest sweater, a bright green with depictions of Christmassy themes, a direct match to Chloe’s own bright red ugly sweater. 

They’d decided to participate in the Beale’s ugly sweater contest, and Chloe had gone out and bought them the ugliest pair she could find when Beca had agreed to her plan in winning the contest. Beca’s gleeful and eager compliance to participate was equal parts terrifying, surprising, and amusing to Chloe when she’d first brought up the idea. 

Looking at Beca and herself now, she knew they were a shoo-in to win. 

Chloe laughs at how ridiculously fun they look and at Beca’s comment. She takes a sip of her sweet coffee with a smile. “Let’s agree to disagree then, Becs,” she concedes, feeling like this wasn’t the first time they’d disagreed about this particular topic. 

“I will convert you to the dark side, Beale,” she vows in a mock solemn tone. 

“You can try, Becs, but I’ll guarantee you that I’ll never support drinking just... black coffee ,” Chloe shivers. 

Beca dramatically puts a hand to her heart. “You’re breaking my heart here, Chlo.” 

Chloe shrugs. “Sorry, Becs. It wouldn’t be right for me to lie about this,” 

Beca laughs and shakes her head. “Fair enough.” 

Things are comfortably silent between them for a moment, Catherine and Rick’s chatter soft in the background. 

“I was thinking if I could give you my gift now? Before everyone else starts opening theirs?” Beca suddenly says. 

Chloe nods, holding up a finger. “Let me run up and grab my gift for you real quick,” she tells her, before dashing up the stairs and grabbing Beca’s gift. 

It’s a medium, rectangular-shaped gift, wrapped carefully with a graphic of corgis in Christmas hats. She bounds the stairs and finds Beca where she left her. She’s fiddling nervously with her gifts. 

“Ready?” Chloe says, in lieu of announcing her reappearance. She takes a seat next to Beca at the island before sliding over her gift. 

“Merry Christmas, Becs.” Chloe says, smiling as she nods for Beca to open her gift. 

Beca reads the card first, instantly warming at the words Chloe had written down. It states: 

To quote the author, Bram Stoker, “There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights.” Merry Christmas, Becs. Thanks for being the light in all of the darkness that had surrounded me when I woke up. 

Yours, Chloe. 

“Chlo,” she whispers shakily. She unwraps the gift quickly, opening the lid, her jaw dropping in a quiet gasp. Chloe nervously hovers nearby as Beca takes in her gift--it’s a beautiful sketch of Beca playing with her studio equipment, her brows furrowed in concentration. Chloe had managed to capture the intensity so well that it was if she was looking into a mirror. She sucks in a breath, and Chloe thinks that she looks touched by the effort and the gesture. 

“I-” 

“I was struggling to come up with a gift that you’d really like, and I knew you liked my paintings, so I thought to myself, why not?” 

“It’s-”

“But if you don’t like it, I can totally get you something else! It’s no big deal if-”

“--Dude. Dude, I love it!” Beca interrupts with a smile. 

Chloe bites her lip, feeling vulnerable under Beca’s earnest gaze and demeanor. “I...Really?”

“Yeah, Chlo. This is amazing. You’re...you’re amazing,” Beca affirms, her words coming out in a rush and breathless. Her words settle the nervous fluttering in Chloe’s stomach. She sends Beca a dazzling smile in response. 

“Here,” Beca says, sliding her gift over to Chloe. Beca’s gift to her is a two-parter--one is a thumbdrive with a small red bow on it, and the other is wrapped in a small rectangle box. 

Chloe can tell she’s equally as nervous as she waits for Chloe to unwrap the small box. Chloe lets out a gasp as she takes in the gift--it’s a tennis bracelet that has her birthstone. It twinkles under the warm lighting of the kitchen. 

“Oh, Becs...it’s...it’s beautiful,” Chloe says, grinning. “Help me put it on?” 

Beca nods as Chloe lifts her wrist. She unclasps the bracelet and settles it against the other woman’s wrist before clasping it securely. Her fingers brush and linger against her skin, leaving burning trails in her wake as she tentatively slides them away.  

“I love it,” she murmurs, reaching over to pull Beca into a warm hug. “Thank you, Beca.” 

“You’re welcome, Chlo,” Beca whispers back, hugging her back with equal fervor before reluctantly pulling back. 

She’s met by a charming smile and they sit for a moment, staring at each other and smiling like fools before Beca realizes Chloe hasn’t opened her other gift. “You still have another gift to open though,” Beca says, sliding the thumbdrive closer to her. “It’s a thumbdrive full of mixes and songs that I’d made for you. Listen to it when you’re alone.” 

“That you’d made ?” Chloe says dazedly. She’s amazed by the fact that Beca was able to make music out of nothing. The fact that she had taken the time to create music--songs and mixes--for her, warmed her from head to toe. “That’s...wow, Beca, that’s so sweet of you. I can’t wait to listen to it!” 

Beca sends her the softest of smiles in response. It’s so loving and poignant that her heart clenches at the sight. She knows it’s another special moment; can feel it with the way her nerves are alight with unbridled joy, but it’s also decidedly different in a way that Chloe cannot pin down or define. There’s a crackling electricity in the air, and it’s alluring enough to send the hairs on the back of Chloe’s neck tingling and her toes curling. Beca is such an irresistible sight that Chloe almost reaches out to brush her fingers across Beca’s cheek, her hand lingering in the air before her mom is yelling for everyone to gather into the living room to open up the gifts. 

“Okay, you know the drill! Youngest to oldest!” Catherine calls out. 

Chloe glances back at Beca and knows that the moment has been shattered. She bites back a groan, unable to comprehend the amount of disappointment she feels as they get up from their perch at the island. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca knows that something is different between them. She knows she can ignorant and obtuse to certain things of the romantic nature, but she knows something is different. She can feel it in the air, the way tension crackles between them, like the air is too hot and too cold at the same time. 

Every time Chloe glances at her, she feels like her heart stops more than usual. There’s a flicker of something behind every gaze and every fleeting touch as they continue on during Christmas day. She desperately wants to bring it up, but with the hubbub of the holiday and with the fact that she doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries, has her hesitating. 

But she can’t shake the feeling that Chloe is starting to feel something for it. For her. Beca is dense, but she isn’t stupid. 

Things are different, but Beca doesn’t know how to move on from here. It’s as exciting as it is frustrating. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

They’re watching White Christmas on Beca’s last night in Portland (as watching the movie the day after Christmas is a tradition that Chloe’s upheld for the Beales), Beca sitting a little closer than normal to Chloe on the couch. There’s a unique strain of charged tension that hangs in the space between them, circling in the air and over their heads. Chloe can’t quite put her finger on what has been transpiring between them that has caused such intensity to linger between them. 

There’s a mixture of emotions that swirls in the air; the loaded air that has been growing between them these past few days and a certain fog of sadness that comes with the thought of Beca leaving. 

Thinking about Beca lately has been leaving Chloe in a tailspin--more so than it usually does. She can’t imagine Beca leaving and taking that air of comfortability and security that comes with her--things just feel a little empty without her. It shouldn’t be surprising to Chloe at this point, but she’s still taken aback by how much safer and calmer she feels with Beca around, even with all the uncertainties and insecurities swirling around in her head. 

Chloe’s mom has long retired for bed, and Clara and Connor have left to return to their respective spouses for the night, leaving just them. They’re close enough to cuddle and yet Chloe can’t bring herself to take the first step, so she opts to keep her eyes glued to the screen. She watches Danny Kaye and Bing Crosby dance across the screen, the both of them singing Sisters. 

She glances at Beca from her peripheral and finds her mouthing the words along to the song. Chloe wants to tease her about it, but she finds that she doesn’t want to ruin this moment because she knows this little quiet moment is something special. She feels it in the air, feels her stomach flutter in response to it. Chloe welcomes it, presses her lips together, and hums.

She’d found out earlier that night that Beca was not as opposed to musicals as much as she’d normally was toward regular movies. Her mom had encouraged them to continue the tradition without her, revealing that Beca would put up less of a fight if they watched White Christmas. Chloe speculates that she mentioned it to give them some alone time before Beca’s departure. She’s never been so thankful for her mother’s meddling ways.

“Wanna dance?” Beca rasps out, her voice hoarse and gravelly from the hours of misuse.

Her voice brings Chloe back to the present so fast she almost gets whiplash. It takes her a moment to fully understand her words, and she’s pretty sure Beca was mostly joking to ease the tension, but then she’s nodding and standing up.

Beca unfurls herself from her position on the couch and her hand seeks out the remote on the coffee table. There’s a stiff awkwardness to her movements, as if she can’t believe that Chloe’s agreed. She pauses the movie and sets up a song to play in the background. Baby, It’s Cold Outside by John Legend pours out softly from the speakers, his voice crooning smoothly throughout the living room. 

There’s a grimace on Beca’s face, her teeth bared in that Beca-like fashion as she approaches Chloe. She twists the ring on her left ring finger in a back and forth motion. “I can change the song. I put it on shu-”

“It’s okay,” Chloe placates soothingly, smiling faintly at Beca to let her know it’s truly alright. The tension eases a little. “I like John Legend. He has the voice of an angel.”

“I think he’s honestly one in real life,” Beca says, and she’s moving closer, her hips swaying perfectly to the beat. 

Chloe shoots her a look of disbelief. “You’ve met him before?” 

Beca hesitantly steps into Chloe’s space, her hand outstretched. “Yeah. I sat next to him during the Grammy’s once,” she says as Chloe slides her hand into hers. Her touch shocks every cell in Chloe’s body as she spins her once before pulling her in. Chloe follows her, laughing as they settle against one another, one arm hooking around her neck as the other one stays in Beca’s. 

And just like that, the tension shifts, changes into something that’s almost tangible enough to touch.  

They sway together for a moment and Chloe can tell that Beca’s trying really hard to come across anything but awkward. They’re close enough that their breaths mingle and she takes full advantage, dropping her head into the crook of Beca’s neck to breathe her in. She still smells of vanilla and honey. It’s starting to become familiar like Christmas traditions and famous Beale recipes. 

Beca’s a good dancer and it’s easy to fall into the music with her. Music has always been something that Chloe understands; something she’d always turn to for comfort. Music is safe and Chloe relaxes under it. 

And when Beca begins to hum along with the chorus, Chloe begins to feel safe again with her too. In her arms, as she spins her out again to pull her back in. Chloe has to squeeze her a little tighter to keep her from surging forward into her. She runs her fingers down to Beca’s shoulder blade to distract herself, feeling the rumble of the notes and melody that lives beneath her ribs. 

They’re so close together and it feels all too much all of a sudden. There’s a warmth that settles deep into Chloe’s chest. 

“It’s crazy how I always forget how famous you really are,” Chloe comments, needing a brief distraction and reprieve from the heat she’s quickly realizing that only Beca can bring.  

Beca laughs as she waltzes them across the room, her steps sure and steady. “You know, you’ve met him too.” 

Chloe pulls back a little at that. She’s met by Beca’s sharp, steely eyes. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Got a picture of you guys and everything,” she says. “You were so starstruck that his wife and I were worried about you running off with him.” 

“Oh, I wish I could remember that! I mean, can you blame past me?” Chloe exclaims. Beca laughs again, and they sway in place to the beat.

The song’s almost over and Chloe feels disappointment prickle at the edges of her stomach. The last chorus plays out when Beca’s head turns just enough to skim her lips across the shell of Chloe’s ear. It sends a tingle down her spine and she takes a deep breath shakily, closing her eyes. Their cheeks brush as Chloe pulls back slowly, gently, unconsciously following the pleasant tingling in her stomach. 

Their close proximity makes Beca feel so warm and Chloe feels like she’s burning up from the inside out. The song transitions smoothly to When You Believe by Pentatonix, filling her ears and the throbbing, trembling spaces in the air surrounding them. Beca’s breath ghosts over the corner of her lips and it pulls Chloe in before she can stop herself. 

She holds her own breath, waiting, lingering. She feels Beca press closer, singing, “ We were moving mountains long before we knew we could, ” the lyrics a whisper in the scant distance between the press of their bodies. 

“ There can be miracles ,” Beca murmurs out, her voice low, enchanting, and then her lips brush against Chloe’s. 

Her hand grips against Beca’s hoodie, and she pulls her in closer. The music fades to a low hum, almost completely silent. Beca’s lips are warm and soft against her own. Her hand slides into Chloe’s hair, gentle but tugging, and she feels her breathe out a sigh. It faintly tickles across her cheek. 

Their lips press and slide and part and Chloe feels like she’s on fire. It licks down hotly in her throat and travels down her chest, spreading like wildfire. She’s sure that she’s about to combust right then and there, in a flash of flame and smoke, a truly beautiful death really. Like a Phoenix. And Chloe thinks about how she’s been missing this for months. It’s so ridiculous that Chloe almost chastises herself, but she decides no, she’d rather keep Beca’s lips against hers. 

She moves her hands up Beca’s shoulders, squeezing them lightly as if to keep her anchored. Because the ground feels a little unsteady right now, but Chloe doesn’t want to find footing against the rolling earth beneath her when Beca kisses her like that .

Beca kisses her like they’ve got all night, slow, gentle, and tender. It makes her knees weak, her hands shaky. Her heartbeat drums against her skull and it’s disorienting, tilting her world on its axis. 

She hangs on tight when Beca leans back abruptly, breaking the kiss and severing the moment briefly. She’s breathing heavily, her chest filling up deeply with oxygen, and though the kiss was light, Chloe feels light-headed. 

“I--” Beca starts, and Chloe’s flick to her lips when she licks them. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

“Wh--what if I told you that I wanted you to?” Chloe says and she knows there’s no way she can go back now that she’s kissed Beca. Felt her lips slide against her own. Experienced that jolt of electricity run down her spine, seeping into every one of her vertebrae. 

Beca’s head tilts and her eyes widen imperceptible, a flash of uncertainty and bewilderment. “You...did?” 

Chloe swallows thickly and nods, not trusting her voice for a moment. “I meant what I said at Thanksgiving. I do want to try. And I-I’m starting to feel something for you, Beca.”

Beca fingers run across the space between her shoulder blades, before it stops for a moment. “I...Really?” She asks, smiling that quiet, lovely little smile, continuing her path across Chloe’s shoulder blades again. 

“Yeah,” Chloe breathes out, distracted by Beca’s touch. 

Beca laughs, evidently noticing the hitch in Chloe’s breathing. “You okay there, Beale?”

Chloe smiles and leans her forehead against Beca’s. “Never better, Mitchell.” 

Beca’s other hand is still in Chloe’s hair, her thumb idly running along the back of her ear. It’s both lulling and entrancing. “What does this mean for us, Chloe?” 

“I...I want to--” Chloe breaks off, hesitant.

“You want to what, Chloe?” Beca prompts, gentle and understanding. 

“I want to kiss you again, but I...I don’t want to mislead you in any way,” 

“You’re not going to,” Beca interjects, voice strong and sure against Chloe’s insecurity.

Chloe’s upper lip twists, like it always does when she’s about to cry but chooses to hold the tears back. “I just...you know that I’m not me...anymore. And I don’t want you to become disappointed when you realize that I’ll never be exactly her again.” 

The thumb behind her ear taps once, pulling her attention. “Chlo, I can’t express how much I want you to know that I care about you. I don’t expect you to be the same again. You went through something terrible, and now you’re different. But you’re still Chloe to me, and I’ll never be disappointed. I...I love you for who you are and who you’ll become. I’m sorry if I haven’t been clear enough about that.”

Chloe turns away from her gaze, choosing to bury her face into the crook of Beca’s shoulder. Beca’s hands move to the base of her spine. “I...I can’t fathom how you can still love me so much,” she whispers, her voice muffled, but the words reverberate throughout Beca. “I’m sorry that it’s been taking me a while to wrap my head around it.” 

“Hey, stop apologizing. You have nothing to apologize for. You’re it for me, Chloe. I’ve told you this before, and that’s never going to change,” Beca says. “I’m never going to rush you, but I also want you to know that I’m not going anywhere.” 

The fingers resting against her back taps once again. “I’m simply saved by the fact that you exist in this world, Chloe Beale. So, I’m not going to be that easy to get rid of.” 

Chloe pulls away from Beca’s shoulder to meet her eyes with her own. Beca smiles, but it’s different from the smiles Chloe’s been gifted with before. It’s slower and a little crooked, so soft, earnest, and ardent. 

“Thank you,” she says with a small, watery smile. 

“Of course,” she whispers, and then they’re close enough to kiss again. Beca’s the one who waits this time. Her eyes flash and Chloe knows that she’s hinting that it’s her move now. So, she moves in and presses her lips flush against Beca’s. It’s chaste and then it’s over. Beca blinks slowly, as if she’s waking up from a nap.

“I want to really try to make us work, if you’ll be patient with me,” she says, her words brushing across the corner of Beca’s lips. 

Beca nods, trying to ignore the way her heart is leaping in her chest. She can’t deny that she’s a little overjoyed. “Always, Chlo,” 

Chloe licks her lips then, choosing her next words carefully. “And...I want to move back to L.A.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter IX

Time, wondrous time

Gave me the blues and then purple pink skies

And it's cool, baby, with me

And isn't it just so pretty to think

All along there was some

Invisible string

Tying you to me?

-

invisible string

Taylor Swift

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca prides herself on knowing Chloe Beale and knowing her well. 

She can tell when the redhead is jubilant or excited; it first starts out slow and soft, like the beginning of a sweet melody, the guitar strings and piano tinkling gently. Her eyes would crinkle at the corners, sparking a shine to startlingly beautiful cerulean eyes, and her lips would turn up, delicate and miniscule at first, before it breaks out into an exquisite and magnificent grin. 

Then, like a switch being turned on, her entire body would light up, blazing and burning, hot and bright like the midday sun (though Chloe’s usual behavior was already akin to summer sunshine and deep ocean waves). This facet of Chloe would be bubbly, bouncing, and bright. She would sing at the top of her lungs from the balcony or dance unabashedly to Beca’s songs in the fruit section at Whole Foods. 

When Chloe shares her love of something--which is abounding and plentiful, because that girl loves fiercely and with every fiber of her being--it would be either a grand announcement or a softly whispered confession. A grand announcement would be a little theatrical, with hands gesturing back and forth, unhindered, and a wild grin etched on the redhead’s face. If it was the latter, Chloe’s words would start out quietly and slightly stilted, before the affection would become glaringly evident on her face, filling the spaces around her. 

Once, during Beca’s junior year and Chloe’s 3rd super senior year, she had shared with Beca that she had wanted to pursue being a teacher. Her confession was whispered across the scant space of distance between them, her red curls fanning across Beca’s neck as they cuddled together in Beca’s tiny twin bed, a Parks and Rec episode playing softly in the background on Beca’s laptop.

“I can see you doing that,” Beca said, heart beating violently in her chest from their close proximity. She noted that her fingers were unconsciously running up and down Chloe’s shoulder, dancing against the thin fabric of her sleep shirt.  

Chloe turned to look at her, eyes shining hopefully. “Really?” 

“Yeah. You’d be the perfect teacher, Chlo. Caring, kind, and inspirational,” Beca blushed, afraid she had said too much, but she couldn’t help but be earnest, not when Chloe was looking at her like that.

Chloe’s lips had stretched into a wide grin and Beca swore that she was looking directly at a supernova, her heart stopping for a brief, tantalizing moment.

When Chloe is sad or distressed, Beca would be able to tell from the way her shoulders would deflate and crumple in, as if she were trying to cave in on herself entirely. Her lips would tug down, and her upper lip would wobble or twist up while her eyes would be filled with unshed tears. That sight would shatter Beca’s heart; it’d splinter into a million pieces and her chest would tighten, because the sight of a downtrodden Chloe would be enough to break her. 

It’s a strange revelation to discover, to be so wholly affected by another human being and be bolstered by it. 

At eighteen, she didn’t understand how a person could be so intertwined and interconnected in a relationship; in ways where it was difficult to tell where one person began and the other ended. She’d seen what it did to people--it was so clearly evident in her mother, who was so hopelessly in love with her father, before she’d been so hopelessly miserable with him. 

Did codependency and stability go hand-in-hand? Despite her less than two decades of existence, the thought alone was something she swore she wouldn’t want for herself. She paled at the idea of being so absorbed in someone else that it took precedence over her own independence and mental health. She’d surmised that truly relying on someone else meant being consumed by the very essence of their presence--that allowing that meant treason to the armor she’d built around herself.

She thought back to her relationship with Jesse. At first, it was...pleasant. Enjoyable even, if she allowed herself to ruminate about the early stages of their courtship. 

Somewhere in the middle, it felt like it was a tedious task for Beca to carry on with. It required so much effort and she often felt like she’d never meet the perfect female love interest he’d always longed for her to be. The weight of his expectations and the intricacies of being with him transformed into something that exhausted her so thoroughly. It drained every ounce of patience and affection she had for him. She recognized it did the same to him. 

She saw the threads of their relationship fray; it was coming apart at the seams, and the mental and emotional strength that it needed to work was enough to make her flight-or-fight instinct bristle. She thought relationships needed hard work, but she also acknowledged it shouldn’t have taken that much work. 

What really solidified the epiphany was the juxtaposition of it to her relationship with Chloe. When you held it up against the light, the contrast was jarring. In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been so easy, but oh...how it was. With Chloe, even throughout their friendship, Beca found a balance that she’d figured she would never find in this lifetime. She loved Chloe fiercely--more than any mere best friend should’ve--and that should’ve been enough to send her running for the hills, but she knew that it wasn’t debilitating like her parents’ love were, or exhaustive as it was with Jesse. 

Beca felt it in the way that she didn’t have to sacrifice her sense of peace, independence, and self when she was around Chloe. She didn’t feel like she had to change to please whatever mold she needed to fit in. 

Instead, she felt like something in her had shifted the day the redhead had befriended her. Throughout the constancy of Chloe’s presence in her life, she found herself growing and changing, like the roots of a plant ascending up a trellis. 

Building. Breaking. Rebuilding.

While she once valued routine, the safety and surety of it, she’d willingly taken on the burden of growing pains with Chloe by her side. How could it not be worth it, she’d wondered, when she learned that they meant growth, stretching and climbing towards the sun together? 

All Chloe ever wanted was her time and herself. The barest form of Beca Mitchell. The purity of her best friend’s affection had made her strong, but it also had made her terrified. Terrified that Chloe wouldn’t ever reciprocate the intensity of her feelings; terrified that she would lose the only person in the world she cared for the most. 

Even then, past the compartmentalization and mental gymnastics it took to deny her adoration for Chloe, she knew she had to end her relationship with Jesse.

So they broke up before contempt could erode the bond they’d shared. She’d never felt that liberated in years. 

The realization that she was irrevocably in love with Chloe Beale gave her the courage to dream and want more for herself, but the confession and conclusion of it took two years to come to a head.

Despite that it took her 24 months after that to step over the blurred line between friendship and something more--a line they’d been straddling for so long--she learned so much more about Chloe. It was like she was seeing everything in clarity. 

It began with the little things at first--she’d smile when Chloe would croon to Taylor Swift chart-toppers, and feel downright giddy from her infectious excitement over the littlest things. She cherished the unbridled spontaneity that emerged at the most random of times. She loved Chloe then, and she loves Chloe now, despite the fact her feelings would never be reciprocated. 

She resigned herself to that fact. Was happy to give up any pretense of romance if it meant that she could orbit around Chloe’s solar system.

She was content, except now she felt thrown off her axis again, just when she thought she’d found her footing. She was surprised---- flabbergasted --when Chloe kissed her back. She hadn’t expected that Chloe wanted to actually try to be anything other than platonic.

She was equally speechless--read: dumbfounded --when Chloe had told her she wanted to move back to L.A.

It was like a bomb had gone off; Beca’s ears were ringing and she was left dazed, struggling to figure out if she had heard her correctly. This is where Beca finds herself now, eyes wide and jaw unhinged. 

“Um, you okay there, Becs?” Chloe asks, concern etched deep within the furrow of her brows. 

Beca swallows heavily, blinking several times, frozen in place as she tries to formulate a sentence. She curses her inability to form a coherent sentence. “I-Wha--?” 

Chloe’s concern morphs into amusement. “Use your words, Becs. It’ll be easier for us to communicate.” 

That sours Beca into attempting to respond, her brain restarting to reach semi-functionality. She ignores Chloe’s teasing remark. “You don’t have to do this. I don’t want you to feel obligated--that you have to move back. If you’re not ready, you can stay in Portland a little longer,” Beca responds, worried that she’s pressuring Chloe to prematurely leave Portland.  

Chloe shakes her head, bunching up the fabric of Beca’s hoodie with the hand that's on her back. “I’m not just doing this for you, Becs. I think that moving back to L.A. is what I need.”

Beca pulls back a little then, just to see Chloe’s face a little clearer. She looks so beautiful under the faint glow of the Christmas lights strung around the room. “Are you sure?” She asks, hesitant, tentative. 

Chloe nods, a reassuring smile on her face. “You know I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, Becs,” she affirms, fiery determination in her eyes.

Chloe’s sure assurance settled on her like a warm blanket, and Beca feels her entire being light up with hope and elation. Her face breaks out into an uncontainable grin. In a moment of spontaneity, she gathers Chloe in her arms and spins her around, causing the redhead to tamp down her squeals.

She buries her face between Beca’s shoulder and neck. “As much I love this, Becs, you should probably put me down. I don’t want to wake up my mom,” she whispers against skin, breathless from the way her heart is beating against her chest. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Beca relents, though she feels far from sorry. She feels like she’s on top of the world.

After the initial shock wears off, they spend the entire night planning and figuring out when would be the best time for Chloe to move back. While Beca would love for the redhead to move back by the start of the new year, she knows it would be stressful and rushed, so they ultimately decide that Chloe would move back before mid-January, after she ties up some loose ends with her part-time job at the bookstore and let her family know about her decision. 

Chloe also admits to Beca that she’d rather take things slow between them, sounding quiet and unsure as she brings up her concerns to the other woman. Beca simply smiles in understanding and threads her fingers through Chloe’s in return. 

The soft, grateful, radiant smile Chloe graces her with is all she really needs to know that it’s the right answer.

With a plan tentatively formulated, the girls head off to bed, Chloe pulling Beca into her bed again. She turns down the covers on her left, allowing Beca to slip in. Chloe’s cold feet press up against Beca’s warm shins in the small bed, but Beca is too elated to even wince at the sudden chill.

Instead, she scoops Chloe up in her arms. Chloe situates her head under Beca’s chin and they lay in the dark, silently content for a few long breaths. Beca’s head spins, giddy from the events of the night, her finger twirling a lock of Chloe’s hair in adoration. Comfort.

“I...I find that I sleep better when you’re next to me,” Chloe confesses, her revelation saturating the bubble they’d formed.

Beca presses a gentle kiss on the top of her in response, a grin breaking out on her face before she can really stop it. She can feel Chloe’s pleased hum reverberate on her chest. 

Beca closes her eyes and smiles. She sleeps comfortably. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

When Chloe wakes, she wakes up warm. She slowly opens her eyes with a sleepy smile, pleasantly well-rested. The redhead shifts her eyes to the pale arm across her midsection and a limb wedged lazily between her own legs. Beca is still asleep, her brunette hair a wild splay on her pillow. 

Slowly, so as not to wake the sleeping woman beside her, she pivots to brush some stray locks out of Beca’s face. The brunette’s face scrunches up and she nuzzles her face further into Chloe’s shoulder and neck. Her breaths tickle the soft area of her neck and she shivers at the contact. 

“I can feel you watching me,” a delightfully raspy voice whispers. 

Chloe huffs out a muted laugh. She shifts her bodies to press their fronts together, wedging herself even closer to enjoy being close to such an ungodly warm body. “Good morning, Becs,” a trademark Chloe Beale smile breaks out on her sleepy face.

Beca’s chest rumbles as she acknowledges the greeting with a grumpy iteration of her own. Her fingers draw nondescript patterns on the exposed skin of Chloe’s back, at the sliver of skin where her shirt had ridden up at night. 

“What are our plans for today?” Beca’s voice is still hoarse, but her fingers are sure as they dance on a tanned back. 

“I was thinking we could have a lazy morning in. Maybe make some breakfast or something? What do you think?” Chloe’s breathing hitches when Beca’s fingers move higher to brush the spot between T7 and T9 of her spine. 

A patented Beca Mitchell smirk emerges as the redhead involuntarily shudders at the touch. “Sounds perfect,” she stops her ascension up Chloe’s spine then. Her fingers drum on her skin to a phantom beat. “I was also thinking of changing my flight departure date.” 

Chloe’s immediate reaction is to break out into a brilliant smile and kiss the other woman senseless, but she doesn’t want to keep Beca from whatever she needs to do. She feels a little guilty, making Beca change so many of her plans. 

“You don’t have to,” she forces herself to say, though she really wants to be selfish. 

“I want to,” Beca says, tabling the conversation with a press of her lips against the curve of Chloe’s. She slips out the redhead’s grasp when their kisses start to deepen. She stands up to stretch, allowing Chloe unfiltered access to leer at the smoothness of her back. 

Turning back, Beca’s eyes crinkle in amusement as Chloe lets out a groan in protest. 

“Becs,” she whines, reaching out to pull the other woman back in their cocoon of warmth. “Come back and keep me warm.” 

“Normally I’d be the last one out of bed, but we gotta get movin’ if I want to change my flight,” the brunette says, unusually chipper for the time of day as she evades Chloe’s wandering hands.

Chloe pauses her pursuit, perching herself up on an elbow as she squints at Beca. “Who are you and what have you done with grumpy morning Beca?” 

Beca laughs, and the sound is so sweet to the other woman’s ears. She climbs halfway back up to the bed, a knee planted firmly between Chloe’s legs as she leans over her. 

“I guess it’s just what you do to me, Beale. Make me disgustingly happy and all that,” she says, the collar of her oversized shirt slipping past a pale shoulder as she shrugs.

She smirks as Chloe’s eyes narrow in on the small space of exposed alabaster skin. 

“Is that right?” The redhead murmurs distractedly. Beca just hums in response as she plants a chaste kiss on the corner of Chloe’s mouth. 

