Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Six months wasn’t a long time—not in the grand scheme of things— but to Mika, it had been just enough to feel the slow, uneven stitching of her heart coming back together. The sharp edges of grief hadn’t dulled completely, but they no longer cut the way they used to. There were still mornings she woke up with Chloe’s name in her throat or nights where she lay awake remembering the sound of her sister’s laugh. But she didn’t feel like she was drowning anymore.

Since returning home, she’d made space for her emotions and felt them breathe rather than shove them into corners. Therapy helped—more than she ever thought it could. There were sessions where she said nothing at all, just sat there and cried, and someone said that was progress. Other times, she spoke about things she never thought she’d admit aloud. About guilt. About fear. About how hard it was to be the one left behind. To be the one who lived.

Her therapist told her about survivor’s guilt. She hated it, but still, she listened. She realised that this was guilt, that this wasn’t just sadness or fear or… regret. She wasn’t at peace with knowing that, but over time it became easier to understand, to handle.

Her parents had softened. Grief had reshaped their home, yes, but it hadn’t broken it. They mourned together, argued occasionally, and clung to each other more than ever before. They watched old videos of Chloe some nights, not because they needed to punish themselves with memories but because they wanted to keep her alive in the room.

She found herself gardening with her mother on weekends. Her father had started joining them sometimes, and they’d talk about mundane things: groceries, the weather, the cat next door. Those moments felt like rebuilding.

The hospital didn’t haunt her anymore. At least not like it used to. It lingered in the back of her mind, bittersweet and distant. She thought of the hallways and the rush of code blues but also of laughter in the on-call room and late-night vending machine runs. She thought of Lucas’s dorky jokes, Blue’s dry one-liners, and Simone’s heart. And, inevitably, she thought of Jules.

Jules came to her in flashes now—less like a wound, more like a song she used to play on repeat. There was still an ache there, still the sharp twist of longing some nights when the house was too quiet and her phone too still. But the pain no longer overwhelmed her. Instead, it sat beside her, familiar and steady.

Mika didn’t regret walking away. She regretted the pain it caused, yes. Regretted how much it hurt to let go of someone she loved. But leaving had saved her. It had forced her to confront what she’d been avoiding, to stop running from the hurt and instead walk through it.

She hadn’t reached out yet. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she wasn’t quite sure how to. The timing mattered, and she wanted to be certain she wasn’t doing it out of loneliness or nostalgia. She wanted her next step toward Jules—if there ever was one—to come from clarity, not fear.

Her therapist once told her healing isn’t about getting over someone or something—it’s about learning to live with the absence. And that’s what she’d been doing. Learning to live with the space Chloe left. Learning to carry love for someone who wasn’t right beside her.

One afternoon, she received a postcard in the mail. No return address. Just a watercolour of a Seattle skyline and three words: “Still here. —Jules.” She didn’t cry, but she sat down on the porch steps and stared at it for a long time.

Maybe it was a sign. Or maybe it was just a reminder.

She’d lie awake at night sometimes, staring at her phone screen, thumb hovering over Jules’ name. The temptation never fully disappeared. It crept in quietly during the stillest moments—when her chest didn’t feel so tight, when she could breathe without guilt weighing it down. On those nights, it wasn’t even the memory of their last kiss that haunted her—it was the silence that followed. The part where she didn’t reach out. The part where she kept her word and gave them space.

When her therapist asked what she would say if she did reach out, she didn’t have an answer. It changed every day. Sometimes, it was as simple as “I miss you.” Other times, it was “I’m sorry I didn’t know how to stay.” Most days, she just wanted to ask how Jules was doing. If the ache ever softened.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care. God, she cared too much. That was the whole problem. Her care had become somewhat a battlefield, torn between honouring her grief and honouring what they had built together. And grief—it was selfish. It demanded her whole body, her time, and her thoughts. It did not make room for the softness of longing or the gentle ache of missing someone you loved. Grief sharpened everything, and in its wake, it left no room for “what ifs”.

She had promised herself—no, she had promised Chloe—that she wouldn’t cheat the process. That she would feel it all. That she would stop compartmentalising and finally let herself mourn her sister the way she was meant to.

There was a kind of respect in the silence, a kind of reverence for the boundary they had agreed upon. She knew what it would mean to reach out too soon—to interrupt Jules’ own healing just because hers was feeling impossible. That wasn’t love. That was need. And she wanted to come back from this as someone worthy of loving again.

The guilt—while still present—had shifted. She no longer saw herself as someone who had abandoned love but as someone who had chosen herself in a moment of devastation. That distinction changed everything. She could still be the girl who walked away and the girl who loved deeply. They didn’t cancel each other out.

It was hard, knowing how much she had hurt someone who once made her feel safe in her own skin. But it was harder to think of pretending like nothing had ever happened, like Chloe hadn’t died, like her world hadn’t been turned inside out. Her absence hadn’t been a betrayal. It had been survival.

She caught herself thinking about it in the quietest parts of the day—right before bed, while brushing her teeth, folding laundry, or tying her shoelaces. The image would sneak up on her: Jules laughing with someone else, throwing her head back like she used to during their late-night conversations. The kind of laugh that was so contagious, Mika would start laughing too. She hated how vividly she remembered it, how easily she could imagine that laugh being drawn out by someone else’s words, someone else's presence.

It shouldn’t have mattered. She had been the one to leave. She had made that decision—intentionally, carefully, painfully. It hadn’t been abrupt. It had been deliberate. She had needed to grieve, and she knew she couldn’t do it with half of herself still in Seattle and the other half clinging to a love she wasn’t capable of fully showing up for at the time. But knowledge didn’t soften jealousy. Logic didn’t make her less human.

More than once, she played out scenarios in her head—scenarios she wished she could ignore. She imagined Jules sitting across from someone new at a bar or smiling shyly during a hospital shift while someone flirted with her. The idea burnt. Not because Jules didn’t deserve to be loved again—she did. She always did. It burnt because Mika had once been the one to hold her attention that way, to be the person Jules turned toward in a crowded room, like no one else mattered.

Her heart twisted at the idea of Jules letting someone else touch her, not out of possessiveness but out of mourning. Mourning what could have been if grief hadn’t torn through her life like wildfire. She didn’t want to feel territorial; she wanted to feel worthy again. Like she could still hold space in Jules’s heart, even from a distance. But she also knew better. Six months was a long time to hold your breath for someone who walked away.

Even so, she hadn't expected to fall deeper in love with Jules after leaving. But that’s what happened. The distance had a cruel way of illuminating things that felt blurry before. Her therapy sessions often circled back to that love—how it lived quietly under all the noise of the hospital, how it bloomed when Jules rested her hand on Mika’s or said her name with that low, focused urgency during a surgery. It hadn’t been a fantasy or infatuation. It had been real. And it had only grown in absence.

There were weeks she resented herself for realising it so late. For waiting until she was gone to understand the scope of her feelings. If she could have rewound time, gone back to the weeks before Chloe’s death, maybe she would have told Jules sooner. Maybe she would have let herself fall faster, deeper—louder. But maybe not.

Sometimes, when she walked the park trails near her childhood home, she imagined Jules next to her. She’d picture her reactions to things: the way she would’ve rolled her eyes at a particularly loud bird or said something sarcastic about Mika’s walking pace. The imagined companionship kept her company in a strange, bittersweet way. It filled the silence but never truly eased the ache.

There was something uniquely cruel about discovering your love for someone after you’d already said goodbye. Mika had thought about that more times than she could count. How people always said, "You don’t know what you have until it’s gone," and how, for the first time, it wasn’t just a cliché. It was a lived experience.

She wondered if Jules had kept anything. A hoodie. A note. A memory. She wondered if her name still appeared in Jules’s text drafts, half-typed and quickly deleted. There was a part of her that hoped it did. Not because she wanted Jules to be stuck in the same place—but because the idea that she could be remembered like that, chosen even in silence, gave her a strange sense of peace.

Even on the better days, that curiosity lingered. The not-knowing. It sat beside her like a ghost at the dinner table. She didn’t talk about it often, even in therapy. Loving someone from a distance wasn’t something she could always explain—not in a way that made sense to anyone but her. Especially not when she had been the one to initiate that distance in the first place.

Still, she held onto that love—not to preserve Jules, but to preserve the part of herself that had loved so freely.

The ceiling had been the only thing Mika could really focus on for the last three hours. Pale, plain, and silent. It offered no answers, no comfort, no end to the incessant spinning of her thoughts. Her room, dim and still, felt like it was pressing in around her. She had tried everything—flipping her pillow, counting backwards from a hundred, closing her eyes and pretending—but nothing quieted the restlessness in her chest.

Chloe’s laugh had replayed itself in her mind like a soundtrack on loop, layered with flashes of hospital corridors, Lucas’s teasing voice, Simone’s quiet strength, Blue’s sardonic comments… and Jules. Always Jules. Standing in a stairwell with that impossible expression. Whispering things at 3 a.m. that Mika had memorised even while trying not to. She blinked at the early morning light beginning to stretch across her ceiling and felt like she hadn’t slept in years.

The phone sat inches away on her nightstand, face down, taunting her with its presence. She didn’t think about what she was doing—not at first. Her fingers moved instinctively, unlocking the screen and finding the contact. It felt like breathing: urgent, necessary, terrifying. She didn’t pause until the third ring, and even then, it was like waking up mid-sentence, a slow panic blooming in her gut. She reached to end the call—

—but a voice cut through the silence. Sleep-rough and unmistakably familiar.

“...Mika?”

Hearing her name felt like a pressure point had been pressed—one she didn’t even know was there.

“Did I wake you?” She asked, breath catching in the back of her throat.

A yawn followed on the line, but the answer came anyway, warm and soft. “Yeah. But that’s okay.”

Regret surged immediately, tangling in her chest. “Oh, I’m sorry. I should—” she started, a dry, awkward laugh escaping. “You should go back to sleep. Ignore me. I’m sorry, I—”

“No,” the voice came quickly, more alert now. “Hey, no. It’s okay, Mika.”

Quiet took hold for a few seconds; only the soft sound of Jules shifting in bed could be heard. Then, after a beat, her voice returned, even gentler this time. “Everything is okay.”

Swallowing, Mika hesitated. Her voice felt rusty, unused for too long. “I’m sorry. For calling out of the blue. I just… It’s 6 a.m., and I can’t stop thinking about everything in my life. And that includes you.”

That confession hung heavy in the air.

“What were you thinking about?” came the next question, honest, curious, not pressing.

She drew in a slow breath, the kind meant to slow your heart but never quite did. “I don’t know. I guess… the hospital? Seattle? Lucas and Simone and Blue. Chloe, too. And…” she let the word drag before finishing it, “you.”

A pause followed. Not hesitation—just time. Time to feel it. “Why are you thinking about all of that?”

“I think I miss it, in a way. Being a doctor. I—” another soft, humourless laugh left her lips, “Jules, this is the first time we’ve talked in six months—which is my fault, I know—and you’re tired because I stupidly woke you up, and I… I’m not even sure you want to hear from me.”

A small exhale echoed through the speaker. “I do want that. I wouldn’t have picked up otherwise.”

The silence that came next was different. Heavier. Full of unsaid things neither of them had dared to put into words until now.

“You miss being a doctor?” Jules asked, breaking it. “Is that all you miss?”

“No,” Mika whispered. “I miss my friends too, and of course I miss Chloe. It’s… been eight and a half months since she…” the word wouldn’t come easy. “Since she died. And it’s been six months since I left the other people I care about, since I left you, and I know we ended it on… good? terms. But I still feel… guilty.”

“You shouldn’t,” came the immediate response, soft like worn cotton. “We talked about this six months ago. You told me you needed to grieve. You shouldn’t feel guilty for needing that.”

Maybe she had needed to hear that again. Maybe hearing it from Jules, of all people, mattered more than anything else. “I guess you’re right,” she admitted, voice quiet, a little tired.

A small laugh fluttered across the line, almost sheepish. “Of course I’m right.” The teasing tone was familiar and comforting. “Why else did you call?”

Mika hesitated again, heart hammering like it wanted to climb out of her chest. “I want to see you,” she said, words falling into the stillness between them. “I think I’m ready.”

The answer came back without judgement, only curiosity. “You think or you know?”

She smiled, despite herself, despite everything. “I know.” There wasn’t a trace of doubt this time. “Is that— do you still—” Her tongue tripped over her thoughts, nerves stealing clarity. “Sorry, I’m nervous.”

Amusement curled around the next sentence, laced with something softer underneath. “I make you nervous?”

Embarrassed, she let out a small breath. “You always have. You just never noticed.”

“That’s cute,” Jules said, voice light, a teasing lilt slipping in as easily as a breath.

Mika groaned softly, covering her face even though Jules couldn’t see her. “...Shut up.”

A laugh filtered through the phone, gentle and unbothered. “Hey, you called me. If you didn’t want me to talk—”

“I do want you to talk,” Mika interrupted, quick and a little breathless. “But you’re teasing me. That’s mean, you know.”

“You’re literally smiling right now,” Jules countered, the grin clear in her voice. “Don’t act like you don’t like the teasing.”

“Shut up,” Mika repeated, this time unable to keep the smile from curling on her lips. She dragged the blanket up to her chin and sighed through it, the phone warm against her cheek.

“Well, this is fun,” Jules mused, dragging the words out like she was stretching beneath them. “I should get woken up at six a.m. more often. I’m apparently hilarious.”

“You’re delirious,” Mika said, but it came out soft, affectionate even. She stared up at her ceiling again, though it didn’t seem quite so heavy now. “Sleep-drunk Jules is a menace.”

“Oh, so I’m a menace now?” Jules sounded mock-offended. “This is how I’m treated after being the first person you call in six months? I’m deeply wounded.”

“Okay, dramatic.” Mika laughed, and the sound surprised her a little. It felt lighter than it should have, like it had been buried under dust for months. “You should be an actress, not a doctor.”

“You’ve always said that,” Jules replied, a little quieter now, like she was chasing a memory down the line between them. “That I’m dramatic. Even when I wasn’t trying to.”

“Well, you are dramatic,” Mika teased. “You once kicked a vending machine because it ate your dollar.”

“It was a matter of principle,” Jules argued, tone mock-defensive. “That vending machine knew what it did.”

Mika smiled again, her hand fidgeting with the edge of her blanket. “You still got the candy, though.”

“That’s not the point,” came the immediate reply. “The point was the betrayal.”

A soft hum vibrated in Mika’s chest. She bit back a grin. “You’re such a dork.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Jules said. “You once made me wait ten minutes in the rain because you wanted to see if you could jump and reach a tree branch.”

“I don’t recall that,” Mika lied, feigning ignorance with playful precision.

“Don’t you have a photographic memory?” Jules asked through a sleepy laugh, clearly delighted with herself. “Pretty sure that’s what you told me during anatomy week when you aced every single flashcard and rubbed it in my face.”

There was a moment of silence on Mika’s end. Just a quiet exhale. No protest. No playful comeback.

“Ohhh, that’s what I thought,” Jules said, triumphant, voice smug in the most ridiculous, endearing way.

“Okay, now you really need to shut up,” Mika muttered, though her giggle betrayed the lack of actual offence. She tugged her blanket over her face, as if that would somehow muffle the heat spreading to her cheeks. The kind of heat that felt less like embarrassment and more like familiarity sneaking back in.

“Wow,” Jules replied, faux-shocked. “Yasuda, that’s three shut-ups in five minutes. I’m deeply hurt.”

“You’re not,” Mika said between soft laughs.

“Maybe not,” came the reply. “But I see your true feelings for me now. You hate me.”

A grin pulled at Mika’s mouth. “I don’t hate you.”

“You sure?” Jules asked, teasing still present, but something gentler sitting just underneath. “I mean, you did ghost me for half a year.”

“That’s fair,” Mika admitted, the amusement fading just slightly. “And I’m sorry. Again. I know I already said that but—”

“You don’t have to keep apologising,” Jules cut in, her voice calm, even. “Seriously. I’m not keeping a tally.”

Still, guilt clung to Mika’s ribcage like damp clothes. “But I want to. Say sorry, I mean. Because it wasn’t just that I left—it’s that I didn’t you didn’t deserve that.”

Jules let the words settle for a beat, like she was weighing them before responding. “You were grieving. I knew that. I still know that. You did what you had to do.”

“I didn’t want to make you collateral,” Mika murmured, quieter now. “But I think I did.”

“Yeah, well,” Jules said, sighing lightly. “I’ve made peace with a lot of things. I was never mad at you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Relief bloomed in Mika’s chest—tentative, fragile, but real. “I think I just didn’t know how to come back. Or when. Or if I was even allowed.”

“You don’t need permission,” Jules said. “You just needed time. And now you’re here. That’s what matters.”

For a second, Mika closed her eyes, absorbing the simplicity of that statement. As if it were that easy. Maybe it was. Maybe it could be.

“Hey”, Jules said after a small pause, “wanna know something kind of messed up?”

Mika blinked. “Uh… sure?”

“I still have that hoodie you left at my place. It smells like you. I refused to wash it for, like, weeks after you left.”

That made Mika choke out a laugh. “Jules, that’s disgusting.”

“You’re just jealous,” Jules said with a smirk she didn’t even need to see to hear. “You wished you smelt as good as you do.”

“Oh my God,” Mika said through laughter. “You’re such a menace.”

“Say it louder,” Jules teased. “I thrive off validation.”

“I take it back,” Mika said. “You’re the worst.”

“You love it.”

A beat of quiet. Then, Mika replied, more honestly than she meant to, “I did.”

The weight of that sentence landed harder than expected. Not quite a confession—but it tugged at the edge of something more honest, more dangerous.

Jules went quiet for a second. Not an uncomfortable silence, just one that carried weight. “You did?” she eventually said, voice softer now. 

“I do,” Mika added.

“Good,” Jules said. “I love your silliness too.”

Mika nodded, even if no one could see her. “You should say that more.”

“I should,” Jules murmured.

A slow breath escaped Mika’s lips. “I want to be better at the spoken things now. The saying-it-out-loud stuff.”

“I can work with that,” Jules replied. “Even if you still tell me to shut up every two minutes.”

“You deserved it,” Mika said, mock serious. “You kept teasing me.”

“Because you’re fun to tease.”

“Now who’s showing their true feelings?” Mika shot back, grinning.

“Takes one to know one.”

It was silly. And soft. And it made Mika feel like her bones weren’t made of concrete anymore. She glanced at her window, at the way the sky was slowly shifting from black to blue. Morning was creeping in.

“Hey,” Mika said, biting the inside of her cheek. “Thank you. For picking up.”

Jules let the words settle a moment before answering. “Always.”

