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The soft click of the front door announced Sunset’s return, followed by an uncharacteristically clumsy shuffle and a muffled curse. Twilight glanced up from her book, her brow furrowing as she spotted her girlfriend leaning against the hallway wall, cradling her left arm close to her chest. Sunset’s usually vibrant demeanor was dimmed, her freckled cheeks flushed from exertion—or perhaps embarrassment.
"Hey, Twilight," Sunset said, attempting a casual grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Just... uh, redecorating the hallway with my face. What’s new with you?"
Twilight was on her feet in an instant, her book slipping off her lap with a soft thump. "What happened? Are you hurt?" She hovered, hands fluttering like anxious butterflies, torn between reaching out and giving Sunset space.
"Relax, it’s just a sprain," Sunset said, waving her good hand dismissively. The motion jostled her wrist, and a hiss escaped her lips. "Some of us actually try during pickup basketball, you know? Unlike a certain bookworm who thinks ‘jumping’ means turning a page too fast."
Twilight ignored the jab. Her eyes locked on the awkward angle of Sunset’s arm and the tension in her jaw. "Let me see." Gently, she guided Sunset to the couch, her touch feather-light and precise, like she was handling something infinitely precious.
Sunset’s leather jacket—a staple she wore like armor—was smudged with court dust, the left sleeve bunched awkwardly around her forearm. Twilight’s heart clenched at the sight.
"Why didn’t you call me?"
"Didn’t wanna interrupt your ‘Critical Analysis of Multidimensional Astrophysics’ marathon." Sunset tried for humor, but her voice wavered. "Besides, I figured you'd just strap a calculator to my arm and call it a splint."
Twilight shot her a look—equal parts fond and exasperated—before disappearing into the hallway. She returned with the first-aid kit, kneeling beside Sunset with a focused intensity that made her ears glow pink.
"Sit still," she ordered gently.
Twenty minutes later, Sunset’s wrist was neatly wrapped in a lavender bandage.
"It’s scientifically proven to reduce swelling," Twilight had insisted when Sunset protested the color.
"Yeah, and I’m sure it has nothing to do with it matching your pajama pants," Sunset muttered, but she didn’t fight it. It was easier to surrender to Twilight’s quiet competence—the way her hands moved with confidence, her brows drawn in concentration.
But the real challenge loomed unspoken between them: Sunset’s sweat-damp tank top and the jacket still half-trapping her arms.
"Alright, Dr. Sparkle," Sunset sighed, flexing her fingers. "Prescribe me a painkiller and a nap?"
Twilight crossed her arms. "Prescription: a shower and clean clothes. You smell like a gym bag."
"Rude!" Sunset gasped, mock-offended. "And here I thought you liked my ‘rebellious musk.’"
Twilight rolled her eyes, cheeks warming. "Come on. Let’s get you unstuck from... whatever this is."
Sunset glanced down, suddenly self-conscious. Her jacket clung to her like a second skin—one she wasn’t sure how to shed gracefully. "I can manage—"
"With one hand? You’ll dislocate your shoulder."
Twilight’s tone brooked no argument. She offered her hand, and Sunset took it, letting herself be led toward the bathroom.
The bathroom was warm, mist curling gently on the mirror from Twilight’s preemptive shower prep. The light overhead was soft, filtered through a pink frosted bulb that cast everything in a gentle glow.
Sunset stood awkwardly by the sink, her bravado fraying at the edges.
"Arms up," Twilight said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sunset hesitated, then obeyed. Twilight stepped closer, her fingers brushing Sunset’s waist as she worked the zipper down with slow care. The sound echoed in the hush—a delicate unraveling.
"Y’know," Sunset murmured, grasping for levity, "if you wanted me out of my clothes, you could’ve just asked."
Twilight’s laugh was a nervous exhale, warm against Sunset’s collarbone. "Shut up."
She tugged the jacket off inch by inch, folding it carefully, as if it were something sacred. The tank top beneath clung to Sunset’s skin, darkened with sweat.
"Can you lift your arms? Slowly."
Sunset winced but complied. Twilight’s hands steadied her, fingers brushing over ribs and spine, guiding the shirt up and over her head. As the fabric cleared her face, their eyes met—Twilight’s wide with concentration and something gentler beneath, Sunset’s pupils blown wide with something she didn’t dare name.
Twilight's hands lingered at her sides, suspended in the air like question marks.
"Almost there," Twilight whispered, guiding the stubborn sleeve over her injured hand with agonizing care.
When it was done, Sunset stood in her sports bra and jeans, vulnerable and flushed. Twilight’s gaze lingered—not with hunger, but reverence. As if Sunset were a puzzle she’d spent years solving, only to realize she’d known the answer all along.
"Thanks," Sunset mumbled, eyes darting away. "For... not letting me die of B.O."
Twilight swatted her arm. "Anytime." Then, more softly, "I’ve got you."
She reached for Sunset’s good hand and laced their fingers, grounding them both.
"Shower," Twilight said gently. "Before I revoke your cuddle privileges."
Sunset mock-saluted. "Yes, ma’am."
Later, wrapped in fleece and affection, they curled together on the couch. Twilight wore a too-large hoodie that Sunset swore she’d never seen before, and Sunset was in soft cotton sweatpants and one of Twilight’s old astronomy club shirts.
Sunset’s head rested in Twilight’s lap, her injured wrist cradled protectively against her chest. Twilight’s fingers threaded through her hair absentmindedly, nails scraping lightly against her scalp.
"Hey, Twi?" Sunset’s voice was sleep-slurred.
"Hmm?"
"Thanks for... y’know. Not making it weird."
Twilight smirked, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "You’re my weirdo. It’s a package deal."
Sunset hummed, eyelids fluttering. "Love you too, nerd."
Outside, rain tapped gently against the windows, soft as a lullaby. The world narrowed to the warmth between them—the soft rise and fall of breath, the tangle of limbs, the quiet courage it took to lean on someone and be seen, completely.
They didn’t talk about the moment again—not directly. But something shifted.
The next morning, Sunset found a note by her coffee mug:
Reminder:
Take pain meds.
Ice your wrist.
And yes, I do like your musk.
– T.S.
She laughed. A real laugh. And when Twilight walked in wearing mismatched socks and a sleepy smile, Sunset kissed her good morning without hesitation.
Because this—this mundane, messy, miraculous thing they had built—wasn’t just comfort. It was home.
And even when the world hurt, when bones ached or hearts wavered, some part of her knew:
She’d never have to face it alone.