“Now, come on. Breakfast won’t make itself,” she says, tugging Chloe out of bed. The redhead follows, dazed by the confidence oozing out of Beca this morning. 

How long had this attractive quality been waiting to unearth itself at the right moment? Chloe wonders as the brunette leads them to the bathroom to brush their teeth. 

Beca hands her a toothbrush after she squeezes a dollop of toothpaste on it. They start their morning side by side, shoulders pressed against the other’s, smiling at each other through their reflection on the mirror. 

The domesticity of the moment hits Chloe with a sort of calming warmth. It’s what prompts her to bring up their earlier conversation. She just wants to make sure Beca understands that the last she wants to do is make her life more difficult. 

“I know you said you want to stay a little longer, but I also know you’ve got some big projects coming up...I just don’t want you to put your life on hold for me, Becs,” she tells her, bending down to spit her toothpaste into the sink.

Beca shakes her head, quickly finishing up her teeth brushing routine so that she can reply without a mouth full of mint. “And I told you that you’re not. I want to be here with you,” she says with good-natured exasperation. 

Chloe folds her arms and leans a hip against the sink, eyes narrowing as she examines Beca in all her pajama-clad glory. Guilt flashes across her face before she sags in concession, accepting Beca’s answer. 

“Okay,” she says, voice colored with relief. She leans against Beca, whose arm wraps securely around her waist instinctively. 

“You know...for someone who’s so brilliant, you can be really dense when you want to,” Beca smirks, swooping down to nuzzle her cheek against Chloe’s. 

“Um, forgive me for not wanting to tyrannize your life,” she huffs back in mock offense. 

Beca’s heart softens at her confession and she presses herself closer. “You could never, even if you tried.” 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

After they finish their morning hygiene routine, Beca has her phone pressed to her ear as she tries to extend her plane ticket back to L.A. by a couple of days. 

She watches Chloe step into the room from her periphery. The redhead approaches her and hands her a mug of steaming black coffee. She grabs the mug and sends Chloe a grateful tilt of her lips as she takes a sip of the hot liquid.

The caffeine gives her the necessary strength and energy to call her boss next after getting off the phone with the airline. While she’s one of the best head producers for her company, she knows that her boss values transparency. She spends the next thirty minutes reassuring the woman that she’d be able to get everything done with what she’d brought to Portland, while Chloe watches the brunette pace back and forth with thinly veiled amusement. 

When Beca finally gets off the phone, she plops heavily onto Chloe’s bed, setting aside her empty mug before draping herself across the length of it as she dramatically huffs. “That woman is impossible to please at times,” Beca bemoans theatrically.

Chloe giggles, shifting a little closer to the brunette to poke her in the side. “Well, it’s good that you’re not a people pleaser then,” she teases, allowing Beca to lay her head across her lap. Beca can’t help but smile how she can do that now; give in to her desire to be as close to Chloe as possible.

“Damn straight, Beale,” Beca immediately agrees, her lips twisted in a smirk. 

“Well, evidently not entirely straight, with what happened last night and this morning,” Chloe remarks with teasing lilt in her voice. 

Beca feels a blush spread from her neck to the tips of her ears as she recalls the sultry glint in Chloe’s eyes when the woman had kissed her, right after they got out of the bathroom. “Evidently not,” she mumbles back, still pink. 

“Awh, Becs, are you blushing?” Chloe coos, lips contorted in an impish grin. She's clearly amused to see this side of Beca, especially after the brunette was so brazenly confident and flirty with her in the morning.

“Can’t help it. Not when you kiss me like that,” Beca shrugs, as if it explained everything.

“You’re too cute, you know that?” Chloe replies, pinching Beca’s cheek with her thumb and pointer finger. 

Beca slaps her hand away in retaliation. “Shut the fuck up, I’m not,” she exclaims, swatting away Chloe’s repeated attempt of annoying Beca. 

“When are you going to realize that you’re always going to be adorable to me?” Chloe asks, laughing as Beca squirms out of her grasp and onto the floor in order to avoid any further pinching or prodding. 

“Never. The answer is never, Beale,” Beca says adamantly as she gets up.

“You’re fighting a losing battle, you know,” Chloe hums, reaching over to wrap an arm around Beca’s waist to pull her in closer. 

“I know,” Beca nestles into her grasp, settling her arms on Chloe’s shoulders and clasping her hands together behind her neck. “But there’s like a 99.9% chance I’ll still defy it.” 

Chloe’s close enough that Beca can see the swirl of her irises and feel her breath tickle her cheeks. “Hmm...Then you won’t mind me using certain techniques of...persuasion in attempts to change your mind?” 

Beca’s breath hitches in her throat as she feels Chloe press closer, the redhead’s arm tightening around her waist. “Well, that depends on what kind of persuasion techniques you’d employ,” Beca asks, her eyes glinting dangerously with challenge, because she knows that Chloe never backs down from such a blatant provocation. 

Instead of responding with words, Chloe decides to show Beca instead. She captures the brunette’s lips in hers, swallowing up her groan as Beca falls a little into her, her lips sliding and parting in the most enticing and tempting way. 

The tenderness of this morning fades into a clash of teeth. Beca whimpers against Chloe’s lips as the redhead licks the opening between her lips, silently asking for access. They fight for dominance, a game of push and pull. Beca’s entire body is humming, like a loose livewire as Chloe tugs her closer. The movement propels Chloe backward as Beca follows her, her body nestling comfortably into the redhead's. 

They stay there for a couple of moments, just soaking up each other before the sounds of a knock and a door creaking open interrupt them.

“Chloe, honey, I--Oh!” Catherine begins, then stops, startled speechless for a moment. She recovers shortly, a knowing, smug smirk on her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was interrupting something.” 

Beca pulls away from Chloe, looking like she was caught in something she shouldn’t have been caught in. She doesn’t know why she’s so embarrassed--Catherine has caught them kissing so many times before. Yet, her face feels hot and flushed. 

She knows she looks like a hot mess, with her pupils dilated, her lips swollen, and her hair a little wild. 

Chloe shoots up into a sitting position, tugging and arranging her crumpled pajama shirt with a furious blush on her face. Beca swallows thickly as Catherine scrutinizes the scene before her. She can’t help but feel like a teenager again, feeling equally as mortified as she was when her mom had caught her in a lip lock with Liz Marshall her junior year of high school. She wanted the earth to open up and swallow her whole then. She feels similarly during this moment. 

“Mom!” Chloe cries out, looking more shocked than mortified. However, despite her initial reaction, she recovers quickly with an unflappable smile. 

Beca has never felt more jealous of Chloe’s ability to avoid being flustered, even in the most awkward of situations.

And in Beca’s book, this is an awkward situation. It could be classified as a Code Red awkward situation, with how absolutely delighted Catherine looks at catching Beca making out her daughter. 

“When did this happen?” Catherine inquires, amused. She leans against the doorway, blocking any possible escape route for Beca. 

“Yesterday night,” Chloe explains, which Beca is thankful for, because she can’t find any proper speaking abilities at the moment. 

“Finally!” Catherine exclaims, throwing up her hands in excitement, looking every bit like the exact copy of Chloe when she is elated. “Took you guys long enough! I thought I’d be dead by the time the both of you got your crap together.” 

Oh, God, why wasn’t the ground opening to swallow Beca right now? She could really use it. 

Chloe and her mom laugh, causing Beca to realize that she had said that out loud. She feels her cheeks flare up more. 

“Thanks, mom,” Chloe says, reaching over to twine her fingers with Beca’s. “We’re just taking it one step at a time, though.” 

The brunette nods, sliding her hand into the spaces between Chloe’s, not trusting herself to find the right words to utter out in agreement. 

“Well, I’ll take any celebration I can get. I suppose I’ll leave you guys to it,” Catherine winks teasingly. “I’ll see you downstairs for breakfast. Take your time!” 

Beca groans audibly when Catherine shuts the door behind her. She sits next to Chloe and buries her face into the crook of Chloe’s neck. “That was so mortifying,” she mumbles into soft skin. 

Chloe giggles. “Why? I’m sure that this isn’t the first time my mom has caught us kissing,” she rationalizes. 

While Chloe’s conjecture is correct, Beca shifts uncomfortably at that, still chagrined. “It doesn’t make it any less mortifying!” Beca exclaims, the heat in her cheeks finally cooling down. 

“I mean, she could’ve caught us in a much more compromising position than the one we were in,” Chloe points out, her eyes gleaming with mirth and jest. “Plus, you know that my mom’s super chill, so if she did catch us in one…”

“Ohmygod, you'll really be the death of me.”

"Why, Beca, you massive flirt."

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

When Chloe had finally decided to stop teasing Beca to the point where the other woman was a blushing, melted mess, they both emerge from her room, fully dressed for the day. 

She’d thrown on a soft, powdery blue sweater and tucked it into high-waisted jeans, while Beca had dressed in a chunky white sweater and dark wash jeans. 

She couldn’t help but admire how good the brunette looks in such a casual outfit. In fact, she was so caught up in admiring Beca’s rather pleasant form that she’d just missed the other woman’s amused expression.

“Like what you see?” Beca asks with a wink.

Chloe grins, starting to enjoy the moments where Beca is unexpectedly bold or confident. “Yeah, it’s looking pretty great from where I’m at,” she confirms. 

Last night helped her realize that she had been rather tired of denying Beca’s attractiveness; specifically, the natural gravitational pull she feels toward the brunette. Besides, it’s not unusual for her to be candid when it comes to attraction; Chloe is emotionally cognizant enough to know that she’s never been someone to really fight her feelings once she’s acknowledged they’re there. 

Beca sends her a cocky little smile, an eyebrow arched playfully, and Chloe is stuck between wanting to smack her or kissing her fervently. She’s struck––for what feels like the nth time for the past months––by how effortlessly dazzling Beca is. 

Stunning, charming, gorgeous , supplies the thesaurus of Chloe’s brain. 

Beca’s self-satisfied smile morphs into one of tender reverence as Chloe holds their gaze. Chloe briefly ponders about the veracity and plausibility of her breath stuttering each time Beca even looks in her general direction and concludes that it seems to be a trending occurrence as of late. 

That train of contemplation warms her heart and sends an excited little zing down her spine. 

“Come on,” Chloe says somewhat inattentively when she realizes that Beca is waiting for a response. “Mom is probably trying to listen in on our conversation by the stairs, so we should head down.”

Still distracted by Beca’s smile and her internal deliberation, she tangles her hand with Beca in attempts of grounding herself. She relishes the skin to skin contact as they make their way down the stairs and toward the kitchen. 

Chloe finds her mom standing by the entrance into the kitchen, looking innocent and nonchalant as she leans against the island counter, a Kindle in her left hand and a coffee mug in her right. The smell of bacon and fresh coffee wafts up from behind her. 

“Guess breakfast did make itself,” Beca murmurs beside her. Chloe bumps their hips together in response.

“You were listening, weren’t you?” She questions in lieu of a greeting as she slips her hand out of Beca’s. Her tone is amused; she’s not accusing her mother or is offended in any way. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” her mom defends, fluttering her eyelashes innocently. Chloe sends her mom a good-natured roll of her eyes and a harmless hip check as she passes by. 

“Subtlety doesn’t run in our family,” Chloe fires back, pouring Beca another cup of coffee before setting the kettle on the stove to make herself a cup of Peppermint tea. 

Her mom shrugs non-committedly. “Subtlety is overrated anyway.”

Chloe laughs while she hands Beca her coffee, their fingers brushing and lingering longer than necessary. Her smile grows wider as she delights in these simple tingles of electricity and natural magnetism. 

Behind them, Catherine coughs pointedly. The other women level their gazes on her as she raises an eyebrow. “Should I vacate the room or...?”

Beca’s ears burn at Catherine’s facetious tone, but she’s more amused than embarrassed. “That won’t be necessary, Catherine,” Beca laughs. 

Chloe chuckles at her mother’s cheekiness as she rounds the counter to wrap an arm around the older woman’s shoulders. 

“You’re terrible,” Chloe says, planting a chaste kiss on her mom’s cheek with an overexaggerated smack.

“Who’d you think you got it from?” Catherine jests, leaning into her daughter’s arm. “Plus, it’s always fun to poke at Beca. She always gets that cute ‘fish out of the water’ look.” She adds, whispering mock conspiratorially. 

“Oh, I know. It’s a ton of fun,” Chloe replies, eyes glinting mischievously.  

Beca brings a hand to her chest in faux hurt as she narrows her eyes. “If you guys are gonna continue to annoy me,” she says, sending Chloe a pointed look that causes the redhead to giggle. “I’m just going to take my coffee to go.” 

“Awh, Becs, don’t leave! You know that we tease you because we like you,” Chloe teases, pulling out a chair to sit next to her mother. 

“Besides,” Catherine continues, taking a sip of her coffee. “Who would help me finish all these bacon and pancakes if you leave?” 

Beca perks up at that, her head whipping around to find the aforementioned breakfast food. She finds the plate that Catherine has set aside for her and begins wolfing it down from across the island. 

Her mouth is full of pancakes when Chloe gets up to grab a plate--one that is, comically so, much smaller than hers--and resumes her place next to her mom. 

Minutes later, the kettle whistles and Chloe sets herself to work, pouring herself a cup of tea while she enjoys the silence between the three of them. It’s a pleasant feeling; to exist in the same space with her two favorite people in the world. 

They eat in relative silence. As Chloe chews on her bacon, watching Beca go to town on her plate from the corner of her eye with unabashed amusement, she begins to formulate a way of bringing up her decision to move back to L.A. with her mother. 

Like she is always wont to do, Chloe just goes for it, the dam curbing her impulsiveness practically nonexistent after her unexpected kiss with Beca yesterday night. 

“Mom, I’ve decided to move back to L.A.,” she says casually, as if she were commenting on the weather. 

“Oh,” her mom replies, her eyes on her Kindle, before her face lights up and her eyes jolt up to meet her daughter’s. “Oh! That’s great, sweetheart! What helped you make up your mind?” 

“Well,” Chloe pauses, looking uncharacteristically hesitant and bashful. “Beca did, actually.” 

She glances at the corner of her eye, noticing that Beca has placed her fork down and is attentively looking at her. She takes a deep breath and continues. 

“She helped me realize that I’m strong enough to get back to my old life. That I don’t need to be afraid of being different that I used to be,” she tells her mom confidently, chin tilted up in determination, her eyes never wavering from Beca’s. 

Beca looks equally touched and surprised by her candor, as if she couldn’t believe that she was the one to inspire Chloe. 

“I’m so glad. Not that I’ve been unhappy about you being home, but I do think it’s time to go back,” Catherine answers, pulling her daughter into a tight hug. Chloe feels warmth rush in, feels it fill her chest, bursting and spirited, and she commits her mom’s hug to memory. 

Then, all too quickly, the hug is over and Catherine is pulling away. She brushes away an errant strand of hair from Chloe’s face and presses a chaste kiss to her cheek. “My Bean,” she whispers almost reverently as she pulls away. 

Then, she levels her gaze on Beca, who’s smiling gently back at them. Chloe’s heart flutters at the sight. 

“You’re gonna watch out for our Chloe, right?” Catherine asks Beca, her eyes narrowed in faux intimidation. Before the brunette can answer, she pivots to face Chloe. “And you’re gonna take care of our Beca, correct?”

Chloe’s reply is immediate. “Of course.”

“Always,” Beca’s voice earnest as she gives Catherine an awkward salute with the two fingers of her right hand. Her lips twist, like it always does when she’s cringing but attempting to hide it. The act is so endearing and lovable that Chloe aches to kiss her. 

When she realizes that she can, she leaps up from her perch at the counter and rounds it, entering Beca’s orbit and pulling the brunette in for a searing kiss. 

She feels Beca flounder a bit in surprise, and she whispers, “Chlo, your mom is right here,” across the slight distance between their parted lips. 

“And what about it?”

Beca opens her mouth to protest, but Chloe interrupts. “Shut up and just kiss me, Mitchell.”

Beca obliges obediently, pressing her lips against Chloe’s, and flushing a deep, scarlet red when Catherine starts whistling and hooting in the background. 

Chloe wraps her arms tighter and smiles into the kiss, sinking into the warmth and comfort Beca’s presence brings.  

 /-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The next couple of days pass by in a blur. Beca, finally over fighting the scarce, subtle remnants of her cold, helps Chloe prepare for the move back. The logistics of where Chloe was to live seemed to have been settled by an unspoken agreement between the two women. Neither could imagine living separately, not when they cherished each other’s company, so it was a tacit decision made by both parties.

Funnily enough, though no prolonged discussion was necessary, Beca still was charmingly chivalrous by offering Chloe the choice to sleep in the guest room at the house, should she feel inclined to. 

In response, Chloe had just shook her head, her fondness for Beca sparking in her chest as she leaned in close to the other woman. She simply pressed a kiss to her cheek and called her a magnanimous idiot. 

Suffice to say, Beca’s implicit elation over her statement charmed Chloe for days.

Somewhere along the way, between the cherished days spent with family and the nights occupied with the warmth of Beca’s mere presence in her bed, Chloe had the good sense to update Aubrey--and by extension, Stacie--on her decision.

“We’ll definitely need to have a bonding sesh soon,” Chloe gushed over the din of Aubrey's and Stacie’s excited chattering echoing through the loudspeaker of her phone. 

“Are you kidding? We’re taking you out the night you move back!” Aubrey asserted.

Chloe had smiled then, eyes watering as she placed a hand to her heart. She was so touched by her best friend’s excitement and support. She felt so lucky, to have so many people in her life that cared so deeply for her.

After they'd finished their call, the two women simply focused on packing the rest of Chloe’s things away and enjoying each other’s company. On one evening, while Chloe’s out with Catherine on a grocery run, Stacie calls Beca, demanding to hear what led up to Chloe’s decision to move back. 

“Beca Mitchell, give me all the details. Don’t you dare spare anything!” She says, her words playful, but her tone bars any attempts of deflecting on Beca’s part. 

So Beca recaps the past few days to her, still floating on a cloud of disbelief that Chloe kissed her. That it’s okay for them to do that now. It’s a surreal feeling that trails after her for the past few days, and it reminds her of how she felt all those years ago, when they’d first gotten together that fateful night. 

“I knew she wouldn’t be able to say no to that Mitchell charm,” Stacie teases, but the inflection in her voice exhibits how happy she is for her friends. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Beca grumbles dismissively, but she can’t tamp down the goofy smile that’s growing on her face. 

They end the call shortly after that, with Stacie insisting that she pick the both of them up once they arrive in L.A. three days after New Year’s Day, despite Beca’s assertions that they would be fine on their own. 

When the call ends, she smiles at the thought of all of them back in L.A. again, a warm feeling settling in her stomach that only grows when Chloe arrives back from the store and greets Beca with a chaste kiss on the cheek. 

The feeling lingers throughout the days leading up to New Year’s Eve––which have been flying by a little too quickly for Beca’s taste––and on the day before New Year’s Eve, Beca accompanies Chloe to her last therapy session with Charlie. 

It takes them 15 minutes to drive over to Charlie’s office and Chloe has been considerably quiet. Beca can tell that there’s something bothering the redhead, but chooses not to ask about it now, in an attempt to let Chloe sort out whatever has been rattling in that head of hers. 

So, she stays silent, fingers tapping an offbeat rhythm in accompaniment to the song that is playing lowly through Chloe’s car speakers. She glances over and notices that Chloe’s shoulders are tense and her brows are furrowed. The scar on her forehead is more prominent against her pinched brows. 

She’s chewing on her bottom lip, like she’s wont to do when words are on the tip of her tongue, on the verge of spilling out. Beca reaches over and places a hand on Chloe’s forearm in silent comfort.

Chloe glances over and sends Beca a small smile, frenzied and frayed at the ends. Beca’s brows knit together in worry, but she presses her lips together, the words of concern about to spill out. 

She waits until they’ve pulled into the parking lot and asks the question that’s been nagging at her the entire car ride there. “Are you okay, Chlo?” 

Chloe shifts the car in park and turns the car off. She pauses for a moment, fingers fiddling with her seatbelt as she releases the clasp from its buckle. “I-” she starts, then stops, taking a deep breath. “It’s nothing. It’s silly.” 

“It’s not silly if it’s bothering you,” Beca points out. 

Chloe lets out this soft, muted laugh in response, shaking her head. For the nth time, she’s struck by that familiar ache borne of strong affection and fondness; of the thought that Beca knows her so well even in the stillness of silences.  

She knows she’s lucky to have someone as great as Beca in her life. 

“You’re not wrong,” she manages to say, overcome with tenderness that her voice cracks at the end. She opens the car door and hops out, giving herself some time to formulate her disjointed thoughts. 

Beca scrambles to follow after her, shutting the door and rounding around the car to catch with Chloe. “I usually am wrong most of the time, so it worries me that you’re conceding so easily,” she answers, offering her arm to Chloe, who loops her arm through Beca’s without hesitation and cracks a small smile at Beca’s light-hearted, self-deprecating joke. 

“Spill, Beale. What’s on your mind?” 

Chloe inhales for a long moment, then lets out a sigh. She decides to abandon any hopes of internal processing; she was never one for introspective prospecting--not when she didn't have the ability to verbalize it. 

She tugs the brunette along, toward the nondescript metropolitan building. Despite seeming nervous about her appointment, Beca understands Chloe’s haste; it’s fucking freezing and she’s already craving for some indoor heating. 

Though she can’t deny––and she probably won’t––that having Chloe’s body pressed up against hers does warm her up considerably. 

“I’m afraid that Charlie will tell me it’s a bad idea to move back to L.A.,” Chloe says softly, exhaling the words all in a rush, amidst Beca’s small distraction from their close proximity. Beca might’ve missed it or gotten whiplash if she weren’t so well-versed in Chloe’s mannerisms and spontaneous energy. 

“What makes you think she’d say that?” Beca asks, pulling open the door and holding it open so that Chloe can slip in. The redhead whispers a soft thank you and Beca nods, letting the door swing closed behind her. 

Her hand seeks Chloe’s, and she intertwines their fingers together as they walk to the receptionist’s desk. They slow down to a stop behind a couple of people who are also in line to check-in.

Beca nudges her shoulder with the redhead’s, prompting her to answer her query. Chloe glances over and then shrugs evasively. “I think I wouldn’t be ready if she advised against the idea. I think that if she agreed with me instead, it would mean that I’m ready to move on. That’s it’s good to move on. That what I’m doing is right.” 

“Why do you think it’s not right?” Beca asks, confusion evident on her features. She quickly tamps down the panic that flashes through her entire being. 

Chloe turns to fully face Beca now, her eyes widening slightly as she shakes her head furiously. “No, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” she quickly corrects, her eyes searching Beca’s steely ones, catching the concern and sincerity swirling in them. “During one of my sessions with Charlie, she told me that I may never recover any of my memories. And...that stung. It felt like I would never move on. It was like everything I did was moot.”

Beca nods, urging Chloe to go on.

“I guess, by moving back to L.A., I’m finally learning to move on. But without any further memory of who I used to be. Don’t get me wrong, I’m learning to accept it,” Chloe explains, shuffling up a little as the line moves forward. “But if Charlie agrees, that means I’m going in the right direction. If she doesn’t, well…”

Chloe trails off, making Beca’s heart beat furiously in her chest as she briefly wonders if Chloe would end up staying back in Portland. She waits for Chloe to continue, anxiously biting the inside of her cheek so hard that it breaks skin. 

“I’d still move back to L.A.,” Chloe finishes with a determined bob of her head. The relief that surges through Beca is so freeing that she almost laughs. “I’ve made up my mind, and I’m not going to go back on it.” 

Then, Chloe’s shoulders sag a little. “But it would be nice to hear some affirmation from a trained psychiatrist,” she says, her voice aiming for light as she tries to jest. 

Beca sends her a small smile in response. “I don’t think that she’s gonna tell you it’s wrong to move back, babe,” she says, reaching over to smoothen the crease in Chloe’s forehead, her thumb running over smooth skin and over the scar. “And if she does, I’ll help you find a better therapist.” 

Chloe laughs at that, her laughter more light and free. It lights up Beca’s entire being like a Christmas tree. “Thank you,” she says, pivoting so that she can fold herself into Beca’s arm more fully. The hug is brief, but it makes Beca warm with affection.

Chloe pulls out of their embrace so that they’re not holding up the line, but she laces her fingers through Beca’s, tugging her along as they move closer up to the desk. They’re one person away from their turn when Chloe turns a little, a smirk on her lips. 

“So, babe, huh?” She teases, bumping their shoulders together. 

Beca’s eyes widen and she stiffens. “Uh, I mean, if that’s something that you’re not ready for--”

Chloe cuts her off by darting closer and pressing a quick kiss at the soft skin at her jawline. “You’re too easy, babe,” she winks. “Besides, I like that term of endearment. I’m surprised it took you this long to let it slip.” 

Beca’s still smiling when they reach the desk and as Chloe signs herself in. Beca realizes that she probably looks like a fool, her lips pulled taut in a blithe grin. 

It’s only when they’ve sat down that her smile gets wiped off her face a little by Chloe’s pressing their lips together. It’s a little messy at first, a clashing of teeth knocking together from how much they’re both smiling, but then it mellows out, smoothing into a proper kiss. 

“What was that for?” Beca asks when they’ve pulled apart, her eyes dazedly following Chloe’s. 

Chloe shrugs, beaming that stunning smile. Beca is momentarily blinded by its brilliance. “I just wanted to kiss you,” she says as a way of explanation.

“No complaints here,” Beca responds quickly, causing Chloe to shake her head and giggle. 

“Dork.” 

“Nerd.”

Chloe snorts. “Now that’s the pot calling the kettle black.” 

“Wow, what a great comeback,” she fires back flatly. 

Chloe laughs, pushing at Beca’s shoulder. “Says the person who called me a nerd!” 

“Um, first of all, that’s so rude. Second of all, you started it!” 

They’re both laughing––albeit a little loudly, garnering the attention of the other people in the lobby––when Charlie steps out to call Chloe. 

“Ready, Chloe?” She asks, a pleasant smile on her face. She’s dressed in a dark blue sweater and black slacks. Her eyes briefly flit to Beca before it refocuses on Chloe. 

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Beca reassures, brushing a brief kiss across Chloe’s cheek. The contact sends a zing down Chloe’s spine. “I’ll be out here when you’re done.” 

“You’re sure that you’re going to be okay with waiting?” Chloe asks, already standing up and making her way toward Charlie’s office. 

Beca holds her headphones up and Chloe nods in understanding, an indulgent look on her face.

That look burns into Beca’s memory as she slips on her headphones, leans her head back, and closes her eyes. 

 /-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Charlie is smiling when she closes the door behind her, Chloe already settled into the comfortable chair that’s facing the exit.

“It’s good to see you, Chloe,” Charlie says, making her way to the small table near the door. She holds up a glass of water as a silent offering, which Chloe gratefully accepts. “How was your Christmas?”

“It was really good,” Chloe says after gulping down her glass. She sets the empty glass aside as Charlie raises her eyebrows questioningly at Chloe’s apparent nervousness. She settles down into the chair adjacent to Chloe’s as she readies her response. 

“That’s great! What were the things that made them particularly good?” 

“Being with family is always nice,” Chloe starts off, but the excitement of what happened between her and Beca begins to take traction. “And, well, Beca and I are together now...” 

“Yeah, you two looked really cosy earlier. I thought it was cute,” There’s a soft smile on Charlie’s face as she speaks.

Chloe finds herself beaming at the compliment, all straight teeth and pearly whites. “Thanks. It feels like it was...long overdue, I guess? Surreal, in a way.” 

The small uncertainty in her tone causes an eyebrow raise. “How so?” 

Chloe purses her lips in thought. “I’ve felt like I’ve been playing catch up for a really long time, always one step behind everybody else, and it was something I resigned myself to feeling for the rest of my life. I told myself that it was...going to be the new normal for me,” she begins, trying to reiterate her feelings into tangible words. “But for the past few days, I’ve been feeling more content than I’ve been in a while. It’s nice, feeling like things are finally making sense.”

“That’s really great to hear, Chloe. It sounds like you’re starting to acclimatize to everything,” 

Chloe smiles at that, happy to see her hard work in therapy starting to pay off. “Yeah, it only took about a year,” she adds, her tone facetious. 

Charlie laughs. “Yes, while it did take a while, your road to recovery has been fairly rapid. It’s been much quicker than what was anticipated,” she replies, leaning back in her chair with a soft smile on her face. 

Chloe laughs at that, her pleased smile growing. “That’s a good thing, right?” 

“That’s a very good thing, Chloe. You should be proud! You’ve been on a pretty difficult journey so far, and it’s inspiring to see how far you’ve come,” 

Chloe hesitates then, unsure. “There’s this...anxious part of me that feels like the other shoe is going to drop.” 

The careful tone in Chloe’s voice makes Charlie pause. She levels her gaze at the woman and cocks an eyebrow in curiosity that says ‘go on’. “Could you elaborate?” 

Chloe simply shrugs, picking at the invisible lint on her loose sweater as she crosses one leg over the other. She licks her lips in thought, contemplating how to express her swirling thoughts. 

“I’m not usually the type to overanalyze my feelings, but once they’re there, I’ve never been the type to fight them either,” Chloe laughs then, though it’s mirthless and a little flat around the edges. “It’s what has always gotten me hurt in the past, but it’s also given me a lot of wonderful things.” 

“One often doesn’t fully experience life without understanding that they’ll get hurt. To put it in juvenile terms, one cannot grow without bleeding,” Charlie muses. “I must admit, your resilience and willingness to remain open has been refreshing to witness.” 

“Are you trying to tell me that my overwhelming feelings are great entertainment?” 

Charlie bites down on her lip to prevent an amused smile from escaping. She ignores Chloe’s quip in favor of her next statement. “Just remember to continue giving yourself some time during these next few months. Direct the patience you have for others towards yourself.”

Chloe looks down her hands, staring at the rings adorning her left thumb and right pointer finger. “I will,” she nods quietly, after a long moment, the thought of doing so a less daunting task. 