“I know that it’s late there, and again, I’m sorry for waking you up. I—oh my god, you probably have an early shift if you were sleeping. I’m so sorry.” The panic laced itself through her words before she could reel it back, and her free hand lifted instinctively to rub her temple like she could smooth the embarrassment away.

On the other end of the line, a sleepy chuckle slipped out, low and warm. “You’re spiralling, Yasuda. Breathe. I don’t have to be in until ten.”

Relief hit her chest like a gentle gust of wind, easing the tension that had curled up in her shoulders. “Okay. Good. Still—I feel bad. You should be sleeping. You deserve sleep.”

“I’ll survive,” came the easy reply. “Besides, this is better than sleep. Talking to you.”

A beat passed. Then two.

“You’re being nice to me,” Mika said slowly, almost accusingly. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Well, you did call me at six in the morning your time to tell me I make you nervous, so I think I’m allowed to be a little nice.” There was a teasing lilt again, but it was wrapped in softness, like Jules was trying not to make her flinch.

Mika covered her face with her hand, heat blooming up her neck. “Can we not talk about that part?”

“Nope. It’s my new favourite fun fact.”

“Jules.”

“What?”

“I hate you.”

A delighted laugh filtered through the receiver. “You say that, but your voice sounds all flustered. I’m taking it as a compliment.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re grinning. Don’t lie.”

She was. God, she was grinning so hard it hurt a little. Her cheeks ached. It was the kind of smile she hadn’t worn in months—not because she didn’t have moments of joy, but because this? This was different. This was familiar. Lopsided and messy and threaded with history.

“Did you mean what you said?” The question came after a pause, soft but certain—like it had been resting on Jules’ tongue for a while, waiting for the right moment to drop.

The smile didn’t fade from Mika’s face, but it shifted—mellowed into something more serious, more rooted in the weight of what she’d actually said. “Yeah. I did. I want to see you. Is that okay?”

“More than okay,” came the reply, steady and sure. “I want to see you too.”

Relief swept through Mika like a tide, quiet and complete. She hadn’t realised how tightly she’d been holding onto the idea of rejection until it didn’t come. Until those four words—I want to see you too—folded around her like a blanket she didn’t know she needed.

“So,” she continued, trying to keep her tone casual, even as her heart picked up pace, “does that mean you still want to visit?”

“I do,” Jules said without skipping a beat. “I’ve been maxing out my hours lately, staying at the hospital until I forget what daylight looks like. Bailey’s been on my case—telling me I need rest, or a proper break, or just a minute to breathe. Maybe I’ll tell her I’m taking a holiday and flying out to see you. That might get her off my back.”

Mika let out a quiet laugh, the kind that came from a place of genuine affection. “You think she’d approve?”

“She’d push me out the door and pack my suitcase herself,” Jules replied. “She wants me to see you. I think she’s just been waiting for the right time.”

That idea—of Bailey quietly rooting for them behind the scenes—made Mika’s chest tighten in an oddly comforting way. “That sounds like her,” she murmured. “Always knowing more than she says.”

“I think she knew how hard it was for both of us,” Jules added, her voice softer now. “And she didn’t want to push, but… yeah. She sees everything.”

Mika leaned back into her pillow, pulling the blanket tighter around her. The idea of Jules on a plane, of Jules walking through her parents’ front door, of hearing Jules’ voice not through a speaker but right next to her—it felt unreal. But in the best kind of way.

“Do you want to set a date?” Jules asked. “For when I come?”

“I—yeah. I think I do.” Mika sat up slightly, reaching for her phone charger as if that would somehow stabilise the nerves fluttering in her chest. “I’m off all of next week. Therapy’s spaced out. Family stuff is calm. You could come then?”

“That soon?”

“Too soon?”

“No,” Jules said. “Not at all. I want that.”

The quiet that followed was thick with anticipation, both of them imagining what next week might look like. What it might feel like to exist in the same room again, to share coffee instead of long-distance silences.

“I’m glad you called,” Jules said finally. “Even if you woke me up.”

“I’m glad I did, too,” Mika whispered. “It feels… good. To talk to you again.”

“I missed this,” Jules admitted. “Your voice. Your weird little laughs. The way you tell me to shut up every five seconds.”

Mika laughed, softer this time. “I’ll save more ‘shut ups’ for when you get here.”

“Deal,” Jules replied. “And I’ll bring snacks for the plane.”

“You remember what kind I like?”

“Of course,” she said, as if it were obvious. 

Mika smiled at that. A real one. One that meant something. One that felt like a step forward.

“Next week,” she said, more to herself than anything. “You’ll be here next week.”

“I will,” Jules confirmed. “And this time… we don’t have to say goodbye if you don’t want to.”

Mika didn’t reply immediately. She just closed her eyes, breathing in that hope, letting it bloom slowly in her chest.

“Okay,” she said at last. “Then let’s not.”

“Can we—uhm,” she started, her voice small, hesitant, curling inward like a question she wasn’t quite brave enough to ask. “Sorry. That might be a little silly.”

There wasn’t even a pause before Jules responded, soft but firm. “It’s not.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Mika pointed out, a huff of laughter threading through her nerves.

“True. I don’t,” Jules agreed easily. “But it’s you, Mika. And nothing you say is silly. Feelings aren’t silly. Wanting connection isn’t silly.”

The unexpected sincerity made Mika’s breath catch a little. She tried to recover, tilting toward lightness. “Look at you, Dr Millin, being all wise and emotionally intelligent. Who would’ve thought?”

A low chuckle rolled through the receiver. “Yeah, well, I met someone once,” Jules said, the teasing warmth tucked under her words making something flutter in Mika’s chest. “And it turns out they changed me in a way I never expected.”

Silence followed, not uncomfortable, just heavy with unspoken meaning. Mika didn’t answer right away. She didn’t know how. The words settled over her like a blanket she wasn’t sure she deserved. Jules had always had a way of doing that—making her feel like she mattered even in the messiest moments.

Eventually, Jules spoke again, gently nudging her out of the quiet. “Come on, what were you going to say or ask?”

Swallowing the knot in her throat, Mika took a breath and tried again. “Can we text? This week, I mean. I don’t want this to be it. Us talking now and then nothing until you’re suddenly at my front door. That kind of silence… I think it would freak me out. I think staying in touch might make it easier. For both of us, maybe. I don’t know.”

She exhaled heavily after the admission, already bracing for a brush-off. “Told you it was silly.”

But Jules didn’t laugh. She didn’t tease, either. “Hey,” she said, soft and sincere. “That’s not silly. That’s honest. And I want that too.”

The weight in Mika’s chest loosened a little, just enough to let her breathe a little deeper. “You do?”

“Of course,” Jules replied, like it was obvious. “I want to hear from you. I want to know what you’re thinking about. What you’re feeling. Even if it’s weird or hard or just, like, what you had for lunch. I don’t care. I just want to talk.”

Something unspooled inside her at that—years of keeping things in, of carrying feelings she didn’t know what to do with. “Okay,” she murmured. “Then we’ll talk.”

“We will,” Jules echoed, her voice a little brighter now. “You can text me anytime. Doesn’t matter what time it is.”

“You say that now,” Mika teased, a ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips. “But then I’ll send you three AM memes and regret everything.”

“That’s literally my love language.”

“Oh god,” Mika said, laughing quietly. “You’re going to regret saying that.”

“Try me.”

That one simple sentence—'Try me'—wrapped itself around her like a promise, one she hadn’t even known she needed. It wasn’t grand or romantic. It was real. Rooted. The kind of steady, grounded care that had always set Jules apart.

“I guess I’m just a little nervous,” she admitted after a pause. “That things will be different. Or weird. Or maybe that I’ll screw it up.”

“You won’t,” Jules said, without hesitation. “And if they are different, that’s okay too. Different doesn’t mean bad.”

Mika nodded to herself, even though Jules couldn’t see her. “You always know what to say.”

“That’s not true,” Jules said lightly. “Sometimes I say the exact wrong thing. But when it comes to you… I try to get it right.”

“What I say to you matters to me,” Jules continued after a beat, the quiet confession threading through the line like silk, delicate but strong. “You are… the one thing I don’t want to mess up.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. Brimming with all the things Mika didn’t quite have words for. She blinked up at the ceiling in her childhood bedroom, the familiar glow of dawn just beginning to slip through the curtains, and for a moment, she let the truth of those words wrap around her. She hadn’t realised how badly she’d needed to hear them or how deeply they would settle in her chest.

“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she murmured finally, her voice hushed like she was scared to startle the moment away.

“Well”, Jules replied with a small chuckle, “then maybe I should’ve said it six months ago.”

That made Mika smile. A real one. The kind that softened her whole face, even in the dim morning light. “You saying it now is enough.”

“I’m glad,” Jules said, a little breathless, like maybe she was smiling too.

Time slipped between them like water. Neither of them rushed to fill the quiet. It was rare to have silence feel like a comfort instead of something to run from. Mika listened to the slight creak of her mattress as she shifted onto her side, cradling her phone against her cheek, unwilling to let go just yet.

“Can we—” she started, then stopped herself, biting her lower lip before continuing. “Can we stay on the line for a bit?”

A pause. Then: “Yeah. Of course.”

“I know it’s kind of lame,” she added quickly, already bracing for teasing.

“It’s not lame,” Jules said. “Not even a little. It’s kind of sweet, actually.”

Relief poured through Mika in a quiet wave. She tucked herself into the blankets more tightly, drawing them up to her chin as if they could protect her from the last remnants of vulnerability still lingering in her voice. “Okay. Good.”

The sound of Jules shifting on the other end was soft, followed by the faint creak of what Mika assumed was her bed. “I’m getting comfortable too,” she said casually. “This is a historic moment. First call in half a year, and we’re pulling an accidental sleepover.”

Mika let out a laugh, small and genuine. “I missed this. You.”

“I missed you too,” came the answer, without hesitation.

The sunlight was already creeping through the window blinds when Mika stirred, her limbs tangled in a familiar nest of blankets. For once, waking up didn’t feel like dragging herself out from beneath something heavy. There was no disorienting fog, no immediate ache of loneliness. Just a slow, quiet stretch and the soft vibration of her phone buzzing against the nightstand. She blinked the sleep from her eyes, reached blindly, and smiled before she even read a word.

J: Good morning. I hope you slept well.
J: Sorry for ending our call. Ndugu doesn’t wait for anyone. That reminds me, I should update you on work life when I visit.
J: If that’s something you still want.

A breath caught in Mika’s chest, but it wasn’t panic. It was that warm, fluttery kind of feeling that lived somewhere between anticipation and comfort. She reread the messages twice before replying, her thumbs hovering for a moment as she decided how much of her joy to reveal.

M: I definitely want that. The update. The visit. All of it.
M: But you owe me double the hospital gossip to make up for cutting our call.

She hit send and rolled onto her back, phone still in hand. A grin slowly crept across her face, lazy and unfiltered. The way it used to come easily when Jules was nearby, in her orbit, arms crossed and sarcasm ready, eyes soft when she thought no one was looking.

There wasn’t an immediate reply, which she’d expected. Jules had said she had a shift, and Mika knew better than anyone how that could swallow entire hours whole. Still, she found herself scrolling back through the previous night’s messages, the echo of Jules’ voice somehow still vivid in her memory.

Eventually, she rolled out of bed, padding barefoot into the kitchen, phone still close. She poured herself some cereal—her comfort food of choice since she was six—and wondered idly what Jules had eaten today. Hospital food? Probably something terrible she’d claimed was “fine” while shovelling it in between cases.

Midway through her second bite, her phone buzzed again.

J: Okay, but only if you promise not to judge me for how chaotic the hospital has gotten. Also, I may have accidentally adopted an intern.

Mika nearly choked on her cereal. She swallowed hard, then laughed, thumb already moving.

M: What do you MEAN “adopted an intern”?? Is this like… a metaphorical adoption, or did you legally become someone’s guardian?

J: Too tired to explain. Just know he follows me like a baby duck, and I’m too emotionally exhausted to stop him.

M: God, I missed your drama.

J: I missed telling you about it.

That one landed a little deeper. Mika sat back against the kitchen counter, letting the warmth of those words seep in. She hadn’t realised how much she missed being part of Jules’ world—not just as someone she cared for, but as someone who was in the loop, who got the text updates and the whispered confessions after long, tiring shifts.

Their messages slowed after that, as expected. Jules had patients, surgeries, and a dozen fires to put out on any given day. Still, Mika kept her phone nearby, glancing at it more often than she’d admit, catching herself smiling at nothing more than the notification banner with Jules’ name.

She sent the occasional message when something reminded her of their time together. A poorly made sandwich that looked like the ones Jules used to smuggle out of the cafeteria. A meme that reminded her of Lucas.

M: Do you remember when I made you watch “10 Things I Hate About You” and you pretended you hated it?

There wasn’t an answer right away, and for the next few hours, Mika busied herself with helping her mom prep for dinner, folding laundry, reading the same paragraph in a book five times without absorbing a single word.

Then finally—

J: You made me watch it twice in the same week. And I did hate it. I just also hate Heath Ledger for making me like it.

M: Admit it. You cried during the poem scene.

J: I will admit to nothing without legal counsel.

She chuckled, genuinely delighted. The back-and-forth, no matter how brief, stitched her a little more securely into her own skin again. Jules’ messages were scattered, but they felt like little lifelines—tugs at the thread that connected them, even now.

The sun had long since started its descent when the messages stopped again. This time, she knew Jules was deep in a surgery or a consult. Mika didn’t mind the quiet so much now. It didn’t feel like absence. Not anymore. It felt like a pause. Like a comma.

Curled up on the living room couch, she typed another message, just to keep the rhythm.

M: I made a playlist. For your visit.

The response didn’t come quickly, but she wasn’t expecting it to. She flipped on a random sitcom and let it hum in the background. At some point, her phone vibrated beside her.

J: Is there a track dedicated to me walking off the plane dramatically? Because I need entrance music.

Mika laughed out loud, earning a curious glance from her mom in the kitchen. She turned her attention back to her phone, cheeks warm.

M: Of course. I’ve got a whole theatrical entrance planned. Wind machine and everything.

J: Can’t wait. I’ll bring sunglasses and an unnecessary scarf.

J: I have two surgeries with Ndugu tonight. I’m running on half a granola bar and a prayer.

J: I'll think about you before each one, though. Does that count as romantic?

The smile that tugged at Mika’s lips was slow, shy. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she read those lines again, trying to imagine Jules—tired and probably grumbling, hair half-pulled back, stealing bites of a granola bar while checking vitals and snapping orders at interns. Still thinking of her.

After a few seconds, she typed:

M: That does count as romantic. Are you thinking of me while elbows deep in someone’s chest? Very poetic.

M: Also—eat a real meal before you pass out mid-surgery. I’ll be mad if you visit me in a full-body cast.

No reply came instantly, and she figured Jules had probably fallen into a nap wherever she could manage it. That thought alone pulled a thread of affection through her chest. Even exhausted, she had reached out. Even with the hospital pulling her in a hundred directions, she still made room for Mika.

By midday, Mika found herself sitting with her legs curled under her on the couch, her phone resting on her knee, open to the chat with Jules. She didn’t send anything, not yet. But just seeing the messages there—the warmth of them, the familiarity—felt like enough to anchor her.

A buzz cut through her thoughts.

J: Got caught in a four-hour procedure. Just came up for air. Still no full-body cast. Yet.

J: Also, I miss talking to you. Properly. Not just these little text bursts.

That last line hit her squarely in the chest. She pressed a hand there, like she could keep it inside—hold it still so it wouldn’t tremble out of her. For a second, she didn’t know what to say. Then her fingers moved of their own accord.

M: Me too. But this is good. I like this. These little things. I’ll take what I can get.

M: Though I wouldn't say no to a call tonight, if you’re not too tired.

J: I’ll call. Even if I am too tired. That’s your fault for having such a nice voice.

A warm, startled laugh bubbled out of her. She could almost hear Jules saying it, the dry sarcasm undercut by something sincere she wouldn’t dare admit to directly. It was such a Jules thing—to flirt and deflect at the same time, like it was easier to joke than to be honest about how much she still cared.

The rest of the afternoon passed with an easy rhythm. Mika cooked lunch with her mom and helped her dad sort out old photo albums—ones with Chloe in them, her smile like sunlight, her presence still thick in the spaces they hadn’t been able to clear out just yet. Every so often, her phone lit up with another message. A blurry selfie from the hospital hallway. A rant about a resident who spilt coffee on Jules’ scrubs. A brief voice note of Jules sighing dramatically before muttering, “I need a new life.”

Each one made her heart squeeze in a different way. Not in pain. In longing.

Eventually, the quiet fell again. It was evening now, the shadows lengthening outside her window, the world softening at the edges. She wasn’t sure if Jules would call, but she changed into pyjamas anyway, brushing her hair out, tucking herself under the blankets with her phone beside her like it had taken up permanent residence there.

An hour passed. Then two. She didn’t check the clock anymore. She just stared at the screen, reading their thread over and over again.

It wasn’t until nearly midnight that her phone lit up with an incoming call.

“Hey,” came Jules’ voice, scratchy and low like she was lying on her side, half-asleep but holding on. “Sorry I’m late. Bailey cornered me, and then Blue had a meltdown and, you know… chaos.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Mika said softly. “You called. That’s what matters.”

“I wasn’t going to let the day end without hearing you,” she replied. “I think that might be my new rule.”

Those words caught her off guard. She didn’t say anything right away, letting the silence be filled with their breathing, soft and unhurried.

“You still awake?” Jules asked after a beat.

“Yeah,” Mika murmured. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“You. Your voice. This week. What it’ll feel like to see you again.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thick with everything unspoken. Hope, nerves, old affection still brushing up against fresh uncertainty.

“I keep picturing it too,” Jules admitted. “What I’ll say. What you’ll look like. If you’ll smile the way you used to when I brought you coffee in the morning.”

“That depends,” Mika replied, lips twitching. “Are you still terrible at making coffee?”

“I’ve gotten marginally better. Simone stopped trusting me after I accidentally made her one with salt instead of sugar, though.”

Mika’s laugh spilt into the dark room, bright and unrestrained. “God, you’re a menace.”

“But I’m your menace,” Jules whispered. “At least… I’d like to be. Still.”

The next few days drifted by like the lull before something big—gentle, expectant, weighted with anticipation neither of them tried to name. Their messages had turned softer, more consistent. Jules never missed a morning text. Mika never let the night end without saying goodnight. The calls didn’t always happen, but when they did, they ran long and quiet, comfortable in the space between thoughts, in the silence that had once been painful but was now anything but.

Late one evening, tucked beneath her duvet with her laptop glowing dimly at her side, Mika’s phone lit up with a new message.

J: I told Bailey. About the visit.

She sat up straighter before even opening it fully. Another message followed a few seconds later.

J: She said “thank God”, then caught herself and tried to act casual. It was… weirdly touching? I think she’s been more worried about me than she let on.

Mika pressed a hand to her chest, heart nudging toward her ribs like it had something to say.

M: She probably just wants to make sure you don’t keel over mid-surgery.

J: Nah. She said, “You’ve been walking around like someone stole your spine.” Her words. Not mine.

M: Okay, that does sound like Bailey.

J: And then she muttered something about the program needing “less grief and more damn balance” and waved me away before I could say anything else.

M: I kind of love that she said thank God.

J: Yeah?

M: Yeah. It makes me feel less crazy. Like I’m not the only one who missed you so much it physically hurt.

The reply came quickly.

J: You’re definitely not.

That night, they talked again on the phone. Sleepy, disjointed, but warm. Jules yawned more than she spoke. Mika teased her gently about sounding like someone’s retired grandfather, to which Jules responded by snoring loudly into the mic for five seconds straight before wheezing with laughter.

The next morning, Mika sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone lukewarm. Her parents had just finished breakfast when her dad cleared his throat, laying down the newspaper in a way that suggested he’d been building up to something.

“So,” Ken said. “We were talking…”

Camilla shot him a look—mild, amused. She’d clearly tried to get him to be subtle, but subtle wasn’t in Ken’s nature.

“We’re going on a little vacation,” he announced. “Four or five days. Just the two of us.”

Mika blinked. “Wait, really?”

“It’s been too long,” Camilla added, her voice softer. “We haven’t taken more than a day trip since—”

They didn’t finish the sentence. They didn’t need to. Chloe’s name hovered in the silence like a ghost neither of them resented.

“We think it’s time,” Camilla said gently, reaching across to squeeze Mika’s hand. “And more than that, we think you and Jules deserve some time, just the two of you. This visit… it feels important.”

“It is,” Mika whispered, not even realising how tightly she was holding her mother’s hand until her fingers started to ache.

Ken cleared his throat again. “That said, we’ll be staying the first day. We want to meet her.”

“You will,” Mika promised, her heart already fluttering with nerves. “She wants to meet you too. She’s just… she’s a lot. In a good way. She talks a lot when she’s nervous, so please don’t tease her.”

“No promises,” Camilla said with a small grin.

That afternoon, Mika sat outside on the porch with her legs pulled up under her, texting Jules between sips of iced tea.

M: So… My dad is apparently determined to pick you up from the airport. Like, no negotiating. He’s got your flight number already.

J: Your dad is picking me up???

M: He’s taking it very seriously. Said he “wants to make a good impression”.

J: Should I be scared? What if I don’t pass the vibe check?

M: He cried watching Paddington 2, you’ll be fine.

J: I KNEW THAT MOVIE WAS SAD. Everyone made fun of me when I said that.

M: He will love you. My mom too. But they’re staying one day while you’re here. Just the first day. After that, they’re leaving us the house.

There was a long pause before Jules replied.

J: That’s… wow. That’s a big deal. Are you okay with that?

M: I am. I really am. I want the space with you. But I want them to meet you too. I think… I think Chloe would’ve wanted that.

J: I’ll bring flowers for them. Is that too much?

M: No. That’s perfect.

J: Also, I’ll wear my least intimidating outfit. What’s the opposite of intimidating? Soft cardigan vibes? Pastel Millin?

M: Anything you wear will be perfect.

Jules didn’t reply right away. Mika stared at the chat, waiting. Hoping.

Then finally—

J: Okay. I’m nervous. But I’m excited too. Really excited.

M: Me too.

The day rolled forward in soft focus. Mika spent part of it dusting the guest room, even though her mom had already taken care of it. She rearranged the bookshelf in the living room three separate times. She checked the fridge and pantry like she was preparing for a royal visit, not just for the girl who used to steal fries off her plate and sleep in her bed.

And through all of it, her phone buzzed off and on.

A picture of Jules’ overstuffed bag, captioned: “I’m trying not to overpack. I’m failing.”

A short video of Max, dramatically clutching a pillow and saying, “Bring her home, Millin. Or don’t come back.”

A quick voice message of Jules saying, “What if your dad hates me and your mom thinks I’m weird, and I somehow burn down the kitchen on the first night?” followed by Max in the background yelling, “You don’t even cook!”

It was silly, sweet, and grounding. And it made Mika’s chest ache in the best way.

Later that night, as she lay curled on the couch, her phone buzzed one last time for the evening.

J: Tomorrow’s my last shift before the flight. I’ll text you when I clock out.

M: I’ll be waiting. I can’t wait to see you.

J: It’s going to be okay, right? Us?

Mika stared at those words for a long time, then typed slowly.

M: Yeah. I think it’s already starting to be.

The house was too quiet for how fast Mika’s heart was thudding. The kettle clicked off a few minutes ago, but her tea sat untouched on the kitchen table. Steam curled lazily from the mug, dissipating into the morning air that drifted through the open windows. She rubbed her palms against her jeans, the fabric soft from too many washes, and glanced at the clock again. Almost time.

Her father leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple before heading toward the front door. “I’m heading out,” he said, straightening his jacket like he was off to meet someone far more important than a girl from Mika’s past.

“Please don’t ask her a billion questions, Dad.” Mika called after him, half-pleading, half-serious.

He didn’t even turn around. “You know I will, sweetheart,” came his cheerful reply before the door clicked shut behind him.

She slumped into the nearest chair, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. The silence stretched again—this time interrupted by the clink of ceramic and a gentle voice.

“She’ll be here soon,” Camilla said, sliding Mika’s tea closer and taking a seat beside her.

“I know.” Mika looked up, her voice unsteady. “I feel like I’m going to throw up. Is that dramatic?”

Camilla offered a small, understanding smile. “Not for you, no.”

“Thanks for the support,” Mika muttered, though a laugh escaped with it.

They sat there for a moment, the quiet between them something comforting. Mika traced the rim of her mug with a fingertip before speaking again. “What if it’s weird? What if we just… don’t know how to talk anymore?”

Camilla tilted her head. “Didn’t you talk on the phone for five hours the other night?”

“That’s different. That was the phone talking. This is face talking. In real-time. With real consequences. And my dad.”

Before her mother could respond, her phone buzzed against the tabletop. Mika grabbed it instantly.

J: Just landed.

Her stomach did a somersault. She stared at the text for a second, then locked the screen and turned to her mom.

“Okay, just… please don’t gruel her,” she said, reaching for her tea in an attempt to steady herself.

“No promises,” Camilla said with an air of light mischief that Mika absolutely did not find comforting.

“And don’t ask her about her family,” Mika added quickly. “That’s… a sensitive thing. I don’t know how much she’s ready to share.”

Camilla nodded, her smile fading into something gentler. “I hear you.”

Forty-five minutes passed slowly, the kind of slow that made Mika check the front window at least twenty times and rearrange the throw pillows twice. Her legs couldn’t stay still, and even Camilla started glancing at the clock with quiet amusement.

Then, finally, the doorknob turned.

Ken entered first, lugging a navy suitcase behind him and stepping aside to hold the door open.

Jules stepped into the house with a hesitant smile and eyes that scanned quickly until they landed on Mika.

She looked… different. Not in any bad way. In every good one. Her hair was longer, darker toward the roots, and a little tousled from the flight. She wore a soft blue cardigan that clung to her shoulders just right, a white tee underneath, black jeans, and sneakers that looked scuffed in that perfect Jules way. Casual. Effortless. Beautiful. Mika’s breath caught somewhere in her throat.

“Hi,” Jules said, and it came out breathy, a little winded, like maybe she’d expected this moment to feel big, but not this big.

“Hi,” Mika echoed, barely audible.

Chapter Text

Camilla stood, clasping her hands together like she’d been waiting all morning for this exact moment. “You must be Jules,” she said, voice bright and composed. “Welcome. Come in, come in.”

Jules offered a small, gracious smile and stepped in further, brushing her hands along the side seams of her jeans. “Hi. It’s really nice to meet you.” Her voice was slightly hoarse, maybe from the flight, maybe nerves, but it didn’t matter. To Mika, it sounded perfect.

Camilla stepped in to break the tension, gesturing toward the living room. “Please, sit. Are you hungry? We have some snacks—Ken insisted we overprepare.”

Ken chuckled from the side as he set Jules’ suitcase by the stairs. “That’s not true,” he said, then looked at Jules with a wink. “Okay, it’s a little true.”

As they all moved toward the couch, Mika trailed behind, watching Jules out of the corner of her eye. She moved with the same casual confidence, the same quiet certainty she always had. But being here, in Mika’s house, among her things—books on the shelf, a photo of Chloe by the window—it made it all feel surreal.

They settled. Camilla perched on the edge of the armchair across from Jules, while Ken made himself comfortable in the corner seat. Mika sat beside Jules, a few inches apart, trying to ignore the way her entire right side burnt just from the proximity.

“So,” Camilla said, crossing her legs with elegance that seemed so at odds with Mika’s anxiety. “Tell us everything, Jules. How was the flight?”

“It was good. A little bumpy during landing, but nothing terrible.” Jules tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you for having me. This… it means a lot.”

“We’re glad you’re here,” Ken said sincerely. “I’ve heard about you for a long time.”

Mika sank further into the cushions, heart pounding. She could feel Jules glance at her again, but she kept her gaze fixed on her hands.

“And I know this might be forward,” Camilla added, “but I think it's sweet of you to take time off of work and visit Mika."

“Well, I think Mika’s worth it,” Jules said, the words slipping out before she could filter them. Her eyes widened slightly after, like she hadn’t meant to say it quite that directly.

Camilla smiled—slow and knowing—but didn’t comment. Instead, she asked, “So, cardio, huh? That’s the dream?”

“It is,” Jules said, sitting a bit straighter. “I’ve always been fascinated by the heart.”

That earned a warm laugh from Ken. “Well, you certainly picked the right person to visit if hearts are your thing.”

Mika didn’t laugh. She didn’t speak at all. She just stared—subtly, she hoped—at Jules, who looked brighter than she remembered but still carried something behind her eyes. Something heavy. Maybe Mika wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept well.

Eventually, her mom’s voice cut through. “Earth to Mika?”

She blinked. Jolted, almost. “Huh? Oh. Sorry. What were you saying?”

Camilla tilted her head, amused. “I asked if you wanted to show Jules her room.”

“Right, yeah. I can do that.” Mika scrambled to stand, motioning toward the stairs. “It’s just up here.”

Jules rose too, brushing her hand briefly against Mika’s arm in a way that sent sparks flying straight through her ribcage. They climbed the stairs side by side, silent for a moment.

At the top, Mika opened the door to the bedroom. Jules looked around appreciatively. “This is cute.”

“I told my mom not to go overboard,” Mika said. “She lit a candle in here yesterday. It smelt like sea breeze and lies.”

Jules chuckled. “I like it.”

"It was Chloe's room and Alexis, my other sister's, room. They shared, but now since Alexis is older and Chloe is..." Mika says, pausing. "My parents changed it into a guest room."

Jules doesn't say anything, she just offers a small, warm smile.

“I told my mom not to gruel you,” Mika said suddenly, arms crossing tightly. “Or ask about your family. That’s… kind of a sensitive subject, right?”

Jules nodded once, something dimming in her expression. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

A beat passed between them—tender, if a little uncertain. Then Jules smiled again. “Your dad’s funny.”

“He’ll ask you a million questions. That's if he hasn't already. I warned him not to, and he promised he would. So.”

“That sounds about right.”

They both laughed, and the tension cracked just a little. Not enough to break, but enough to breathe through.

Mika watched Jules take a seat on the bed and exhale slowly, like she hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath.

And Mika, still standing there, could finally say what she hadn’t been able to say downstairs—not out loud, not yet—but she knew it anyway:

She’d missed her.

Desperately.

“I, uh… totally forgot your suitcase,” Mika said after a beat, breaking the stillness in the room with a nervous breath. She scratched lightly at the back of her neck, suddenly hyper-aware of the silence pressing around them like insulation. “Should probably go grab it before my dad starts joking about you moving in.”

Jules looked up from where she’d perched on the edge of the bed, her expression softening into something Mika couldn’t quite name. “You mean I’m not?”

The teasing lilt in her voice made Mika’s heart thud a little harder. She rolled her eyes—poorly, half-smiling in spite of herself—and turned for the door, mumbling something about Jules being impossible under her breath.

Her footsteps padded down the stairs, slow and steady, though her pulse quickened the moment she heard her parents still chatting quietly in the kitchen. The suitcase was parked by the stairs, neatly upright with the handle extended—exactly where Ken had left it, like he expected someone to forget it. Mika crouched to grip the handle, then paused, glancing toward the voices. She could hear Camilla laughing softly and Ken chiming in with some long-winded anecdote about airline peanuts, of all things.

Dragging the suitcase up the stairs wasn’t hard, but she took her time, letting the quiet settle over her again. She needed the moment. Just a few more seconds to recalibrate. Because Jules was here. Not in a text thread. Not in a call. Not a memory. Jules Millin was upstairs in her guest room, sitting on the bed Mika used to sneak off to when she was hiding from the weight of everything.

By the time she reached the top of the stairs, Jules was no longer seated. She was standing by the window, fingers resting on the sill like she was trying to memorise the backyard view. Sunlight kissed her cheekbones, and for one ridiculous, fleeting second, Mika forgot why she was holding a suitcase.

“I come bearing luggage,” she joked, voice a little hoarse.

Jules turned at the sound, her smile quick and genuine. “My hero.”

Mika wheeled the suitcase to the corner, then stood awkwardly by the door again. There was too much space between them, and at the same time, not enough to hide all the emotions building in her chest.

“I used to sit right there,” she said suddenly, nodding toward the window. “Whenever I couldn’t sleep. Or think. Or breathe.”

Jules glanced back at the window, then returned her gaze to Mika. “It’s peaceful,” she said gently. “I can see why.”

A moment passed. Mika watched her carefully, unsure whether to say more or just let things hang in the air the way they always did when the stakes were high.

“You can sit,” Jules offered, motioning toward the bed. “Unless you’re planning to do the full house tour while carrying that emotional tension on your shoulders.”

A small, reluctant laugh escaped Mika. “No, no tour yet. I’m still recovering from the mental gymnastics of surviving downstairs.”

She crossed the room and sat beside Jules—not too close, but not distant either. Close enough that if one of them shifted, their knees might brush. She didn’t know if she wanted to move or freeze in place.

“I’m honestly shocked you retained anything from that conversation downstairs,” Jules said after a beat, her voice curling into a teasing edge. “You were too busy staring at me like I’d just descended from heaven or something.”

Mika’s head snapped toward her, eyes widening like she’d been caught red-handed. “I was not,” she shot back, though her tone lacked any real heat. More flustered than defensive. “I was… being attentive.”

“Attentive?” Jules raised an eyebrow, fighting a grin. “To what, exactly? My hair? My jeans? Or the way your mom kept nudging you every time I answered a question?”

“I was just making sure you weren’t being grilled to death,” Mika countered, arms crossing over her chest in mock indignation. “Which, by the way, you were. So, you’re welcome.”

Jules let out a laugh that tugged at the corners of Mika’s mouth before she could stop it. “Right. So you weren’t mesmerised—you were just being my personal PR manager.”

“Exactly,” Mika said, nodding solemnly. “Damage control. Full-time position.”

“You were terrible at it,” Jules said, leaning back on her hands. “Your dad asked about my future plans, and you just… blinked at him. Like you forgot what English was.”

“That’s not fair,” Mika said with a huff. “I didn’t forget English. I just panicked. He had that very intense ‘father of a daughter’ energy.”

“You mean the father of a daughter who has brought home someone suspiciously attractive energy?”

Mika shot her a look, but she was smiling now, wide and involuntary. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And yet you’re still sitting next to me.”

A beat passed, filled with the soft creak of the bed beneath them and the distant hum of conversation from downstairs. It wasn’t tense, though. The air between them was warm in the way it used to be—uncomplicated, even if layered with a hundred unsaid things.

“You looked nice,” Mika admitted, a little quieter, eyes darting away.

Jules tilted her head, pretending not to pounce on it. “Just nice?”

“I didn’t want to inflate your ego,” Mika said, nudging her knee gently. “But yeah. You looked… you are beautiful.”

“I wore the blue cardigan on purpose,” Jules confessed, her tone breezy but with a glimmer of something deeper behind it. “I remembered you said you liked it. That time at Joe’s.”

Mika blinked, surprised. “You remember that?”

“I remember a lot of things,” Jules replied, a little more softly this time.

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t heavy. It was the kind of quiet that came with comfort, the sort that made you feel safe even with words hanging unfinished between you.

“So,” Jules said suddenly, dragging them back into lightness, “if I survive this one or two-day interview with your parents, do I get a certificate? Maybe a little medal?”

“No,” Mika said flatly, then grinned. “But my mom might knit you something.”

“That’s even better, honestly. I hope it’s a weird hat.”

“She made my middle school crush a scarf once,” Mika said, cringing. “He wore it for, like, two days before it mysteriously disappeared.”

“Did she make it ugly on purpose?”

“Possibly. My mom doesn’t like competition.”

“Well, she’s got good instincts,” Jules replied, lifting her chin slightly. “I’m kind of amazing.”

Mika let out a snort. “You’re kind of something, alright.”

Jules glanced around the room, eyes sweeping over the posters still clinging to the walls and the bookshelf crammed with dog-eared novels and old high school notebooks. “So... this room feels like it holds secrets. Should I be afraid to open the closet?”

“There’s probably a science fair project in there,” Mika admitted. “And maybe some of Chloe’s old stuff I haven’t moved yet. So yeah. Enter at your own risk.”

A shadow passed through Jules’ gaze for the briefest second, but she didn’t go there. Instead, she reached for a pillow and tossed it gently into Mika’s lap.

“Okay, so I’m not opening the closet. Got it. What’s the next stop on the ‘Mika’s life’ tour?”

“We’ll start small,” Mika said, leaning back on her elbows. “Kitchen, backyard, and then maybe—maybe—if you behave, I’ll show you my horror of a middle school yearbook.”

“Oh god, please.”

"Depends if you're good or not."

Camilla’s voice carried up the stairs with a familiar warmth that tugged Mika right out of her moment with Jules. “Dinner’s ready!”

Mika stood, brushing invisible dust from her jeans as she glanced over. “You should go first,” she said, gesturing toward the door with a playful little nod.

Jules arched a brow. “What, you’re not escorting me?”

“I’m preserving the mystery,” Mika replied with a wink. “If I go behind you, you won’t know if I’m rolling my eyes.”

With a soft laugh, Jules headed for the stairs, and Mika followed close behind. The scent of Camilla’s cooking hit them before they reached the bottom step—warm, garlicky, and comforting in a way that only a true family dinner could be. It settled deep in Mika’s chest, curling around something soft.