Charlie turns more serious then, and she leans forward a little in her seat. “I’m not saying this to belie or undermine the progress you’ve made, because the hard work you’ve put into our sessions and exercises speak volumes, but I also know that, from our past sessions, it’s been hard for you to accept that you’ll never be the same person again. Especially with what you’ve shared about the loss of your child. I just wanted to ensure you’ll be able to heal from that.” 

Chloe nods again, and for a moment, she’s silent. Then she looks up, levels her gaze with Charlie. The next words that come out of her mouth are sure and strong. “I know. But I’m starting to accept it. I like who I am now. And I know I’ll love who I’ll become. Change is inevitable, but I want to allow growth.” 

Charlie’s face slowly breaks out into a grin at the redhead’s words. She looks pleased as she leans back into her seat. “That’s all I ever wanted these sessions to be for you. To help you adjust and adapt; to help you reconcile with the new you and love the new you.” 

“However, I’m neither conceited nor self-indulgent enough to believe that these sessions were the main catalyst,” Charlie continues, the jest clear in her tone. It makes Chloe laugh. “May I ask what really helped you? As a friend. Not as a therapist.” 

Chloe smiles at the word ‘friend’. She thinks that’s one of the reasons she’s gotten along well with Charlie so far. 

Chloe ponders on Charlie’s for a moment. She attempts to pinpoint a specific point in time where things started to become less muddied, and more clear, and she realizes that it’s been a culmination of turning points, moments, minutes, and pieces of her entire journey so far.

For the first time in what feels like a millennium, she knows that she’s starting to see the road ahead of her and feel the warmth of bursting sunlight, when months before, it’d felt like she was stumbling around in the dark, looking for a flashlight. It felt like she was staring at a mirror that was fogged up before she finally gathered the courage to wipe it clean to see what lay behind. 

And what she’d seen behind the fog and condensation was something that baffled and mystified her, because meeting this ‘new’ her turned out to be more refreshing than it was terrifying. Somewhere along the way, slowly, surely, she’d begun to shift from pushing through each day to brimming with life again––with the vigor and fervor she’d used to be familiar with. 

Somewhere along the way, she’d stopped being angry at who looked back in the mirror at her and began to embrace the change and the contrarieties that came with it. 

The realization is comforting since Chloe’s always been anxious about change, despite her sincere and unfettered nature. And yet...though the change felt jarring like the ground was constantly rolling under her, the peace she’d felt about it transcended those feelings. 

Change had always terrified her, but once it came along, she always found herself adapting. 

While Chloe knows she has a long way to go, she’s momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the progress made. The recognition of its significance leaves her sitting in contemplative silence for a long, pregnant moment before she finds her voice again.

“It was a culmination of events,” Chloe finds herself saying first, her thoughts and words somehow forming coherently. “I know I didn't just wake up one day and say, ‘Okay, I’m going to finally heal. I’m going to finally accept that this can’t be fixed immediately'." 

Charlie crosses her ankles together and tilts her head to the side, a signal which Chloe has come to learn to mean ‘go on’ . 

And so Chloe does, continuing: “I think what really pushed me to keep taking the next step––to stop and remember that I’m allowed to put myself first sometimes––was being reminded by the people who love me that...that I had nothing to fear about embracing it. That I wasn’t disappointing or hurting anybody by deciding to accept it, unhindered.” 

“And once I’d finally taken that step, it was like the tide I’d been fighting stopped being so vicious. I didn’t feel like I was drowning anymore--like I could finally swim and breathe again,” Chloe pauses then, figuring this to be the perfect segue into what she wants to announce next. 

She draws in a deep breath, feeling a pang of excitement at the thought. “That, ultimately, helped me make the decision to move back to L.A.”

Charlie’s silent for what feels like an interminable moment. Then she smiles broadly, all teeth and crinkled eyes. 

 /-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Chloe leaves her last session with Charlie’s recommendation for a fellow therapist in L.A. She bounds down the hallway, feeling unfettered and lighter than she did this morning. 

She finds Beca where she’d last left her. She pauses, stopping a few feet away to take in the brunette unabashedly. She admires the smooth slope of her neck, the sharpness of her high cheekbones, the wit hidden beneath closed eyelids, the curve of her lips, and the way she slumps in the chair, completely engrossed in the music that’s filtering through her large headphones. 

Then it seems like something prompts the brunette to raise her head and open her eyes. She analyzes the area around with analytical eyes before she spots the redhead. In an instant, their eyes meet and Beca’s face breaks out into an indulgent smile. She tilts her head to the side, curiously peering at Chloe as she continues to stand there, her hands clutching her coat and her purse. 

“You comin’, Beale?” Beca mouths, an eyebrow quirked playfully. 

To say that Chloe is completely bewitched by Beca is an understatement. 

Her feet find their own accord and before she knows it, she’s inching closer to Beca. The brunette makes a show of lowering her headphones from her ears as the other woman approaches. 

“Hi,” Chloe says quietly; affectionately; reverently. 

Beca reaches out and ensnares the redhead’s fingers in hers. Stormy blue eyes never leave ocean blue. “Hey you,” she greets, tangling their fingers together. “How was it?” 

Chloe smiles down at her; at their tangled hands and how they fit so perfectly together. “It went really well.” 

Beca’s lips turn up in a way that lights up her whole face. “Good. I’m glad,” she says as she stands up. Their hands break apart as she stows her headphones away in her bag. She slips on her coat, and once it’s zipped up, she helps Chloe with hers. 

She holds her hand out again, quirks her head toward the exit. “Ready to go?” 

Chloe knows she just means it in the context of the moment, but she can’t help but think that Beca’s asking if she’s ready to go back to L.A. 

She knows the answer though. Can meet the question with confidence.

She tangles their hands together and smiles. 

“When I’m with you? Always.” 

Chapter Text

Girl, put your records on

Tell me your favorite song

You go ahead, let your hair down

Sapphire and faded jeans

I hope you get your dreams

Just go ahead, let your hair down

You're gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow

-

Put Your Records On

Corinne Bailey Rae

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

New Year's Eve has never made Chloe nervous—at least, not the kind of nervous that twists your stomach or makes you triple-check your texts for typos.

It's closer to anticipation. Like the hush before the first note of a new song drops. The thrill of hearing your name in a lyric and pretending the artist meant it for you. Like cracking open a brand new notebook—one you don't immediately ruin with a smudged first line.

Clara used to joke that Chloe had a thing for new beginnings, the way some people obsess over scented candles, vintage vinyl, or men they think they can fix. Chloe never disagreed. To her, new beginnings feel like the moment at the top of a roller coaster—right before the drop—where everything is weightless, breathless, possible, and still full of promise.

Now she stands on the edge of her mother's aggressively festive living room, ten years older than the last time she wore cliché plastic New Year's Eve glasses and flung glitter at Aubrey during the countdown. The same house. The same overachieving, bright streamers. The same warm, crackling fireplace.

This year, though, she can admit it—she is a little nervous.

The good kind again. The kind that fluttered in her stomach before auditioning for the Bellas. The kind that made her fidget backstage before delivering her valedictorian speech in high school. The kind that feels alive. Big. Like something momentous is about to begin.

And she thinks—hopes—that it is.

By the time Chloe and Beca step inside the living room, the house is already buzzing—warm air hitting their cheeks as they exchange quick greetings with Chloe's many relatives. It's chaotic in a way only Beale family gatherings can be, and Chloe can't help but smile at the noise, the color, the familiarity.

As she stands there, smiling as Uncle Rick gives Beca a bone-crushing hug in lieu of a greeting, Chloe feels the weight of this moment—the quiet, steady pulse beneath the chaos. Her move back to LA. The unspoken promise between her and Beca to move forward together. Not returning to what they were, exactly, but stepping toward something new. Something that still feels like them, even if it's messier, slower, and built a little differently this time around.

She couldn't wait for this new chapter.

The Beale family home, even after two decades of updates and a recent kitchen remodel, is fundamentally the same: a split-level box with a warm fireplace and a gallery wall of family photos that expands every year. Catherine has outdone herself—silver and gold streamers everywhere, those ridiculous new year glasses, a champagne tower assembled like a precarious monument to optimism. The house is full, every cousin and second cousin accounted for, and Chloe finds herself at ease.

She moves to stand next to Beca in a patch of lamplight near the fireplace, the only place in the room that doesn't smell like sweet onion dip or hot chicken wings. Beca's hand is loose around her waist, thumb idly brushing over the fabric of Chloe's cardigan like she's tapping out a new beat there. Even in a crowd this size, Beca somehow manages to stay quiet and solid, grounding Chloe with the comfort her presence brings.

Clara lopes over with her third glass of wine and a mischievous twinkle in her eye that spells the good kind of trouble—the same kind of trouble like bursting into Beca's shower in the nude, demanding that she sing with her. The same kind of trouble that got Beca to become her co-captain during her sophomore year at Barden.

"You've got that look again," she says, squinting suspiciously at Chloe, like she doesn't trust her as far as she can throw her. "Like you're either about to ask me to bake the latest TikTok trend at 4 a.m. or suggest we sing Start of Something New for karaoke tonight."

"Rude," Chloe says, but she smiles to take out any sting those words might leave. "I'm just taking it all in."

"That's a dangerous slope, Beale. That's how nostalgia gets you. One second you're tearing up at the baby photos, the next you're volunteering to organize your cousin's baby shower."

Chloe laughs heartily. "Remind me not to make eye contact with any of my pregnant cousins tonight, then."

Clara spots the two of them by the fire. She bids a speedy goodbye to one of their cousins then slips away. She sips her wine as she wanders over, then leans in a little closer to her sister, close enough that only Chloe can hear her. Next to her, Beca gets pulled into a riveting conversation with Brianna's dad about upcoming indie artists.

"So. How are you doing? Are you excited to go back? Or pretending you’re not freaking out a little?"

It's not accusatory. Not even probing. Just Clara, direct and impossibly perceptive.

Chloe swallows. Thinks for a moment before carefully responding. "More excited than nervous, I think. Kind of feels like I'm on the cusp of something exciting, but I'm also terrified I'm going to mess it up."

"You won't. And even if you do, Beca will be by your side while you both fix it together," Clara says. Then, after a beat: "You look better, you know. Lighter. More yourself."

Chloe blinks fast, feeling the familiar telltale press of tears tingle behind her eyes and press against her throat.

"Thanks. Are you trying to make me cry before the new year arrives?"

Clara shrugs with a glint in her eyes that says: duh, obviously. "What else are older sisters for?"

Chloe laughs, her hand nervously twirling a strand of her perfectly curled hair.

"You know, hair-twirling is a sign of sexual frustration," Clara informs in that teasing tone of hers.

Immediately, Chloe stops her ministrations and drops her hand away from her hair. Her sister raises an eyebrow knowingly.

They lapse into a silence that isn't awkward, just full. The kind that only happens when someone knows your worst and still shows up with wine and sharp observations anyway.

"I can't help but think I need to have some kind of grand plan when I land back in L.A.," Chloe admits, voice low. Trust that Clara can make her confess her deepest, darkest secrets with just a knowing look. "To make everything count. To make this new year—this new beginning with Beca—mean something."

"You don't," Clara replies. "You just have to keep showing up. Keep trying. Some days, that's all you get to do. And most of the time, that's enough."

Chloe nods slowly, feeling something lodged deep in a crevice loosening in her chest. She feels thankful for a sister as insightful as Clara.

"Also," Clara adds, glancing around conspiratorially, "if you and Beca want to sneak off and hide for a few minutes after the ball drops, I'll distract the rest of the family from coming to find you."

Chloe grins. "You just love enabling us, don't you?"

"Eh, Beca will thank me for it tomorrow," Clara says with a flippant wave of her hand. The wine in her glass splashes precariously against the rim. Then she presses a quick kiss to Chloe's temple and vanishes back into the crowd like she's been on a mission—and just completed it. Chloe suspects it's not far from the truth.

Chloe turns back to Beca, who raises an eyebrow that says she saw everything but isn't about to pry just yet.

Beca smirks, nudging Chloe lightly. "Your sister really knows how to stir the pot."

Chloe laughs quietly, leaning into the warmth of Beca's side. "Yeah. She's got that way of saying exactly what you need to hear. It's annoying and comforting all at once."

Beca's thumb traces small circles on the back of Chloe's hand. "So… what are you thinking? About the new year, I mean."

The unspoken message lingers clearly in the air: About us. About the move back to L.A.

Chloe takes a deep breath, watching the room swirl with family, music, and laughter. She taps her fingers on her wine glass to a phantom rhythm. Ponders how honest she wants to be, before deciding to just take the leap, because this is Beca, who she can always be candid with.

“I want this new year to mean something,” she says quietly. “To finally stop feeling like I’m always trying to catch up—and just let myself... be. But I’m scared I’ll mess it up along the way.”

Beca’s smile softens, her gaze steady and grounding. She squeezes Chloe’s hand, a quiet reassurance.

“Messing up is inevitable,” she says.

Chloe’s eyes flick to hers, caught off guard by her blunt words.

But Beca only shrugs, calm and certain. “It’s part of life. And when things get messy—we’ll fix them. Together.”

Chloe feels the tears prick at the corners of her eyes. She bites her lower lip, her heart swelling with affection at Beca’s steady presence and quiet wisdom.

In that moment, the energy in the air shifts and crackles. Around them, her relatives begin to stir. Someone turns up the volume on the TV screen above the mantle, where the countdown numbers have begun flashing.

"Ten," the voice announces, steady and sure.

Beca turns to her. Their fingers intertwine, the weight of the moment grounding Chloe—anchoring her in this quiet, sacred slice of time.

"Nine."

Chloe leans her head against Beca's shoulder, letting herself be still.

"Eight."

Beca’s voice is a whisper—soft, sweet, almost hypnotic. "Promise me one thing?"

"Anything."

"Promise me that whatever happens, we'll keep showing up for each other, no matter what."

"I promise," Chloe says, squeezing her hand.

"Seven."

Around them, the room buzzes with anticipation—the clinking of glasses, bursts of laughter, little squeals of excitement from Chloe's younger cousins.

"Six."

The scent of pine and wine hangs in the air, mingling with the warmth of the fireplace.

"Five."

Chloe closes her eyes for a moment. "Do you think this year will really change things?"

What she doesn't say is: Do you think I can do this?

Beca shrugs, her voice calm, solid—oak-strong. "Change doesn't happen on its own. We make it."

"Four."

Chloe exhales slowly, the silence between them thick with unspoken hope.

"Three."

Her heart flutters. A new beginning in L.A. feels real now—tangible, like Beca’s hand in hers. Steady. Sure. Her fears shrink with every heartbeat.

"Two."

"Ready?" Beca murmurs with a gentle smile.

Chloe nods, returning it with a grin of her own. "Ready."

"One!"

Cheers erupt around them as glasses rise, confetti flies, and the room bursts into laughter, light, and jubilant wishes for the year ahead.

Beca grins, quiet and sure, then leans in and presses her lips to Chloe’s. Her kiss is soft, smiling. Comforting and familiar in the best of ways. She pulls away, brushing stray confetti from Chloe’s hair. "Happy New Year, Chlo."

Chloe’s chest warms like a bonfire—intense, all-consuming, sweet. She feels full—satiated, like she’s just had the best meal of her life. “Happy New Year, Beca.”

They stay wrapped up in the moment, in each other, as the night hums around them—full of promises waiting to be kept.

The final echoes of cheering and clinking glasses linger in the air even as the clock ticks past midnight. Someone in the living room whoops at the screen as the fireworks over Times Square go off, casting soft flashes of color across the windows. The living room is still buzzing with energy––uncles trading dad jokes, cousins chattering amidst the music playing lowly in a speaker perched on an end table nearby, Uncle Rick proudly stating how this was "the best New Year's Eve party of the decade."

They’ve moved over to the couch and Chloe tucks herself beside Beca, suspended in the afterglow of the countdown. She leans into the steady rhythm of Beca's breathing and the feel of their hands intertwined in her lap. For a second, it's like the whole house takes a breath with her– the night’s loudest crescendo fading into something softer, yet no less significant.

Across the room, Connor begins stacking paper plates and balancing half-empty wine glasses on his arms with questionable skill. His tower of glasses teeter precariously, but they never fall. Aunt Marianne starts her annual, loud declaration that she "can't believe it's already January!" and begins shuffling toward the coat rack with a trail of relatives behind her. Catherine, ever the attentive hostess, reemerges from the kitchen carrying several plastic containers filled with desserts, gently nudging guests to take some leftovers home.

Chloe lifts her head from Beca’s shoulder with a reluctant sigh, unwilling to leave their cozy cocoon.  "It's starting," she murmurs. "The clean-up shift."

Beca chuckles, following her gaze. "Looks like Connor's starting to lose a fight with the wine glasses. I should probably go rescue him before your mom finds broken glasses in the carpet."

Chloe laughs, then presses a quick, grateful kiss to Beca's cheek. "Thanks. I'm going to check in with Mom."

"Tag team," Beca says, giving her hand one last squeeze before standing and heading off in Connor's direction, already calling out, " Okay, no broken glass, or you’re on your own!"

Chloe knows full well she’ll be right there to help if disaster strikes.

As the crowd of relatives thins, with quick hugs and warm goodbyes exchanged, the energy in the house shifts. The buzz of anticipation fades, replaced by the comforting hush of shared memories and warm exhaustion—the unmistakable atmosphere of a party well enjoyed. Nearby, Clara dims the overhead lights, and the stereo switches from lively party tracks to something quieter—a Phoebe Bridgers song Beca produced, Chloe is sure.

She winds her way toward the kitchen, stepping over an abandoned noise maker and gently collecting empty yellow solo cups as she goes. The kitchen feels calmer, lit only by the under-cabinet lights and the soft glow of the oven clock. Catherine is already there, sleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in soapy water, humming “Auld Lang Syne” softly as she rinses a casserole dish.

Chloe pauses in the doorway for a moment, watching her mother—elegant even in exhaustion, moving with the kind of practiced rhythm that comes from decades of hosting holidays. There's something sentimental in the familiarity of it.

She steps in next to her mom, bumping her hip with hers. "Need a hand?"

Catherine looks up, her face brightening. "Only if it's attached to a daughter who can dry without chipping my good wine glasses."

Chloe grins, already reaching for a dish towel. "I wouldn't dream of it. You've trained me well, mom."

As they settle into the easy rhythm of washing and drying, the last remnants of the party continue to fade into the background in that familiar late-night hush of family gatherings winding down—a faint laugh here, the thud of someone dragging a trash bag out the front door, Beca's voice somewhere in the other room asking if anyone's seen the recycling bin, and Connor making a game out of clean-up with her sister and Beca.

The night is no longer about celebration. It's about winding down. Taking stock. Being still, enjoying the new year together.

The gentle clink of ceramic against metal and the swish of dishwater fill the comfortable silence. Chloe wipes down a serving platter, her fingers tracing the embossed floral rim—one she’s seen every holiday since she was old enough to carry a plate.

And soon, a different kind of conversation begins.

"Party was a hit," she says softly.

Catherine laughs as she passes her a wine glass to wipe down. " Well, there were no karaoke battles, and your cousin Eli didn’t break anything. So…I call that a win."

Chloe giggles, carefully sliding the towel down the delicate stem. "And the champagne tower didn't collapse. I'm still in awe."

Catherine smiles without looking up. "Not bad for a woman with carpal tunnel and a Pinterest addiction, huh?

Chloe grins, setting the glass aside. "Pinterest really came through."

"I live to impress my siblings," Catherine quips, rinsing a bowl. "Also, I may have bullied Clara into buying more streamers than necessary."

"I'd expect nothing less. You're persuasive like that," Chloe says, bumping her hip playfully against her mom.

They share a smile. It's easy, familiar—the kind that only comes when the big things have already been said, or don't need to be.

"You seem lighter," Catherine says after a moment, her tone casual, but kind. "More… grounded. Happier."

Chloe pauses in her drying, looking down at the sparkling rim of the glass. Her mom echoes Clara's words from earlier in the night. She breathes out slowly for seven counts. “I am.” And she believes it, because it’s the simple truth.

Catherine tilts her head, encouraging her gently.

“It’s funny,” Chloe begins, setting the glass down and leaning back against the counter so she can look at her mom more fully. “When I came back, I thought I was hitting pause before things spiraled. But now… it feels more like I’ve been refocusing. Like I’ve been getting ready. For this next new thing.”

Catherine watches quietly, inviting her to continue.

"I'm going back to L.A.," Chloe says. "But I'm not going back the same way. This time…it's on my terms. And with a little more clarity."

Chloe continues, smiling to herself. “I’ve stopped thinking I need to have everything figured out before I move forward. And that’s been so freeing.”

Catherine nods, giving her daughter space to sort through thoughts she’s internalized for a while.

“I’m not saying I have all the answers,” Chloe admits. “But for the first time in a long time, that doesn’t scare me as much.”

Catherine’s eyes soften. She sets down the dish she’s holding, drying her hands as she turns to face her daughter fully.

“I see that,” she says gently. “You’ve always been the kind of person who looks deeper—beyond the surface—to find real meaning and purpose. Maybe now you’re realizing that meaning doesn’t always come right away—that some things need time to reveal themselves. And it doesn’t have to be earned through struggle or sacrifice.”

Chloe’s eyes fill with unshed tears, touched. “Being with Beca makes the future feel… attainable. Not perfect, but real. Possible. And it feels really good, Mom.”

Catherine cups her cheek for a brief moment, smiling in a way only a mother can—part pride, part wistful awe at how fast time moves. “You know, that was my hope for you when you came home. Not just finding Beca again, but finding yourself. Your new normal. I’m glad you’re doing this with her. She’s good for you.”

Chloe grins, genuinely warmed by her mother's kind words. "Thanks, Mom."

Catherine grins back, a quiet understanding passing between them.

They fall into a steady rhythm, finishing the last of the dishes together in silence that doesn't need to be filled. The kitchen light glows soft and amber, casting long, gentle shadows across the counter and their familiar movements.

From the living room, Clara's voice rises in dramatic flair, spinning a story that clearly involves spilled cocktails and a…coat closet? A beat later, Beca's laugh cuts through—low, unmistakable, and entirely at home.

Chloe glances toward the sound, a smile lingering. For the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly where it should be.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

It's nearly 2 a.m. by the time everything is cleaned and squared away. The last wine glass is put back in the cabinet, the counters wiped down, and the dishwasher hums quietly in the background. The house has finally settled into a hush, heavy with the kind of quiet that only comes after a long, full night.

Chloe hears the soft sound of running water in the bathroom—Beca brushing her teeth, rinsing, the familiar rhythm of a routine they've fallen into with ease. She turns down the covers on both sides of the bed, the cool sheets brushing against her skin. The bedroom is dim, lit only by the hazy sliver of moonlight slipping through the curtains and the faint glow from the hallway.

A moment later, the bathroom door opens with a soft click.

Beca steps out in one of her usual oversized t-shirts and a pair of well-worn purple running shorts. The light from the bathroom pools behind her, casting a long, almost ethereal shadow across the room before she flicks the switch off. Darkness settles again, broken only by the silver outline of her figure as she pads barefoot across the room.

She moves with quiet confidence, muscle memory guiding her. Chloe watches her through half-lidded eyes, heart aching and soft.

Beca climbs into bed without a word, the mattress dipping gently beneath her weight. They find each other in the dark, instinctively turning toward one another until they're lying face to face. The distance between them is small, the kind born of trust and familiarity. Chloe can smell the faint scent of mint on Beca's breath, feeling the warmth radiating from her skin in the quiet space between them.

"Becs?" Chloe whispers.

Beca hums softly in response, already halfway to sleep.

Chloe's voice is quiet, content. "Good night."

Beca's eyes flutter open just enough to meet hers. "Night, Chlo."

Their hands find each other under the covers, fingers brushing, curling together. No fanfare. No big confessions. Just this.

And it's more than enough. Chloe sleeps soundly.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The new year arrives not with fireworks, but with quiet. A slow, golden kind of silence.

Chloe wakes to the warmth of Beca's arm draped lazily across her waist, their legs tangled under the blanket like they'd been trying to fit into the same dream. Her room is bathed in the soft winter light of a January morning—grayish-blue skies filtering through the curtains, birds chirping faintly in the trees. There's a peacefulness to it all, as if even the world outside is still stretching, reluctant to begin.

Beca mumbles something unintelligible and burrows her face into the pillow. Chloe laughs softly, charmed by Beca's adorableness as she brushes a bit of messy hair from her cheek.

"It's 2022," she says aloud, mostly to herself.

Beca's eyes crack open a fraction. "Ugh. I just got used to writing 2021."

Chloe rolls over to face her to tease her. "You'll manage."

"Mmm." Beca closes her eyes again. "I might need a minute."

"You've had eight hours of minutes."

They stay like that a while longer, letting the morning unfold at its own pace. Eventually, the smell of coffee wafts through the house, followed by Clara's muffled voice swearing about stubbing her toe on the kitchen island. That gets them both moving.

Downstairs, the house is in gentle disarray. Streamers still hang limp above the archways, a deflated balloon hovering like it gave up midway. Connor is sprawled on the couch in loose workout clothes, cradling a half-eaten slice of cake and watching a muted basketball rerun like it's sacred ritual.

"Morning, Con," Chloe calls out, padding into the kitchen in Beca's oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks.

Connor lifts a hand in a half-wave, clearly nursing a hangover and not ready for full human communication.

Beca follows shortly after, dressed in another oversized hoodie with the hood up, hands cradling a mug of black coffee like it's the last thing tethering her to the planet.

Clara is already at the table with Catherine, insisting she's never drinking again, despite having a mimosa in her hand. Chloe gives her sister a pointed look. "It's for vitamin C," she argues with a shrug.

Catherine chuckles and flips another pancake. "Of course it is."

"Where's the aspirin?" Connor groans from the living room.

"Top shelf," Beca calls back automatically, dropping unceremoniously onto an island stool.

Chloe leans against the counter, watching the scene with something that feels like quiet joy. This wasn't what she pictured a few months when she'd moved back here. Never imagined that this would be her life now. But somehow—between the family chaos, the familiar rhythms, and Beca by her side—it feels better than what she imagined. It feels more than she could've ever asked or hoped for.

She helps her mom set the dining table, and soon enough, they're all gathered around it—plates of pancakes, leftover party fruit, someone's half-eaten donut, and a half-hearted toast to the new year led by Clara with a spoon as a microphone.

"To hangovers, new beginnings, and not dying before lunch," Clara says, grinning crookedly.

"To 2022," Chloe echoes, lifting her glass of orange juice.

They all clink glasses, laughing, even Connor, who manages a grunt of agreement before resting his head on the table. Unfortunately, he didn’t inherit Chloe’s uncanny ability to dodge hangovers like a seasoned figure skater on ice.

After breakfast, Chloe and Beca retreat back upstairs. Chloe opens her laptop to check her to-do list for the move. She has boxes to sort, things to donate, addresses to update. But she finds herself glancing over at Beca, who's lying on her stomach on the bed, typing an email on her laptop with her hair tied in a lazy bun and her foot bouncing to an invisible rhythm that only she can hear.

"Are you really working on New Year's Day?" Chloe asks, amused.

"Technically yes. Realistically, I'm just answering three emails so I can say I did." She pauses. "Then I'm back to full support mode."

"For me?" Chloe teases.

"For you," Beca says, looking up with a grin.

Chloe feels something settle in her chest—a quiet, anchoring kind of happiness.

This year, she thinks, is already better than the last.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The days after New Year's fall into a steady, gentle, and comfortable rhythm. Morning light spills into Chloe's bedroom where Beca sets up her laptop and mixing equipment on the desk, surrounded by headphones, cables, and half-empty coffee mugs. She moves with a focused energy, in a constant state of inspired flow, her fingers dancing over the keyboard and mouse, layering beats and melodies faster than Chloe can keep track of.

Every now and then, Beca pauses her work to play Chloe a new snippet—a fresh track or a smooth transition—her eyes gleaming with excitement. Chloe listens, impressed and a little breathless. "This is amazing, Becs! You're really on fire."

Beca shrugs, a small smile playing on her lips. "I guess I'm just inspired. Being here with you—it's been…eye-opening, to say the least."

Chloe smiles back, feeling a swell of pride. Their days stretch out in a blend of quiet productivity and casual moments. Chloe sorts through her childhood bedroom, slowly organizing what she'll take to LA, making lists and folding clothes with careful deliberation. She knows she doesn't have to pack too much—most of her things are still in their L.A. home—but she starts to picture what this new chapter will look like.

In the afternoons, they slip out for coffee or a walk through familiar streets, the cold air crisp and clean. Their conversations meander from hopeful plans for the future to silly inside jokes, fingers tangled together and held tight.

Evenings are spent sharing simple dinners—sometimes they help Catherine with cooking, other times they order in—while Beca tweaks her tracks or experiments with new sounds, the hum of creativity filling the space around them. Chloe watches her, inspired in turn by Beca's passion.

Visits from family are sprinkled in—her uncles and aunts stopping by in clusters, arms full of food or parting gifts, squeezing in time with Chloe before the move. The house is never quiet for long, but it's the good kind of noise—laughter echoing from the kitchen, the clink of glasses, the background hum of home. Through it all, Beca fits in without effort, carving out her space in the corners of Chloe's life like she was always meant to be there.

She's been on a creative streak lately, headphones usually slung around her neck, her laptop open wherever she sits. Snippets of sound float through the house on the rare occasions Beca doesn't wear her headphones—the sharp click of a snare, the thrum of bass, the shimmer of harmonies still in progress. Chloe often pauses to listen, captivated. Even incomplete, Beca's work sparks something in her, like the future is already humming just beneath the surface.

One afternoon, Chloe laces up her shoes and heads out for a run, needing a little quiet after her last shift at the bookstore. The air is brisk and cool, sun low in the sky, and the familiar streets feel a little more vivid, like they're taking a snapshot of her one last time before she leaves again. Her mind drifts as she runs—packing, plans, what she'll do next in L.A. It makes her smile.