The table was already set when they entered the dining room, and Ken stood from his chair to pull another one from the corner, setting it next to Mika’s usual spot. Camilla beamed as she motioned for them both to sit.

As they dug in, conversation flowed easily—gentle small talk laced with soft laughter. Camilla asked Jules about Seattle, about the hospital. Ken, of course, asked what kind of car Jules drove, if any, and whether she thought gas prices were a scam (she did). Jules, ever composed, answered each question with her signature blend of wit and sincerity, and Mika tried not to watch her too closely.

Somewhere between passing the roasted vegetables and Ken joking about having to “fight off suitors with a broom” when Mika was in high school, Jules lifted her glass slightly and asked, “So where are you two going for your vacation?”

Camilla’s face lit up. “Oh, nothing extravagant. Just a little coastal getaway for the two of us. It’s been ages since we took any time.”

“We haven’t gone anywhere, just us, since…” Ken paused and exchanged a knowing look with his wife. “Well. And it’s been a while, so we thought 'why not?'.”

Camilla reached for his hand across the table, squeezing it gently. “Four days. Just enough time for you girls to catch up and breathe a little. But we'll be back a day before Jules goes home. We want to get to know her some more.”

"That would be great," Jules nodded with a soft smile. “And the trip sounds perfect. You both deserve it.”

When dinner ended, Mika stood to gather the plates, her hands already reaching for the nearest ones. “I’ll help Dad with the cleanup.”

Ken gave a playful groan. “How fun.”

“You love it,” Mika reminded him with a grin, already heading toward the kitchen.

The two of them worked in a comfortable rhythm—Ken rinsing, Mika drying, the water running steady between them. He kept making little jokes about how Jules “passed the vibe check”, and Mika kept rolling her eyes but didn’t disagree. Occasionally, he glanced at her with something unspoken in his eyes, and Mika knew he was trying to say he was proud of her. That he saw her trying.

When they finished, Mika wiped her hands on a towel and stepped into the living room—and immediately froze in place.

There, curled up on the couch, were Jules and Camilla, laughing like old friends. Her mom was leaning forward, holding a small stack of glossy photos in her hands, and Jules was doubled over slightly, one hand over her mouth.

“She was so cute and tiny!” Jules said between giggles, her eyes wide with delight.

Mika’s stomach dropped and then lifted again in the same second.

“What are you—?” she began, walking over cautiously, already suspicious.

Jules turned to her, eyes bright with mischief. “Your mom’s showing me baby pictures. You had the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen on a child.”

Camilla, clearly pleased with herself, nodded proudly and held up another photo. “Look at this one—she’s two, and she’s trying to eat a leaf. Thought it was salad.”

“I was exploring the world,” Mika defended weakly, hovering behind the couch now as Jules reached for the photo.

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Jules teased, holding it up for another look. “This one is going on the fridge.”

“You are not allowed to take those with you,” Mika warned, trying to snatch the photo away.

Camilla just smiled fondly. “I’ll make copies.”

Mika groaned but couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. She sat down on the arm of the couch, peering at the small mountain of photos her mother had unleashed. There were baby pictures, preschool art projects, and a lopsided birthday cake from age six with her name spelt slightly wrong in icing.

“I look like a mushroom in this one,” she said, pointing at one particularly terrible haircut.

Jules laughed so hard she nearly dropped the photo. “You do. Oh my god, it’s adorable.”

Camilla looked over at her daughter, reaching up to pat her knee. “You were always adorable. Still are.”

Mika glanced away, cheeks warming. “Alright, alright, let’s not overdo it.”

Ken wandered back in, drying his hands. “Ah, she found the baby photos. I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“You could’ve warned me,” Mika muttered.

“What, and miss this bonding moment?” He asked, walking over to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “Not a chance.”

Jules was still leafing through the pictures, pausing every so often to hold one up and chuckle or ask a question about a younger Mika—what she liked, what she was like. And Camilla, for her part, offered every detail with pride and joy, like they were trading sacred stories, not just reliving old memories.

Mika, perched at the edge of it all, watched them with a strange swell in her chest—equal parts embarrassment and gratitude. This was… good. This felt right. Normal. Like her life had folds big enough to hold new pieces, even if they took time.

“Alright, that dinner was good enough to earn a little movement. Anyone up for a late-night walk? Unless our guest is ready to pass out.” Ken said, a smile rising on his face.

“I’m in,” Jules said quickly, glancing toward the hallway. “Please may I use the bathroom real quick?”

Ken gave a nod upstairs. “Upstairs, first door on your right. Can’t miss it.”

As Jules slipped out of the room, the mood shifted slightly. Camilla set the photo album down and looked toward Mika with something warmer and quieter in her eyes.

“She’s good,” Ken said, hands on his hips as he leaned against the entryway. “Polite. Sharp. Quick with a joke.”

Mika tried not to smile too obviously. “Yeah. She’s... all of those things.”

Camilla glanced once toward the hallway and then back at her daughter, her tone gentler than before. “Chloe was right.”

That brought Mika up short.

“She told me once—before everything happened—that she thought you were falling for someone. I asked who, and she said, ‘Someone very smart. A little guarded, but good.’” Camilla smiled now, faint and wistful. “She meant her.”

Mika swallowed, caught off guard by the softness in her chest. “Yeah. It's her. Do you think she might be…”

“I don’t just think,” Camilla said, reaching to smooth Mika’s hair, “I know. She is perfect for you, Mika.”

Ken nodded in agreement. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders. And she didn’t flinch when I started asking about her thoughts on single-payer healthcare, so that earns her points.”

Mika snorted. “Dad, you cornered her with policy talk?”

“I call it a litmus test,” he said proudly. “She passed.”

Footsteps creaked along the stairs, and Jules reappeared just then, drying her hands on her jeans. “Alright, I’m ready.”

Camilla stood and grabbed a cardigan from the coat rack. “Let's go!"

The door let out a creak as Ken held it open, stepping aside to let the others filter through. Cool air swept over them the second they stepped onto the porch, just cold enough to raise goosebumps along bare arms.

Mika stuffed her hands into the pockets of her hoodie, trailing behind her parents as they set a relaxed pace. She heard her dad launch immediately into a story about the neighbour three doors down who refused to bring in their recycling bins until the wind physically dragged them across the street. Camilla chimed in to add that she once chased a rogue bottle down the block in her slippers, and Jules let out a warm laugh, the kind that lit up her whole face.

“There’s a lot of character here,” Jules said, glancing around at the row of modest homes, each with its own little quirks—overgrown gardens, chipped mailbox paint, porch swings in need of throwing out.,

Ken nodded, walking with his hands tucked behind his back. “Philadelphia’s got layers. People think of cheesesteaks and sports fans and forget that it’s also full of stories. This neighbourhood in particular—quiet, yes, but it’s old. My dad grew up five blocks from here.”

“Really?” Jules asked, genuinely intrigued.

Camilla smiled softly, her voice more measured. “Yes, we've lived here since we got married. It was nice, and while it does hold a lot of memories, I suppose we wanted something, oh, I don't know."

“You wanted something steady,” Jules said.

Camilla’s nod was grateful. “Exactly.”

They continued walking, feet tapping quietly against the pavement. Mika fell back just a half step, letting her parents carry the conversation while she watched Jules take it all in. There was something about the way she observed everything—like she was cataloguing it for later. The flickering porch light, the cracked pavement, even the way Camilla’s voice dipped when she told a story. Jules was listening with her whole body.

“I like it,” Jules said suddenly. “There’s something soft about this place. Like it lets people breathe a little slower.”

Ken glanced back with a grin. “That’s a poetic way to describe our sleepy street, but I’ll take it.”

“I mean it,” she replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “There’s something calming here.”

Mika’s throat tightened for reasons she couldn’t explain. She hadn’t expected to feel proud. But hearing Jules appreciate the place that had cradled her during the worst months of her life—it did something to her.

A car passed slowly behind them, headlights dim, the driver offering a wave that Ken returned with casual familiarity. Everyone knew everyone around here.

“I used to ride my bike down this street,” Mika said suddenly, not even realising she was speaking aloud until everyone turned to look at her. “Tried to build a ramp with cardboard boxes and scraped my whole side open.”

“That scar on your knee”, Camilla said, grinning.

“Yup.”

Jules tilted her head, amused. “Of course you built a ramp. You seem like the type.”

Mika shoved her lightly with her shoulder, a smirk curling at the corner of her mouth. “What type is that?”

“The type who needs supervision at all times.”

Camilla laughed. “She’s not wrong.”

They turned another corner, approaching the tiny park at the end of the street. The swing set creaked in the distance, empty save for the occasional sway from the breeze.

“I used to take the girls here after school,” Camilla said, voice soft now. “Chloe always wanted to race the swings. Mika just wanted the monkey bars.”

Mika’s gaze dropped to the ground, then flicked quickly to Jules, but Jules didn’t say anything. She just reached out and brushed the back of Mika’s hand with hers—light, almost imperceptible, but enough. Mika didn’t pull away.

Ken glanced at the sky. “We should probably head back. I think I smell rain coming.”

“You always say that,” Camilla teased.

“And I’m usually right.”

Jules chuckled. “You’ve got a sixth sense?”

“I’ve got knees that ache when the air shifts. Comes with age,” Ken replied, mock-serious.

They started the slow journey back. Mika found herself walking a little closer to Jules this time, their shoulders brushing with each step. It felt less like an accident now.

Once they reached the porch, Camilla pulled her cardigan tighter around her. “Alright. I’m calling it a night. Too much laughter and too many stories. I’m getting soft.”

Ken leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Soft looks good on you.”

Mika made a face. “Okay. Time to go inside. No PDA in front of your child.”

Jules grinned as she followed Mika. “They’re cute.”

“They’re unbearable.”

“They love each other.”

Mika paused at the top step, half-turning toward her. “Yeah. I know.”

Camilla’s voice called from down the hall, light and lilting. “Alright, we’re heading to bed. Don’t stay up too late, girls.”

Ken popped his head around the corner a second later, already in his pyjama shirt and socks. “Night, ladies. Jules, thanks for surviving us today.”

“Goodnight,” Jules replied, and Mika echoed the same, waving as her parents shuffled toward their room.

The hallway light clicked off, and then it was just them.

Mika lowered herself into the corner of the couch first, folding her legs under her and tucking a throw pillow to her chest like it might offer her some composure. Her mouth opened, like she was going to say something witty or normal, but nothing came. She glanced at Jules beside her, who looked completely at ease—back leaned into the couch, legs stretched out a little, hands resting in her lap like she belonged here. Which, Mika thought helplessly, she kind of did.

The silence teetered on awkward until Jules nudged it off-balance with a grin. “Your dad grilled me, by the way. On the drive home.”

Mika winced in an exaggerated sort of way, bringing her hands up to cover her face. “Gosh, yeah. Sorry. He told me he asked you about single-payer healthcare.”

That made Jules laugh softly, her shoulders shaking a little. “He did. He got into it too. Spoke about stats, like he’d been preparing for a debate.”

“Well”, Mika muttered from behind her hands, “at least you passed that test.”

“Barely. But yeah, we were on the same page, so that’s all that mattered to him in the end.”

Mika peeked at her through her fingers. “What else did he ask you?”

A beat passed. Then another.

“Well,” Jules started, fingers brushing against her knee casually, “he asked about me. Who I am. What my work life is like. What I’d be doing if I wasn’t a doctor.”

Mika let out a quiet huff. “He loves that question. He asked my high school boyfriend that once. The guy said he’d maybe want to be a YouTuber. My dad never spoke to him again.”

Jules grinned. “I gave a safer answer. Told him I’d probably be doing something with animals, maybe.”

“Good call.”

“And then”, Jules continued, shifting just slightly to face her more, “he asked what my intentions were with you.”

Mika blinked. “He didn’t.”

“Oh, he did.”

“What did you even say to that?”

Jules tilted her head, eyes shining just a bit. “I told him I didn’t come all this way to waste your time.”

Mika’s breath caught in her throat, a little flutter rising in her chest. She didn’t quite know what to do with that. So instead, she looked away for a moment, trying to keep the heat out of her cheeks. “That’s... that’s a good answer.”

“I thought so too.”

Quiet again, but it wasn’t as awkward now. It was soft. Weighted, maybe, but in a way that felt grounding, not suffocating. Mika fiddled with the corner of the pillow.

“He likes you, you know,” she said finally. “So does my mom.”

Jules shrugged with a teasing smile. “Good. I was worried the whole single-payer chat was going to tip the scales.”

“They’d still love you even if you thought universal healthcare was a scam,” Mika muttered, but there was a smile behind the words. “Though my dad would bring it up every holiday.”

Jules leaned back, stretching slightly. “I think I could handle that.”

They lapsed into a peaceful silence again. The clock ticked faintly in the background. Somewhere outside, a dog barked once, then went quiet. Mika stole another glance at Jules, who was looking straight ahead, seemingly calm—but her thumb was running over her opposite palm, the way she always did when she was thinking or nervous.

“You okay?” Mika asked softly.

“Yeah.” Jules turned to her then. “Just... being here is weirdly nice. I was expecting it to feel more intense, but it doesn’t. It feels... familiar, I guess.”

“That’s what this house does,” Mika replied, her voice a bit quieter. “Pulls you in. You don’t even realise it.”

“You miss it when you’re gone,” Jules added, almost like she was speaking from experience.

“I did.”

They both looked at each other then. Not staring, exactly. Just meeting in that space between humour and honesty, where things weren’t quite ready to be said but were still understood.

“Your baby pictures are adorable, by the way,” Jules said, breaking the gaze with a smirk. “Your mom gave me a whole slideshow. And I hate babies, so count yourself lucky.”

“I’m filing a lawsuit tomorrow.”

“I’m framing the one where you’re wearing bunny ears.”

“Blocked.”

“You can’t block someone face-to-face,” Jules said, still laughing, voice catching on the edge of the moment like she didn’t really want it to pass.

“Wanna bet?” Mika countered, a slow grin already forming as her fingers curled tighter around the pillow in her lap.

“Mhm”, came Jules’ hum, playful and challenging all at once. “What are you going to do?”

Without a word of warning, Mika launched the pillow into Jules’ face—not hard, just enough to startle a laugh out of her—as she declared flatly, “Blocked.”

A muffled, half-laugh, half-squeal escaped Jules as she tugged the pillow off her face, clutching it like a shield. “Wow. That’s harassment.”

“Really? Because I think that’s called boundaries.”

“Oh, you want to talk about boundaries?” Jules arched a brow, her smile sharp and wide as she leaned forward like she was about to retaliate.

Mika lifted her hands in surrender, her eyes twinkling. “Truce. This couch is neutral territory.”

“That’s convenient,” Jules muttered, scooting an inch closer despite the declared ceasefire.

Silence stretched again, but it was easy this time. Not tense or awkward—just a pocket of comfort in the low hum of the house, like they had all the time in the world to fill the air or leave it empty.

Mika glanced sideways, noticing the way Jules’ fingers absentmindedly played with the hem of her cardigan. “You still do that.”

Jules blinked. “Do what?”

“That,” Mika nodded toward her hand. “The little fidgeting thing. You used to do it when you were anxious.”

“Or when I was nervous.”

“Are you nervous now?”

Jules shrugged, then looked at her properly. “A little. Not in a bad way.”

“Why are you nervous?” Mika asked, her voice soft and steady, her eyes watching Jules closely, trying to decipher the unspoken words in the air between them.

Jules hesitated, her fingers still twirling absently around the hem of her cardigan. “I think it’s just… I haven’t seen you in so long, and maybe it’s the exhaustion, but I’m not really sure what it is.”

Mika’s gaze softened even further, and her heart gave an almost imperceptible twist. She hadn’t expected the answer, but it felt… right. She understood it in a way she didn’t fully have the words for. Instead of speaking, she reached out, her hand covering Jules’ in a quiet gesture of reassurance.

“We’re okay,” Mika said gently, her thumb brushing lightly over the back of Jules’ hand. The touch was meant to soothe, but it did something more for both of them.

Jules exhaled deeply, the weight she hadn’t even realised was there lifting slightly. “Thanks.” Her voice was quieter now, almost like she was speaking to herself as much as to Mika. “It’s just a lot, you know?”

Mika nodded, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “I get it,” she whispered. “We’ve both been through a lot.”

Jules didn’t respond right away, but the way she let out a slow breath told Mika that the words were hanging in the air between them, left unsaid but understood.

The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable this time. There was an ease in the space, a mutual understanding that hadn’t been there before. Slowly, Mika gave a light shrug and asked, “You want to go to bed? Get some rest?”

Jules’ eyes fluttered shut for a brief second before she nodded, her voice thick with tiredness as she hummed in agreement. “Mmhm. That would be good.”

Mika stood up, offering a hand to Jules to help her up, but Jules, already tired from the day, stood on her own with a soft, sleepy smile. She followed Mika quietly, their footsteps light on the wooden floorboards. They didn’t speak as they made their way back to the bedroom; the house felt quieter now, almost like it was holding its breath for them.

Once inside, Mika moved to the bedside and turned, her expression softening again as she glanced at Jules. “You want anything? Water? Something to help you sleep?” She asked, her voice quiet, almost hesitant, like she was afraid of disturbing the fragile calm between them.

Jules nodded slowly, her eyes half-closed. “Yeah, some water would be nice, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” Mika reassured her with a small smile before turning toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Downstairs, Mika filled a glass with cold water and took a moment to breathe, to let the weight of the day settle. She found herself lost in thought, her mind tracing the lines of what had been said, what had been unsaid, and the space that had been between them for so long. She shook her head, trying to clear it, and headed back upstairs with the glass of water in hand.

When Mika opened the door to the bedroom, the room was dim, the only light coming from a soft lamp in the corner. Jules was already lying on top of the covers, her body still but the rise and fall of her chest steady. It struck Mika then how peaceful and vulnerable she looked, like she had finally let go of the tension that had been holding her together.

Carefully, Mika placed the glass of water down on the bedside table, her fingertips brushing the cool surface of the wood. She stood for a moment, watching Jules, her heart softening at the sight. It was a quiet, tender moment, one that felt like it was meant for them alone.

“Hey, Jules,” Mika said, her voice barely above a whisper, just loud enough to break the silence.

Jules shifted slightly at the sound of her name, a low hum escaping her lips as she opened her eyes, blinking slowly. She looked at Mika, still half-asleep, her gaze soft and unfocused. “Mm?”

Mika smiled softly. “Let’s get you under the covers, okay?” Her words were gentle, offering comfort, a sense of care that felt so natural now.

Jules didn’t protest, letting Mika help her move beneath the covers. The sheets rustled softly as Mika adjusted them around her, making sure she was tucked in comfortably. Once Jules was settled, Mika stood back for a moment, looking down at her with a soft, almost protective gaze. But as she turned to walk away, she heard Jules’ voice, small and sleepy, calling out to her.