She returns home flushed and content, her muscles pleasantly sore. Just as she grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, her phone buzzes.

iMessage

Today at 5:48 p.m.

Becs <3 [5:48 p.m.]

 <Google Maps Link>

 Meet me here at 7? I have a surprise for you.

Chloe blinks at the message, curiosity bubbling up instantly. She loves surprises! Her thumb hovers over the screen before she grins and types back:

Chloe [5:49 p.m.]

Should I be nervous?

A reply pops up almost immediately.

Becs <3 [5:49 p.m.]

Only in a good way.

Chloe laughs under her breath, heart doing somersaults as she taps out a quick "See you then 💛" and sets her phone aside. She hurries to shower, the excitement buzzing beneath her skin now. She doesn't know what Beca has planned—and that's exactly how she likes it. The not-knowing is half the thrill.

She pulls on a cute, soft sweater layered over a tank top, jeans that hug her butt just right, and a pair of comfortable ankle length boots—just in case. A touch of mascara, a swipe of her favorite lip tint, some blush and foundation, and she's ready. By 6:40, she's already heading out the door, a little early, but she can't wait any longer.

The sky is already darkening as she drives. There's a streak of lavender fading into indigo along the horizon, the kind of winter evening that feels almost cinematic. Sunrise by Norah Jones plays lowly in the car's speakers. Chloe keeps glancing at the map Beca sent, curiosity twisting into something warm in her chest. Whatever this is, she knows it's going to be good.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

When Chloe pulls up, it takes her a second to register where she is. The street is quiet, a small string of shopfronts mostly shuttered down for the night. But one stands out—a softly glowing sign above the door reads "Needle & Wax." She knows this place. She'd passed it once or twice, but never had the chance to step inside.

A strand of warm Edison bulbs zigzags across the front window, and through the glass, she can just make out rows of records and the faint silhouette of someone familiar standing near the counter.

Her phone buzzes again.

iMessage

Today at 7:00 p.m.

Becs <3 [7:00 p.m.]

Come in, dude. I can see you hovering outside like a weirdo 🖤

Chloe grins and steps inside.

A tiny bell above the door chimes as she enters, and the scent of old vinyl, polished wood, and faint incense welcomes her like an old friend. The shop is small but full of charm. The walls are lined with records, vintage posters framed between the stacks, and a cozy rug stretched across the hardwood floor in the middle. A turntable hums softly near the back, playing something mellow and jazzy, just loud enough to set the mood.

And then there's Beca.

She's leaning on the register, in her usual uniform of dark jeans and a purple plaid button layered under a moto leather jacket. Simply put, she looks badass and attractive. But there's also something different tonight–there's a slight nervousness in her smile, a glint in her eyes that Chloe can't quite place.

"Took you long enough," Beca teases, but her voice is warm.

"You told me to come at seven," Chloe fires back playfully, stepping closer into Beca's space. After spending so much time together these past few weeks, it feels natural to fall into Beca's orbit whenever she's in the vicinity. "What is all this?"

Beca reaches behind the counter and pulls out a small paper bag. "First things first," she says, handing it over. Inside, Chloe finds a little pack of Reese's and a tiny keychain shaped like a cassette tape. It's her favorite kind of thoughtful—small and unexpected.

Chloe looks up, touched. She grips the cassette tape keychain in her hand, running over the ridges of the sculpted metal. "You're really pulling out the stops, huh?"

Beca shrugs one shoulder in her usual nonchalant manner. "It's our last proper night here before our flight. I figured we might as well make it memorable."

She gestures around. "I know the guy who owns this place—used to go to high school with him. He lets friends rent the shop after hours sometimes. So, I thought...music, privacy, you and me. No distractions."

Chloe's smile grows, her heart doing cartwheels. "This is amazing, Becs."

"Come on," Beca says, leading Chloe deeper into the store.

They wander the aisles, flipping through bins of vinyl. Beca occasionally pulls out a cover with exaggerated flair to show Chloe—some are classics, others are so weird and obscure they burst out laughing. Every so often, she switches out the record on the player. There's Fleetwood Mac, then Prince, then a track that Beca produced herself, quietly slipped into the rotation. She had managed to plug in her phone to the store's sound system without Chloe noticing.

Chloe freezes when she hears it—slow and dreamy, layered with synths and something wonderful underneath. "Is this what you've been working on?" she asks, eyes wide with awe.

Beca tries to play it cool, but her fingers play with the ring on her left finger on her left hand, twisting it back and forth. Chloe knows it's her nervous tick. "Just something I've been working on. It's still pretty rough though."

"It's…so beautiful, Becs," Chloe whispers out softly, sincerely. 

They end up on the rug in the middle of the store, sitting cross-legged with takeout that Beca had hidden behind the counter—Chloe's favorite Chinese noodle place that serves the best chow mein. The string lights overhead cast a soft, golden glow that flickers gently against the exposed brick walls and rows of vintage records stacked neatly on shelves. The faint scent of aged paper and vinyl mingles with the comforting aroma of soy sauce and sesame oil from the noodles. Outside, the city hums quietly, but inside the store, time seems to slow.

The music hums quietly in the background, low enough not to overpower their conversation, just enough to fill the silence with a gentle pulse. Their laughter bubbles up now and then, light and easy, weaving between them like an invisible thread stitching this moment into memory.

After the last bite, Beca stretches out, sinking into the soft fibers of the worn rug with a deep breath, hands folded gently behind her head as her eyes drift upward to the warm, flickering lights. The contrast between the coolness of the vinyl cases nearby and the cozy glow above makes the shop feel like a secret haven.

Chloe eases down beside her, careful and slow, so their shoulders brush together—a quiet, familiar contact that feels like the comfort of a well-loved sweater. It's a touch that speaks volumes without words—a shared history, a safe place.

"You know," Chloe murmurs, her voice starting off soft and slow, almost reverent, "this might be one of my favorite nights ever."

Beca turns her head to meet Chloe's gaze, her eyes warm and open, but underneath there's a flutter of nervous hope, like she's holding her breath, waiting for something she's not quite sure of yet.

"Really?" she asks, voice gentle.

Chloe smiles, a content glint in her eyes. "Yeah. It's so thoughtful. I like this. I like you."

Beca swallows, feeling her heart skip a beat in a way it only does for Chloe.

Then the music shifts.

A new track starts—one that crashes into the quiet like a bright wave breaking against the shore. A galloping drumbeat, the sharp clang of bells, and then the familiar, aching voice of Florence Welch. The first chords of Dog Days Are Over ripple through the air like a burst of sunlight after a storm.

"Happiness hit her like a train on a track..."

Chloe gasps. Her breath catches, snagged on memory.

"Oh my God," she says, sitting up. "This song..."

Beca props herself up on her elbows, watching her closely. "Yeah?"

"This was my favorite song during college! I played it all the time senior year." She blinks, surprised to remember. "At parties, on runs, on the radio in my car...I used to dance to this alone in my room every night."

"I know," Beca says quietly, her voice threaded with something tender. "I found the record and thought maybe you'd like to hear it."

Chloe looks over at her, eyes wide and shining. "I do."

The beat swells, fast and pulsing with joyful urgency. Chloe's already on her feet, moving like her body remembers what her mind forgot.

Her fingers curl around Beca's hand, tugging her up with an eager smile. "Dance with me?"

Beca scoffs softly but stands, slipping her hand into Chloe's as they move toward the center of the shop. The string lights bathe them in a gentle amber glow, casting soft shadows that move with their bodies.

"You're so predictable," Beca says, but the teasing tone can't hide the warmth in her voice.

Chloe grins, eyes sparkling. "You love it."

"Yeah," Beca replies, barely audible over the chorus. "I really do."

Chloe's heart hammers in her chest at that silent admission. It's something dangerously close to love—something she's not quite ready to name yet. Instead, she pulls Beca a little closer to dance to the beat.

"How'd you know I love this song?"

"You still played it when all of us newer Bellas moved in," Beca teases, her eyes sparkling with affection. "Every chance you got. In the shower. Doing laundry. That one time when Aubrey was stressed out and trying to do her taxes. I thought she was going to projectile vomit again that day."

Chloe laughs, the sound richer and freer than it's been in months, the weight of newly healed scars smoothing over a little with each note. "It was my soundtrack to everything back then. And honestly? It still is."

They dance in the middle of the store, surrounded by flickering string lights and rows of vintage records. The drums thunder. Chloe spins under Beca's arm, then pulls her back in, their hands laced and feet slightly out of sync, but it doesn't matter.

The energy is contagious—wild, sweet, unfiltered. Chloe is laughing, breathless, crooning the lyrics she somehow still remembers:

"Leave all your love and your longing behind. You can't carry it with you if you want to survive!"

She twirls, hair catching the light like a flame, and Beca watches her like she's witnessing a sunstorm unfold just for her. Wild, untethered—free.

The floorboards creak faintly beneath their feet, worn smooth from years of footsteps and laughter. Around them, the shop holds a thousand memories—quiet afternoons spent lost in music, the buzz of friends dropping by, the echo of late-night singalongs that once filled these walls.

The scent of old vinyl, a faint trace of citrus from a facial cleanser Beca uses, and the lingering aroma of their shared dinner mix in the air, creating a cocoon of comfort and familiarity.

When the bridge hits, Chloe tugs Beca closer, their bodies swaying as the intensity slows into something gentler. She rests her forehead against Beca's.

For a moment, they say nothing, just enjoying the presence of the other.

Then, Chloe leans in slowly, their eyes locked in a silent conversation, until her lips brush gently against Beca's. The kiss is slow at first—like a quiet rainstorm—but it quickly deepens, warm and electric. It's a kiss full of promise and unfiltered, pure joy.

They part just enough to smile at each other, breath mingling in the cool air of the shop. They stay like that for a long moment, the music wrapping around them as their breaths slow and sync. No words come, but it doesn't feel like anything's missing. The quiet holds everything they need.

Eventually, they pull apart gently, lingering close as they gather their things. The night outside waits quietly, the city lights softening as the hour grows late.

"We should probably get going," Beca says softly.

Chloe nods, a small, excited smile on her lips. "Yeah. Our flight's tomorrow!"

Beca just smiles that quiet, soft smile--the one that's only reserved for Chloe--in response. 

They move carefully through the shop, gathering their things with a comfortable familiarity. Beca folds the throw blanket they'd used and sets it back on a lounge chair nearby, while Chloe slips their takeout containers into a small bag. Neither is in a hurry—the night has stretched out long enough to settle into something rare and unspoken.

Outside, the city hums softly beneath the gentle glow of streetlights. The cool night air brushes against their skin as they step out, the promise of a new day just hours away.

They drive back to the Beale residence in comfortable silence. Beca had taken an Uber to the vinyl shop so she could ride back home with Chloe. Safely tucked in Chloe's family house, the warmth inside is a gentle contrast to the cold night. The rooms are hushed, shadows softening in the dim light. Their footsteps echo faintly as they move through the familiar spaces, the quiet wrapping around them like a well-worn blanket.

They set their bags down gently by the door, slipping off shoes with tired hands. The scent of vanilla from a diffuser lingers in the air, mingling with the faint trace of baked goods made hours ago.

Chloe glances toward the living room where the soft glow of a lamp casts long, peaceful shadows. Neither says much as they brush their teeth side by side and change into comfortable clothes.

Finally, they settle into Chloe's bed. They set the necessary alarms, then lie down side by side, the night quiet except for the soft rhythm of their mingled breaths. Beca's hand finds Chloe's in the dark, fingers threading together naturally.

Sleep comes easy for them both.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The morning light spills gently through the windows, casting soft shadows across the quiet house. Chloe and Beca move slowly, the calm before the day's inevitable rush settling around them. They dress quietly in Chloe's room, stealing small glances and shared smiles, savoring the last moments of stillness.

Downstairs, the familiar sounds of the house waking begin—Catherine bustling in the kitchen, the clink of plates, and the low murmur of voices. The scent of fresh coffee and baked goods drifts upward.

In the kitchen, Chloe's mother is already setting a small breakfast spread on the table: buttery toast, ripe fruit, and a plate of her homemade croissants. She looks up as they enter with some of their luggage, eyes bright but shadowed with the bittersweet weight of the morning.

"Good morning, my loves," she says softly, offering a bright, Chloe-like smile. "Thought you'd want something before you head off."

Chloe steps forward, wrapping her mother in a warm hug. "Thanks, Mom. This means a lot."

Beca joins in with a quick side hug. "You always make the best pastries. I'll miss them."

Catherine chuckles lightly, brushing a stray hair back from Chloe's face. "Well, it just means I'll have to come up for a visit soon."

Beca grins, "Definitely. Let us know when and we'll get you your tickets."

"Deal. Now eat your breakfast," Catherine directs kindly, in a way only a mother can.

Beca nudges Chloe gently as they settle at the table. "You know she's been secretly packing us snacks since yesterday."

"She labeled everything. There's a ‘plane snack' tier and a ‘once-you-land' tier," From the doorway, Clara appears, already juggling some of their suitcases, two travel-sized, universal chargers, and a tangled ball of wires. "Don't forget your chargers. And for God's sake, learn how to wrap your cables properly, Chloe!”

Chloe's mom smiles like she's been caught red-handed. "I just didn't want you to land and eat airport food like animals."

Beca grins. "I do appreciate a good system."

Chloe rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "Of course, you do," she comments, voice tinged with affection.

"She even vacuum-sealed the trail mix," Clara deadpans. "Each portion is labeled with a positive affirmation. I'm serious–I caught her labeling snack bags with stickers that say ‘You Got This' ."

"They're cute!" Her mom protests lightly. "And functional."

Chloe leans in to her mom, voice softer now. "Thanks for everything, Mom. Seriously."

Her mom gently cups Chloe's cheek. "Of course, my Chloe."

Connor appears next, already dressed in jeans and a henley, hauling down the last suitcase. "Car's ready when you are. Just don't take an hour saying goodbye."

"Yeah, let's not make it too emotional," Clara says sarcastically, giving her mother and sister a pointed look, which is immediately ignored by the receiving parties.

Instead, Catherine pulls out a small box wrapped in brown paper and passes it to Chloe. "Oh! I almost forgot. Here are some cookies for the flight. Your favorites. There's enough for both of you."

"Hey! Where are my cookies?" Connor asks with a childish pout.

"Move to a different state or country, then you'll get some," Their mom deadpans, eliciting a snort from Beca.

Chloe accepts the box with a soft smile. "Thanks, Mom."

"You guys sure you have everything?" Clara asks, eyeing the pile of bags.

"We triple-checked," Beca says. "But I have a feeling we still probably forgot something."

"That's how it always goes," Connor says lightly. "You forget, blame the TSA, then you move on."

Catherine lingers by the counter, hands folded tightly. Her voice drops a little. "I'm so happy for you, Chloe. But I'll also miss you both so much."

Chloe steps forward and pulls her into a hug, resting her chin on her mom's shoulder. "I know."

When they pull apart, Beca gives her a full hug this time—gentle, grounding. "We'll call you as soon as we land before you can miss us too much."

Her mom exhales with a watery laugh. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Connor's the second to hug Chloe—tight, familiar, a little reluctant. "Text when you land."

Then he's grabbing Beca into a quick hug as well. "I know you're already planning to, but take care of her," he says as they pull away.

Beca scoffs good-naturedly. "Of course I plan to, Con. I’ve got her."

They load up the car quietly, efficiently. Clara hugs Chloe like she's memorizing the moment. Not desperate—just thorough. The kind of hug that says I've got you , even when she won't be around to prove it every day.

When they pull apart, she straightens the collar of Chloe's jacket and says, "I'm excited for you. Things are gonna be great." Not a question. Not a suggestion. Just a fact.

Chloe huffs a soft laugh, and for a moment, she forgets how much she'll miss her sister.

Beca and Connor are loading the last bag into the trunk. Catherine lingers near the passenger door, pretending to scroll through her phone, but clearly not reading anything.

The drive to the airport is a quiet one. The kind of quiet that comes when everyone's already said what they needed to. Chloe leans her head against the window, watching familiar trees give way to freeway signs and gas stations. Catherine occasionally points out a landmark like it's tradition, even though they all know the way by heart. Clara keeps her hands folded in her lap, only fidgeting once when they hit a stoplight a little too hard.

At the terminal curb, everything moves faster than Chloe expects.

Connor gets the bags out and lines them up with quick, almost military precision. Chloe briefly thinks Aubrey would be proud. Catherine wraps Beca and Chloe into one last hug—tight, warm, no speech this time. Just the kind of hold that means I love you, be safe .

Clara steps in next. She hugs Beca briefly. Just a quick, familiar squeeze of her arm and then she's moving over to hug her younger sister one more time.

"Don’t overthink the first week," she murmurs into Chloe’s ear. "Just let yourself land."

Chloe doesn’t answer. She just nods, because that’s all she can manage right now.

They exchange one last wave before the sliding doors whisk Beca and Chloe into the quiet echo of the terminal. Chloe breathes in for seven counts. Out for another seven. And little by little, she starts to settle.

Inside, PDX hums with motion—wheels rolling over tile, boarding calls bouncing off walls, a barista shouting out lattes over the crowd.

“It’s weird,” Chloe says as they clear security, “but saying goodbye wasn’t as hard as I thought it’d be.”

Beca arches a brow. “No?”

“Okay, it was a little hard,” Chloe admits, grinning. “But I feel... excited. Like, genuinely ready.”

“Same,” Beca says, nudging her elbow. “Though I reserve the right to change my mind if the in-flight entertainment sucks.”

Chloe laughs, the kind that bubbles up without effort. “Totally fair.”

On the plane, they settle into their seats. Beca gives her the window without being asked, and Chloe accepts it with a quick kiss to Beca's cheek in thanks. She watches the city shrink beneath them—trees dissolving into rooftops, then clouds, then nothing but open sky.

And there it is again: that quiet hum in her chest. Not nerves exactly. More like... momentum. The flicker that began on New Year’s Eve has caught fire now, bright and sure, carrying her forward as they journey toward LAX.

They don’t need to fill the quiet between them—but they do anyway. Soft voices threaded through the steady hum of the engine, trading thoughts about dinner with Aubrey and Stacie, debating which groceries to pick up, and wondering if the plants survived a month under Stacie’s questionable care.

This moment is simple. It’s easy. 

It’s theirs.

As the flight attendant announces their descent into LAX, Beca glances over. “Still good?”

Chloe nods. “Better than good.”

Beca smiles and slips her hand over Chloe’s. “Home stretch.”

Chloe gives it a gentle squeeze in return, then repeats Beca’s words.

Chapter Text

Just a little bit more of your love

Just a little bit, just a little bit

Just a little bit more from you 'cause

My heart is hesitant

Just a little bit more of your love

Just a little bit, just a little bit

Just a little bit more of your love

'Cause love is curative

–

Golden Hour

Luna

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

LAX smells like jet fuel, hopeful artists, and the low-grade existential dread of travelers who haven’t slept in twenty hours. 

Chloe adjusts the strap of her carry-on and exhales into the noise, blinking into the afternoon light. It’s colder than she expected—at least by Los Angeles standards. A dry January breeze curls around her, threading through the collar of her hoodie like a polite reminder: you're not in Portland anymore .

She glances at Beca beside her, who’s already pulling her hoodie tighter and squinting suspiciously at the curb as she pushes the airport luggage cart. Chloe watches her for a beat too long—heart flipping in that now-familiar way. Ever since the soft glow of that record shop kiss, she keeps catching herself mid-daydream.

Then—

“There they are!” comes Stacie’s shriek from across the pickup lane.

Stacie is standing on the hood of a parked Prius, holding a massive sign that reads WELCOME BACK, DORKS in glitter and loopy, pretty handwriting. Her ponytail somehow remains unmoved despite the wind, and she’s dressed like she walked off a fashion runway and directly onto a parking structure.

Next to her, Aubrey stands completely still. Immaculate as always—pressed navy trousers, cream wool trench coat, boots with low heels. Her blonde hair is tucked neatly behind her ears. 

“I wanted it to say ‘You finally got together! Took you long enough, congratulations!’” Stacie calls out, slightly pouting. “But it wouldn’t fit unless I downsized the glitter font—and that was obviously not an option.”

“Obviously,” Beca deadpans, nudging her cart forward. 

“Also, the Prius isn’t mine,” Stacie adds, hopping off the hood with a flourish.

Aubrey sighs, a familiar, fond exasperation on her face. “She asked the owner if she could climb on it. He said no. She did it anyway.”

Chloe laughs, cheeks already warming from the sheer force of their welcome. “God, I missed you both.”

She pulls them into a Chloe-patented bear hug, practically inhaling their familiarity.

Stacie pulls back first, narrowing her eyes at Chloe. “You look like someone who’s seen the entire Pacific Northwest and come back with secrets. And a better skincare routine. Seriously, your pores are glowing.”

“It’s just sunscreen,” Chloe demurs, ducking her head, though she’s secretly pleased.

They start loading bags into the back of Aubrey’s car. Her trunk is lined with water bottles, a car vacuum, and what looks like a laminated post-airport pickup checklist.

Beca eyes it warily. “Still a control freak, I see.”

“Still a bitch I see. Also, I prefer the term responsible ,” Aubrey replies with a sniff but no bite.

“She keeps one of those mini fire extinguishers in the glove compartment,” Stacie adds proudly, thumping the trunk closed. “We're technically classified as a safe zone.”

Aubrey gives Stacie a pointed look. “Because someone keeps setting off smoke alarms when she tries to flambé things we don’t even eat. I’m always concerned that a fire will start nearby!”

“That was one time,” Stacie mutters. Then, with a wink at Chloe, she adds, “Marriage. It's just one long safety briefing now.”

Aubrey ignores her quip and opens the driver’s door. “If you’re both done, I’d like to get them home before rush hour.”

Stacie claps her hands as she situates herself in the passenger seat. “All right, gays and gals. Step one: home drop-off. Step two: dinner at Spoon & Pork. I made a reservation at that place with the truffle mac and the lights made of old trumpet bells.”

Chloe raises an eyebrow. “That’s...oddly specific.”

“I’m oddly specific,” Stacie grins, twisting around to face the passengers in the back.

“Aubrey also has a spreadsheet of potential post-airport eateries,” Beca says, sliding into the back seat next to Chloe. “Don't think I didn’t see it last time.”

“She color-coded the ‘ambience levels,’” Stacie stage-whispers, leaning closer to Chloe. “We landed on ‘warm vintage chic’ with a low decibel rating.”

Chloe laughs again—really laughs—and allows herself to sink into the feeling. She hadn’t realized how much she needed this exact flavor of chaos. Safe, familiar, absurdly detailed chaos.

On their way back, they stop for coffee at a drive-thru café. While Beca places the order from the passenger window, Stacie launches into a full recap of everything that’s happened since Chloe left—an accidental karaoke competition, one of the Bellas landing in mall jail for a night, and a work email Aubrey once accidentally sent with a GIF of a penguin in a sombrero.

“Why was that even in your downloads folder?” Chloe asks, grinning as they inch toward the pickup window.

“I had my reasons,” Aubrey mutters, eyes fixed on the minivan ahead.

Once their sacred coffee cups are in hand, they settle back into the car. Chloe lets her hand rest on Beca’s leg, casual and familiar, as they pull away from the curb. Out the window, the cafe fades into the mirror, the city unfolding ahead—old and new all at once.

“Welcome home,” Beca murmurs, her voice low but certain, carrying more than just the words.

And it is.

Chloe’s phone buzzes in her hand, a flurry of notifications lighting up the screen.

iMessage

Today at 2:48pm 

Ginger Snap [2:48pm]

Did you guys forget to text us when you landed??

Mom’s been stress baking. The kitchen looks like a flour bomb went off.

Con Man [2:48pm]

Seriously, we reminded you guys three times.

Find My Friends said you guys were on the tarmac like an hour and a half ago. 

...And if Beca’s reading this, sorry for tracking you too. It’s a family thing. Not my fault.

Also, don’t tell Mom I have all your locations saved.

Ginger Snap [2:49pm] 

Con. You know she can read this. And she definitely knows about the app, idiot.

Chloe laughs aloud, earning a subtle eye-roll and a smirk from Beca beside her. 

She quickly types out a reply:

You [2:50pm]

Landed safely! LA is cold, but Beca says I’m just weak. 

Wish me luck and hope I survive 🥶

And yes, Mom, he absolutely tracks us.

Momma B [2:50pm] 

CONNOR BEALE! 

Chloe, honey, was the plane ride okay? No turbulence?

Did you two eat some of the snacks I packed?

You [2:51pm]

Mom, we’re fine 😂 

Everything was smooth as butter. Just took a while to grab our bags.

Aubrey and Stacie picked us up.

Also, tell Con I know he loves me (and his tracking app).

Con Man [2:52pm] 

I’m just responsible!

Somebody’s gotta be.

Glad you’re safe, Bean. Both of you.

Ginger Snap [2:52pm] 

He’s def 100% just worried about the cookies.

Glad you made it.

Chlo, Mom says to call her.

You [2:53pm] 

Already on it. 

Give her a hug for me.

Before she even pockets her phone, it starts to ring—Catherine’s face beaming from a Christmas photo lights up the screen.

“Hi, Mom!” Chloe answers, her voice warm, a little breathless from the excitement of it all. “Yeah, yeah, we’re good. We just got some coffee.” 

She hears Catherine let out a sigh of relief on the other end. “The flight was perfectly smooth, honestly. Barely a wobble. And yes, we totes dug into your amazing snacks already.”

Catherine’s sigh of relief echoes across the line. “Oh, thank God. You know how I get. Was the flight smooth? Did you eat? I packed those cookies and the trail mix—”

“We did,” Chloe says, eyes soft. “Everything was fine. Barely a wobble.”

“And Beca?”

Chloe smiles and catches Beca’s gaze. “Yeah. She’s here. Rolling her eyes, but she’s fine.”

There’s a faint rustle on her end, like she’s just finished baking something sweet and delicious. “Good,” Catherine says, the love in her voice wrapping around each word. “Tell her I said hi. And that I’m sorry for Connor’s little surveillance obsession.”

Chloe laughs and glances at Beca, who’s still quietly listening, sipping her coffee with a crooked smile as she shakes her head in mock resignation.

“She heard you,” Chloe says with a chuckle. “And yes, she’s still rolling her eyes.”

“Well then,” Catherine exhales with a satisfied huff in her tone. “Go enjoy your first day back, sweetie. I’m just so proud of you. Of both of you.”

Chloe blinks away the sting in her eyes, a familiar welling of emotion that seems to accompany all of her mother’s heartfelt moments. “Thanks, Mom. Love you.”

“Love you too, my heart,” Catherine replies, her voice thick with pride, before hanging up.

Chloe sets her phone down, glowing with warmth. From the front, Aubrey glances back with a gentle smile. Stacie is already beaming.

“Momma Beale on another emotional rampage?” Stacie asks knowingly. “She gets that way when you travel. Or when she sees a particularly photogenic golden retriever.”

Aubrey sighs, a familiar, fond exasperation mixed with deep affection in her voice. “Catherine’s always been… beautifully expressive.” 

“She called you this morning too?” Chloe asks, eyebrows raised.

Aubrey nods. “Just to confirm we were picking you up.”

She looks directly at Chloe in the rearview mirror, then shifts her gaze to Beca, a soft, knowing smile on her lips. “I figured she just needed the confirmation.”

Beca’s cheeks tinge a faint pink, uncomfortable with the direct attention. She gives Chloe’s hand a subtle, but gentle squeeze. “Your mom’s scarily good at knowing things.”

She pauses. “And at making you feel like you matter. Even when you’re trying to fly under the radar. Kinda reminds me of someone.” She casts Chloe a pointed, affectionate look, a hint of playful exasperation in her stormy blue-gray eyes.

Chloe’s own cheeks flush a soft red at the unexpected compliment. She bumps Beca’s shoulder playfully, smiling wide. “Okay, Mitchell. That was actually kind of sweet,” she teases, but her smile is genuine. “You know you’re just confirming my theory that you’re a big softie, right? Admitting things like that.”

Stacie, who’d been watching the exchange with keen interest, claps her hands together, a triumphant grin splitting her face. 

“She’s a softie,” Stacie singsongs from the passenger seat. “Both of you. My two little cinnamon rolls.”

“I’m not a cinnamon roll,” Beca says flatly, rolling her eyes.

“Mmhmm,” Stacie hums, completely unconvinced.  “Keep telling yourself that, Becs.” 

She leans forward from the front seat, peering at Beca with exaggerated scrutiny. “You know, Catherine told me about you making Chloe lasagna… ”

Beca’s eyes go wide. “Catherine told you that?!”

Stacie grins, triumphant. “Oh, she tells me everything .”

Chloe laughs, leaning back in her seat, content and full of caffeine and affection. The city slips past the windows, familiar and waiting.

Aubrey weaves the car through busy LA streets, the crisp January air slipping in through a cracked window.

The car slows to a stop in front of a neat house tucked in a tree-lined suburb. 

The lawn is freshly mowed, and the late afternoon light bathes the facade in a warm, honeyed glow. Aubrey kills the engine in the driveway, parking next to Beca’s Corvette and Chloe’s Mercedes.

The front door clicks softly behind them, and the quiet of the house folds around their tired bodies like a warm blanket.

Aubrey heads straight for the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water while Stacie and Beca drop their bags by the door. 

Stacie’s already shedding her coat by the time Beca wrestles in the final suitcase. Chloe wanders farther into the foyer, toeing off her shoes as the noon sunlight slants in golden streaks through the curtains.

She drapes her carry-on on the coat rack by the door, glancing around at familiar details—the framed photos on the walls, the stack of well-thumbed books on the book shelf, the way the living room’s leather couch cushions still hold the imprint of the last person who sat there. 

“I can’t believe you guys helped keep this place so spotless,” Chloe says, plopping onto the couch with a sigh of delight.

Stacie shrugs, pride curling at the corners of her smile. “Aubrey and I have a system. I vacuum and sweep, she does the rest. It works.”

Aubrey returns with a tray filled with lemon water and sliced fruit arranged with her usual precision. She places it down on the coffee table like she's hosting an upscale brunch. “You both look like you could use a shower.”

Beca drops into her favorite armchair with a groan so dramatic it nearly echoes. “The post-flight grime is hitting harder than I expected.”

Chloe nods in agreement, lifting a glass of lemon water and relishing the cold slide of it down her throat. “It’s weird…coming back here. It still feels like home, but also like everything’s different.”

Stacie flops onto the couch beside her, elbow nudging her gently. “Yeah? Different how?”

Chloe hesitates. Then exhales. “Everything and nothing. Portland feels like a different lifetime.”

Beca’s gaze softens from across the room. “You’ll find your rhythm again. We’ll help.”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The house is quiet, save for the hum of the heater and the distant murmur of Aubrey and Stacie chatting in the kitchen.

Chloe stretches out on the couch, feeling the telltale tiredness seep into her muscles—equal parts from the flight and the whirlwind of the past few weeks.

Beside her, Beca’s already pulling out her laptop from her work bag, a faint crease forming between her brows as she squints at the screen. Even tired, she radiates a focused energy that Chloe finds frustratingly attractive. It’s still new—this heat that creeps in when Beca does something as simple as concentrating. Chloe’s still adjusting to how easily she gets flustered now, how Beca has this quiet effect on her.

“Work’s calling already?” Chloe asks softly, watching as Beca’s fingers hover over the keyboard.

Beca shakes her head, a faint blush brushing her cheeks when she realizes she’s being watched. “Just checking emails. Making sure the world didn’t implode while I was gone.” She sighs, running a hand through her messy hair. “And mentally preparing myself for the disaster that are my unfinished projects waiting at the studio.”

“Oof. Sounds rough,” Chloe teases gently.

Beca sends her a flat look, but there’s a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “The flight was longer than I would’ve liked. And I think I’m still running on fumes from your family’s Christmas cheer.”

Chloe laughs—a warm, bright sound that fills the living room. “You loved it. Don’t lie.”

“Well, you know me,” Beca says, deadpan. “Never been a fan of festive joy.”

But her eyes soften at the sound of Chloe’s giggle.

“Okay, maybe a little,” she admits. “Your mom’s food is... next level. Like, I’m-still-dreaming-about-that-pie level.”

“I knew it!” Chloe grins, sitting up straighter. “You’re a total sap for my mom’s cooking.”

“Don’t tell her that,” Beca mutters, leaning in slightly. “She’ll make me eat a whole pie by myself again.”

“A pie that you will inevitably finish,” Chloe counters, bumping her knee lightly against Beca’s.

Beca groans in mock agony. “It’s not fair. Her food is insidious. Delicious and diabolical. It lures you in and leaves you in a food coma for days. I stand no chance.”

Their playful back-and-forth fills the room like a melody Chloe knows by heart. It’s effortless—this rhythm they fall into. Like slipping on a favorite sweater or cueing up the right song to start the day. The comfort of it settles deep in Chloe’s chest.

Chloe stretches again, eyes scanning the familiar shelves lining the wall, filled with worn spines and quirky trinkets. She’s sure it used to be a source of immediate comfort, a reflection of a self she knew. Now, it was like looking at a beautifully arranged museum exhibit. 

Which books were my favorite? Which are Beca’s? she wondered, a faint tremor of unease. She knows they belong to her, but the memories still sit just out of reach, fogged and fragile. The space feels curated, like a museum of someone she used to be. There's so much here , so much her , and yet, the why is still missing. 

Her gaze drifts toward the corner of the room, to a framed print resting on a small easel. It's a colorful, abstract piece, full of vibrant blues and fiery reds. She recognizes the style, vaguely recalls holding a brush, the feel of bristles between her fingers, but not why she painted it.

This was created in her studio, her creative space, her safe haven. But why this sudden burst of vibrant color? And why had she chosen to pick up a paintbrush again, after years of not touching one, before the accident? She remembers Beca telling her that she had helped her through her grief from her father's death, and that painting was her healing avenue. 

But the connection, the feeling of that specific healing, remains elusive. Distant, but not absent. Just…quiet.

A flicker of frustration bubbles in her gut–familiar, like the unease she felt about her teaching degree. It all felt like a blank. Like a song whose lyrics she remembers, but whose melody escapes her. She shakes her head, trying to clear the persistent fog that seems to shroud her own past motivations, her core identity.

She reminds herself: This is a new leaf . A new beginning. A chance to build forward. Not weigh herself down with the burden of remembering everything. New hopes. New rhythms. That’s what she’s choosing now.

She glances at Beca, engrossed in her laptop, a familiar, captivating sight. Beca’s focused frown, the way her fingers dance on the mousepad, the subtle hum of her own creative energy—it all pulls Chloe in. An undeniable warmth spreads through Chloe's chest, something new and potent, yet startlingly familiar. This feeling for Beca, it’s growing, deepening with every shared glance, every soft touch. But beneath it, a prickle of fear, cold and sharp, returns.

How could she be falling for someone she couldn't fully remember falling for before? How could this feel so real, so right , if the foundation of their shared past was just starting to right itself?

She doesn’t have an answer. Not yet. But she’s learning to live with the question. Learning to let love meet her where she is—half-remembered or whole.

Just keep showing up , Chloe echoes, recalling Clara’s advice from earlier this morning. Sometimes that’s enough .

“You won’t unpack your things for a few days, will you?” Chloe asks, dragging herself gently back into the present. She tilts her head toward Beca’s half-zipped duffel, where a familiar Barden hoodie is sticking out like a flag of procrastination.

Beca stiffens slightly, eyes darting toward the offending bag. “I’m getting to it. Eventually.”

“Uh-huh,” Chloe hums, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “And you say I’m the one who needs a checklist for her luggage.”

“Hey! My system is…efficient,” Beca protests weakly, gesturing vaguely. “It works for me.”

“Sure it does, Becs.” Chloe concedes, rising from the couch. “Come on. Let’s move these before someone trips. And then we can get food that isn’t just my mom’s incredibly addictive travel snacks.”

Beca eyes her warily, a flicker of something unreadable in her stormy eyes before she sighs in resignation. “Fine. But if I pass out from exhaustion, it’s on you.”

“Deal,” Chloe grins, already heading toward the bags by the door.

As they begin to sort through their things, a comfortable rhythm settles between them. Chloe hums softly–an old holiday tune–as she folds her shirts with practiced ease, while Beca grumbles good-naturedly about tangled cables and missing socks.

From the kitchen, they hear Stacie laughing at something Aubrey says, her voice rising and falling with that signature warmth Chloe has always loved.

It’s quiet. Ordinary. Nothing dramatic. Just two women unpacking bags in a sun-drenched bedroom, surrounded by the familiar buzz of friendship and the kind of domesticity that used to feel out of reach.

And in that simplicity, Chloe feels something settle deep in her ribs.

Not everything has to be remembered to be real.

This life—hers and Beca’s, tangled and imperfect and real—it’s happening. Here. Now.

She’s home.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The next few hours pass in a blur of unpacking, hot showers to scrub off the last of the airport grime, and the familiar hubbub of old friends catching up in the background.

Steam curls through the bathroom as Chloe rinses shampoo from her hair, the scent instantly recognizable—clean, citrusy, comforting. She hums to herself beneath the spray, a quiet tune without a name, letting the warm water loosen the tightness from her shoulders. Something settles in her, light and steady. Not relief, exactly—something quieter. Peace, maybe.

When she emerges, wrapped in a towel, the foggy mirror behind her still holds a soft glow. She pads into the bedroom barefoot, curls damp and clinging to her neck. Beca is already dressed in fresh clothes, lounging against the headboard, scrolling through her phone with the practiced apathy of someone not really reading anything.

But the second she hears Chloe’s footsteps, her head snaps up. Her gaze finds Chloe’s…and lingers.

For a heartbeat too long, Beca doesn’t move. Her eyes trail from Chloe’s bare shoulders to the soft curve of her collarbone, then flick quickly—too quickly—back up to her face. A faint blush colors her cheeks. It’s subtle, but Chloe sees it. And it’s disarming, that particular shade of unguarded vulnerability. Beca, usually so guarded, looking at her like she’s the one thing grounding her to the room.

“Feel better?” Beca asks, voice a touch hoarser than usual, which betrays a hint of her breathlessness.

Chloe grins, a playful glint in her eye as she revels in the subtle shift in Beca’s demeanor. “Oh, definitely,” she replies, running a hand through her damp curls. “You’re staring, Mitchell.”

Beca coughs lightly, trying to regain her usual composure. “Just admiring the…structural integrity of your towel, Beale. Looks very…absorbent.”

Chloe giggles, shaking her head. “That post-flight shower hits different.”

She ducks back into the bathroom to grab her toothbrush, fingers brushing instinctively over the pair set in their holder. Her hand grazes Beca’s—worn at the edges, handle familiar—and something stirs. A quiet jolt. Not jarring anymore. Not scary. Just…a small reminder of shared routines. The kind of muscle memory that roots itself in comfort rather than confusion.

She exhales softly.

“You’ve got twenty minutes before Stacie grants herself access to our bedroom,” Beca calls from the doorway, voice easing into something more familiar now. “She just texted. She’s threatening to kick the door down if we’re not ready by then.”

Chloe laughs, the sound bright and clear. “Well, we can’t have that.”

She crosses the room and starts picking through her closet. “What’s the vibe for this place again?”

“‘Casual but make it fashionable,’” Beca says, complete with sarcastic air quotes. “So, basically, just wear whatever you want. You’re always unfairly good at pulling it off.”

Chloe shoots her a smile over her shoulder, charmed. “You’re such a flirt, Becs.”

“I’m just being honest.” Beca shrugs, but her voice is warmer now—fond, open.

She watches Chloe with quiet admiration, eyes tracking the way she moves as she pulls out a soft blouse and her favorite jeans. The way the light catches in her damp curls. Her laugh drifts through the room like a song Beca hasn’t stopped humming since Portland.

Her eyes linger on the subtle curve of Chloe’s back as she reaches for a necklace, a quiet warmth spreading through her chest. There’s something about this—about watching Chloe, not doing anything extraordinary, just existing—that makes Beca feel rooted. Grateful.

Twenty minutes later, they’re piling into Aubrey’s car, the air immediately filling with Stacie’s chatter. 

“Okay, here’s my vision,” Stacie begins, practically vibrating with excitement. “We start with the truffle mac—always start strong—then move onto the crispy pig trotters–according to some influencers’ reviews, it’s delicious, so Chloe, I know you’ll love them–and then maybe some artisanal ice cream that’s supposed to taste like the perfect breakup dessert.”

“Stacie, they just got off a flight,” Aubrey says calmly, pulling into traffic with the precision of someone who had likely planned her route in advance. “They probably want something comforting, not existential.”

“I’m just suggesting options!” Stacie retorts, undeterred. She twists in her seat to grin at Chloe. “Chloe, do you remember that one time you ate a whole plate of jalapeño poppers and then cried about how beautiful the sunset was while we were drunk?”

Chloe giggles, leaning her head back against the seat. “I do not, but it sounds exactly like something I would do.”

Beca turns to Chloe, a quiet, knowing smile playing on her lips. “You did. Aubrey had to fan you with a menu because you were sweating so much.”

“You were moved,” Stacie adds, eyes gleaming. “I respect that. Nature and food are emotional!”

“Mostly food,” Beca mutters, deadpan.

Stacie turns to Aubrey, smirking. “I told you that night was iconic.”

“You also told me you could do a headstand in a moving Uber that night,” Aubrey replies. “So your judgment is…questionable.”

Chloe laughs, leaning her head back against the seat. The conversation swirls around her—teasing and loud, familiar in every beat. Her hand slips quietly into Beca’s.

Beca squeezes once in return without missing a beat in the banter.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Spoon & Pork lives up to Stacie’s oddly specific descriptions.

The truffle mac and cheese is, in fact, divine. The trumpet-bell lights cast a golden, cinematic glow across their table, wrapping everything in a soft warmth that makes the night feel like something just shy of magical. The conversation flows easily, effortlessly—like a song they’ve all sung before.

Stacie launches into a hilarious story about a disastrous lab experiment involving a runaway centrifuge and a very confused janitor. Aubrey follows with meticulous updates on her latest charity gala planning, peppering in subtle nudges about Beca’s “alleged” upcoming celebrity involvement.

Beca, of course, counters with dry commentary and occasional, disarmingly insightful observations that make Chloe laugh out loud, bright and unrestrained.

Eventually, Chloe finds herself recounting her time in Portland—stories about offbeat bookstore customers, her slow and sometimes stormy sessions with Charlie, and the quiet joy of falling in love with running again.

Then she pauses, her brow creasing slightly. “You know,” she says, a little slower now, more thoughtful, “I took that early childhood refresher course in Portland, and it was great. But it didn’t feel…quite the way I thought it would.”

Three heads tilt slightly in silent encouragement.

“Like, I remember loving teaching,” she continues, gesturing vaguely. “But now, that passion feels…distant. I’m still figuring out what actually feels right.”

Beca reaches across the table, fingers brushing against Chloe’s in that quiet, grounding way of hers. “That’s okay, Chlo,” she says gently. “Finding your way isn’t always a straight line. You don’t have to rush into anything.”

Chloe nods, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “Honestly? Portland helped me. I feel…lighter. More like myself—even if ‘myself’ is still under ‘construction’.” Her words come out easier than they used to, no longer weighted by apology. The memories no longer feel like fragments; they’re turning into foundations.

“That’s all that matters,” Stacie reassures warmly. “You’re figuring it out.”

Aubrey turns to Beca, eyes narrowing in perceptive curiosity. “How about you, Beca? How was it, being back in Portland?”

Beca shrugs, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she exhales. “It was…different. Good. When Chloe left, LA was quieter than I liked. Being with her and her family…” She pauses, as if searching for the right word. “It brought meaning back. Something steady. Though I could still do without Chloe trying to get me to sing showtunes at three in the morning.”

Chloe playfully kicks her under the table. “Hey! You love it!”

Beca’s lips twitch into a smile. “I tolerate it. Barely.” She pauses, her gaze settling on Chloe, soft and steady. “But it’s good to be back in LA. And it’s even better having you back.” Her voice is low, earnest, cutting through the restaurant chatter like a clear, true note.

The words are quiet, unshowy, but they land with weight. Chloe feels the warmth bloom in her chest, not just comfort but something richer. Resonant.

It’s a feeling she’s starting to recognize, a quiet certainty that makes her heart flutter.

This is real.

This is a new beginning, messy and uncertain, but undeniably hers.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Later, as they walk out of the restaurant, the cool night air a stark contrast to the warmth of the food and conversation, Stacie pulls out her phone like a woman with a mission. “Okay, so here’s the plan for tomorrow. We’re thinking…Disneyland!”

Chloe’s eyes widen, a genuine, unadulterated grin splitting her face. “You’re kidding.”

“I never kid about Disney,” Stacie says, triumphant. “It’s January—low crowds, leftover holiday decorations, churros on every corner. It’s the happiest place on earth, and we need that energy. Chloe can ride all the rides she wants. Beca can complain about the lines. And I will—once again—perfectly reenact The Lion King opening scene.”

“God help us all,” Aubrey mutters, but her smile betrays her affection.

“Wow…that sounds exhausting,” Beca sighs, but there’s no real bite in her tone.

Chloe laughs, lacing her fingers through Beca’s. “I think it sounds perfect.” The simple act of holding Beca’s hand feels natural, anchoring. Like a melody finding its rhythm. She glances up at the vast, star-dusted sky, a sense of content settling over her. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The drive home is quieter, slowed by full bellies and the ease of shared laughter. City lights slip past the windows in blurred, painterly streaks. Chloe leans her head against the glass, her hand still cradled in Beca’s, letting the hum of the engine fill the silence.

She’s tired, yes—but it’s the good kind. The kind of satisfying exhaustion that follows a day spent with the right people, good food, and the comforting chaos of belonging. A fullness that only comes from being surrounded by those who know her best—even as she’s still uncovering parts of herself tucked in hidden corners.

The evening at the restaurant, steeped in warmth and nostalgia, had been a balm. A melody her soul instinctively sways to. But it’s Beca’s voice—soft, resonant, steady—that lingers. That lands . That cuts through the noise like a bell and echoes in her chest, long after the words are gone.

It’s not just comfort of friendship, nor the solace of a trusted companion; it’s something deeper, more insistent. Something that’s pulling at the loose threads of her heart and stitching them—quietly, carefully—toward something new.

She closes her eyes, and a reel of the day’s moments plays behind her lids:

Beca’s wry smiles—sharp, yet soft. The buoyant rhythm of laughter threading through the meal. The grounding weight of Beca’s hand on her leg in the car—anchoring, familiar, hers.

It feels undeniably good. So undeniably right .

But that comfort carries weight now. The kind that only shows up when something truly matters.

A flutter beneath her ribs. A hum in her pulse. A warmth that tugs at the very center of her chest.

And then, it crystallizes:

She’s in love with Beca.

Not in a hesitant, budding way, but fully. Vividly. Like her heart had been waiting, biding its time, and now it’s leaping. Breathless and ready.

It terrifies her. Not because she doubts it, but because it’s real. Because this isn’t a flicker of memory or a reconstruction of a past she can’t quite grasp.

It’s now. It’s present. And it’s hers.

She doesn’t remember the first time she fell for Beca. But she’s feeling all of it again—maybe more fiercely than before—and it’s not diminished by the missing pieces. If anything, it’s amplified by the fact that she chose this life. This version of herself. This girl.

Her breath catches, and she presses her forehead lightly to the cool window, letting the city lights blur into soft halos beyond the glass.

There’s no neat answer. No certainty about what tomorrow brings.

But for the first time, she doesn’t feel like she’s chasing an old version of herself.

She’s building something new. And Beca’s in it.

She smiles, quiet and sure.

It’s the good kind of scared.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The front door clicks softly shut behind them when they arrive home.

Chloe exhales into the quiet, peeling off her jacket and hanging it by the door. The hum of the house—growing more familiar now—wraps around her like a second skin. Dim hallway light. The scent of clean linen and citrus. The faint creak of Beca’s footsteps as she disappears into the kitchen.

Chloe toes off her shoes and stretches, her muscles pleasantly sore from a night of walking, laughing, and holding Beca’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it always is.

Beca returns with two mugs. One of them is Beca’s favorite; a chipped ceramic with faded Don’t Tell Me To Smile print.

“Chamomile?” Chloe asks, smiling as she takes it.

Beca shrugs, though the soft lift at the corner of her mouth betrays her. “You’re usually out of sync after flights. Figured this might help you sleep.”

Chloe’s heart does a slow, familiar flip—the kind only Beca seems to summon with a glance or a smile, like tugging gently on a thread tied straight to her chest.

They settle onto the couch, mugs warming their hands. A blanket draped loosely over both their laps. The silence is effortless. The kind they’ve grown into over weeks of shared space and soft evenings. Comfortable. Unhurried. Full of slow sips and steady breaths, with Beca’s knee brushing against hers like punctuation.

“I’m glad we went out tonight,” Chloe says quietly, glancing over. “It was nice…being with Stace and Bree again.”

Beca hums, her gaze gentle. “I’m glad you had a good time.”

A pause stretches, unhurried. Chloe turns her mug slowly between her palms.

“Sometimes I wonder what the old me would’ve thought of this version of me,” she murmurs. “The Chloe who didn’t lose her memory. Would she have…handled things differently?”

Beca shifts beside her—careful, quiet. Always steady.

“I think,” she says slowly, “the Chloe from before would’ve rooted for the Chloe sitting here now. She’d be proud. You fought to find joy again. That’s not nothing.”

Chloe’s throat tightens. “It took me a long time to believe I’d done enough. Or that I am enough.”

“You are,” Beca says—gently, lovingly, like it's the most obvious truth in the world. “Even when you don’t feel it, you are.”

Chloe blinks fast, setting her mug down before her hands—or her tears—can betray her.

She leans forward, resting her forehead lightly against Beca’s shoulder. She feels the steadiness of her breath. The quiet rhythm of her presence. The way Beca carries her own kind of gravity—an orbit Chloe can’t help but sync to. A melody she instinctively harmonizes with.

“I’m a lot more optimistic now,” Chloe whispers. “But sometimes my thoughts still get the better of me, and I have to push through the fear.”

“I know.”

“These thoughts…sometimes they tell me I’m an imposter. That I’m a fake…trying to rebuild from pieces I don’t even remember ever holding.”

Beca doesn’t hesitate. “I know I’ve said this before, but I’ll keep saying it. You don’t have to remember everything. You just have to be here. And you are. You keep showing up, Chloe. That’s more than enough.”

Her fingers brush under Chloe’s chin, bringing her head up to the point where their foreheads meet, breath mingling in the quiet space between them. The moment is still, but saturated with meaning. Full of everything they’ve never quite had the courage to say aloud yet.

Then Chloe kisses her, gentle and slow. The kind of kiss that isn’t new, but still feels like it is. Every one feels like a promise now. Like the continuation of a vow they keep renewing in soft, ordinary ways.

When they part, Beca doesn’t speak. Her eyes stay closed a moment longer, like she’s holding onto the imprint of Chloe’s lips.

Chloe knows the feeling—feels it in the way that Beca releases her breath slowly; in the way her eyes flutter open to reveal irises swirling with unbridled adoration. 

Chloe brushes their noses together. “Remind me what time Stacie’s picking us up tomorrow?”

“Too early,” Beca groans. “Even earlier than when God wakes. That hour should be illegal.”

Chloe giggles, already melting into the blanket and into Beca’s warmth. “You love her.”

“I…tolerate her. Deeply. With exhaustion.”

Chloe gasps dramatically, placing a hand on her heart as she curls closer. “Does that mean you tolerate me too?”

Beca bumps their shoulders, then rests her head on top of Chloe’s. “You don’t need tolerating,” she murmurs, voice low, laced with affection.

And in the silence that follows—tea cooling on the table, cicadas singing their nightly tune—Chloe lets herself lean in.

There are three words that buzz on her tongue and push against her lips. She doesn’t say it aloud yet, despite their insistence.

But it’s there. It's in the tea. In the way their legs tangle beneath the blanket. In how Beca says nothing, and still says everything.

Chloe thinks her heart knew it even then, months ago, when her life felt like it had blown apart.

But now—here, with Beca pressed to her side—she knows it in a different way. Deeper. Truer.

It lives in every breath, every heartbeat. It permeates her like light under skin.

The truth is evident—quiet and rooted and waiting.

Not a maybe, but a someday.

And someday soon.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The next morning, Chloe wakes to sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains.

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand, vibrating insistently. Someone—probably Stacie—has already texted the group chat three times.

She fumbles for the device blindly, hand patting across the bedside table. Beside her, Beca groans and burrows deeper into her pillow like it might grant her a few more minutes of sleep.

Chloe can’t help the smile of amusement tugging at her lips.

iMessage

Mouseketeer Madness ✨

Today at 7:02 a.m.

Stacie [7:02 AM]

DISNEYLAND AWAITS. RISE AND SHINE, BECHLOE.

Stacie [7:03 AM]

Aubrey's already rescheduling breakfast to optimize our ride schedule. Either get up now or miss getting coffee.

Stacie [7:04 AM]

That means you, Becs.

P.S. I printed us matching shirts. Yes, it is Disney themed. Beca, you are not allowed to veto them.

Chloe laughs quietly, grinning into her pillow. Beca is still half-asleep beside her, one arm draped across Chloe’s waist like it belongs there. Like it always has.

“I swear to God,” Beca mumbles, voice thick with sleep, “if I have to wear a bedazzled Mickey shirt, I’m going rogue.”

“You say that now,” Chloe says, amused, turning to face her, “but ten bucks says you’ll complain for fifteen minutes and then secretly love that we match.”

“Way to kill my street cred, Beale,” Beca mutters, cracking an eye open. It’s sharp, but the corners of her mouth twitch—soft, fond.

“I can’t help it that you’re a big sap,” Chloe murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead before slipping out of their warm bed.

Beca groans again, this time more dramatically. She flops to Chloe’s side of the bed like a petulant child. “Can’t we just cuddle for five more minutes?”

“Normally, yes,” Chloe says, tugging the blanket off Beca with zero remorse. “But we’ve got rides to conquer and selfies to take.”

Beca yelps, betrayed by both the stolen covers and Chloe’s boundless energy. “...God help me.”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Thirty minutes later, they descend the stairs just as Stacie raises a hand to ring the bell again. Aubrey stands beside her, dressed and put together as if an 8AM Disney call time was the start of a high-level board meeting. She’s holding two Disney-themed travel mugs.

Stacie is a walking Pinterest board: sequined Minnie Mouse ears, a dark Uniqlo fanny pack slung across her shoulder, an aggressively customized Disney-themed shirt that rides the fine line between “tasteful” and “dangerously cropped,” paired with black leggings and Adidas sneakers. She tops off the entire look with a black sheepskin jacket.

“Finally!” Stacie cries, throwing her arms open wide. “I thought I’d have to send in a search party.”

Beca keeps her expression neutral and her tone deadpan. “We had to conduct a mandatory pre-Disney coffee ceremony. It’s a very important ritual and sacred rite of passage.”

Aubrey hands Chloe and Beca their respective mugs. “I’ve mapped out our entire day. Including churro break slots and the exact window to hit Space Mountain before it spikes in queue time.”

Chloe takes a sip, sighing contentedly as she grins at Aubrey with affection. “I didn’t expect anything less.”

“Pre-planning prevents poor performance!” Stacie chirps, parroting Aubrey’s usual tone as she marches toward the car. “Now come on. Prepare yourselves for the most magical day of your lives!”

They pile into Aubrey’s car quickly. Stacie takes the wheel this time, checking mirrors like she’s driving into battle. Aubrey slides into the passenger seat, iPad in hand like a mission commander.

“I can’t believe you made a FastPass spreadsheet,” Beca mutters, peering over at Aubrey’s very detailed screen.

“It’s called optimizing joy, Beca,” Aubrey replies without missing a beat.

“I made a Disneyland Ride playlist,” Stacie adds proudly. “For maximum fun. You’re welcome in advance.”

Beca groans and throws on her sunglasses like a woman going into war. “Must you be so loud before 9 AM? My eardrums aren’t even fully caffeinated yet.”

“You love my taste in music,” Stacie replies breezily. “You, my friend, are about to enter a realm where cynicism is illegal and fun is law.”

Chloe laughs, leaning her head back against the seat. She glances sideways at Beca, who, despite her grumbling, wears a faint, traitorous smile.

She rests her head on Beca’s shoulder, lulled by the hum of the freeway and the weird, wonderful excitement that only a theme park road trip can provide.

“Just try not to get us kicked out before noon,” Chloe says, nudging her knee against Beca’s.

“I make no promises when Stacie is involved,” Beca replies. “Her chaotic-good alignment is a known hazard for me.”

Aubrey glances in the rearview mirror as she chuckles. “Just try to keep an eye on them, Chloe. And avoid any spontaneous dance numbers in the parades. My consulting job does not cover bail for 'public nuisance' at Disney jail.”

“No promises!” Stacie calls out, hitting the gas.

The drive to Anaheim is a blur of laughter, Stacie’s incessant singing along to her playlist (mostly Disney classics, much to Beca’s feigned annoyance), and Aubrey’s calm fact-checking of the park’s map, Beca sighing dramatically into her coffee, but eventually joining in to croon the lyrics to I’ll Make a Man Out of You. Chloe just drinks it all in, heart full. Soon, the familiar Disney signage looms, and the parking lot buzzes with a happy, almost manic energy as Stacie pulls into an empty slot.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Disneyland shimmers.

Even in January, it glows with leftover holiday magic—decorations still wrapped around lamp posts, lights strung across rooftops, the castle dusted in soft, sparkling white. Everything smells like powdered sugar, caramel, popcorn, and nostalgia.

A marching band plays somewhere nearby. A kid gasps as Disney character ambles past, escorted by their usual entourage of cast members. 

It’s chaotic. It’s bright. It’s alive.

And Chloe can’t stop smiling.

“My inner child is totes doing cartwheels right now,” she says excitedly as they walk through the gates.

“I can’t believe I’m here willingly,” Beca mutters, but her lips twitch with a ghost of a smile.

Main Street looks like Christmas exploded and left behind multiple casualties. Wreaths and garlands everywhere, snow-tipped castle spires catching sunlight.

Stacie spins in a full circle. “Okay, we should start strong. Space Mountain, Thunder Mountain, or Fantasyland...choose your fighter!”

Aubrey lifts her iPad like a holy artifact. “We will proceed to Space Mountain, followed by Big Thunder—”

“Bree, we’re doing everything,” Chloe cuts in, grabbing Beca’s hand and tugging her toward Tomorrowland.

They do end up riding Space Mountain first, at both Stacie’s and Aubrey’s insistence. Chloe screams with gleeful abandon. Stacie narrates the entire ride in a fake British accent. Aubrey’s grip on the safety bar is legendary. Beca is silent--until the ride photo pops up and reveals her mid-scream, clutching the seat like her soul was ascending.

Beca remains deadpan when they exit the ride. “My soul left my body,” she mutters flatly as they walk off the platform. “I literally met God.”

Chloe laughs so hard she snorts. “Aw, you were so brave,” she says between giggles, looping her arm through Beca’s.

“I was promised snacks,” Beca grumbles. “That was not part of the agreement.”

“You’re dating me,” Chloe grins. “You basically already signed up for this.”

After Beca gets her aforementioned snack, they head to Thunder Mountain next.

“Objectively the best ride in the park,” Beca declares, adjusting her sunglasses like she’s about to give a TED Talk.

“Incorrect,” Stacie counters. “Indiana Jones is the best. It’s got boulders and bugs. It’s an innuendo and metaphor all rolled into one.”

“Everything is an innuendo to you,” Aubrey sighs affectionately.

Chloe can't stop grinning. Her cheeks hurt from smiling.

When the train lurches forward, she grabs Beca’s hand and the brunette squeezes it back without hesitation. 

Wind in her hair, sun on her skin, laughter filling her lungs. Joy that’s so tangible, she could almost reach out and touch. 

This , she thinks. This is what it feels like to come back to yourself.