“Mika?”

Mika froze, her heart skipping a beat at the sound of her name. Slowly, she turned back, finding Jules’ sleepy eyes on her, her hand reaching out with a softness Mika hadn’t expected.

“Goodnight,” Jules murmured, her voice barely a whisper, like she was half lost in sleep.

Something in Mika shifted at the sound of those words, something that settled deep inside her chest, something she didn’t know she’d been holding onto for so long. She moved back toward the bed, her hand instinctively brushing through Jules’ hair, tucking the stray strands behind her ear. Her touch lingered for a moment longer than necessary, fingers brushing against the soft skin of Jules' face.

Jules’ eyes fluttered again, her smile small but sincere. Mika smiled back, her heart swelling with a quiet kind of warmth she hadn’t expected.

“Goodnight, Jules,” she whispered, her voice just as soft.

The house was quiet as Mika padded softly back to her bedroom, the door to the guest room still slightly ajar behind her. Her hand lingered briefly on the doorknob before she let it go. She hadn’t expected the day to end like that—with a smile from Jules, with whispered goodnights and fingers brushing through soft hair—but now that it had, it lingered in her chest like the warm afterglow of something small but significant.

Inside her own room, she didn’t bother turning on the light. The dim wash of moonlight through her window was enough. She changed slowly, pulling on a soft old t-shirt and slipping beneath the covers, but sleep didn’t come right away. Her mind spun quietly beneath the stillness, replaying every moment since Jules stepped through the front door. Every laugh. Every shared glance. Every word that hadn’t been said aloud.  

She remembered the way Jules’ eyes had crinkled when she saw the baby photos, how her laugh had filled the living room like it belonged there. Like she belonged there. And then the way she had grabbed Mika’s hand so gently, like it was instinct, like reaching for her still felt natural. Mika turned onto her side, her cheek pressing into the pillow as she stared toward the wall. The old familiar ache of missing her was being replaced with something gentler now—like remembering the words to a song you hadn’t realised you still knew by heart.  

It wasn’t just that Jules was here. It was the way she was here. Easy, open, kind. Curious with her parents. Patient with the awkwardness. And still somehow entirely herself, even after everything. Mika wondered if she looked different to Jules, too—if her hair looked longer, if her face had changed from the weight of grief and the slow work of healing.  

She didn’t know what this weekend would mean in the end. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But tonight, the simplicity of the moment—the softness of “goodnight”, the way Jules had said her name—felt like enough. It was a beginning, or at least something close to one.  

Chapter Text

When morning came, it did so gently. The house wasn’t loud, but there was the quiet sound of life downstairs—muffled voices, the clink of dishes, a burst of laughter that travelledd easily through the old floorboards. Mika stirred slowly, blinking up at the ceiling before the sounds registered. Her brows furrowed, confused at first. Another laugh—familiar and bright—drifted up again. That one was Jules.  

She sat up slowly, pushing her blanket aside and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The hardwood was cold under her feet, grounding her instantly. She tugged on a hoodie over her sleep shirt and pulled her hair into a loose bun before stepping into the hallway.  

The scent of coffee met her first, warm and inviting. She moved toward the stairs, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and paused when she reached the landing. There they were: her parents and Jules gathered around the kitchen table, mugs in hand, laughing at something Ken had just said.  

Camilla was mid-sentence, gesturing with one hand. “—and then he pretended like he hadn’t just backed the car into the mailbox! In front of the whole neighbourhoodd, no less.”

“That’s slander,” Ken said, with mock offence, lifting his mug. “You can’t just accuse a man of mailbox destruction before breakfast.”

“I’m on Camilla's side,” Jules said, her laugh trailing into a sip of coffee. “The body language alone gave you away.”

From where she stood, unseen, Mika couldn’t help the slow smile that curved across her face. The sight of Jules so at ease with her parents, the way she fit in like she’d always been there—it hit something tender inside her. She leaned against the railing for a second, just watching.  

Jules was wearing an oversized shirt, her hair a little messier now. She looked… happy. Her cheeks were flushed from laughing, and she was holding a mug that Camilla must’ve offered her, one of the old ceramic ones Mika remembered from childhood. It was so simple. So ordinary. But maybe that’s what made it feel so special.  

Ken noticed her first. “There she is,” he said, cheerful. “Sleeping beauty emerges.”

Jules turned at the sound of his voice, her eyes finding Mika’s on the stairs. That same slow, easy smile spread across her face, like she’d been waiting.  

“Morning,” Mika mumbled, descending the last few steps.

“Want coffee?” Camilla asked, already halfway to the machine.

Mika nodded. “Yes, please.” She took the seat next to Jules, who shifted slightly to make room. Their knees brushed under the table for the briefest second. Neither moved.  

“You missed some very dramatic storytelling,” Jules said, sipping again. “I’ve already learnt about your dad’s mailbox crimes and your mom’s secret fudge recipe.”

“Secret fudge recipe?” Mika arched an eyebrow. “Since when do you have secrets from me, Mom?”

Camilla waved her off. “You never cared about the kitchen growing up. It’s time someone else appreciated it.”

“I appreciate it,” Jules offered quickly, eyes sparkling.

“You would,” Mika teased, stealing a piece of toast from her dad’s plate.  

Mika stretched slightly in her chair, letting the final sips of her coffee warm her hands before she set the mug down. The laughter had started to mellow into soft chatter, and she caught herself glancing between her parents and Jules—still feeling the surreal weight of it all. Her family, her world, had always been separate from the one she’d built with Jules. But now the lines were blurred. And it didn’t feel strange. It felt right.

She leaned back, folding her arms lazily across her chest. “Hey, what time are you guys heading out for the trip?”

Ken looked over at the clock on the wall, brow furrowing thoughtfully. “We were thinking around three-ish. Maybe a little after if we drag our feet.”

“There’s still plenty of time before that,” Camilla added, already stacking a few plates. “We should go out for a bit. The trail behind the high school is still open, and the farmer’s market is set up near the library on Sundays.”

Jules perked up immediately. “That sounds perfect.”

Mika smirked softly in her direction. “You just want an excuse to buy overpriced jam.”

“Maybe”, Jules said with an unapologetic shrug. “Is that a crime?”

Ken pushed his chair back with a chuckle. “Only if you walk past the local honey stand without buying something. That guy’s been there since Mika was in middle school, and he takes honey loyalty very seriously.”

“Noted,” Jules said, mock-serious, raising an eyebrow. “So trail first, then honey allegiance.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Mika said, already sliding her chair back from the table.

As Camilla started clearing the rest of the dishes, Jules quickly stood up to help. “Let me give you a hand.”

“Oh no, you’re the guest,” Camilla protested gently, but Jules was already grabbing mugs.

Mika watched them for a beat—her mother smiling softly at Jules, the quiet ease between them as they moved around each other in the kitchen. It tugged at something in her chest, subtle and unnameable.

“Alright, you two do the dishes,” Ken declared, patting Mika on the shoulder as he stood. “I’m going to to go find my hiking shoes before your mom ‘accidentally’ leaves them behind again.”

Mika rolled her eyes but smiled. “That was one time, Dad.”

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, disappearing toward the hallway.

With the breakfast cleanup in motion, Mika wandered into the living room, leaning briefly against the doorway as she glanced out the front window. It was the kind of morning that felt designed for wandering.

Behind her, she could still hear her mother and Jules chatting about produce stands and which stalls had the best flowers. There was something comforting about their voices together. Familiar, but also new.

When Jules finally stepped into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel, Mika tilted her head. “So, ready to hike?”

“If by hike, you mean casually walk and pretend it’s exercise, then yes,” Jules grinned.

“Excellent. You’ll fit right in.”

Camilla appeared in the doorway a moment later, holding a small cloth bag. “Here,” she said, handing it to Jules. “In case you pick up something small at the market.”

Jules took it with a grateful smile. “Thanks, Camilla.”

“I like her,” Camilla said, then leaned in to kiss Mika’s cheek.

Mika flushed, watching Jules carefully out of the corner of her eye, but Jules just laughed, slinging the bag over her shoulder.

As they all got ready—pulling on jackets, slipping into comfortable shoes—Mika lingered near the hallway mirror, adjusting her hoodie and catching her own reflection. There was something different in her eyes this morning. Less tired. Less afraid.

They walked the trail slowly, in no rush, the path winding through a dense stretch of trees that were just starting to bloom with the earliest signs of spring. The air was crisp, but the sun warmed their shoulders as they moved—four figures in quiet conversation, the crunch of gravel underfoot and the occasional chirp of birds filling the space between stories and laughter.

Ken had brought his camera, predictably slung around his neck, and he stopped every few minutes to snap pictures of trees, sunbeams filtering through branches, and and even an abandoned birdhouse clinging to a leaning post. “The lighting’s perfect today,” he said more than once, adjusting the lens with practised fingers.

Mika trailed just behind him, arms folded, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands. She knew what was coming the moment he turned back to face her, that familiar gleam in his eye like a kid who just found something exciting.

“Alright, Mika. Stand right there—no, a little to the left. Yeah. Light’s better there.”

She groaned under her breath. “Dad, seriously?”

“Don’t fight it,” Camilla chimed in, smiling as she adjusted her scarf. “You know he’ll just keep asking until you cave.”

Mika sighed, half-exasperated, half-affectionate, and took a reluctant step forward. She stood stiffly, shoulders hunched a little, clearly not thrilled.

Ken lifted the camera. “Atta girl, Mika.”

“I hate this,” she muttered, adjusting her stance only slightly.

“You look great,” Jules offered, standing a little to the side. Mika caught the glint of teasing in her eyes, but it wasn’t mocking. It was fond.

“I bet if Chloe were here”, Mika said, “she’d be begging you to take a thousand photos of her instead of me.”

Ken lowered the camera just slightly, a soft smile pulling at his lips. “I know she would. And I’d take pictures of both of you. But it’s still fun annoying you, sweetie.”

Rolling her eyes, Mika shifted again. “One more photo. One. Then I walk off into the forest and become a myth.”

“No deal,” Ken grinned, snapping the shot.

Then he glanced over at Jules, his face brightening. “Alright, Jules—your turn. Go stand with her. Let’s get one of you two.”

Jules blinked, surprised. “With Mika?”

“Go on,” Camilla urged gently, nudging her shoulder. “She won’t bite.”

Jules chuckled and stepped forward. As she walked over, she gave Mika a light nudge with her elbow. “Bet you didn’t think your dad would rope me into this.”

“I should’ve warned you,” Mika murmured.

Ken lifted the camera again, peering through the lens. “Just stand a little closer. Perfect. Jules, maybe tilt your head just a bit. That’s it.”

Mika didn’t move at first, but she could feel Jules’ warmth next to her. The wind tugged lightly at Jules’ hair, and when Mika finally glanced sideways, Jules was already looking at her. There was something open in her expression—calm, sure.

“She’s one in a million, hm?” Ken said suddenly, lowering the camera to glance at Jules.

Caught slightly off guard, Jules’ gaze stayed on Mika. Her smile came slowly, gently. “Yeah. She really is.”

The words hit softly, like a breeze brushing against skin—barely there, but undeniably real. Mika looked at Jules for a second longer, her heart tightening, not painfully, but like it was being held.

“Okay, I’m done,” Ken said, slinging the camera back around his neck. “That’s a wrap on my supermodels.”

As they kept walking, the conversation picked back up—Camilla asking about favouritee fruit vendors at the market, Ken retelling a story Mika had heard at least three times before. Jules didn’t seem to mind. She listened intently, laughed in all the right places, and once even asked if Mika had ever tried to escape one of Ken’s photo ambushes by hiding in the woods. Mika just smiled, eyes crinkling.

Eventually, they made it to the clearing where the trail curved back toward town. From there, they could see the steeple of the library poking out above rooftops nd the faint hum of the farmer’s market starting to come alive. Tents flapping in the wind, music drifting faintly through the air.

Ken pointed toward the stalls with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Time for jam.”

“Time for overpriced jam,” Mika corrected.

“Watch it, Yasuda,” Jules teased. “You insult the jam, you insult the market gods.”

The sun had risen high enough that it was starting to warm the back of Mika’s neck, and she instinctively reached up to tug her hoodie’s collar. Jules caught the motion and nudged her elbow gently.

“Do they do this every weekend?” she asked, gesturing at the lively market—the older couples sampling honey, the kids chasing each other between stalls, and and the musician on the corner playing a soft cover of Fleetwood Mac.

Mika nodded. “Pretty much. My mom knows half these vendors by name.”

“She already introduced me to a woman who makes lavender soap,” Jules said. “I think I’ve been adopted.”

“She moves fast,” Mika quipped.

The rest of the walk through the market was a slow drift—more wandering than destination, more lingering than intention. Ken paused often to snap photos, sometimes of vegetables stacked artfully in baskets, other times of Camilla stealing samples from vendors like she wasn’t a regular customer. Jules laughed easily at every turn, and Mika found herself orbiting closer and closer to her, as if pulled by something unspoken.

At one point, Jules bought them each a cold-pressed juice from a stand with a handwritten chalkboard menu. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said when Mika raised an eyebrow at the green sludge in her cup. “It’s called 'Green Radiance'. We’re radiating.”

“I’m radiating scepticism,” Mika muttered, but took a sip anyway. Her face twisted. “Why does it taste like a garden?”

“Because it is a garden,” Jules replied, smug. “Drink up. We’re going full health queen today.”

They sat briefly on a low stone ledge near the edge of the market while Ken and Camilla picked out tomatoes and fresh bread. Jules kicked off her shoes and pulled her legs up, resting her chin on her knees. Mika stayed beside her, their arms brushing now and then, neither of them pulling away.

“You always used to wear layers,” Jules noted suddenly, her voice casual. “Like now. Hoodie, t-shirt, and and probably a tank top under there too.”

“I like being prepared,” Mika replied, trying not to smile.

“For a snowstorm?”

“For people who don’t understand personal space,” she countered.

“Oh,” Jules said, playing mock-hurt. “So I’m the problem.”

Mika shrugged, sipping the rest of her drink. “I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“You’re making assumptions.”

Jules nudged her with her shoulder. “Your face is making assumptions.”

Mika finally laughed, full and bright, and it drew a brief glance from her parents a few feet away. She didn’t care. She felt loose in a way she hadn’t in a long time—like the stiffness she’d worn for months had finally cracked enough to let her laugh out loud again.

Eventually, Camilla returned with a loaf of bread and a triumphant look. “I haggled her down fifty cents,” she whispered like it was an FBI secret.

“That’s your mom’s villain origin story,” Jules murmured to Mika. “Bread piracy”.

“She’ll fight anyone over carbs,” Mika agreed, biting back a grin.

On the walk back, Ken offered Jules the camera, and to everyone’s surprise, she accepted. “I want to get one of all of you,” she said, backing up toward a tree just off the trail. Mika groaned but obeyed when Camilla grabbed her arm and pulled her into place.

“Say ‘cheesy cheese!” Jules called, and snapped the picture before they could pose.

When she came back over, Mika reached for the camera. “Let me get one of you.”

Jules blinked. “What, alone?”

“Yeah. Come on, stand there. Right under that tree branch.”

Jules squinted at her. “You just want revenge for ‘cheesy cheese’.”

“Absolutely,” Mika replied, already adjusting the focus. “Now give me your best brooding model face.”

Jules tried; she really did, but she cracked a smile halfway through, and Mika caught it. Click. The shutter closed on the moment before the laugh, not the laugh itself. It was soft and stupidly perfect.

They continued walking until they reached the car. Everyone climbed in, breathless with that specific kind of tired you only get from sunlight and small joys. Jules sat beside Mika in the backseat, and at some point during the ride, her hand found Mika’s. Not tightly. Just there. Resting. Familiar.

After lunch, Ken and Camilla started packing for their trip. Mika helped her mom fold clothes into a weekend bag while Jules and Ken gathered snacks for the road. Every now and then, Jules would peek into the room where Mika was, offering a funny comment or a silly dance step that made her shake her head, hiding her smile.

Eventually, as her parents zipped up the final bag, Camilla looked over her shoulder. “We’ll leave you two alone for the weekend. Don’t burn the house down.”

“No promises,” Jules called from the kitchen.

Ken grabbed the bag. “We’re back Wednesday afternoon. If you need anything, the neighbours are around.”

They shared hugs and waves at the door, and then it was quiet.

Just the two of them now. Mika stood in the entryway for a moment, watching the car pull out of the driveway, then glanced at Jules beside her.

“So,” she said softly. “What do you want to do now?”

Jules looked at her with that same easy smile, the one that always made Mika feel a little braver than she really was. “Whatever you want."

They ended up scrolling through four different streaming services before finally settling on something neither of them had seen and both pretended to be excited about. Mika was 70% sure Jules picked it because the main actress looked vaguely like her. She didn’t say that out loud, obviously. She just smirked.

Hovering over the couch like she was debating a life decision, Mika narrowed her eyes. “Scoot.”

In response, Jules sprawled out even more, one leg now dangling dramatically off the side. “I’m a guest. This is a guest’s right.”

“You’re a tyrant.” Mika poked her shin, gently but with intent.

Jules grinned. “Tyrants don’t offer shared couch real estate. This is generosity.”

With a long, drawn-out sigh that definitely wasn’t for dramatic effect (it was), Mika lowered herself onto the couch, half on, half off, and eventually just sort of... gave up. Her head found a soft landing spot against Jules’s stomach, warm and surprisingly comfortable. She didn’t overthink it.

Much.

“I knew this was your plan,” Mika murmured, eyes fixed on the screen but not really seeing it. “All that leg-spreading. Very subtle.”

“Don’t expose me like this.” Jules shifted slightly, tucking a throw pillow under her own head, careful not to jostle Mika too much. “But yeah. It was either this or fake a back injury.”

They lapsed into a few moments of silence, the kind that wasn't uncomfortable but had a certain charge to it. The kind where Mika’s pulse did something weird and she tried to act like it hadn’t.

Eventually, Jules spoke, voice low but not serious. “By the way… thanks. For last night.”

Mika blinked, then twisted a little to glance up at her. “For what?”

“The cover thing.” Jules tapped the arm of the couch, like that clarified anything. “I was, uh, semi-conscious. But I do remember you pulling the blanket over me. Very nurturing behaviour.. Ten out of ten friend moment.”

Heat crept into Mika’s cheeks despite her best efforts. “Okay, one, I didn’t want your frozen ghost haunting me. And two, I tripped on the edge of it,, and it kind of flopped onto you by accident.”

“Sure. That sounds plausible.”

“I’m just saying, don’t read into it. It wasn’t like—”

“Wasn’t like what?” Jules tilted her head. “Wasn’t it it like you cared about me deeply and wanted to make sure my delicate form was warm and safe?”