Chloe doesn’t let go.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

By early afternoon, after three thrill rides back to back and an impromptu turkey leg detour, they settle in at a small table outside Jolly Holiday Bakery Café, under a striped yellow umbrella that flutters gently in the afternoon breeze. The clamor of the park still hums around them—squeals from the carousel, a distant trumpet from the marching band, the jingle of cash registers and laughter.

But here, it feels quieter. A little pocket of stillness in the magic.

Stacie and Aubrey peel off to stand in line for dessert. Stacie’s on a mission to hunt down the seasonal raspberry macaron she saw on TikTok.

“We’ll be back with sugar and our final reviews!” Stacie calls over her shoulder.

Aubrey doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Don’t start eating without us!”

Beca raises her brows. “That feels like a trap.”

Chloe grins as she slides into her seat across from Beca. “I’m eating anyway. Bree won't really mind.”

They dig into their grilled cheese and soup combo in companionable silence, the clink of trays and far-off park music serving as background noise. Beca opens her chip bag, Chloe eyeing it immediately like she has a heist in progress. She steals one triumphantly, without breaking eye contact.

Beca sighs, then she slides the bag closer. “Gremlin.”

“But I’m your gremlin,” Chloe amends, kissing her cheek in thanks.

And then—without warning—something shifts in the air.

Chloe blinks, soup halfway to her lips, barely halfway through her first bite when something—something small and sensory—stops her cold. The way the sun cuts across the pavement. The faint flutter of the umbrella above them. Beca’s sleeve pushed up just so, revealing that tiny freckle on her wrist. The way Beca tucks her hair behind her ear, absently, before peeling open a sauce packet.

It hits her like a half-remembered lyric.

It’s like a thread gets tugged in her brain.

Not a clear memory. Not yet.

But a flicker. A flash.

She’s here—in this exact seat—laughing about a dumb pun on a sandwich board that she found thrilling. There’s powdered sugar on her cheek. Beca’s making a face at a bird that tried to steal a fry. It’s blurry, like a photo taken mid-motion, but it’s there.

It hits her like a breeze she didn’t see coming.

Not the full story. Just the shape of it. A soft imprint pressed into her bones.

She swallows, suddenly unsure if it’s the food or the feeling that’s caught in her throat.

“I remember this,” she says quietly, her voice barely rising above the din around them. Her voice is a little too calm, like she’s afraid speaking too loud might make it vanish.

Beca looks up, her chewing slowing. Her steely gray-blue eyes are focused on Chloe's. “Yeah?”

“I mean, not the day or the ride order. Not the morning or what we wore or who said what. But this,” Chloe murmurs, gesturing vaguely—at the bench, at the food, at the way the sunlight dapples across the pavement in shifting, kaleidoscopic patches.

“This…sitting here. This feeling,” she taps her fingers on the paper straw wrapper. “It’s like hearing a song I don’t remember learning…but I still know how to hum along.”

Beca’s chewing slows. Her gaze softens. She doesn’t say anything, just gives Chloe the space to find the rest of the words. She does, however, lean forward slightly, attention tuned to her like a steady chord.

“It’s not even a clear memory. Just a shape. A shadow of a moment I think I lived before.” Chloe smiles faintly. “I think we sat here once. I think I laughed at something you said. I think I kissed you.”

Her throat tightens with something that’s not quite sadness. Maybe reverence. Maybe awe.

Beca bumps their knees together under the table. Just enough. “I remember that day too. Maybe not that specific memory, but it does sound like a great one.”

“Thank you,” Chloe says softly, meaning it. “For not rushing me.”

Beca shrugs one shoulder, like it’s nothing. But the way her fingers curl a little tighter around her drink cup says otherwise. The way she looks at Chloe says everything.

Behind them, Stacie reappears with an iced mocha and three pastries balanced precariously in her arms.

“We bring offerings!” She sings. “Sugar for our serotonin-starved souls!”

Aubrey follows, eyeing them as she sets down napkins and wet wipes with practiced precision. “Did you guys eat all the chips already?”

Chloe doesn’t answer. She’s too busy looking at Beca.

Too busy holding onto the feeling before it drifts.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

After lunch, they drift into Fantasyland, drawn in like moths to a flame—or well, glitter, in this case.

The pastel chaos greets them in full: bubble wands firing indiscriminately, high-pitched laughter ricocheting between castle walls, and the scent of cotton candy coating the air like perfume.

It’s loud. It’s packed. It’s wonderful. Every corner feels like a sugar rush made physical.

Stacie declares it’s time for their mandated “magical accessories purchase” and makes a beeline for the nearest shop. Chloe follows her, gamely trying on headband after headband until they land on a baby pink velvet pair with tiny rhinestones.

“This is the one,” Stacie proclaims dramatically. “You look like a Hallmark princess who’s about to discover her Christmas bakery is secretly magic.”

Chloe curtsies with exaggerated flair. “My true calling.”

Stacie turns on Beca next, wielding a headband like a weapon. “Your turn.”

“I’m not doing this.”

“Oh, but you are.” She plucks a black bow headband with subtle gold sparkles and crowns Beca with it. “This one screams…reluctant joy.”

“I’m definitely screaming internally right now,” Beca replies, deadpan.

But she doesn’t take it off.

Chloe snaps a photo—not for Instagram, not even to tease. Just for herself. To remember.

They move from ride to ride—Alice in Wonderland , Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride , and finally the Carousel, where Beca insists on riding the “most disgruntled-looking horse” and names it Greg.

Greg, for the record, looks like he’s seen things and is about two minutes away from retiring.

Once the ride slows to a stop, they step off to the tinkle of pipe organ music and the faint blare of a distant parade horn.

Instead of rushing toward another ride, Chloe tugs gently at Beca’s hand.

“Come here,” she murmurs.

She leads her around a hedge-lined bend behind the castle, to a quiet overlook where a wishing well trickles beside a ring of marble statues. She’d spotted this small reclusive spot when they were walking around earlier.

Snow White’s voice hums from a hidden speaker—soft, sweet, slightly eerie in the best way.

It’s quiet here. Removed.

They settle on a narrow bench beneath a flowering trellis. Sunlight spills through the leaves in golden shafts. The rest of the park sounds far away now, like it belongs to a different world.

“This is my favorite part of the park so far,” Chloe says.

Beca leans back, arms crossed loosely. “You like this creepy well?”

Chloe smiles. “I like that it isn’t trying so hard. That it just is. It’s…peaceful.”

Beca watches her, expression soft. Neither of them speak for a while.

Chloe turns her head slightly, watching the way the light hits Beca’s profile—the curve of her mouth, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the quiet rhythm of her breath.

It’s strange , she thinks, how the magic isn’t just in the fireworks or the rides—it’s in this . In how Beca’s hand fits into hers without effort. In the silence that somehow says everything.

Then, somewhere nearby, a child yells, screeching like a banshee. Chloe giggles, shoulders shaking.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “I’m done being sentimental.”

“Pfft, I’m not,” Beca replies, brushing her thumb across Chloe’s hand. “But we can go anyway.”

They share cotton candy near the castle afterward, the sky beginning to blush with late afternoon light. Chloe gets blue sugar stuck to her lips, and before she can wipe it off, Beca leans in and kisses it away—unbothered, casual, in full view of a group of teenagers who immediately start giggling.

“You’re so embarrassing,” Chloe teases goodnaturedly, cheeks warm.

“Bold of you to say that when you literally cried during the Tiki Room, dude,” Beca replies, not missing a beat.

Chloe shoves her playfully. Beca lets herself be shoved, stumbling dramatically like she’s been tackled.

Their laughter still lingers in the air when Stacie spots them rounding the corner into the castle hub.

“Group photo time!” she announces.

A PhotoPass cast member is wrapping up with another family, but that doesn’t stop Stacie from wrangling everyone into place like it’s a red carpet shoot. Aubrey swiftly adjusts Beca’s jacket and straightens Chloe’s headband with a precision only she possesses.

Stacie throws her arms around them all. “Smile like you just defeated the villain with just the power of friendship and ensemble choreography.”

The camera clicks three times—one smiling, one silly, and one where Beca is making a face so neutral it could be classified as a museum statue.

Later, Chloe scrolls through the photo on the app. Stacie’s beaming. Aubrey looks like she’s preparing to lead a team-building seminar with her grin. And there’s Chloe—caught mid-laugh with Beca’s arm draped lazily across her shoulders.

They look…right. Like something that has always fit together. 

She stares at the image a beat longer than necessary before quietly setting it as her lock screen.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca—true to her word—tolerates it all.

From the chaotic music loops to the swarm of pastel merchandise, from Stacie’s impromptu dance-alongs to Aubrey’s relentless schedule updates via iPad, Beca moves through Fantasyland like someone deeply invested in not caring--and doing a terrible job hiding how much she kind of does.

Eventually, Aubrey and Stacie peel off, muttering something about parade positioning and the “ideal popcorn cart.”

Chloe and Beca wander off together again, this time meandering toward a quieter pocket behind the Sleeping Beauty Castle walkthrough, where a stone bench waits in the dappled shade.

The sounds of the crowd dull behind them, like the park’s turned down the volume just for them.

Chloe stretches out her legs after they sit. “How are your feet?”

Beca flops beside her, melodramatic. “Gone. Betrayed. Possibly cursed by those animatronic dolls.”

Chloe snorts, digging into her bag. She pulls out a tiny pack of blister plasters and holds them up triumphantly. 

“You brought bandages to Disneyland?” Beca asks, raising an eyebrow, her voice skeptical.

“I’m dating you, aren’t I?” Chloe says, grinning as she crouches down and gently lifts Beca’s foot. “I plan for sarcasm, grumbling, food, and minor injuries.”

“You forgot emotional repression and an irrational fear of It’s a Small World .”

Chloe laughs, applying the plaster with practiced care. “You say that, but you still sit through it anyway.”

Beca’s voice softens. “You always do this. Take care of me.”

Chloe doesn’t look up. She smooths the plaster gently over Beca’s skin. “You took care of me when I didn’t even remember who I was.”

Beca clears her throat. “I guess we’re even then.”

Silence stretches between them. Not awkward. Just full.

When Chloe straightens, she stays close. They sit shoulder to shoulder, shoes unlaced, breaths syncing. Chloe watches Beca in profile again—how still she is, how grounded.

“I like this version of us,” she says. “No expectations. No pressure. We’re just…us.”

Beca’s hand reaches across the bench, brushing hers. “Me too.”

They stay like that for a long moment, the world drifting around them like carousel music.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Sometime later, they regroup near Adventureland.

Stacie is now the proud owner of two popcorn buckets: one shaped like the Death Star, the other a Mickey Mouse snowman.

“I don’t even like popcorn that much,” she announces mid-bite into another churro.

“Then why—?”

“Limited edition, Beca.”

Beca looks personally betrayed. “There’s more than enough of them. Look at this! They’re multiplying.”

They’re walking toward Frontierland when Chloe realizes she’s not holding Beca’s hand anymore.

She turns and sees Stacie dragging Beca toward the beignet snack cart—probably to settle some great debate over original vs. seasonal flavors. Aubrey is off at the side, fervently looking at her phone on the latest queue time.

Chloe lingers at the edge of the crowd.

And watches.

Beca’s not talking. Not doing anything in fact.

She’s just…standing there. Jacket unzipped and shifting with every direction the wind takes. Sunglasses tucked into her shirt. Head tilted toward Stacie with a crooked half-smile—the kind that only appears when she thinks no one’s looking.

This, Chloe thinks. This is one of the reasons I came back.

The quiet gravity of Beca’s presence. The steadiness. The familiarity that feels like breath.

She weaves through the people and reaches her just as Beca’s biting into a beignet. She wraps her arms around her from behind, resting her chin on Beca’s shoulder.

“Hey,” she says.

Beca glances back, surprised for just a second, then relaxes into her like she’d been waiting.

“There you are,” she murmurs.

“Here I am,” she whispers back.

Later, when they head toward Frontierland‘s entrance, their arms brush against the other’s with each step. The sun is lower now. Shadows stretch longer across the pavement. A breeze lifts the edge of Chloe’s jacket. Parents chase their kids like they’re chasing time.

The energy shifts.

It’s not loud anymore. Not wild, like the park is on a sugar high.

Now, the atmosphere of the park shifts into golden-hour nostalgia.

Like the world is pausing mid-breath before it exhales something extraordinary.

And somewhere deep in Chloe’s chest, something settles. Like her heart has been running all day and it’s finally finding its proper footing.

They board Pirates of the Caribbean just as the sky begins to dip into dusk.

The queue moves quickly, most of the crowd already choosing to prepare for the fireworks or trudging their way back home. The air turns cooler with every step they take.

Stacie narrates the ride like she’s hosting a haunted mansion tour. Aubrey humors her with a gentle smile. Beca makes ghost noises. Chloe hums along with the theme song playing tinnily through worn, mounted speakers, her voice as melodic and sure as the first time Beca ever heard it.

When the boat glides into darkness, Chloe reaches for Beca’s hand and finds it already waiting.

They don’t speak.

They don’t need to.

The water laps against the hull. Lanterns flicker. A cannon fires somewhere in the artificial distance.

But all Chloe feels is the sure, steady weight of Beca’s hand in hers.

A quiet promise, spoken without words:

I love you. I’m here.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

When they step out of their last ride of the night, the evening is just slipping into twilight.

The sky above Disneyland has deepened to a bruised indigo, the last edges of sunlight bleeding gold into the horizon. The lamps have come on, casting warm halos on cobblestone paths and illuminating faces with a kind of soft, timeless magic.

Main Street hums. Cast members herd gentle waves of people toward the viewing areas. Somewhere behind them, a child squeals with delight at the upcoming fireworks show. Stacie’s off with Aubrey, who is flipping through the park map, trying to figure out where the best vantage point would be.

But Chloe barely sees any of it.

She’s holding Beca’s hand, fingers loosely laced, and all she can really feel is the pulse in her thumb and the quiet tension just beneath her ribs. That fluttery, weightless feeling like the space between breath and music.

They find a spot near the Partners statue, Walt and Mickey forever hand-in-hand, silhouetted against the castle.

Stacie catches up to them first, plopping down on an empty bench nearby. “This is it. Prime view. Fifteen years of theme park instincts and social media reconnaissance says so.”

“I still think we should’ve gone for the corner near the popcorn stand,” Aubrey mutters, but sits beside her anyway, clearly conceding this battle. She leans into Stacie instinctively. The latter wraps her arm around the blonde’s shoulder with a content smile.

Chloe doesn’t sit. She stays standing. She wants to see everything.

Beca stands beside her, one hand still in hers, the other tucked into the pocket of her jacket. Her expression is unreadable—focused, but far away.

And then the first firework cracks into the sky.

It bursts open like a bloom—violet and gold and silver—and the castle beneath it glows like something out of a storybook.

A quiet gasp escapes Chloe’s lips.

More follow. Big ones. Low, heart-shaking booms. Spirals. Streaks. A shower of color and wonder and carefully-engineered magic.

But Chloe can’t help but look at Beca.

Beca, whose face is awash in glittering light. Beca, whose lashes catch reflections of skyfire. Beca, who hasn’t moved or spoken or looked anywhere else.

Chloe feels those three words pushing against her teeth again.

They’ve been pressing at her chest all day—tugging during the cotton candy kiss, whispering in the quiet moments, blooming like the lights overhead. The way Beca stands still amidst the crowd. The way her hand is already there, steady and warm.

I love you.

She thinks it first.

Then momentarily panics.

Is it too soon? Too much? What if this is just a lingering memory from her old self? 

What if saying it out loud makes it real in a way she’s not ready for?

But you are ready, her heart insists. You’ve been ready. You’ve just been afraid of what happens next.

Another firework bursts above them—big, blue, and dazzling—and Chloe’s breath catches in her throat.

Chloe swallows, pulse thudding.

Then, without giving herself time to spin out—

“I get it now,” Chloe whispers.

Beca glances over, brows drawn slightly. She looks adorable when she’s confused or befuddled. “Get what?”

Chloe tamps down that rush of affection that swells in her chest like a balloon.

She hadn’t meant to say those exact words aloud. But now that it’s out, she can’t not follow it.

“I get why people fall in love at Disneyland,” she says softly, almost like she’s speaking to herself. “It’s not the fireworks. Or the songs. Or the magic. It’s…the way it makes everything feel possible.”

Beca doesn’t speak. She just keeps looking at her. Steady. Like she knows what’s coming next.

“You make me feel like Disneyland, Beca,” Chloe’s voice barely makes it past the next boom overhead. “Like everything possible, even when there are so many factors that make it difficult to be.”

“So it’s not surprising that I’m…falling for you.” 

The words are soft. Undramatic. Almost too quiet to be heard, but Beca hears them, loud and clear.

Because her hand tightens. Her breath catches. And she blinks, hard, like the weight of those words just hit her chest.

“I mean, I know we’ve been…” Chloe huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “It’s been a slow unraveling. But it’s been happening all day. And even way before today. I’ve been falling in love with you a second time without even fully knowing it just yet.”

Beca still hasn’t said anything. Her jaw clenches for just a second. Tightens for a fraction, then smoothens out and softens.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Chloe adds quickly, eyes wide. “I know it’s a lot. I just—needed to say it. I needed you to know.”

Beca breathes in slowly, holds it for seven beats, then lets it out for another.

Her voice, when it comes, is steady and low. “I know.”

Chloe’s chest tightens.

“I’ve known for a while,” Beca says. “Not just that you were falling. But that I was too. Still am. Always was and always will be.”

And Chloe doesn’t realize she’s crying until Beca reaches up and brushes a thumb under her cheekbone.

They don’t kiss right away.

They just stand there, smiling at each other like fools in love. Under the glow of fireworks. Under a sky that feels like it might crack open with light and possibility. Holding each other’s gaze like it’s the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

And then—slowly—Chloe leans in.

The kiss is soft. Not a crescendo. Not a climax. Just a confirmation.

Like, yeah. We’re here. We’re in love.

When they pull apart, Chloe rests her forehead against Beca’s. Both of them breathing just a little heavier. Both of them blinking in the afterglow of skyfire and confession.

“I’m really glad I found my way back to you,” Chloe whispers.

Beca closes her eyes. “You never left in my book.”

Behind them, the grand finale begins.

The last burst of fireworks light the sky in synchronized brilliance. Gold rain. Blue spirals. A heart, somewhere in the mix.

Chloe watches it all.

But only for a moment.

Then she turns back to Beca and watches her instead.

Because no matter how spectacular the magic is above them, nothing shines quite like the truth they just spoke between them.

Nothing glows quite like this.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The next morning, when Chloe wakes to the smell of coffee and the sound of Beca humming in the kitchen, the world doesn’t feel any different.

The sun still rises behind hazy curtains. Stacie still texts the group chat far too early about leftover popcorn and Disney pins she “forgot” to buy. The coffee machine whirs. Beca mumbles about caffeine like it’s a religion she’d happily pray to every day.

And yet…something has shifted.

Something subtle. Like gravity has quietly tilted—just enough to lean in favor of Chloe’s direction.

They start breakfast together without needing to discuss it. It’s a simple, domestic affair. Just pancakes, eggs, and bacon. Chloe sits cross-legged on the kitchen counter while Beca flips pancakes with the kind of focus she usually reserves for mixing tracks, sarcasm, or loving Chloe in the quiet ways only she knows how.

They don’t talk about last night. They don’t need to.

Because now, Chloe notices it in everything.

In the way Beca brushes a hand lightly across her waist as she walks by. In the smirk she gives when Chloe makes a dumb joke. In the easy rhythm they’ve fallen back into—like it never left, like it was always waiting for her to return to it.

Later, curled up on the couch with her laptop and an old notepad, Chloe stares at the screen for a long time. Her finger hovers over a bookmarked tab for her old school’s early childhood program. A simple form. Just a few fields.

She thinks about kids. Speculates on how it would’ve felt, molding young minds.

About the feeling of building something that matters. About the way her voice must’ve sounded when she explained stories to wide-eyed listeners. About the woman she was before, and the one she is now—one who’s still healing, still scared sometimes, but no longer afraid to try .

She doesn’t fill out the form.

Not yet.

But she leaves the tab open.

Then she hears it—the soft shuffle of house slippers on hardwood—and looks up just as Beca appears in the doorway, holding two mugs and wearing the look that says, You’ve been overthinking for 40 minutes and I’m staging an intervention with tea.

Chloe smiles and takes the mug from her without a word.

Beca leans down and presses a kiss to the top of her head.

Chloe closes her eyes and breathes it in.

This life.

This slow, ordinary rhythm.

This quiet kind of love she never thought she’d get to find again—not like this. Not after everything.

She’ll say it aloud soon. I love you.

Not in a rush. Not in fireworks.

Just…when the moment is small and warm and hers to give.

But for now, she sips her tea.

And lets herself believe...in all of it.

Chapter Text

So will you wait for me?

Will you wait for me?

Will you wait for me?

My evergreen

-

Evergreen

Yebba

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Mornings come slowly now. Not because Chloe sleeps in, but because she allows herself to wake gently. No alarms. No rushing. Just the lazy crawl of sunlight across the floor and the comforting scent of eggs and coffee drifting in from the kitchen.

Today is one of those mornings.

When she blinks awake, Beca’s already gone from bed. The sheets are still warm beside her, rumpled and familiar. She can hear the faint shuffle of socks on hardwood and the distant clink of mugs. There’s also humming—melodic, tantalizing, and very Beca.

Chloe smiles into her pillow.

She stretches like a cat, the muscles in her arms and back lengthening with satisfying pops. Her body still aches a little from Disneyland—the kind of ache that comes from standing too long in lines and laughing too hard. But she welcomes it. She’s earned it.

Pulling on an oversized hoodie—Beca’s, as usual—she pads barefoot into the kitchen.

“Morning,” she murmurs.

Beca’s standing at the counter, hair in loose waves, scrambling eggs like it owes her money. She turns, spatula in hand, and smiles.

“Hey, looks like you had a good night’s rest.”

“I woke up to the smell of pancakes. I thought I died and ascended to breakfast heaven.”

Beca smirks her patented charming Beca smirk. “You're welcome. Also, there’s bacon.”

Chloe slides onto a stool and props her chin in her hand, watching her with open affection. It’s still so wild to her, sometimes, how easy it is now—how it no longer feels like she’s borrowing someone else’s life. This is hers. This is theirs.

And yet, underneath all of it, a soft undercurrent runs: Say it.

She hasn’t told Beca “I love you” yet, despite her confession during the night of the fireworks. Admitting that had felt right then—inevitable, even. But now? Saying those words out loud? In the softness of routine? The intimacy of Tuesday mornings?

It feels bigger somehow.

More real.

More terrifying.

And she wants to get it right.

After breakfast, Beca leaves for the studio and Chloe retreats to the couch with her laptop and a refill of coffee in a ceramic mug that reads: No Human Interaction Before Caffeine. One of Beca’s again, of course. 

The school form is still open.

She’s stared at it so many times this week it’s seared into her retinas. Name. Contact info. Previous employment. A short paragraph: Anything else you’d like to add? 

She’s typed several versions of an answer.

And deleted them all. 

This time, she opens a new document.

And she writes:

Because I’m still learning how to feel whole.
Because stories matter.
Because children have an uncanny way of holding onto the pieces we forget to love in ourselves.
Because I used to be so scared that the Chloe who taught before is gone, and now I think…maybe I’m her again. Just different. And maybe that’s okay.
Because I’m not done giving.

She pauses.

Then, for the first time, she doesn’t hit backspace.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Stacie insists on a “post-Disney brunch,” which is really just an excuse to drag everyone out of the house and into a café that sells overpriced signature lattes and croissants that look more like art than food.

Chloe shows up five minutes early, sweater sleeves pushed up and already halfway through her first cup of rose latte. Aubrey is, predictably, already there, with a color-coded spreadsheet open on her iPad for their next group outing. Beca shows up fifteen minutes late, still in a state of focus from her studio session with a new artist.

Stacie sips an iced lavender latte through a metal straw and props her chin on her hand.

“So…how’s the post-fireworks domestic bliss going?” she says, tone far too casual to be innocent.

Chloe blushes immediately. “You saw.”

“I mean, it’s kind of hard not to, Chlo. You guys weren’t subtle,” Stacie says with dramatic flourish, turning to Aubrey. “You saw it too, right?”

Aubrey doesn’t look up from her tablet. “I clocked it before they even got on the last ride.”

Beca groans, sliding back into her seat with her usual order of iced americano. “Can we not?”

“Nope,” Stacie replies cheerfully. “This is my personal Pride and Prejudice adaptation, and you two are my slow-burn leads.”

Chloe hides behind her cup, laughing.

But underneath it—she feels steady. Not embarrassed. Not overwhelmed. Just…soft. Present. Grateful.

The four of them talk for nearly two hours, drifting from Stacie’s latest lab stories to Aubrey’s gala prep. Chloe doesn’t share as much, but she listens with ease. The kind that doesn’t come with pressure.

She doesn’t flinch when Stacie pulls up a photo from before. Doesn’t retreat when someone references something she’s forgotten. It doesn’t bruise the way it used to. It just...is.

Familiarity wraps around her like sunlight filtering through a café window.

Later, when Aubrey nudges her gently and says, “Happiness looks good on you, Chlo.”

Chloe just smiles into her second cup of overpriced coffee. 

“I think so too.”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

One quiet Thursday night, Beca heads out to meet Jesse for a drink.

She asks Chloe to join them twice. Even offers to reschedule to stay home and keep her company. Chloe just smiles, kisses her cheek, and says, “Go. I think I want a night in.”

And she means it.

The house settles into stillness once Beca’s gone. Chloe pads down the hallway barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed over her palms, tea cooling in one hand. She stops in front of the hallway closet. The one she hasn’t touched since she moved back in.

She opens it slowly.

Tucked neatly on the top shelf is a shoebox labeled Chloe: Before, written in Beca’s familiar scrawl—blocky, all-caps, a little uneven from the Sharpie she probably grabbed in a hurry.

Chloe lowers it gently to the floor.

She finds hundreds of memories inside. Tangible, stubborn, lovely things. A faded polaroid from a Bella Halloween party. A pastel sticker with her handwriting curling around the edges. A dried daisy pressed between the pages of a notebook that still smells faintly like her favorite coconut conditioner. A battered postcard addressed to Beca from her trip to Oregon—the one with a badly drawn Bigfoot wearing sunglasses, and a joke about cryptids and coffee cup stains across the back in her looping script.

She runs her fingers over each item slowly. Tenderly. Not rushing. Not flinching.

She doesn’t cry.

Not because it’s easy.

But because for the first time, it doesn’t feel like grief. It feels like reverence.

This—these bits of paper and pressed petals—isn’t a puzzle she’s trying to solve anymore. It’s just part of her story. One she’s finally ready to hold without unraveling.

It’s midnight when Beca returns. She finds Chloe curled up on the couch, an old photo of the Bellas resting in her lap. Her tea’s gone lukewarm. Her demeanor is quiet, but her shoulders are soft, and her eyes clear.

“Hey,” Beca says, slowing when she sees her. Her voice is cautious, gentle as she approaches. “You okay?”

Chloe looks up.

“I submitted the form,” she says quietly.

Beca blinks. “You did?”

“I did,” Chloe repeats. And for the first time, the words feel settled. Sure. Like a key turning smoothly in a lock.

Beca’s smile spreads slowly, growing bright across her face. “Chlo…I’m proud of you.”

She sinks onto the couch beside her and presses a kiss to Chloe’s temple. Her hand finds Chloe’s, warm and sure.

And just like that, the last of the weight in Chloe’s chest lifts.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

A tectonic shift happens on Friday morning.

Chloe’s just come back from a run. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, hair pulled back in a loose braid, earbuds still stuffed in her ears. Her legs ache in a good way, and there’s a light sheen of sweat across her forehead as she toes off her shoes in the hallway.

Beca’s still asleep, burrowed into a blanket burrito after a late night at the studio.

Chloe pads quietly into the kitchen, pours herself a glass of water, and checks her email on autopilot—half-expecting newsletters, flash sales, or yet another reminder from Aubrey about the group hike the Bellas keep rescheduling.

Instead, she sees:

Subject: Let’s Catch Up — Echo Meadow Preschool

She freezes.

It’s from Sandra. Her old director. The one who gave Chloe her first full classroom—the same woman who once cried laughing during a holiday concert when Chloe accidentally knocked over an entire row of paper snowflakes mid-song.

At least, that’s what her journals say. She still can’t remember much. But the name… the name feels familiar.

Her breath catches. Her heart skips. Then hammers in her chest, thudding almost painfully. She stares at the subject line for a long second before tapping it open with cautious fingers.

Hi Chloe,

We were so happy to see your name come through the system. I can’t tell you how often your students—and staff—have asked about you. We’re thrilled to hear you’re considering coming back to teaching.

We’d love to have you visit the school sometime next week. Perhaps on Tuesday? It’ll be a quick walkthrough, and if you're comfortable, a chat about next steps. Nothing formal. Just a conversation. We'd love to hear how you’ve been doing.

Sending warmth and care,

Sandra
Director, Echo Meadow Preschool

Chloe stares at the screen. She rereads it.

Once.

Twice.

Then slowly, carefully–exhales, like she’s been holding in a breath since hitting “submit.”

Not because she’s overwhelmed by the logistics, but because the tone of the email hits her in a place she wasn’t prepared for: They remember her. 

Not with pity. Not with hesitation. But with warmth. With genuine welcome.

She sets the glass down and leans against the counter, heart thudding but pulse steady—not in panic, but something that feels dangerously close to hope. Like it’s trying to mark this moment as something important.

She reads the line again, just to make sure it’s real: We were so happy to see your name.

Her eyes sting, just a little.

When Beca finds her a few minutes later, hair rumpled, oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder, she’s still leaning against the kitchen counter and sipping water like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. 

Chloe doesn’t say anything at first. She just hands over the phone.

Beca reads the email, then looks up, soft and steady.

“They want you back.”

Chloe lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Really breathes out this time.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “I think they really do.”

Beca blinks once. Then beams. Her smile is slow, but radiant.