Mika groaned into her arm. “You’re the worst.”

“You didn’t deny it, though.”

Another groan. “You are the worst.”

“I feel very cherished right now,” Jules said brightly, reaching for the bowl of popcorn and managing to drop half of it on Mika’s arm. “Oops. Tragic.”

Mika looked down at the scattered pieces. “Is this revenge?”

“Consider it foreplay.”

“Oh my God.” Mika laughed, tossing popcorn back at her. “You’re so dumb.”

“I prefer witty, but fine.” Jules flicked one back, missing entirely. “Anyway, you owe me for blanket duty. I expect snacks. And affection. And possibly a massage.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Wow. Cold. After all we’ve been through.”

Mika shifted, pretending to get comfortable, but it was mostly to hide her face. Jules had that way of joking that made everything feel a little too real if you weren’t careful.

They half-watched the movie. Mostly, they made running commentary, complete with fake voices and made-up backstories for the characters. Every time one of them made the other laugh, it felt like something loosened. Something unspoken but present, just beneath the surface.

Jules’s voice dropped a little. “So. Hypothetically. If someone wanted to, like, hold hands… how would they go about asking?”

A beat passed.

Then Mika, without looking up, said, “Probably just do it. Before they overthink it and chicken out.”

There was a rustle of movement. Jules’s hand, warm and tentative, slid into Mika’s. Their fingers fit in that easy, messy way—familiar, but still full of newness.

“Oh,” Jules whispered. “This is nice.”

Mika hummed in agreement. “It is.”

Another moment passed, and then:

“Your palm is kind of sweaty,” Mika muttered.

“I knew you were going to to say that,” Jules groaned, pulling her hand away and dramatically wiping it on her jeans. “I was trying to be chill!”

“You were trying so hard it made you sweat.”

“Unbelievable”, Jules said. “Next time I’ll wear gloves.”

“Or bring a towel.”

Jules nudged her with her knee. “You are literally the worst.”

“Mhm”, Mika replied, placing her hand back in Jules’s again. “Sure I am."

Jules stilled for a second, then let out a soft laugh, one that didn’t quite hide the little hiccup of affection underneath. “You’re confusing, you know that?”

Mika shrugged, her tone playful. “Part of my charm.”

The blanket had slipped a little, and Mika adjusted it absently, tugging it higher over their legs. The cartoon animals on screen were now doing some chaotic musical number, but neither of them was watching. The room had taken on that late-afternoon stillness—where everything slows down just a little, like the day is taking a breath before evening.

Jules’s fingers were idly tracing patterns on the back of Mika’s hand. Nothing specific, just lazy little loops and lines. It felt grounding. So much so that Mika found herself saying something before she’d really planned to.

“I talked about you in therapy last week.”

The words just... came out.

Jules didn’t move, but the pattern on Mika’s hand paused, mid-spiral. “Yeah?” Her voice stayed soft, casual enough not to press. “What did I do this time?”

Mika let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost not. “It wasn’t a bad thing. Just... you came up. A lot lately, actually.”

Jules didn’t say anything right away. She shifted just slightly, just enough to make it easier for Mika to keep talking if she wanted to. That was one of the things Mika liked—Jules didn’t push, but she stayed.

Mika stared at the moving colours on the TV. “I’ve been talking about Chloe a lot. Obviously. Still. I think I’m always going to, a little bit.”

“Of course,” Jules said, like it wasn’t even a question.

“She comes up in different ways now,” Mika continued. “At first it was all... just the awful stuff. The day it happened. What I could’ve done. What I didn’t do. What I keep reliving.”

Her hand tightened around Jules’, just for a second.

“But lately it’s been more about everything after. How everything feels different now. How sometimes I feel like I’m not supposed to be okay. Or like—if I laugh too hard or have a really good day, there’s this voice in the back of my head like, ‘Hey, don’t forget, you’re the one who got to stay.’”

Jules made a sound, almost a protest, but stopped herself.

“It’s stupid,” Mika added quickly, eyes still on the TV. “I know it’s not rational. I know Chloe wouldn’t want me miserable. It just... doesn’t always matter what I know. Sometimes it still feels wrong.”

Jules didn’t try to fix it. She just shifted again, moving her thumb slowly across Mika’s knuckles.

“It’s okay that you’re talking about it,” she said after a moment. “That you’re saying it out loud. You don’t have to make it sound neat.”

Mika nodded. “That’s what my therapist says too. That it’s not supposed to feel tidy. That grief gets... tangled up in everything else.”

“And I’m in the tangle now?”

Mika gave her a sidelong glance, just a flicker. “You’ve been in the tangle.”

That made Jules smile, but there was something quiet under it. “What’d you say about me?”

“I said... I don’t know how to explain what we are. Or what we’re doing. But it’s important. You’re important.”

That quiet under Jules’s smile grew, spreadinging across her expression like slow sunlight.

“I said that being around you feels like this mix of terrifying and really safe. Which sounds like it makes no sense, but it does in my head.”

“No, that makes sense,” Jules said. “Actually, weirdly, that might be the most sense anything’s made lately.”

Mika looked down at their hands. “I told her that sometimes I feel guilty with you, too.”

Jules blinked. “Guilty?”

“For wanting something good. For getting to want anything at all. For... being soft with someone again when I thought I wouldn’t be.”

There was silence for a few seconds. Just the movie playing in the background, distant and silly and completely at odds with the conversation in the room.

Then Jules said, quieter, “You don’t have to feel guilty for that.”

“I know,” Mika said, not defensively, just honestly. “But sometimes I do.”

Jules sat with that for a while. She didn’t try to offer a solution or fix the feeling. She just stayed. One hand tracing Mika’s, the other lightly resting on her leg beneath the blanket, anchoring them both.

Mika let out a slow breath. “Sometimes I talk about how I keep waiting for this to fall apart.”

“This?” Jules asked, barely above a whisper.

Mika nodded. “Like,, it’s too good. Or too fragile. Or like I’m going to mess it up. And I’m scared that if I say the wrong thing or feel the wrong way or need too much—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jules interrupted, softly. “Even if you talk about the messy stuff. Even if you’re still figuring it all out.”

“That’s the thing,” Mika murmured. “I don’t know if I am figuring it out. What if this is just how I am now? What if I’m always a little broken?”

The words had just barely left Mika’s mouth—I don’t know if I’m figuring it out. What if I’m always a little broken?—and the room went still again, not tense, but thick. Something heavy, not unwelcome. Jules didn’t speak right away. She let it settle. Let Mika stay in that vulnerable place without rushing to clean it up.

Eventually, she exhaled, a quiet breath through her nose, and when she did speak, her voice was steady. Not careful, not overly soft, just... true.

“It's okay to be a little bit broken, Mika.” Jules said. "It doesn't scare me. You don't scare me."

That caught Mika off guard. She turned her head slightly but didn’t lift it from Jules’s stomach. Just shifted enough to glance up.

“I mean it,” Jules went on, eyes on the ceiling now. “What you’re going through—what you feel—none of that scares me. You’re grieving. Your sister died. That’s not a little thing. It’s not a ‘take a nap, drink some tea, and and move on’ situation. That’s the kind of loss that sits in your bones. Of course it changed you.”

Her hand moved to Mika’s shoulder, just resting there, firm and calm. “You’re allowed to carry that. You don’t need to fold it up and hide it to be around me. I can see it. I can handle it. I could’ve handled it before you… you know. I don’t want you shrinking yourself just so I won’t see how bad it gets sometimes.”

Mika didn’t respond, but her fingers had tightened slightly on Jules’s wrist, anchoring.

“I don’t always know what to say,” Jules added, a wry edge to her tone. “Sometimes I just kind of sit here hoping I’m not being too annoying or saying the absolute wrong thing. But I swear, being near you doesn’t feel hard. Not even when you’re sad. Or quiet. Or saying things that make me want to crawl through time and punch fate in the face.”

A small snort escaped Mika, despite herself.

“But really,” Jules continued, softer now. “You’re not too much. Your grief’s not too much. You’re not broken. You’re just... carrying something really heavy. And I think you’re doing that as best as anyone could.”

That silence returned again—but it had softened, turned warm around the edges. Like the words had pulled them in closer rather than leaving any space between.

Jules shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket without really thinking about it. “About us,” she said after a beat. “I don’t have a good definition either.”

Mika blinked slowly, her gaze still somewhere on Jules’s hoodie strings.

“I’ve tried to name it or figure out the timeline like a logic puzzle. Like, okay—there was before Chloe. And during Chloe. And then now, which feels like a weird in-between where we’re not what we were, but we’re still... this. Whatever this is.”

Her hand brushed against Mika’s again, fingers curling around hers.

“I guess the truth is, we might never get a label that fits just right. And that’s okay. Not everything needs a label,” Jules said, her voice more certain now, not because she had the answers, but because she had made peace with the lack of them. Her hand was still loosely linked with Mika’s, thumb drawing absent lines like she couldn’t help it. “And, Mika—”

That name, spoken so gently, pulled Mika’s gaze toward her.

“I know we both didn’t expect things to be so... smooth? At least I didn’t,” Jules admitted with a small shrug. “But I’m glad they are. I’m really glad. We’re talking. About real things. And I feel like that’s something we’ll keep doing. Over the next few days, maybe even after. We’re just finding our feet again, and that’s okay, too.”

Mika didn’t answer right away; she she just studied her face with that quiet intensity she always had. It wasn’t judgemental—more like she was storing something important, saving it to unpack later when no one else was around.

“It doesn’t feel like I expected,” she said eventually. “I thought if we talked again... I don’t know. I thought I’d feel weird. Or angry. Or like too much time had passed and we’d lost whatever used to hold us together. But it doesn’t feel like that.”

“It really doesn’t,” Jules agreed. “It feels like... we’re still in here somewhere. Under everything.”

A small breath escaped Mika, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Under all the rubble.”

“Yeah,” Jules said, smiling softly. “But, like, we’re crawling out.”

There was a beat, not quite silence—there was a bird outside somewhere, calling out sharply—but they both sank into it, not needing to fill it right away.

“I was scared, you know,” Mika said, after a moment. “Not just about seeing you again. I mean... scared that if I did see you, everything I’d built since—everything I’d tried to work through—would just unravel. That I’d feel like I was back in that hospital hallway, or in my bedroom the day after, or that frozen version of me that couldn’t even pick up my phone when you texted.”

“You’re not frozen now,” Jules said quietly.

“I know.” Mika’s voice was steady. “But I still get scared I’ll go back there. That some memory, or moment, or even something good will knock me sideways.”

Her thumb rubbed against Jules’s hand, unconsciously. “And I think that’s what I was trying to explain in therapy. That sometimes I’m not afraid of grief itself. I’m afraid of losing what I’ve managed to pull together since.”

Jules nodded slowly, not needing to say much. Her face told Mika she understood.

“And you showing up again,” Mika went on, “I wasn’t sure what that would do to me. But it hasn’t undone me. If anything, it feels... stabilising? That sounds dramatic.”

“Doesn’t sound dramatic,” Jules said. “Sounds honest.”

“I didn’t think we’d be able to talk like this,” Mika admitted. “Not after what we didn’t say for so long.”

“I thought the silences would have built up into walls,” Jules said. “But maybe they were more like bridges we just hadn’t walked across yet.”

Mika glanced over at her, one brow lifting. “That was poetic.”

“I get one per conversation,” Jules grinned. “Any more and I start quoting lyrics and crying into my hoodie.”

That pulled a reluctant smile from Mika. She didn’t always give them freely, so Jules treasured each one like it was rare currency.

Then, softer, Jules added, “It’s weirdly easy to talk to you, even when the stuff we’re talking about is... not.”

Mika nodded. “It’s like we skipped the small talk and went straight to the part where we know exactly which pieces are still bruised.”

“Not exactly a cute origin story, but I think it works for us,” Jules said.

A quiet laugh slipped from Mika before she spoke again. “It’s not lost on me that you’re the first person I’ve talked about Chloe with, like this. Outside therapy and my parents and siblings, I mean.”

“Yeah?” Jules didn’t hide her surprise, but she didn’t sound disbelieving either. Just... humbled.

“I think part of me knew you’d get it,” Mika said. “Even if you didn’t know her very well. You’d still see her the way I saw her—because you know how I look at things. You know how I carry things.”

The weight of that made Jules sit up a little straighter, not to pull away but to be present with more intention. “I won’t pretend to understand everything you went through,” she said. “But I want to know whatever you want to tell me. I want to be someone who can sit with you in the hard parts, not just the light ones.”

“That’s the thing,” Mika said, her voice low but clear. “I’m not afraid of the light parts. Not really. I’m afraid of letting them in.”

“I know,” Jules said. “But you’re doing it right now.”

The edges of Mika’s mouth twitched, almost like she was surprised by that. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I guess I am.”

Eventually, Mika shifted a little, stretching her legs under the blanket. “Do you ever think about what things would’ve looked like if...?”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but Jules didn’t need her to.

“All the time,” Jules answered softly. “But I try not to stay there too long. That kind of thinking can eat you alive.”

“Yeah,” Mika said. “I know. It’s just—sometimes I wonder if we would’ve ended up here anyway.”

“Maybe we would’ve,” Jules replied. “Or maybe we would’ve flamed out spectacularly in a Waffle House parking lot after an argument about who knows what.”

Mika snorted. “That’s the most us thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I aim for realism,” Jules said, nudging her leg. “We’ll figure things out,” she continued, her voice softer than before, but firmer, too – like she’d landed on something that felt true down to the core.

Then she paused, a small grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“That’s our thing,” she added, tilting her head toward Mika just slightly. “In multiple universes.”

It was a simple line. A Jules-kind-of-line. Casual and maybe a little dramatic in that nerdy way she always was when she was trying to say something big but not say it too big. And yet—Mika felt her whole chest tighten in response. In that stupid, involuntary way.

The words settled deep. Not because they were grand or romantic or made for a script, but because they were exactly the kind of hope Mika didn’t know she was still allowed to hold.

Multiple universes.

Not just this one, broken as it was. Not just the version of them that had to claw their way back to each other through silence and absence and too much unspoken grief.

But versions where they didn’t drift. Where Chloe lived. Where Mika hadn’t folded in on herself for months. Where they never needed to “figure it out” because somehow, impossibly, they’d already known.

Maybe a version where Jules knew Mika loved her. 

Mika exhaled slowly through her nose, trying to steady herself against the weight of everything that lived underneath that sentence.

“You believe in multiple universes now?” she asked, the faintest tease threading through her voice.

“I believe in science,” Jules replied, mock-serious. “And also in the power of women with unresolved tension.”

That made Mika let out a real laugh. The first one in hours that didn’t feel like it came with a disclaimer.

“Well, in the universe where I actually let myself enjoy things without spiralling,” she said, nudging Jules gently with her foot, “I think we’re probably annoyingly stable and emotionally well-adjusted.”

“Oh, for sure,” Jules nodded. “We definitely communicate through colourr-coded notes and make joint grocery lists and have a cat named Quantum.”

Mika wrinkled her nose. “Quantum?”

“Because it’s ironic,” Jules said with mock indignation. “She’s not unpredictable at all. She’s the most predictable cat in the multiverse. It’s hilarious. You’d love her.”

There was something so tender about the ease of this moment, the way it opened up space around them again.

Mika rolled onto her side a bit more, her hand still tucked in Jules’ but her eyes more serious now. “Do you really think we can figure it out?”

Jules didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Maybe not fast. And maybe not in a straight line. But I think we will.”

“And if we don’t?”

“We will.” Jules said it again, firmer now. “Even if what we figure out isn’t what we thought we were heading toward.”

Something in that sentence let Mika breathe easier. It wasn’t about guarantees. It wasn’t even about hope. It was about trying.

“I used to think that if things weren’t certain, they weren’t worth it,” Mika said after a beat. “Like, if I couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t hurt, then it was safer to just not start.”

“Yeah,” Jules said quietly. “I remember.”

“But I don’t think I believe that anymore,” Mika said. “Not fully, at least.”

Jules’s fingers gently curled around hers. “That sounds like growth to me.”

“It feels more like... surrender. But in a good way.”

“Letting go of control?”

“Letting go of needing to know everything before I choose.”

They sat with that. No movie. No background noise. Just the shape of the moment between them—quiet, real, and wide open.

Jules leaned her head back and let her eyes close, just for a second. “I think there’s a version of us that never stopped talking. But I like this one. Where we had to find each other again.”

“You do?”

Jules opened her eyes andand met hers. “Yeah. Because it means we can fall apart and still end up in each other's lives.”

Mika didn’t answer out loud. She just nodded, very slightly, and leaned her head back down against Jules’s stomach. She didn’t know what would happen next—tomorrow, next week, or when Jules had to leave again.

But for right now, she didn’t need a label. Didn’t need a map.

Just this universe.

And the one next to it.

And the one after that.

“So,” Mika said, almost casually, eyes flicking toward Jules without fully turning, “how’s work?”

Jules looked up from where she was picking at the last few kernels in the popcorn bowl, caught off guard by the shift. “Oh wow, look at you asking adult questions. Who even are you?”

Mika smirked. “I’m evolving. Like a Pokémon.”

“Okay, well, Pokémon Mika, work is…” Jules trailed off, making a vague gesture with her hand. “Fine? Chaotic? Still a mess, but with slightly better lighting.”

“You’re four or five months in second year now, right?” Mika asked. “That’s, like, deep in it.”

“Yeah,” Jules nodded, stretching her legs out across the couch. “Which is just first year but with slightly more caffeine and people expecting you to know things you absolutely don’t.”

“Still fighting Simone and Blue over who the better second year is?” Mika asked, even though she already had a feeling she knew the answer.

“And Lucas,” Jules confirmed, resting her head back against the couch.

Mika raised an eyebrow. “Wait—I thought Lucas had to retake first year?”

“So did I,” Jules said, eyes closing as she threw an arm dramatically over her face. “But apparently Dr Fox changed the rules, or forgot, or got distracted by her own reflection in a microscope. I don’t know. Lucas told me at some point, but I was too busy moping to retain the details.”

That earned a snort from Mika. “You were moping?”

“Oh, hardcore moping,” Jules said, lifting the popcorn bowl like it was a solemn relic. “This thing was my dinner for,, like, a week. Simone almost staged an intervention.”

“So you were in your popcorn era,” Mika said. “Tragic.”

“Deeply tragic”, Jules agreed. “Anyway, Lucas made it through, somehow. And now he’s back to saying things like, ‘I don’t need to study, I’m an auditory learner.’

“That sounds like Lucas.”

Jules grinned. “He’s nothing if not committed to the bit.”

A beat passed. Then, with less performative flair, Jules added, “They all ask about you, by the way.”