“Hell yeah, they do.”

Chloe grins, heart pounding, a new kind of nervousness settling under her skin. The best kind, just like the one from New Years Eve.

That’s when Chloe lets it land.

Not as pressure, but as a possibility.

Next week, she’ll walk through those school doors again—not as someone trying to reclaim the past, but as someone ready to imagine a future.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The invitation from Sandra sits in Chloe’s inbox all afternoon, a small, warm light waiting patiently for her to open the door.

She doesn’t reply right away.

Instead, she walks slowly through the house after her run, letting the feeling of the email settle in her chest. It’s not pressure. It’s not fear. It’s something gentler.

Recognition.

She was a teacher here. She mattered to those kids. Her absence didn’t erase her impact.

And now, they’re opening the door for her to return—not as someone who needs to prove herself, but as someone they already know.

That night, after dinner, Chloe stands in front of her closet, arms crossed, eyeing the row of half-worn blouses and soft cardigans like they’re a puzzle with no solution.

Across the room, Beca’s curled up on the bed with her laptop. She glances over and says nothing at first, just watches Chloe pace.

After five full outfit attempts—including one rejected for “looking too much like I sell essential oils and motivational talks”—Chloe flops onto the bed in defeat.

“Why does getting dressed for something I used to do feel like performing a musical number on a tightrope?”

Beca closes her laptop and scoots closer. “Because you’re walking back into something you once knew with a new version of yourself. That’s big.”

Chloe sighs. “I want to look like I have it together.”

“You already do.”

“I mean professionally. Like someone who belongs.”

“You do.”

Chloe glares at her affectionately. “Can you at least pretend to take this seriously?”

“I am!” Beca insists, raising her hands in mock defense. “This is my serious face. Look at it.” 

She pulls a ridiculous expression that makes Chloe giggle despite herself.

“And also,” Beca adds, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, “I made you a playlist.”

Chloe blinks. “Wait, what?”

Beca grabs her phone from the nightstand and hands it over. On the screen is a freshly made Spotify playlist titled:

Chloe’s Interview Jam
by DJ Bexcellence

Chloe chokes on a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you need to walk into that school like you invented preschool crafts and snack time logistics. So yes, there’s Beyoncé. There’s Janelle Monáe. There’s even a Moana track in there, because yes, you are the ocean.”

Chloe grins, eyes wide with something between amusement and awe. “You’re kind of perfect.”

“I know,” Beca says, smug. Then softens. “You’ve got this, Chlo.”

Chloe glances back toward the closet. After a pause, she reaches for a cream blouse—soft but tailored—and the dark blue cardigan she vaguely recalls wearing when reading stories to kids on the rug.

“This one,” she says quietly.

Beca nods in approval. “Yes. You’ll literally look like the human embodiment of empathy and gold stars.”

Chloe snorts.

Then, before the nerves can sneak in again, she grabs her phone, opens the email from Sandra, and types a reply:

Hi Sandra,

Thank you so much. I’d love to stop by next week and catch up in person. Tuesday morning works perfectly. Just let me know what time is best.

Looking forward to seeing you,
Chloe

She hits send.

There’s no great swell of music. No burst of confetti. Just the quiet click of decision.

But even that feels like something.

She exhales, more certain and grounded than she’s been in ages—a feeling that’s been unfolding slowly, gently, ever since she came home.

It feels good. 

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Tuesday arrives quietly.

Chloe wakes with a strange, humming calm beneath her ribs—it’s not adrenaline nor dread. Just the sharp clarity of something important about to begin.

Beca slips a travel mug of coffee into her hand as she grabs her keys. “If you don’t come back with your teacher ID and a ridiculous stack of gold star stickers, I’ll be personally offended.”

Chloe laughs. “I wouldn’t dare.”

She opts to drive herself, despite Beca’s repeated offers to drop her off. She wants the solitude. The quiet. The chance to sit with the moment and her thoughts before it begins.

She takes the long route to Echo Meadow with the windows down. Hair tucked behind her ears. Beca’s confidence playlist low on the speakers. The same streets she imagines she used to take when her mornings started with morning circles and finger paint. She’s sure the route’s a little different now—stores renamed, a new traffic light here or there—but somehow, her hands still know where to turn.

When she pulls into the gravel lot, the mural on the outside wall greets her like an old friend. A swirl of painted hands in every color, holding up a sun. Across the slightly sun-faded paint, it looks like someone’s added new details—twinkling stars, tiny butterflies near the corner.

She stares at it for a long moment before stepping out of the car.

Inside, the front gate jingles, the chime familiar and welcoming. A dozen tiny shoes sit on the entry shelf, neatly paired, some with light-up soles, some worn soft at the heels. The scent is exactly the same—crayons, lemony disinfectant, and a faint trace of peanut butter.

It hits her like scent memory always does: sudden, specific, and wholly uninvited.

Rainy-day storytime. Her voice curling around the words in The Snowy Day. A kid hugging her waist with peanut butter on their sleeve. Tying shoelaces while singing quietly under her breath.

That version of her feels close now. Not distant. Not gone.

Here. Just underneath the surface.

“Chloe?”

She turns.

Sandra is already walking down the hall toward her, face curled in a kind smile, neck adorned with a sunflower lanyard. 

Her hair looks different, Chloe notes distantly, then wonders how she remembers that.

But the rest—the feeling, the place—feels just the same.

“I wasn’t sure you’d still recognize me,” Chloe says in lieu of a greeting.

Sandra’s smile softens. “I wasn’t sure you’d walk through these doors again.”

She pulls Chloe into a hug. Gently. Carefully. Like people who once shared something tender and real and now find themselves carefully picking up the thread again.

“Come on,” Sandra says. “Let’s walk.”

They move slowly through the hallway. Past bulletin boards with construction-paper trees. Down the hall where Chloe faintly recalls she used to post weekend book suggestions in dry-erase marker. Through the common room, where tiny chairs surround an art table still flecked with glitter.

Chloe lets her fingers graze the top of one of the tiny chairs as they walk.

It feels like something she’s done before. She remembers crouching to pick up a fallen crayon. She recalls a particular brand of glitter that never came out of her hair. Laughter in the walls. She remembers... warmth.

Not scenes. Not names. But the feeling of it.

The hallway bends toward the classrooms. Room B3 still has the same crooked number sign, now laminated with a star beside it. A child’s drawing is taped to the door—something vaguely cat-shaped, its crayon tail curling off the page.

Sandra pauses beside her. Nods at the door. “This room was yours.”

Chloe nods once, looking at the familiar grooves of the door’s wooden grain. She rests her hand on the frame. “I thought so.”

She steps inside carefully, like if she moves too fast, the ghosts of her own memories might scatter. The space looks smaller than she imagined. It looks like there’s a new rug. Freshly painted cubbies. But the light feels like it filters through the blinds the same way—slanted and soft and golden.

There’s a worn copy of The Snowy Day on the bookshelf.

Chloe picks it up.

Her fingers hover over the dog-eared corners, and for a second, she sees it. Not full moments, just flickers: the cover held up during circle time, tiny knees criss-crossed on a rug, a child's voice calling her name with tiny hands reaching up.

And her own voice—gentle, rising and falling in a rhythm that used to come easily.

“Do you want to sit?” Sandra asks.

They settle on the reading rug together. Chloe runs her palm across the fibers, watching how they flatten and spring back up again.

“I don’t remember enough,” Chloe murmurs, almost like an apology. “Not all the details. I don’t remember what it was like day to day.”

Sandra doesn’t interrupt.

“But...parts of me do,” Chloe says, still not looking up. “It’s like my body remembers even if my head doesn’t. Like…it stored it all somewhere. The good. The rhythm. The way I used to move in this space.”

Sandra smiles gently. “I believe that.”

Chloe finally meets her eyes. “I was scared that forgetting meant I didn’t belong here anymore.”

“You belong if you choose to,” Sandra says. “Memories don’t determine whether or not this is yours. You do.”

There’s a beat of quiet between them, full of scuffed floors and faded posters and a lifetime of small kindnesses echoing in the walls.

“I used to sit on this rug with my kids during afternoon reflection,” Chloe says slowly. “I think we called it...rose and thorn?”

Sandra’s smile deepens. “You made that up. Said it helped them process their day.”

Chloe presses a hand to her chest, heart suddenly twisting.

“I think I might want to come back,” she says softly.

Sandra nods. “You don’t have to decide today.”

“I know.” She looks around again. Her voice steadies. “But I think I will.”

Sandra rises first, offering a hand like she’s done a hundred times before.

Chloe takes it.

Outside the classroom, a few kids run past toward the play yard. One of them is wearing a superhero cape made from a pillowcase.

“Miss Chloe,” the child says mid-run, not slowing down. “I like your hair!”

She blinks, startled.

Sandra laughs softly. “Their older sibling had you. They probably heard your name at home.”

Chloe watches the child disappear around the corner, her pulse thumping at that one familiar word.

Miss Chloe.

It lands somewhere deep. Where things still grow.

Somewhere that believes in building things.

At the end of the walkthrough, Chloe doesn’t rush out.

Sandra walks with her to the front gate, and they part with a warm squeeze of the hands instead of a handshake. No fanfare. No formal promises.

Just the kind of farewell you give when you both know it isn’t really a goodbye.

Back in her car, Chloe rests her hands on the wheel, the building still visible in her rearview mirror.

She doesn’t turn the engine on right away.

The interior is quiet except for the faint hum of the air outside. Chloe lets the quiet sit, lets the peace stretch.

In the silence, something inside her begins to settle. Her breath softens. Her chest lightens.

She hadn’t realized how much space fear had taken up until it began to let go. Not all at once—but like fog lifting slowly over water. There’s still uncertainty, still questions, still healing. But the dread is gone.

What remains is joy. Hope. Peace.

She thinks of the child who called her Miss Chloe. Thinks of the faded marker on the bookshelf, of Sandra’s voice saying, You made that up.

She doesn’t need to chase her past anymore.

She just has to listen for the echoes and let them shape who she is now.

Chloe turns the key in the ignition. The speakers kick on mid-song. Beca’s playlist is still on shuffle, and Florence Welch’s voice rings out:

“I’m always dragging that horse around / All of his questions such a mournful sound / Tonight I'm gonna bury that horse in the ground…”

She lets it play with a smile on her face and the words curling around her lips.

And she drives home.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The house smells like dinner and clean laundry when Chloe steps inside.

Beca’s in the kitchen, barefoot in an oversized flannel, stirring something warm and delicious in a saucepan. R&B plays low in the background—deep, bassy, like it’s there just to fill the spaces between breath and memory.

Chloe kicks off her shoes and pads toward her, silent.

Beca turns just as Chloe wraps her arms around her from behind, cheek resting between her shoulder blades.

“Well,” Beca says into the quiet, “you either had a spiritual awakening or you’re about to cry into my sweatshirt. Could go either way.”

Chloe huffs a small laugh, her voice muffled. “Why not both?”

Beca covers Chloe’s hands with her own and waits. She doesn’t press. She never does.

“I didn’t think I’d remember anything,” Chloe says eventually. “Not really. But it was there. Not in pictures, not all at once, but I could feel it. Like my body remembered the rhythm even if my brain couldn’t fill in the edges.”

Beca says nothing, just keeps listening.

“So much of who I was…it’s still in me,” Chloe continues. “But I’m not trying to become her again. I’m honestly excited to figure out who I am now.”

There’s a pause.

Then, Beca nods, voice soft and reassuring. “That’s amazing, Chlo.”

Chloe loosens her arms and steps around to face her fully. “I told Sandra I might want to come back.”

Beca’s eyes soften. “Yeah?” she says gently. “That feels right.”

“It really does.”

Beca gives the pot a final stir, then slides it off the heat. “So...does this mean I get to help plan classroom playlists again?”

Chloe blinks, startled. “Wait. You helped me with that?”

“You made me curate an entire unit around weather songs. I nearly lost my mind trying to find a kid-safe version of It’s Raining Men. I ended up creating one instead.”

Chloe breaks into full-on laughter, clutching the edge of the counter for balance.

“Oh my god. That sounds exactly like something I’d do.”

“You’re truly my chaos wrapped in sunshine,” Beca says fondly.

Later, they curl up on the couch with tea. Chloe scrolls through her old Pinterest board titled Classroom Ideas. One pin catches her eye: Rainy Day Box: Stickers + Emotion Cards.

She clicks it open, adds a note beside it:
Update for new class? Add it ‘rose & thorn’ circle?

Beca leans over. “That’s the thing you used to do with the kids, right?”

Chloe nods. “Sandra reminded me. We’d check in during circle time. Their ‘rose’ was the best part of their day, and the ‘thorn’ was the hard part.”

“You’re really good at that,” Beca says. “Helping people name the pieces. Even the ones that don’t have words yet.”

Chloe tilts her head. “Does that include myself?”

“Especially yourself.”

That night, long after the tea has gone cold and the house hums with quiet, Chloe opens her laptop again. The draft email to Sandra still waits.

She finishes it–calmly, clearly, without overthinking:

Hi Sandra,

Thank you again for today. Being back at Echo Meadow meant more to me than I can explain. 

I still have a lot I’m working through, but I’d love to try easing back in if there’s space.

Would a trial day—or even a trial week—be something we could talk about? Just to see how it feels, on both sides. 

I know I’m still finding my footing, but I want to try.

Warmly,
Chloe

She clicks send before she can talk herself out of it.

There’s no lightning bolt. No cinematic music swell.

Just a quiet exhale. The soft settling of something true.

Ten minutes later, as she’s brushing her teeth and debating whether to update her old sticker chart template, her phone buzzes on the counter.

From: Sandra L. – Echo Meadow Preschool

Hi Chloe,

We’d love that. A trial week sounds perfect. Let’s keep it flexible and low-pressure. I’ll send you a schedule draft by Friday.

You’ve got more than a place here. You’ve got a community ready to welcome you back.

Talk soon,
Sandra

Director, Echo Meadow Preschool

Chloe blinks down at the message, heart full in the quietest, deepest way.

She finds Beca on the couch, scrolling TikTok with her signature true crime at 1 a.m. look.

Chloe doesn’t say anything, just drops beside her and hugs her from the side, arms wrapped tight.

Without missing a beat, Beca kisses her hair. “You emailed her?”

Chloe nods. “She said yes. Trial week.”

A beat. Then a soft, low murmur:

“Hell yeah. That’s my girl.”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Chloe spends the next two days rediscovering parts of herself tucked into dusty folders and forgotten flash drives.

She pulls her old teaching box from the closet, wedged between Beca’s backup audio cables and a Christmas wreath they never hung. Inside houses many tools: a crumpled poster about sharing, a bag of googly eyes, her sticker chart template (laminated within an inch of its life), and three emotion puppets that still smell faintly of tempera paint.

She unearths a CD labeled “Circle Time Favorites – Chloe’s Picks,” and turns it over in her hands like a relic.

There’s something surreal about it. Like opening a time capsule she forgot she buried.

Beca peeks into the living room that evening to find Chloe cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by piles: 

1. Keep
2. Upgrade
3. Dear God, Why Did I Use That Font?

“You nesting?” Beca asks.

“Something like that,” Chloe murmurs, picking through a bundle of sensory bin ideas scrawled in colored marker. “Feels like I’m packing for a version of myself I’m still getting reacquainted with.”

Beca moves closer, gently toeing a stack labeled “Group Games (Rainy Days)” out of the way so she can sit beside her. “Well, I made you another playlist.”

Chloe looks up. “For confidence?”

“For teaching. And the kids. But mostly for you.”

She hands over her phone.

The playlist is titled: “Miss Chloe Returns ✨”

Chloe scrolls. “This has the VeggieTales theme song on it.”

“You said they liked it,” Beca offers in a way of explanation.

Chloe grins and presses a kiss to her cheek in gratitude.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

By Friday afternoon, Chloe finds herself at the kitchen island with her laptop open, a blank Google Doc blinking back at her.

She titles it: Ideas – Spring Curriculum

The name alone feels audacious.

The cursor blinks, expectant.

Three words appear: Emotions unit start

Then deletes them.

Then retypes them again, slower this time.

She opens her old lesson plan folder from a cloud backup, most of it untouched since before the accident. The filenames read like fragments of an old language: Kindness Week, Farm Animal Sorting, Monday Sensory Bin - Spring Flowers. Each one stirs something. Familiarity, maybe. But also the ever present distance.

They read like a language she once spoke fluently but now has to relearn.

A soft current of doubt creeps in beneath her ribs. It creeps in again, quiet but sharp.

What if she’s forgotten how to do this? 

She pushes the laptop away and exhales, rubbing at the bridge of her nose.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Beca’s voice is warm behind her. Chloe looks up to find her standing in the doorway, holding a small bowl of cut strawberries and a fork like it’s some kind of sacred offering. Her hoodie sleeves are shoved up, hair slightly askew. The picture of sleepy domesticity.

“I figured the creative spiral would hit around minute thirty-five,” Beca says, nudging the bowl toward her. “Also, you haven’t eaten any fruit in four days and I’m worried you’ll forget how vitamins work.”

Chloe huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t say anything yet.

Beca slides into the seat across from her, looking down at the screen. “You wrote a title.”

Chloe nods, voice small. “And deleted everything else twice.”

“You wanna tell me what your inner Chloe monologue sounds like right now?”

“What if I’m not the Chloe they remember? What if I mess it up in front of tiny humans who are weirdly good at sensing fear?” Chloe sighs, stabbing a strawberry with the fork, then immediately forgets to eat it. “I know it’s just one week. And the week’s not even here yet. But I felt so sure last week. Now it’s like my brain is whispering all the worst-case scenarios.”

Beca hums softly. “That’s anxiety’s greatest trick. It shows up after the decision, not before.”

“I want to be ready.”

“You are ready.”

Chloe meets her eyes. “But what if I’m not the Chloe they remember?”

Beca says plainly. “You’re not the Chloe they remember.”

Chloe stiffens slightly.

Beca reaches for her hand across the island, a soothing balm. She threads their fingers together for better measure. “But that’s not a bad thing.”

“You’re not the Chloe they remember. You’re this Chloe. The one who fought her way through grief and memory and found her way back to joy. The one who still gets excited about finger paints and emotional resilience. You’re still you. Just with more layers,” she states. “That’s what they’ll see. That’s enough.”

Chloe blinks fast, but the tears don’t fall.

Instead, she swallows. Breathes. Squeezes Beca’s hand back.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Yeah. Okay.”

They sit like that for a while. The strawberries disappear between them. The cursor keeps blinking.

Eventually, Chloe starts typing again.

This time she doesn’t stop.

She builds out a rough outline—an Emotions Week opener centered around color theory and feelings charts. A storytime list. A plan for a sensory station using dyed rice and scooping tools. It’s simple. Gentle. Just enough.

By the time the clock reads nearly midnight, the page has enough to print.

Chloe saves it and leans back in her chair, stretching.

Then, she looks over at Beca, who’s now curled up on the couch with one of Chloe’s old classroom books in her lap—The Feelings Book by Todd Parr.

“What are you doing?”

“Reminding myself what envy looks like when drawn by a preschool illustrator,” Beca says, deadpan.

Chloe laughs, gets up, and joins her.

Outside, the city breathes in time with the multitude of lives it hosts within its space.

Inside, Chloe lets herself imagine her name written on a classroom roster again.

Not because she’s reclaiming what she lost.

But because she’s quietly choosing it—this time, with both eyes open.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

On the first day of her trial week, Chloe wakes up before her alarm.

The sky outside is still soft and undecided—slate blue with hints of morning gold just starting to unfurl. Her clothes for the day are already laid out across the chair: comfy flats, dark jeans, and her favorite dark blue cardigan.

The laminated Ms. Chloe badge sits on the dresser, waiting.

The same one she used to wear every morning, back when her life followed a rhythm of juice boxes, circle time, and crayon catastrophes.

It feels both distant and near. Like a melody she almost forgot but can still hum along to.

Beca’s voice is groggy behind her as she sits up in bed. “Nervous?”

Chloe pauses, pulling her hair into a low ponytail. “Not…scared. Just…aware. Like my body remembers this routine but my brain’s still catching up.”

Beca yawns, stretching out beneath the sheets. “You’ve got this. They’re going to love you.”

“You mean despite the glitter-related trauma I’m bringing into the room?”

Beca snorts. “They’ll be honored.”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Beca’s already in the kitchen when Chloe pads out, two travel mugs steaming beside a paper bag of breakfast pastries. She’s wearing a hoodie and joggers, hair pulled into a loose bun.

“No,” she says before Chloe can even open her mouth. “I’m driving you today.”

Chloe raises a brow. “You sure? You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to,” Beca says, pressing one of the mugs into her hand. “But I want to. For emotional support. And also to make sure you eat the entire muffin this time.”

Chloe bites back a smile. “That muffin is enormous.”

“And your nerves will pretend you’re full. So I’m here to overrule them.”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

They take Beca’s car this time.

The “Miss Chloe Returns ✨” playlist is still playing, low and steady in the background. Chloe watches the morning unfold through the passenger window—the slow bloom of sun on sleepy streets, familiar turns that once belonged to her routine.

Halfway there, Beca reaches over and takes her hand without looking. Doesn’t say anything. Just holds it.

Chloe squeezes back.

“You doing okay?” Beca asks gently.

Chloe nods. “I am. It kind of feels like pre-stage butterflies rather than panic. I can’t wait to do this.”

“That’s good,” Beca says. “Butterflies mean you care. And you’re going to do great, Chlo.”

They pull into the gravel lot just as the first few cars start to trickle in. The mural on the side wall greets her again like an old friend: painted hands holding up a sun, soft additions of stars and butterflies tucked into corners she noticed last Tuesday.

Chloe unbuckles but doesn’t open the door just yet.

Beca reaches over and brushes her fingers gently along the edge of Chloe’s sleeve.

“You’ve already done the hardest part,” she says. “You came back.”

Chloe exhales slowly, her pulse beginning to steady.

“I’ll be here,” Beca adds. “After. Muffin part two is already scheduled.”

Chloe leans across the console and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you. For all of it.”

“Go on,” Beca nudges. “Be Miss Chloe.”

Inside, Sandra greets her with a clipboard and that same calm, grounding smile.

“You look ready,” she says, eyes kind. “Your trial week starts gently—today’s just a half day. We’ll ease you in. You’ll be partnered with Jules today.”

Chloe breathes a little easier. “Thanks. That’s perfect.”

She’s quickly introduced to Miss Jules, one of the assistant teachers, in the Yellow Room—a space for four-year-olds filled with block towers, puppet corners, and wall art painted in eager handprints.

For the first ten minutes, Chloe mostly watches. The kids buzz around her like dragonflies, quick and curious.

Then one of them—a girl with wild curls and sneakers that light up—stops right in front of her.

“You’re new,” she says plainly.

Chloe crouches down. “Sort of. I used to be here a while ago. I’m Ms. Chloe.”

The girl narrows her eyes. “Are you gonna read stories?”

“I hope so.”

“Okay.” She reaches out and grabs Chloe’s hand. “We’re making pancake towers.”

And just like that, she’s in.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

They sing songs.

Chloe messes up the words to The Itsy Bitsy Spider and a kid corrects her with great authority.

She forgets where the tissues are kept and has to ask Jules mid-nose-blow emergency.

During circle time, she introduces “rose & thorn” in a soft voice, but the kids get it, offering answers like:

• “My rose is that I got new shoes.”
  
  
• “My thorn is that Henry stole my orange crayon.”
  
  
• “My thorn is that I accidentally licked glue.” (followed by absolutely no remorse)
  
  

It’s messy. Slightly chaotic. A few things go sideways.

But it also feels like magic.

Chloe feels the rhythm coming back—not in whole phrases, but in beats.

The soft pat-pat of a hand on her knee when a child wants attention. The careful guidance of tiny hands trying to cut construction paper. The small, fierce joy when a tower of blocks doesn’t fall.

And at some point during snack time, when she’s wiping peanut butter off a napkin, it hits her:

This isn’t a job she used to do.

It’s a place she still fits into.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

After the last child is picked up and the glitter’s been swept (as much as glitter can be swept), Chloe finds herself at the sink, washing her hands slowly, like her fingers need extra time to let go of the day.

Sandra reappears in the doorway just as Chloe is drying her hands on a paper towel.

“Well?” Sandra asks, voice gentle.

Chloe lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “It felt…good. Not perfect. But really, really wonderful.”

Sandra’s smile is warm and knowing. “That’s what I hoped for.”

They walk out together, chatting about the rest of the week. As they reach the front gate, Sandra squeezes her shoulder. “I’ll follow up tomorrow with notes and a plan. But Chloe—you were in it today. Really in it. That matters most.”

Chloe nods, blinking fast. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

Outside, the sky is tilting toward golden hour, and Beca’s car is already parked at the curb.

She’s leaning casually against the passenger door, sunglasses on, a bottle of cold green tea in one hand. Chloe can’t help but smile.

“Hey,” Beca says as she walks up. “You survived!”

“I did more than survive,” Chloe says, cheeks flushed with sun and something else—something like belonging. “I think…I actually fit.”

Beca doesn’t say anything right away, just reaches over and pulls Chloe into a long, steady hug. Her arms wrap around her waist like they’re anchoring something real. Something newly planted.

“You hungry?” she asks eventually, lips brushing Chloe’s temple. “Because I made a reservation.”

Chloe pulls back in surprise. “You what?”

“Nothing fancy,” Beca clarifies. “Just somewhere with good bread and questionable mood lighting. I figured, if we celebrate everyone else’s firsts, we should definitely celebrate yours.”

Chloe blinks, laughing softly. “You’re kind of ridiculous.”

“You say that now, but wait until you taste their rosemary butter rolls.”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

They end up at a cozy bistro tucked into a neighborhood not far from home. It smells like rosemary, garlic, and the kind of butter that should come with a health warning. The windows fog slightly as dusk settles in.

They sit near the back, hands tangled across the table, plates quickly filling with comforting things: roasted chicken, crisp greens, pasta laced with lemon and capers. Chloe tears into a roll like it holds the answers to life. 

The conversation drifts between silly and sincere—Chloe recounts her attempt to open the glitter cabinet and getting ambushed by a cloud of sparkles. Beca complains that her newest pretentious artist and that their server looks like he’s about to recommend a podcast.

Then, between bites and laughter, Chloe sets her fork down and says, “I didn’t realize how much I missed feeling…in it. Not just watching my life happen, but being part of it. Teaching. Laughing. That rhythm.”

Beca looks at her—not intense, not weighty. Just steady. “You’re more than back in it. You’re leading it.”

Chloe tilts her head, lips twitching. “I didn’t feel like some old version of me today. I just felt like me. The now-me.”

Beca bumps her knee gently under the table. “The you I cherish most.”

Chloe doesn’t cry. She doesn’t need to. Instead, she reaches across the table, warm fingers wrapping around Beca’s.

“I felt good today,” she says, simple and sure. “And I want more of it.”

They linger long after the plates are cleared, sharing a tiny crème brûlée that Beca insists is “a scam in a ramekin.” Chloe leans in close, shoulder against hers, full in more ways than one.

When they get home, Chloe sets her bag down, kicks off her shoes, and spins—once, loose-limbed and giddy—in the middle of the living room.

Beca snorts. “Uh, okay, ballerina.”

Chloe grins. “It was a good day. Like I didn’t have to chase something or prove something. I just…showed up. And that was enough.”

Beca walks over, catches her by the waist, and tugs her in. “You are enough. You always have been.”

Chloe rests her forehead against hers. “Thanks for driving me. And for dinner. And for making sure I ate that muffin.”

“Anytime,” Beca murmurs. “Always.”

And there, in the soft hush of their home, Chloe doesn’t have to remind herself she’s okay.

She just is.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Wednesday begins with finger paint and ends with googly eyes stuck to the bottom of Chloe’s shoe.

The sun filters gently through the blinds as she steps into the Yellow Room. The familiar scents of lemon disinfectant, washable paint, and peanut butter greet her like a strange but comforting welcome home.

She hangs her bag on the back hook—the one with her name already printed again, “Ms. Chloe” in big cheerful letters, thanks to Jules—and smooths her blouse’s sleeves. It still feels surreal. Like she stepped through a memory and into a moment that’s both brand new and hauntingly familiar.

Within minutes, the room is buzzing with activity. A little boy named Ezra dumps the entire bin of Lego tiles on the rug and announces he’s “building a dragon palace that breathes LEGOS.” A girl with pigtails insists Chloe needs to “cut out 84 butterflies” for their mural, “because that’s how many friends she wants to have.”

Chloe obliges both requests—butterflies in one hand, LEGO dragon consultation in the other—her laughter light and easy.

She forgets to check the clock.

Somewhere during circle time, while Jules reads Giraffes Can’t Dance, Chloe looks around the room and feels it: she’s not just observing anymore. She’s inside it. Moving with the rhythm.

One of the younger kids leans against her side, face sticky from applesauce, and whispers, “You smell like sunshine.”

Chloe blinks. “Thank you?”

The kid shrugs. “It’s a good smell.”

That afternoon, Chloe discovers that the sensory bin has been filled with kinetic sand and hidden googly eyes. The result is chaotic in the best way. A boy named Tommy finds one and immediately names it “Googly Sam” and insists Chloe help him build a cave for it made entirely out of popsicle sticks.

She does. It collapses twice. Tommy declares this “part of the design.”

At recess, a child drags her across the playground to show her an “acorn family” they made out of mulch and bottle caps. Another insists Chloe be the dragon in their princess adventure, and Chloe roars on cue, arms flailing with dramatic flair that earns squeals of laughter.

By 2:00 p.m., she has paint on her jeans, glitter in her hair, and a Post-it note from Jules that simply reads:

YOU SURVIVED WEDNESDAY. HIGH FIVE. 💪

Chloe tucks it into her pocket and grins. Sandra pokes her head in around snack time with a thumbs-up and a quiet, “Keep it up.”

She doesn’t second-guess it. She just smiles and keeps going.

On Thursday, it rains.

Rainy days in preschool land are their own specific brand of chaos.