Mika looked over at her. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Jules said, running her finger along the rim of the bowl. “Not, like, every single day. But enough that it felt weird.”

“Weird how?”

“They knew we weren’t talking,” Jules said, glancing sideways at her. “Like, I didn’t exactly keep it a secret that we... went quiet. For six months. And yet every few weeks, one of them would ask, like, ‘Hey, have you talked to Mika?’ Like I was just going to to suddenly say, ‘Yeah, actually, we got lunch yesterday, no big deal.’”

Mika absorbed that in silence, her face unreadable for a moment. “I guess I didn’t realise I made that big of an impression.”

“You underestimate yourself,” Jules said, not in a dramatic way, just like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Simone still talks about that one anatomy debate you destroyed. She uses it as a reference point for anything remotely competitive.”

“That was,, like, the first week of our internship.”

“Time is fake. Your legend lives on.”

Mika shook her head, but she was smiling now, soft and small. “I’m glad they still remember me, I guess.”

“They miss you,” Jules said. “And also, they think I’m much less fun without you around to balance me out.”

Mika laughed quietly. “Can't blame them, I'm the best.”

Another pause, this one lighter. Jules leaned back again, one leg draped lazily over the armrest.

“Do you think you’ll ever come back?” she asked. It wasn’t loaded. Not a push. Just a question she’d been holding in for a while.

Mika didn’t answer right away. She fiddled with a loose thread on her sleeve. “I think about it. Sometimes. But I’m not there yet.”

Jules nodded. “That’s fair.”

“I don’t want to show up and feel like I’m pretending,” Mika added. “Like I’m just trying to slot myself back into the old version of me.”

“You wouldn’t have to be the old version,” Jules said. “None of us are.”

Mika gave her a look. “Lucas is.”

“Okay, yes, Lucas is,” Jules agreed. “But the rest of us have at least attempted growth.”

The grin Mika gave her then wasn’t big, but it lingered. “Thanks for not making it weird.”

“Are you kidding? Weird is our default.”

There was something comforting in the rhythm of this. The back-and-forth. The way nothing had to be profound all the time. Some of it could just be popcorn and dumb jokes and talking about people they used to sit next to. It felt like they were building something again—not the same thing, but maybe something better. Something with more room.

Jules reached over and nudged Mika’s foot gently with her own. “What are you doing now, then?” Jules asked, tossing popcorn into her mouth and missing completely. It bounced off her cheek and hit the couch cushion, but she didn’t even pretend to care. Her eyes were on Mika, curious. Not digging, just wanting to know.

“Doctor? Not a doctor?” She added, trying to keep it light.

Mika leaned her head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling for a second like she had to mentally scroll through her answer. “I work at a clinic. So, not a hospital, but close enough that it still makes me feel… good. I guess.”

That last part came out quieter. Not ashamed, but measured. Like she didn’t want to overstate it, didn’t want to pretend like she had it all figured out.

Jules didn’t interrupt. Just nodded slowly and let the silence settle for a second before speaking again. “Do you want to be a doctor again? I mean, like, work in an actual hospital?”

“I do, yeah,” Mika said without hesitation. Then she paused, and her fingers toyed with the hem of her hoodie. “I think about it a lot, and I want to go back to it. I think Chloe would want that for me too. I don’t know, though. I’m also almost 28—”

“Mhm, about a month's time, I know. April 29th.” Jules cut her off like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Mika turned her head sharply, eyebrows raised. “You remembered?”

“Yeah, of course,” Jules said, playing it off with a shrug that didn’t match the little flicker of pride in her voice.

Mika smirked, leaning into the cushion with a look that said, Uh-huh, sure.

“Hey, it’s not like it’s a big deal or anything,” Jules said, a little too defensive now. “I’m sure you remember my birthday.”

“July 17th.”

Jules blinked. “Okay, wow.”

“What, you thought I forgot?” Mika asked, sitting up straighter, fake-offended. “That I just walked around not remembering the birth date of someone who used to cuddle into me at 3AM?”

“Shut up,” Jules muttered.

“Anyway”, Mika said after a beat, quieter now, “I do want to go back. I’m just scared. I used to know how to want things without being afraid of them. Now every time I think about applying again, I freeze.”

Jules didn’t try to solve it. She just shifted closer until their knees were brushing again. “It makes sense that it’s hard. You went through hell. You’re not supposed to just bounce back and slide into scrubs like nothing happened.”

“I don’t want it to be about bouncing back, though,” Mika said. “I want it to be about moving forward. But I don’t know how to separate those things yet.”

“You don’t have to yet.”

The words landed gently. Not like advice—more like permission.

The night stretched on, but not in a way that dragged. It just… unfolded. Slowly, lazily, like it was perfectly content to hang around while they found their rhythm again.

Mika flicked on the lamp in the corner, softening the room into a warm glow that made everything feel smaller in a good way—like the world had shrunk to just the couch, the snacks, and the two of them wrapped in shared history and this strange, sweet present.

Somewhere around 8pm, they both migrated to the floor, surrounded by cushions and pillows, the TV on low with something playing neither of them were really paying attention to.

Jules was sprawled on her stomach, chin in her hands, kicking her legs back and forth. “You know”, she said, voice muffled slightly by the oversized sweater she was halfway buried in, “we could stay up until sunrise just for the drama of it.”

Mika rolled her eyes without looking over. “We’re not sixteen anymore. I’d fall asleep by two and wake up feeling like I got hit by a truck.”

“That’s part of the aesthetic. Exhaustion is very now.”

“You say that, but last week you texted me at 9pm saying, ‘Bedtime for me, old and tired.’”

“That text was private.”

“Nothing is private anymore,” Mika said, sipping from a glass of water like she was making a profound point. “I screenshotted that text.”

“Betrayal”. Jules collapsed fully onto the floor, groaning into the rug.

There was a long beat where they just lay there, letting the TV flicker across the walls. Then Mika spoke again, quieter.

“I like this.”

Jules lifted her head, resting her cheek against her forearm. “Me being publicly roasted?”

“No,” Mika said, a smile tugging at her mouth. “This. Us. Being like this again. Without pressure.”

“That’s the best part,” Jules said, matching her tone. “There’s no performance. No pretending. We just get to… exist in the same room again.”

Mika nodded, her fingers idly tugging at the hem of her sleeve. “It used to scare me, you know? The idea of sitting with someone and not saying anything. But it doesn’t now. Not with you.”

Jules didn’t say anything right away, just watched her for a second. Then, with a lightness that didn’t undercut the weight of the moment, she said, “Wow. Sounds like someone’s developing emotional maturity.”

Mika smirked. “Gross, right?”

“Tragic.”

They let the moment sit for a while, both of them content to just feel it without naming it.

Eventually, Mika rolled over and stared at the ceiling. “Okay, serious question: if you were a soup, what soup would you be?”

Jules blinked. “What?”

“Don’t pretend it’s not important. You can tell a lot about a person based on their soup identity.”

“I don’t think that’s a real thing.”

“It absolutely is. For example, I’m like… a miso ramen. Complex, slightly salty, contains secret vegetables.”

“You’re actually more like alphabet soup,” Jules muttered. “Chaotic and constantly spelling weird things by accident.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Jules chuckled and shook her head. “Okay fine, I’m probably tomato soup. Classic, a little boring, but dependable.”

“Excuse you,” Mika said, sitting up. “Tomato soup with grilled cheese is elite. That’s not boring. That’s comfort.”

Jules sat up too, mirroring Mika without really thinking about it. They were facing each other now, legs crossed, pillows all around them like the aftermath of some low-stakes tornado. The TV still glowed in the background, casting their shadows across the walls, but the real light was coming from the lamp Mika had turned on earlier—soft, warm, like the air between them.

“Wait,” Jules said, pointing at her. “You think tomato soup is cute now?”

“I said it’s comfort,” Mika corrected, “which is different. But yes, also cute.”

“You’re just saying that because it’s me,” Jules replied, leaning forward a little, like she was in on a joke Mika hadn’t caught yet.

“I’m not,” Mika said, but her smile was betraying her. “It’s a solid soup. It knows what it’s about. No unnecessary drama. Pairs well with carbs. People underestimate that kind of dependability.”

“Oh my god,” Jules groaned. “You’re literally giving a TED Talk about my imaginary soup personality.”

“Someone has to,” Mika said, her tone too serious to be anything but ridiculous. “You’re clearly not standing up for yourself.”

Jules leaned in a little more, just enough for the space between them to suddenly feel... smaller. Cosier. Mika noticed, but she didn’t back up.

“Okay, then,” Jules said, voice lower now. “What if I said you’re not miso ramen?”

Mika raised an eyebrow. “What am I, then?”

“I don’t know. Something... complicated,” Jules said, eyes narrowing like she was doing serious analysis. “Maybe one of those soups you only get at fancy restaurants that’s got, like, microgreens and a drizzle of something on top.”

“That sounds pretentious.”

“Yeah, but also mysterious and hot.”

Mika blinked. “Are we still talking about soup?”

Jules grinned, tilting her head slightly. “Are we ever?”

The air changed. Not in a huge way. It was still light, still joking—but underneath, something had shifted. That undercurrent again. The thing neither of them had named but had always, somehow, been part of their orbit.

Mika didn’t move, but her fingers brushed the edge of a pillow near Jules’s knee, absently. Her eyes lingered on Jules’s mouth for a second too long before darting back up to meet her gaze.

Neither of them said anything.

Jules’s smile faded—not gone, just softened. Something else was there now. Something quieter. A maybe.

“You’re staring,” Mika said, voice just above a whisper.

“So are you,” Jules replied, just as quiet.

One second passed. Then another.

Jules leaned in, just a bit more. Not enough to close the distance. Just enough to see if Mika would meet her halfway.

She didn’t.

But she didn’t pull back either.

Mika’s eyes flicked down again—to Jules’s mouth, to her collarbone, back up. Her breath hitched, barely.

“Don’t do that thing where you get all intense and charming at the same time,” she muttered, trying for flippant, but it came out breathy.

Jules raised an eyebrow. “So you do think I’m charming.”

“Unfortunately.”

Their faces were close now—too close for comfort, too far for anything to happen without a choice.

Jules tilted her head, her voice softer now. “We’re not going to kiss, are we?”

Mika looked at her for a long beat. Then: “Not tonight.”

Jules nodded, like she expected that answer. Like it didn’t disappoint her but didn’t exactly soothe her either.

“I get it,” she said, leaning back an inch or two. “Just checking.”

“You always check,” Mika said, almost smiling.

“Well,” Jules replied, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to her chest, “I’ve grown. I’m emotionally mature now. I read boundaries like bedtime stories.”

"Gross," Mika said, laughing softly.

Mika stayed still even after Jules leaned back, her breath evening out but her thoughts doing the opposite. On the outside, she looked calm—legs crossed, fingers absently picking at a loose thread in the pillow’s seam, her expression neutral in that way she’d mastered. But inside? Inside, it was loud.

Not panicky loud. Not spiralling. Just a constant, low hum of awareness. Of what almost happened. Of how close Jules had been—her voice, her mouth, her eyes not blinking as they searched Mika’s for something that hadn’t quite been offered yet.

Not tonight. That’s what she’d said. And she meant it.

But god, she had wanted to.

The wanting surprised her more than anything. Not because she hadn’t felt it before—she’d always had that flicker with Jules, even when they were just friends, even before it had names—but because she hadn’t expected it to feel so... steady. So possible. So much like it could actually happen without breaking her into a thousand scattered pieces.

She hadn’t known she was ready to feel that again. And maybe she wasn’t, fully. But she hadn’t backed away either. Hadn’t shut down. Hadn’t built a wall or made a joke or redirected like she used to. She’d let the moment live, even if she didn’t take it.

That alone felt like progress.

There was still that old fear humming beneath everything—what if I can’t handle it, what if I pull her too far into my mess, what if this just becomes another thing I screw up—but it didn’t feel like it was driving the bus anymore. It was there. But she could see past it.

She kept thinking about that moment when Jules had asked, We’re not going to kiss, are we? And how gently she’d asked it. How safe it had felt to say not tonight without the air getting awkward or strained. Jules didn’t take offence. Didn’t pout. She’d just nodded. Like she got it.

And that meant more than she could say out loud.

There was a version of her—old Mika—who would’ve frozen up completely. Who would’ve replayed that scene for hours afterward, combing it for signs of failure, of rejection, of having let someone down? But she didn’t feel that now. She just felt... close. Seen. And okay with the fact that this thing between them didn’t need to rush.

She turned her head slightly, glancing at Jules again. She was now lying on her back, arms folded behind her head, one socked foot resting on top of a pillow like she was posing for a deeply unserious magazine spread. Her face was relaxed. Content. Like she wasn’t overthinking it.

Mika envied that ease. But she also realised—she was starting to feel some of it too.

This night wasn’t about big moments. It was about all the little ones that stacked on top of each other until something new took shape. A softness that hadn’t been there before. A comfort that had been earned, not assumed.

And beneath that? A low, quiet flicker of something else. Hope, maybe.

Not for a relationship. Not yet. Not necessarily.

But for the possibility of more.

Not just between them, but in herself.

A version of her that let herself want things again. Let herself be held without apology. Let herself feel without immediately trying to numb it out with busyness or withdrawal or some self-imposed guilt she carried like a badge.

They hadn’t spoken for a while. Just lay there, surrounded by pillows and quiet, letting the space breathe without filling it.

Mika’s hand moved first, almost absentmindedly. Her fingers found Jules’ and curled around them with a sort of shy intention. The contact wasn’t dramatic, just deliberate. Quietly grounding.

“Can I ask you something?” Mika said, eyes still on the ceiling.

Jules didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

There was a pause as Mika gathered the words. “What was it like for you?” she asked softly. “After I left?”

She didn’t look over yet. “When we said goodbye, I kind of wondered if you went upstairs to your place and… I don’t know. Cried? Or replayed our conversation on loop the same way I did.”

Jules was quiet for a second. Too quiet. And Mika’s stomach dipped, her mind already guessing at the worst—that she’d pushed too far or stepped over some invisible line they'd both been tiptoeing around all night.

But then, Jules exhaled.

“I did both,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Cried. Replayed it. Like a hundred times. I couldn’t just go to bed and pretend we didn’t say goodbye.”

Her voice didn’t shake, but it softened in a way Mika wasn’t used to hearing—like Jules had finally taken off whatever armour she’d been wearing since that day.

“But after that?” Jules continued. “I don’t know. I was sad. Of course I was. Sad, angry, confused. And tired. I think I was tired more than anything.”

“But?” Mika asked, gently.

“Even though I told you I’d wait—and I meant that,” Jules said quickly, like she needed Mika to know, to really hear it, “I still felt like I should take a step or two forward. To just… move somewhere. To do something with the hurt.”

“So, to move on?” Mika asked again, quieter this time.

“In some ways, yeah,” Jules admitted. “Not because I wanted to forget about you. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t ever want that. But I’m a doctor, you know? I’ve got to show up. I can’t let my personal life bleed into everything I do. Patients don’t care that my heart’s a wreck. They just want their diagnosis.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” Mika said, and she meant it.

Jules gave her hand a little squeeze. “I cried a lot of nights. I thought about you every night. I never moved on.”

That silence came again—but it wasn’t cold. It just hung there for a second, thoughtful. Then Mika asked, barely audible, “But… did you try?”

She hesitated, then added, “Did you ever… I don’t know. Sorry. I shouldn’t ask that. It’s not my business.”

Jules didn’t flinch. “You can ask, Mika. We’re communicating, remember?”

Mika took a breath, bracing herself. “Did you ever meet someone and feel something for them?”

“No,” Jules said, firm. “I haven’t met anyone and liked them the way I like you.”

Mika blinked, her throat tightening slightly.

“But,” Jules went on, and she sat up slowly, folding her legs as she turned her head to look directly at Mika, “I did sleep with someone. Just once. After you left.”

Mika’s hand slipped out of Jules’ without her fully realising it. Her posture didn’t change, but her body felt a little colder somehow.

“Oh,” she said.

“It wasn’t anything,” Jules said gently. “A one-night stand. It happened fast. I didn’t know them. And afterwards… I found out it was Beltran’s ex-wife.”

Mika blinked at her. “What?”

“I know,” Jules groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I was on Beltran’s service the next day. I had to do a full consult with her. It was so awkward. Like, nausea-level awkward. I immediately decided I was done. Fully celibate now.”

“You’re celibate?”

“Yeah,” Jules said with a half-laugh. “Out of fear, mostly. Emotional scarring. Possibly divine punishment.”

Mika cracked a smile despite herself. “That’s… wild.”

Jules watched her carefully, smile fading. “Are you okay?”

Mika didn’t answer at first. She sat with it, trying to locate the feeling behind her ribs. The truth wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even betrayal. She had no right to either. But it was still something, a twisting ache that felt suspiciously like jealousy, even if she wasn’t ready to admit that.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly.

That landed like a stone between them. Not heavy with accusation—just weighty with honesty.

“Okay,” Jules said softly. “That’s okay.”

Mika rubbed the inside of her wrist. “I don’t have a right to feel weird about it. We weren’t… we weren’t anything.”

“Just because we weren’t together doesn’t mean it didn’t matter,” Jules replied. “To me, it mattered. You mattered. You matter.”

“I know.”

Another quiet settled over them, thicker this time. Mika stared at a thread unravelling from one of the pillows. Her heart was pounding harder than it should’ve been.

“Do you regret it?” Mika asked.

She didn’t look at Jules when she said it. Her eyes were on her lap, fingers curled in loose fists, thumbs pressing into the sides of her hands like she was trying to ground herself. Her voice was even, quiet, but it carried.

Jules blinked, taken slightly off guard—not by the question itself, but by how gently Mika had asked it. No accusation. No passive-aggressive tone. Just honest, careful curiosity.

“Yeah,” Jules said, eventually. “I do.”

The silence that followed wasn’t surprised. It was more like relief with a sharp edge.

Mika nodded slowly, like she’d been expecting that answer but still needed to hear it out loud. “I figured.”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Jules went on, her voice low. “I was... lonely. Heartbroken. And angry at myself. At the world. At how easy it was for something so important to fall apart. I wanted to feel something, and I picked the fastest route to something that felt like control. And then the next day, when I found out who it was, I felt like an idiot.”

Mika finally looked at her. “But it wasn’t about them.”

“No,” Jules said, shaking her head. “It never was.”

Mika sat with that for a while, trying to piece together the shape of the feeling inside her. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t jealous—not in the way she expected to be, anyway. But something still ached.

“I thought about it,” she said after a while, her voice just above a whisper. “I mean, I thought about you with someone else. I tried not to, but I did. Wondered if you ever let someone else touch you, or hold you, or make you laugh the way I used to.”

Jules listened without interrupting.