Indoor recess is loud. Someone gets stuck inside a foam tunnel. Two kids cry because their socks got wet. Someone else brings in a worm “to save it,” which causes a brief moral dilemma about life, dirt, and classroom rules.

But amid the noise and slippery socks, something inside Chloe settles even deeper.

There’s a moment when two kids get into a shouting match over who gets the blue bean bag chair. Chloe crouches beside them, speaks softly, waits for their shoulders to relax before gently redirecting.

Later, Jules murmurs, “Nice work,” and hands her a spare granola bar from her desk drawer like it’s a badge of honor.

When Chloe sits down to eat her own lunch later—alone for a quiet minute—she finds a familiar thermos of soup in her bag, and a post-it note stuck to the lid in Beca’s familiar looping print:

You are, in fact, smarter than a group of four-year-olds. Just barely. But still. Proud of you. — B

Chloe laughs quietly to herself, warm and full, and decides right then to laminate the note later. She keeps the laminated note in her pocket the rest of the day.

After lunch, she reads The Feelings Book to the group—voices rising and falling in tune with the illustrations. One child interrupts every page to comment on their own feelings, which range from “crabby like a lobster” to “sad because the rain ruined recess AND my cool hair.”

Chloe rolls with it. She always did have a soft spot for the dramatic ones and this time, it’s not different, missing memories or not.

By the end of the day, she’s wiped down four tables, mediated a crayon fight, and accidentally worn a child’s sparkly sticker on her back for most of the afternoon.

Sandra catches her before she leaves and says gently, “You’re finding your pace.”

Chloe nods, surprised by how true it feels.

On Friday, there’s a mishap with the bubble machine.

Someone knocks over the bubble machine five minutes in, turning the classroom into a slippery wonderland of foam and chaos. Jules facepalms. Chloe laughs so hard she snorts.

She ends up singing “The More We Get Together” with her hands covered in soap and at least three children hanging off her legs like koalas.

Later, one kid starts crying because they popped a bubble “too beautifully” and now it’s gone.

Chloe kneels beside them, voice gentle and sure. “That’s the thing about beautiful things. They’re here for a little while and then they make room for more beautiful things.”

The child stares at her solemnly. “That’s sad.”

“It can be,” Chloe agrees. “But it also means there’s always more room for other wonderful things to come.”

The kid considers this, then nods. “Okay.”

By Friday afternoon, the room is quieter. Exhausted in the best way.

Chloe helps stack chairs, wiping down the last of the rainbow glue spill from the floor, and watches as Jules hands out a few final notes to the kids headed home.

Sandra appears in the doorway as Chloe ties off a trash bag.

“Well?” she asks.

Chloe glances around the room. Her shoes are still damp. There’s paint on her sleeve. A glitter sticker is stuck to her elbow. But her shoulders are relaxed as she nods.

“We’d love to have you back,” Sandra says, without preamble. “The kids love you. Jules says you’ve got the patience of a saint. And I’ve seen the way you move in the room—you listen more than you speak. That’s a gift.”

Chloe blinks, surprised. “Really?”

She gestures toward Chloe’s desk, where a tiny folded piece of construction paper sits with her name scribbled on the front.

Chloe opens it.

Inside is a crayon drawing of what might be a dragon, or a giraffe, or both. Underneath it says:

“To Ms. Cloey. I like when you smile.”

Her throat catches.

Sandra nods. “Really. If you want it, the position’s yours. Four days a week, to start. With room to grow.”

Chloe doesn’t hesitate this time. “Yes,” she says, firm and soft all at once. “I want the position.”

That evening, Chloe takes the long way home. Windows down, Beca’s playlist playing on low. The sun slips below the horizon in brushstrokes of rose and amber, and she lets it wash over her—this steady, pulsing joy.

When she walks in the door, Beca doesn’t ask how it went. From a glance, she just knows.

She just pulls her into a hug and whispers, “Welcome home, Miss Chloe.”

Then, Beca takes her out to celebrate.

They end up at a Korean restaurant that smells of kimchi and barbecued pork. Their table is near the back, where a K-Pop song is playing on the speakers mounted on the walls.

Chloe doesn’t talk about lesson plans or name charts. Not right away.

Instead, they eat kimchi, sip from mugs of barley tea, and let the week melt off their shoulders. Beca listens with that quiet attentiveness she’s mastered, adding dry commentary that makes Chloe laugh until her side hurts.

Halfway through their meal, Chloe says, “One of the kids accidentally licked glue and tried to pretend it was a science experiment.”

Beca lifts her spoon in a mock salute. “A pioneer in the STEM field.”

They share dessert and Chloe rests her chin on her hand, watching Beca light up while talking about the album she’s working on.

“I love watching you in your element,” Chloe says quietly.

Beca looks up in the middle of her story about her current favorite artist. “Right back at you.”

When they get home, Chloe spins in the middle of their living room, arms stretched wide, a soft smile on her lips.

Beca raises an eyebrow. “What are we doing?”

“Just...being full.”

Beca crosses the room in three steps, loops her arms around Chloe’s waist, and kisses her soundly. “You’re a menace to living rooms everywhere, Ms. Chloe.”

“And you love it.”

“Yeah,” Beca says. “I really do.”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Later that night, Chloe curls up on the couch with a new notebook. Not for lesson plans. Not yet.

She lights a soy wax candle, grabs a pen, and writes at the top of the page:

Things I’m Becoming

Underneath, she lists things she knows:

• A teacher again
  
  
• A partner with space in her life for joy
  
  
• A person who can laugh at bubble machine disasters
  
  
• A Chloe who’s not chasing the past
  
  
• Just…me
  
  

She closes the notebook gently. Breathes in the scent of vanilla and old pages. Leans her head on Beca’s shoulder.

And for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t feel like she’s returning to her life.

She feels like she’s making it.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The following Monday, Chloe walks into Echo Meadow not as a guest, but as a teacher.

Her name’s on the roster again.

“Ms. Chloe – Yellow Room – M/W.”

There it is. Typed in 12pt Arial, bolded.

Somehow, it feels much bigger than it looks.

The morning unfolds like a song she almost forgot the lyrics to, but still hums instinctively.

Backpacks thud against cubby shelves. Velcro shoes come undone too early. Snack time crumbs scatter like confetti. The usual sounds of beginning again.

Jules greets her with a cheerful, “Morning, partner!” and a fist bump. Chloe returns it with a smile that feels like it belongs here.

By 9:15 a.m., they’ve read Brown Bear, Brown Bear, built a collaborative zoo from cardboard blocks, and named one particularly unruly stuffed bear “Mr. Destruction.”

And then, it happens.

A boy named Jacob—sweet and quiet all morning—lets out a piercing, guttural scream when his tower of blocks collapses. Not a tantrum. Not a whine. A full-body grief. His little fists shake. His face crumples.

The room falls silent.

Jules is in the middle of helping another kid when she shoots Chloe a helpless glance. Chloe crouches next to Jacob, her body tense, unsure whether to reach for him or give him space.

“I—I worked so hard on it,” he sobs.

Chloe’s brain scrambles. Soothing voice? Check. Breathing exercises? Tried. He’s still spiraling.

Then—like lightning—it hits her:

“Big feelings need safe spaces.”

The phrase. The one she scribbled weeks ago, not knowing if it would ever matter again.

She nods toward the calm corner she helped set up last week—beanbags, squishy toys, a feelings chart laminated and taped low on the wall.

“Jacob,” she says softly, “you don’t have to feel okay right now. But do you want to sit with me in the cozy corner until it doesn’t feel so big?”

He doesn’t respond, but he lets her guide him there.

They sit. He sobs for three more minutes, hiccuping between gasps. Then finally, eyes red, he whispers, “Can I squeeze the frog?”

She hands it to him.

When circle time starts again, he joins without prompting.

Later, while cleaning paint cups, Jules murmurs, “That was really good. He never calms that fast.”

Chloe doesn’t respond right away. Her heart is still galloping. But slowly—like sand settling in water—it eases.

She didn’t fix everything.

She didn’t need to.

She made space for it.

And that, she thinks, is what teaching really is.

Wednesday brings its own surprise.

A parent lingers at drop-off. Mrs. Kline, whose daughter Isla once dubbed Chloe “The Queen of Circle Time,” stands by the doorway, hesitant.

“Can I ask something?” she says gently.

Chloe braces.

“I just… someone mentioned your accident. That you lost some memory?”

There it is. The ache that used to sting sharp. Now, it’s just familiar.

“Yes,” Chloe says calmly. “Almost a year ago. It took time. Still does, some days. But I’m here now. And I love working with your daughter.”

Mrs. Kline studies her for a moment, then smiles, tentative but genuine. “She loves you. She talks about you every day.”

Later, in the quiet of their bedroom, Chloe will write in her notebook:

I am not my before. But I am here. And the kids see that first.

But in this current afternoon, Chloe realizes she’s left her lunch at home.

An hour later, Beca appears in the doorway of the Yellow Room, holding a warm poke bowl and a comically large insulated thermos that’s the size of Chloe’s head.

“You forgot to eat,” Beca says without preamble. “Again.”

Chloe grins, trying to play it cool.

Beca drops to the floor next to the sensory bin without prompting. Within thirty seconds, she’s surrounded by preschoolers.

“You’re Miss Chloe’s friend!”

“Do you live in her house?”

“Why is your hair so wavy?”

Beca doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes. Yes. And for style.”

Chloe watches from across the room—how naturally Beca fits here, not because she belongs to the classroom, but because she belongs to Chloe.

And for a split second, Chloe sees it from the outside.

A life.

Hers.

Held together not by remembering everything, but by being here for what matters now.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

That weekend, they visit a bookstore. Chloe wanders the education aisle not out of nostalgia, but with intent.

“I’m thinking of pitching a Saturday parent-child class,” she tells Beca, flipping through a workbook on emotion-based storytelling. “Maybe something gentle. Play-forward.”

Beca nods. “That sounds great.”

“You haven’t heard the pitch.”

“I’ll still think it’s great.”

Chloe doesn’t roll her eyes. Not really. Instead, she drops the workbook into their basket. On the drive home, she opens her phone and starts typing:

Spring Parent Workshop – Draft

It feels good.

Not because it’s a return.

But because it’s new. And it belongs to her.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Sunday arrives with sunlit ease and clear skies—the kind of morning that practically begs for movement and fresh air.

Aubrey picks them up at 8:00 a.m. sharp, punctual to the second as always. She’s got a hydration pack, SPF 50, and the energy of someone who’s already done yoga and reorganized a closet.

Beca, by contrast, climbs into the backseat in oversized sunglasses and an emotional support workout zip up, clutching her to-go coffee mug like it’s her last tether to civilization.

“I’m only emotionally prepared for a casual stroll,” she declares, voice raspy with sleep and caffeine.

“We’re going uphill, Becs,” Stacie deadpans from the passenger seat. She’s in full athleisure—leggings, trail shoes, and a ponytail that somehow looks editorial. Not a drop of sweat in sight.

Beca waves her off. “I said what I said.”

Chloe snorts and reaches over to adjust Beca’s sunglasses. “You’ll live.”

They hike the Los Liones Trail, one of Chloe’s old favorites. It’s shaded and coastal, the incline just challenging enough to remind you that legs were, in fact, invented to suffer.

Aubrey leads at a militant pace. Stacie follows behind her easily, her long legs giving her an unfair advantage. 

Beca huffs along near the back, muttering dramatic things like “Nature is a scam” and “I could be horizontal right now.”

Chloe walks beside her, amused. Their hands bump occasionally. Beca grumbles, but doesn’t move away. Instead, she links her pinky with Chloe’s before intertwining their fingers together fully. Chloe’s heart gives an affectionate tug.

About halfway up, they pause at a scenic overlook. The ocean sprawls out in shimmering blues beneath the curve of the coastline. Eucalyptus trees rustle above, and the whole world feels briefly suspended in stillness.

Chloe sits on a sun-warmed boulder, breath catching up to her.

Beca drops beside her with a dramatic groan. “Scale of one to cardiac arrest? I'm a strong seven.”

Chloe laughs, cheeks flushed. “I’m like…a two. You’re being dramatic.”

“I am suffering for your serotonin, woman,” Beca mumbles.

But then she nudges Chloe’s knee with hers and passes over her water bottle without being asked.

They sit in silence for a while.

Just wind and waves and something softer stirring between them.

And it’s then that Chloe feels it—again. Quiet. Certain.

Love, not as a high or a plunge, but a stillness. A breath held between two people who’ve weathered storms and still choose to show up.

She doesn’t say it yet. Not because she’s afraid.

But because she wants the words to land in stillness. Not at a lookout. Not at the height of motion.

She wants them whispered on a lazy Saturday morning. Or tucked into a cup of tea. Or said when Beca’s folding laundry and doesn’t expect anything but Chloe’s presence.

So instead, she threads their fingers together.

Beca gives her a side-glance, smile tugging her mouth. Squeezes once.

They don’t say much on the way down.

They just walk. Side by side together.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

They return in the early afternoon, pleasantly sore and sun-kissed, sneakers kicked off in the entryway like shedding the weight of the trail.

The house is cool and quiet.

Chloe drops her keys into the bowl by the door and exhales, long and satisfied. “Okay, you were right,” she admits as she unclips her water bottle. “That hike was, like…a solid eight out of ten.”

“Eight out of ten?” Beca groans from the couch where she’s already collapsed. “I donated my hamstrings for that view. I want extra credit.”

Chloe laughs and nudges her knee before disappearing into the kitchen. She emerges a few minutes later with cold lemon water and a small bowl of cut up oranges.

Beca squints at the fruit. “We hiking now or picnicking?”

“Recovery. Hydration. Vitamin C,” Chloe says, plopping down next to her. “Science, Mitchell.”

Beca accepts the glass and bumps their shoulders together in thanks. “Look at us. Hiking and adulting.”

They fall into a comfortable stillness. No music. No background noise.

Just the hum of the fridge, the creak of the couch as they shift closer together. Chloe’s head finds Beca’s shoulder. Beca’s fingers drift absentmindedly along her arm in light, looping circles.

It’s not just restful—it’s grounding. That quiet, rich kind of Sunday softness that tucks itself beneath your skin.

Chloe doesn’t speak, but she thinks about it again.

The words.

I love you.

They pulse behind her teeth like a heartbeat.

She could say it right now. It would be true. Honest.

But something about this—this slow, sacred hush—feels like the promise before the promise. Like the breath before the whisper.

So instead, she tilts her face up and kisses Beca’s jaw gently. Then leans her forehead against her neck, breathing her in.

“Hey,” Beca murmurs, her voice low and fond. “What was that for?”

“Nothing. Just thankful for you.”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

They stay like that until the sun shifts through the windows and dusts everything gold. Eventually, hunger rouses them again.

They end up cooking together—nothing fancy. Just Chloe’s go-to pasta primavera and a side of whatever’s still edible in the fridge. Beca’s in charge of chopping vegetables. Chloe takes over the seasoning, standing behind her with exaggerated chef poses and terrible French accents.

“I am ze culinary genius,” Chloe declares as she aggressively cracks pepper over the pot.

“You’re about to be ze disaster,” Beca replies, dodging the flying peppercorns.

They eat at the kitchen island, toes touching under stools, trading bites and clinking forks like they’ve got nowhere else to be.

After dinner, Chloe pulls out an old board game Stacie left behind during one of their previous nights in. Beca insists she doesn’t remember the rules but proceeds to destroy Chloe at Ticket to Ride within forty-five minutes.

“Explain yourself,” Chloe demands, eyeing the train tokens scattered like confetti. “You said you were bad at this!”

“I am bad,” Beca shrugs, smirking. “You're just worse.”

Chloe throws a coaster at her. Beca catches it.

They end the night under a shared blanket on the couch, a comfort movie playing low in the background. Neither of them really watches it. Chloe lies curled into Beca’s side, fingers lightly tracing the fabric of her hoodie.

“Tomorrow,” Chloe murmurs, “I want to show you what I’ve been planning for the emotions unit.”

“I’d love that,” Beca replies. “Especially if there are puppets involved.”

“There will definitely be puppets.”

They laugh quietly.

And when the credits roll, and the city softens around them again, Chloe thinks—maybe next Sunday, she’ll say it. The words she’s been holding like a gift.

But for tonight, this is more than enough.

This is home.

And home is wherever Beca is.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

By next Friday, Chloe’s fully into the thick of teaching. Sure, there are still hiccups—someone spills milk on a math mat, a shoe goes mysteriously missing, and a three-year-old tells her, very seriously, that nap time is “a scam.”

But the rhythm is back. Real. Familiar. Hers.

Sandra pulls her aside that afternoon with a short, kind smile.

“We’d love to make this permanent. If you’re ready.”

Chloe doesn’t hesitate. “I am.”

They hug, quiet and mutual. There’s no fireworks. No applause. Just the solid feel of someone saying yes to their life again.

At the end of the day, little Isla brings her a drawing with ten pink hearts and a stick figure labeled “Ms. C (Cool Teacher).”

Later that night, Chloe pins it on their fridge—not to remember who she was, but to celebrate who she is.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

That evening, Chloe walks home from the corner café with two iced teas in hand and the biggest smile she’s worn in weeks.

She finds Beca in the living room, hunched over her laptop, headphones askew. One look at Chloe’s face and she knows.

“They finally hired you full time?”

Chloe nods, too full of emotion to speak.

Beca sets the laptop aside. Stands.

And Chloe finally says it.

“I love you.”

It slips out like a breath, like gravity. No buildup. No announcement.

Just truth.

Still holding the teas, she looks at Beca and repeats, softer this time. “I love you.”

Beca doesn’t blink. Doesn’t make a sound. She just closes the distance between them and kisses her, slow and steady and all in.

When they part, Chloe feels it—that soft click of things aligning. That exhale of a moment waited for, earned.

“I love you too,” Beca says.

And that’s it.

No grand monologue.

Just them. In their home. In this ordinary, extraordinary life they’ve built.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Chloe updates the magnets on the fridge: her official schedule is now posted under a “WELCOME BACK” sticker courtesy of Stacie.

Isla’s heart drawing remains front and center.

There’s a new pinboard on the wall labeled “Lesson Ideas + Little Joys”—featuring sticky notes with scribbled half-plans like:

• “Feelings scavenger hunt??”
  
  
• “‘Rose & Thorn’ circle: add music?”
  
  
• “Ask Beca to record kid-friendly beat for storytime”
  
  

She’s started journaling fully again too. Just a few sentences a night.

Sometimes it’s reflective.

Sometimes it’s things like:

"Reminder to get more googly eyes."

"Beca can’t pronounce ‘lamination’ without sounding like a Pixar villain.”

On Sunday night, she preps her bag without thinking—snacks, backup crayons, the frog squishy for Jacob. Her body moves with memory. Her mind hums with intention.

She lays out her outfit for the morning. The Ms. Chloe badge is already clipped to it.

Beca leans on the doorframe, watching. “Look at you.”

Chloe turns. “What?”

“Just…you,” Beca says. “Coming back into your own.”

Chloe shrugs, smiling softly. “Took a while. But it’s worth it.”

They sleep early that night.

And in the dark, just before she slips fully into dreams, Chloe murmurs one more truth:

“I’m proud of who I am now.”

And Beca, already half-asleep, replies without missing a beat:

“I always have been proud of who you and who you will be.”

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

Chloe starts leading the Monday morning song circle again.

A new child draws a portrait of her with purple hair and three arms—“because you do so many things,” they explain proudly.

Beca continues making her lunch some mornings, leaving sticky notes in the bag like:

• Don’t forget you’re amazing.
  
  
• Today’s a good day to glitter.
  
  
• They’re lucky to have you. I am too.

And Chloe’s personal favorite: I love you.

On a Thursday afternoon, Chloe walks home humming an old class song.

She stops to buy sunflowers.

Not for any reason.

Just because they feel like joy in bloom.

And when she gets home, she finds Beca in the kitchen, tea steeping, music low, waiting.

Not an ending.

Just the next beginning.

Chapter Text

When you move

I'm put to mind of all that

I wanna be

When you move

I could never define all that you are to me 

So move me, baby 

Shake like the bough of a willow tree

You do it naturally

Move me, baby

-

Movement

Hozier

The monday morning of Chloe’s third week back starts the way all her favorite mornings used to: with the soft chirp of birds just outside the bedroom window, the smell of fresh coffee wafting in from the kitchen, and the knowledge that her day is about to be filled with controlled chaos in the form of glitter, glue, and four-year-olds.

But today feels different, somehow. Not in a grand, cinematic kind of way—but in the small ways that make her pause as she pulls on her favorite blouse.

Her name is on the classroom schedule now. She’s not a guest anymore. Not someone shadowing or testing the waters. She belongs again.

In the kitchen, Beca’s seated at the island counter, blazer sleeves pushed up, stirring oat milk into Chloe’s travel mug. She doesn’t say anything when Chloe appears. She just offers the mug with both hands, like something sacred, and watches her sip.

Chloe grins. “You always make it just right.”

Beca shrugs. “I’ve been observing your preferred ratios. I’m very scientific, you know.”

“You’re very…something.”

The smile they share is quiet but full—like a secret tucked into the pocket of the morning.

By 8:15 a.m., Chloe is out the door, bag slung over her shoulder, hair twisted into a loose bun, and the “Miss Chloe Returns ✨” playlist humming softly through her car speakers.

She hums along to the chorus of “Brave” by Sara Bareilles, turning into the familiar parking lot, the painted mural catching the golden light.

Today is a sensory bin day. Jules has prepped blue-dyed rice and plastic sea animals. Chloe adds in scooping spoons and a few laminated vocabulary cards with words like “ocean,” “scales,” and “splash.”

The kids dive in—some literally—and the classroom fills with delighted shrieks and the unmistakable crunch of rice underfoot.

At one point, Chloe crouches to help Isla dig out a hidden starfish, only to realize her knees don’t bounce back quite as easily as they used to.

Jules snorts. “Welcome back to preschool knees.”

Chloe laughs. “I missed this.”

And she means it. Every chaotic, kid-drenched minute of it.

During snack time, she reads “The Pout-Pout Fish” aloud and lets her voice dip dramatically with every line. The kids are rapt. Even Jules mouths along at the back of the room.

Later, while helping Ethan wash soap off his sleeves in the sink, Chloe overhears two girls whispering near the art easel:

“Miss Chloe’s my favorite.”

“Mine too. She sings the clean-up song with a dance.”

Chloe doesn’t say anything, but her heart expands a little in her chest.

When the kids are down for quiet time, Chloe finds herself humming that same clean-up song in the supply closet, reorganizing construction paper by color. Something she used to do without thinking—now, it feels like claiming a piece of herself again.

She’s still humming when Beca texts her.

iMessage

My love ❤️ 

Today at 1:23 p.m.

My love ❤️ [1:23 p.m.]

Are you craving grilled cheese or something more adult for dinner? You get to choose. 

You’re the breadwinner now. 👩‍🏫🧀💰

Chloe laughs and types back.
 

You [1:24 p.m.]

Whatever comes with a side of Beca Mitchell cuddles.

My love ❤️ [1:25 p.m.]

Of course. I’m always the side dish.

You [1:25 p.m.]

You’re the whole meal, babe.

By midweek, the days begin to fall into a rhythm Chloe hadn’t dared to expect again—comfortable, kind, and full of tiny wins.

Monday was a sensory bin success. Tuesday brought a thunderstorm that kept the kids inside all day, which usually spelled disaster. But Chloe set up a “cloudy day cozy zone” with pillows and flashlight stories. It worked. Magic.

Wednesday is art day, which means more glitter than humanly advisable. At 10:32 a.m., she finds a speck of gold stuck to her eyelid in the bathroom mirror. At 10:33, she leaves it there. It makes her smile.

Around 11:10, she’s sorting dry paintings when she finds a folded piece of paper tucked under one of the easels. It’s written in crooked kid handwriting, blocky and full of effort.

“Miss Chloe is my best grown-up friend. I like how her hair smells like coconut.”

She presses a hand over her mouth to keep from tearing up in front of a group of kids arguing over who gets the blue glue stick.

Later, during staff break, she snaps a picture of the note and sends it to Beca with the message:

You [3:20 p.m.]

Tell me why this feels more validating than my entire undergrad?

My love ❤️ [3:20 p.m.]

Because it is.

Also. I love your coconut shampoo. This kid has good taste. 

That evening, Beca surprises her with a coconut tart from the bakery two blocks over. They eat it barefoot on the living room rug while watching reruns of The Great British Bake Off.

It’s nothing grand.

But Chloe knows—this is what it means to be held .

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

The twist arrives casually on Friday.

At lunch, Sandra stops by Chloe’s classroom. The kids are down for their nap, and the white noise machine hums softly in the background as Chloe and Jules wipe down the snack tables.

“Got a sec?” she asks, smiling in that soft-but-purposeful way.

Chloe wipes her hands on a towel and follows her to the hallway.

“I know you’ve only just settled back in,” Sandra begins, voice hushed, “but there's something I wanted to float by you.”

Chloe tenses—half expecting logistics. Maybe scheduling. Maybe something she forgot.

“We’re organizing a spring emotional literacy workshop for the parents,” Sandra says. “Saturday mornings, low-key. Play-based. We used to run them back in the day, but the last PIC left, and we haven’t had anyone take it on since.”

Chloe blinks.

Something buzzes quietly beneath her ribs.

“We were hoping,” Sandra continues, “that you’d consider leading it.”

It takes a beat for Chloe to answer—not because she’s shocked they asked.

But because this was the thing. The idea she had at the bookstore. The doc she started in her Notes and on Google. The vision that still lives—half-formed—in her head.

Only…she hadn’t told Sandra. She hadn’t even pitched it yet.

“Oh,” she breathes. “I—I’ve actually been thinking about something similar.”

Sandra beams. “Then it’s meant to be.”

“I’d need to think it through,” Chloe says, but she’s already halfway to yes.

“No rush,” Sandra says kindly. “But I think you’d bring something really special. Let me know by next week?”

“I will. Thank you.”

When Sandra leaves, Jules tosses her a look over a disinfecting wipe. “You’re gonna say yes, right?”

Chloe just smiles in response, but her mind is already racing.

/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//-/-//

That night, the house is wrapped in stillness—the kind that only settles when everything is in its place. Their bedroom speaker hums a mellow indie track in the background, low enough that you only notice it when there’s a pause in conversation. A mug with the ghost of earlier tea sits forgotten on the nightstand. The scent of fresh laundry lingers faintly in the hallway, cotton and citrus and calm.

Chloe is unusually quiet as she brushes her teeth.

She and Beca stand shoulder to shoulder in front of the bathroom mirror, framed in soft lamplight. Their movements are familiar now—syncopated, lived-in. The occasional nudge of elbows. The way Beca always caps the toothpaste with unnecessary precision. The way Chloe hums when she’s thinking too much.

Beca finishes first, towel-dabs her face, then leans sideways against the doorframe. She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches Chloe’s reflection.

“You’ve had your pensive face on for the last ten minutes,” she says eventually. “Want to let me in on the loop?”

Chloe spits and rinses, but stays leaning over the sink, fingers curled lightly on the edge of the counter.

“Sandra offered me something today,” she says, finally lifting her head to meet Beca’s gaze in the mirror. “She asked if I’d lead the spring parent workshop.”

Beca’s expression doesn’t shift into surprise, just a slow, affirming rise of her brows. “Is that the same one you were thinking of pitching?”

Chloe nods. “Saturday mornings. Play-based. She said they haven’t had the right person since the PIC left.”

Beca tilts her head, already seeing where Chloe’s hesitation lives. “And you…don’t want to?”

“No—I do ,” Chloe says quickly, turning to face her now. Her voice is soft but steady. “I mean, I wanted to pitch something like it eventually. It’s just…she beat me to it. And that makes it real.”

She lets out a breath and wraps her arms around herself. “It’s not fear. Not like before. It’s more like…I want to do this well. Thoughtfully. I don’t want to just recreate who I used to be and call it a comeback. I want it to reflect me. The person I am now.”

Beca nods once, slowly. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

They move into the bedroom in comfortable silence, both sliding into their nighttime rhythm. Chloe tosses her phone onto the duvet and frees her hair from her loose bun. Beca crosses to the nightstand, opens her laptop, and clicks it to life with a quiet chime.

Chloe sits on the bed, cross-legged, watching her. “I haven’t touched the doc since that afternoon at the bookstore. It’s just a pile of bullet points and an absurd number of ‘reminder-to-self’ notes in all caps.”

“You mean the one that said, ‘NO GLITTER UNLESS SUPERVISED BY GOD HIMSELF’?”

Chloe snorts. “Exactly.”

Beca clicks open the file and tilts the screen toward her. “Well, good news. I took the liberty of adding structure. It’s all still yours—I just sorted it into sections. Themes. Objectives. Tentative flow. I left the glitter warning intact, though.”

Chloe blinks. “Wait…you edited my Google Doc?”

“You shared it with me, babe,” Beca says, unbothered. “And I know you—if you see structure, your brain will light up like a Pinterest board. Now you don’t have to untangle your own thoughts from thirty bullet points and a rogue note that just said ‘parent guilt?? = VALID.’”

Chloe crawls closer, peering at the laptop. Sure enough, the file is labeled:

Emotional Literacy Parent Workshop – Beta Draft
Created by: Chloe Beale
Last edited by: DJBMitch

The document is gently reorganized—nothing invasive. Just thoughtful formatting, space to breathe. Beca’s added soft grey headers, clean bullet points, and a sidebar note that reads:

Session One Goals:

• Build emotional vocabulary
• Encourage parent-child mirror play
• End on a high note = storytime + “rose & thorn” circle
• Snack rec: juice boxes + those Trader Joe’s mini cheese sticks
  (Chloe: veto or approve as needed)

Chloe stares at the screen, torn between laughing and crying. “You actually planned snack logistics?”

“I take your approach very seriously,” Beca replies, climbing onto the bed beside her. “Also, I might’ve made a mood board for the room setup, but I’ll keep that to myself until you’re ready.”

Chloe leans into her shoulder, heart softening. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m invested.”

“And enabling.”

Beca shrugs one shoulder. “I’m deeply in your corner. I just want you to see what I already see.”