“And I knew I had no right to feel anything about it,” Mika added. “We weren’t together. I disappeared. You were free to do whatever. It wasn’t my place to be sad about it, or... or upset.”

“That’s not true,” Jules said, her voice firmer now. “You don’t need permission to feel things, Mika. Just because we weren’t together doesn’t mean it can’t hurt.”

Mika’s jaw tensed slightly. “I didn’t want to be that person, though. The one who walks away and still expects... something. Ownership. Affection. Loyalty. That’s not fair.”

“It’s not about fairness,” Jules said, shifting slightly closer now. “It’s about truth. And the truth is—we cared about each other. We still do. What happened between us didn’t vanish just because we didn’t label it or keep it going. You meant something to me. You still do. So of course that kind of thing leaves a mark.”

“I just…” Mika trailed off, swallowing. “I felt sick thinking about it sometimes. And then I’d get mad at myself, like, What right do you have? You left. You couldn’t even respond to her texts, and now you’re acting like she should’ve lived like a nun while you figured your crap out?”

Jules looked at her for a long time, her expression soft but serious. “You were grieving. You were trying to survive. That’s not the same as walking away for no reason.”

Mika’s hands had started to fidget again, rubbing over the fabric of her pants. “I know. I know that logically. But still—part of me thought... if we meant anything, you’d wait. Even if I didn’t ask you to.”

“I did wait,” Jules said. “I waited every single day. That night didn’t change how I felt about you. If anything, it made it clearer that I wasn’t looking for something new. I was still waiting for you.”

The air between them felt thick again, but not tense. Just... full.

“I guess I just needed to say it,” Mika said. “That it hurt. Even if I didn’t have the right for it to.”

“I’m sorry,” Jules said. “For hurting you.” Her fingers tightened gently over Mika’s, grounding them both. “Whatever happened, whatever we said or didn’t say—none of it changed how I feel about you. Not then. Not now. It was never about not caring, Mika. I cared so much it scared the hell out of me. Still does, sometimes.”

"That's okay," Mika replied, fingers curling slightly under Jules’. "It scares me, too.”

Jules shifted, glanced toward her phone on the coffee table, and blinked at the time. “Wait—what? It’s ten?”

Mika rubbed at her face, groaning. “Seriously? We haven’t even had dinner.”

“We’ve just... been talking for hours without actual food,” Jules said, dragging the last syllable like she was personally offended by the passing of time.

“And instead feeding on popcorn,” Mika muttered, looking down at the half-empty bowl still sitting lopsided on the rug between them. “Popcorn and, like, marshmallows and shame.”

“Balanced meal”, Jules said, flopping backward with a dramatic sigh. “Honestly, very on brand for us.”

Mika pushed herself up to her feet, wobbling slightly as the blood rushed back into her legs. “Okay, no, we need real food. We’re adults. Barely, but still.”

“I have never claimed to be an adult,” Jules said, still on the floor. “I’m just a tired child in a lab coat pretending to understand anatomy.”

“Do you want me to cook something, or do we risk it all and order?” Mika asked, stretching her arms above her head and trying to remember what was actually in her fridge. Probably a sad zucchini and half a block of cheese.

Jules sat up, cracking her neck with a wince. “Let’s order. I feel like we deserve greasy noodles or irresponsible amounts of fries. Preferably both.”

“I could go for spring rolls,” Mika said, already walking toward the kitchen to grab her phone.

“God, yes. And dumplings. And that fried tofu thing.”

Mika opened the food app and tossed the phone over to Jules, who caught it with both hands like it was sacred. “Choose wisely,” she said. “This meal might determine the entire trajectory of the weekend.”

“Oh no,” Jules said, scrolling. “Now I feel pressure.”

They ordered enough for five people. Because neither of them trusted their future selves not to want a second dinner at 1 a.m.

As they waited, Jules cleaned up the popcorn battlefield, while Mika cleared some space on the dining table and lit a candle—not for ambiance, but because the overhead light was flickering and had been for months. Still, it gave everything a warm, low glow, which Jules immediately commented on.

“Oh my god,” she said, stepping into the kitchen. “Are we on a date now? You lit a candle. This is basically romantic.”

“It’s a survival candle,” Mika deadpanned. “If we lose power, I’m keeping the spring rolls for myself.”

“Wow,” Jules said. “No loyalty.”

“Only to carbs.”

When the food finally arrived, they ate like they hadn’t had a meal in a week—sitting on opposite ends of the table, swapping containers back and forth, their chopsticks clashing every so often like tiny, edible sword fights.

At one point, Jules got sauce on her sweater and tried to wipe it off with a napkin, only to make it worse. Mika didn’t say anything at first, just watched her struggle for a moment.

Then, without a word, she stood, grabbed a damp dish towel from the sink, and returned to gently press it into Jules’ shoulder like it was no big deal. Jules froze a little at the gesture, then smiled without looking up.

“Look at you,” she said. “Caretaker energy.”

Mika shrugged. “I’ve grown.”

After they’d eaten more than either of them should’ve, they slumped back into their seats, arms over their stomachs, eyes glazed.

“I feel like a balloon filled with joy and salt,” Jules mumbled.

“Accurate”, Mika replied. “But worth it.”

Silence again, but the good kind. The satisfied kind.

Jules turned her head slightly, watching Mika from across the table. “You know we’ve been talking since, like, four in the afternoon?”

Mika blinked. “Have we?”

Jules nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s six hours of words. That’s, like... therapy numbers.”

“We’re just really emotionally articulate,” Mika said with a smirk.

“Or codependent.”

Mika leaned her head back and groaned. “Same difference.”

Once the food coma wore off enough for movement to feel possible again, they both sighed in sync and started the slow, reluctant clean-up.

Mika gathered up the takeout containers, stacking them into a leaning tower of cardboard, while Jules gathered rogue chopsticks, used napkins, and a marshmallow that had somehow survived since earlier, now fossilised on the floor.

“You really live in chaos,” Jules said, holding up the lone marshmallow between two fingers.

“I provide texture to the domestic experience,” Mika replied, deadpan, as she shoved the food bags into the bin. “Plus, I’m not used to having guests who throw snacks across the room.”

“That marshmallow was launched with precision and purpose.”

“Sure.”

Once the table was cleared and the couch no longer looked like it had been attacked by a movie-night tornado, they stood in the middle of the living room for a second, blinking at each other in that way people do when their bodies finally remember it’s late.

“Upstairs?” Jules asked, already yawning.

“Yeah. Pyjamas. Teeth. The whole glamorous bedtime routine,” Mika said, heading toward the stairs.

Jules followed, dragging her feet slightly, making dramatic “old person” groans with every step. “I hope your bathroom isn’t haunted.”

“It’s aggressively normal,” Mika called back over her shoulder. “You’ll be disappointed.”

The upstairs hallway was dim and quiet, lit by a single wall sconce that buzzed faintly but didn’t flicker. Mika disappeared into her room for a moment to change clothes, and Jules ducked into the guest room to do the same, emerging a few minutes later in a mismatched set—flannel pants and an oversized university hoodie that definitely wasn’t hers.

“That’s mine,” Mika said, spotting it as they stepped into the bathroom together.

Jules looked down at the hoodie like she’d never seen it before. “Oh, weird. It just appeared on my body. Magical, really.”

Mika rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything else.

The bathroom was small—barely enough room for both of them—but they fit. Barely. Elbow to elbow at the sink, standing in front of the mirror like a couple who had somehow mastered moving around each other in tight quarters without stepping on toes.

They both reached for their toothbrushes at the same time, grabbed them, paused, and laughed.

“Stop copying me,” Jules mumbled around her toothbrush.

“I was literally doing this first,” Mika said, toothpaste foam already building.

They brushed in silence for a minute, the only sounds being water running and the faint squeak of the toothbrushes.

Mika caught their reflection in the mirror and blinked.

There was something... surreal about it. This quiet domestic moment. Toothpaste on the corners of their mouths, messy hair, standing side by side like this had always been the routine. It wasn’t anything huge or cinematic. But it was real.

So painfully real.

Jules caught her staring and raised an eyebrow.

Mika quickly looked down and rinsed her mouth. “Nothing.”

“Liar.” Jules spat into the sink and grinned. “You were having a moment.”

“Was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

Mika elbowed her gently as she reached for the towel. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mika said, as calmly as she could manage while avoiding direct eye contact and pretending to be very invested in drying her toothbrush.

“You do this thing,” Jules said, still grinning as she leaned forward to inspect herself in the mirror, “where your eyes go kind of soft and unfocused, and you look like you’re either composing a poem or experiencing an existential crisis. It’s very specific.”

“I don’t do that,” Mika muttered, now opening and closing the bathroom cabinet for no reason.

“You absolutely do,” Jules said. “And you were doing it just now. Right here. With me. In this very cosy, very emotionally charged shared dental hygiene moment.”

Mika gave her a look that said drop it but in the most unconvincing way possible. “You’re making things up.”

“Am I?” Jules raised an eyebrow again, this time with even more obnoxious flair. “Because to me, it looked a lot like you were staring at our reflection like you were trying to figure out if we were the protagonists of a slow burn romance.”

“Stop talking,” Mika said, but the corners of her mouth were definitely trying not to turn upward.

“You’re deflecting.”

“You’re projecting.”

Jules grinned. “You like brushing your teeth next to me.”

“Please shut up.”

“You think this is intimate.”

“It’s not,” Mika said, finally turning toward her with her full body, which was unfortunately just confirming the accusation. “It’s brushing teeth. It’s basic hygiene. I would do this with anyone.”

“Oh, you’d brush your teeth with anyone?” Jules gasped, faux-offended. “Wow, I thought I was special.”

“You are the least special person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s so mean,” Jules said, but she was laughing now, full and unfiltered, which only made Mika shake her head and smile into the towel she was pretending to dry her hands with.

They stood like that for a few seconds—Mika half-hiding her face behind the towel, Jules leaning against the counter like she owned the place, the mirror behind them reflecting two people who were very clearly not “just brushing their teeth”.

Eventually, Jules straightened up and reached for the towel in Mika’s hands, tugging it away gently. “Hey,” she said, a little more serious now. “I’m just messing with you, okay?”

“I know.” Mika’s voice was quieter now, eyes flicking up to meet Jules’s for a second before dropping again. “It’s just… weird. Being this close again. Doing little things together. Normal things.”

“Yeah,” Jules said. “But it’s the best kind of weird, right?”

Mika nodded. “It is. It’s just… I notice stuff more. That’s all.”

“What stuff?”

Mika hesitated. Her hand was still resting on the sink, her toothbrush half-forgotten, toothpaste foam slowly fading down the drain. Jules had asked the question like it was nothing—what stuff?—but now that Mika was standing in front of her with all the words buzzing in her head, it didn’t feel like nothing at all. Then: “I don’t know,” she said at first, but her voice was already shifting, softer. Less guarded. “Like… I notice how you hold your toothbrush with this weird little curl in your pinky, like you’re at a fancy brunch.”

Jules gave her a mock-offended look in the mirror.

“And how you start slouching halfway through brushing your teeth, then suddenly realise it and snap upright like you’re being judged by an invisible coach. Or the way your eyes kind of get heavier when you’re tired, but you’re still trying to stay present. They soften. Like, not sleepy exactly, just... unguarded.”

The room stilled slightly. Just that soft yellow light and the sound of water dripping from the tap.

“And earlier, when we were with my parents,” Mika continued, voice almost a whisper now. “You were just... with them. You weren’t faking it. You listened. You remembered stuff. You helped them pack, and you let my mom introduce you to everyone at the farmer's market.” Mika huffed a quiet laugh, then added, “You give off the kind of vibes where I’d expect you to be secretly terrified of someone’s family. Like… lowkey panic, sweating through your shirt, counting down the minutes until you can leave.”

“I usually am like that,” Jules said. “Your mom was just scary in a comforting way. Like she’d bake cookies and also interrogate me about my intentions.”

“She probably wanted to,” Mika admitted. “But you handled it so well. Like you’d done it before. I haven't seen my parents happy like that in so long. And, I don’t know… it stuck with me.”

She paused for a second, gathering the rest.

“I notice how you talk with your hands more when you’re nervous. Like earlier, when you were telling me about work. You kept gesturing like you were presenting to an invisible boardroom. And how you eat spring rolls first, even when there are better options. And how your laugh changes when you really mean it—like it gets louder and less… polished. You stop trying to sound cute and just sound like you.”

Jules blinked at her.

Mika shrugged, trying to play it off. “I just… notice.”

There was a moment—short, still—where Jules didn’t say anything at all. She just stared at Mika like someone seeing their name written down for the first time after forgetting how it looked.

And then, quietly, she said, “You really do, don’t you?”

They both set their toothbrushes down at the same time, almost in sync, without saying anything more. The kind of silence that felt like a thread being gently pulled between them—something invisible but impossible to ignore. Jules reached for the hand towel, dabbed her mouth, and Mika just stood there for a second too long, watching her.

Then they drifted out of the bathroom, neither one saying “goodnight” yet, like the night itself hadn’t quite ended. They moved slowly down the short hallway to where Jules had left her bag in the guest room. She paused just outside the doorway, turning back to Mika, who was trailing behind by only a step or two.

And then Mika said it, soft and sure, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard out loud.

“I could never not notice you, Jules.”

The hallway was quiet, wrapped in the kind of stillness that makes the air feel warm around your arms.

Jules froze.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t joke. She just looked at Mika, really looked at her, like maybe the gravity of the words had knocked everything else out of her head. Her gaze was heavy but not overwhelming. There was something behind it—a kind of startled softness, like she was holding back an entire wave of feeling with just her breath.

Mika couldn’t move.

It wasn’t just what she’d said—it was how true it felt. How easily it had come out. She hadn’t planned it, hadn’t rehearsed it, and yet it had felt right the second it landed in the air between them.

For a few moments, they just stood there, inches apart.

Jules looked down, like she had to anchor herself to the ground before saying what came next. Her voice cracked just slightly, a breath of a laugh caught between something more vulnerable.

“You are... making it really hard not to kiss you.”

Mika’s heart skipped in that immediate, traitorous way hearts tend to do when someone says exactly the thing you've been quietly thinking.

She didn’t answer, not with words.

Her eyes flicked up to Jules’ again. She took in the curve of her mouth, the nervous set of her shoulders, and the way she was standing slightly tilted forward, like she was holding herself back physically, not just emotionally.

Mika felt it all like it was her own posture.

She noticed everything. She always had.

And now, more than ever, it wasn’t just about seeing Jules—it was about feeling her presence in the space. Her warmth. Her hesitance. Her want.

Mika wanted to say something back. Something that would match it. But all she could think was me too.

Her chest felt full. Not in an overwhelming way—just full of this strange tenderness that made it hard to speak.

“I know,” she whispered finally.

Jules looked up again, startled by how soft Mika’s voice had gone.

“I know,” Mika repeated. “Me too.”

There was a pause. Not tense. Not awkward. Just full of breath and careful restraint.

And then Jules smiled—barely, just the smallest tug of the corner of her mouth, the kind of smile you only give when you’re feeling everything at once.

“I’m going to go into that room now,” she said, stepping backward slowly.

Mika nodded, trying not to smile too much. “Okay.”

“Going to close the door.”

“You should.”

“Before I ruin the whole ‘taking things slow’ thing.”

Mika’s smile broke through, helpless. “You’re doing great.”

Jules took one more step back, one hand on the doorframe now. “I just—God, Mika.”

"I know."

“Goodnight,” Jules said, her voice low, like she was offering the words instead of just saying them.

Mika didn’t respond right away.

“Jules?” She said instead, barely louder than a breath.

Jules froze, her hand still on the door. She poked her head back out, her brows lifted. “Yeah?”

Mika shifted on her feet, nervous energy swirling around her like fog. She rubbed her hands together, then let them fall to her sides. She took one tentative step forward, then another, until she was standing right in front of Jules—close enough to smell the peppermint from her toothpaste, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her.

They didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to.

Their eyes met, and Mika could feel her pulse drum loud behind her ears, but she didn’t back down.

She leaned in, slow and deliberate, lifting onto her toes just slightly, and pressed her lips to Jules’ cheek—light as a feather, barely there, but real. A kiss that didn’t ask for anything but gave everything anyway.

“Goodnight,” Mika whispered, her breath still warm against Jules’ skin.

Then she pulled back, just enough to see Jules’ face. Her eyes were wide, soft, and stunned in the most open, vulnerable way. The blush was already blooming across her cheeks, climbing toward her ears.

Mika felt her own heart tug at the sight, and before she could second-guess it, she let herself offer the smallest, shyest smile.

Then she turned. Quietly. Carefully.

Walked the few steps to her bedroom door and slipped inside without looking back. She closed the door gently behind her, the soft click of the latch louder in the silence than it had any right to be. And then she leaned against it, shoulders dropping all at once, the kind of release that came only when you’d been holding something in for way too long.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and her hand came up, brushing lightly against her own lips. Not because she wanted to take it back. God, no.

Just because it had mattered.

Chapter Text

Jules had been nervous for this trip. Not in the “butterflies in your stomach before a fun thing” kind of way. No, this was real-deal, textbook nerves. The “drink an entire glass of wine way too fast at Simone and Lucas’ (And Blue's) place while over-explaining why this wasn’t a bad idea” kind of nerves.

Simone had tried to be comforting, gently playing with the stem of her glass while saying things like, “I think she still cares about you,” and “You’re just going to visit, not propose, chill.”

Lucas had been more... Lucas about it. “So let me get this straight—you haven’t seen her in six months, you barely texted at all before she finally reached out, and now you’re going to stay at her parents’ house?” Then he shoved a chip in his mouth and added, “Honestly, iconic.”

She’d laughed. Kind of. But also kind of wanted to scream. Because, yeah, it sounded insane when you said it out loud. But it felt right.

And still, she was nervous.

Nervous in that low-level hum way where even sitting still made her feel fidgety. Nervous because she didn’t know if she was walking into a conversation or closure. Or neither. Or both.

She’d made a list. Like a literal pros and cons list. Scribbled in the Notes app at 2 a.m. one night.

Pros:

• I miss her.

• I want to talk to her.

• I’m proud of her for going to therapy.

• She texted first.

• We fell asleep on the phone.

• She’s Mika.

• I love her.

Cons:

• ???

• What if she’s moved on.

• What if she’s seeing someone.

• What if she loves someone.

• What if she doesn't want me again.

• What if we’re not even friends anymore.

• What if she hates me after I tell her about what happened.

And honestly? The pros were stronger. Even the cons weren’t really cons. They were just... fear. Overthinking. Ghosts in the backseat.

And then that night Mika called.

It was late, and Jules had been passed out after what felt like the longest shift she had ever done. She hadn’t expected anything. And then suddenly her phone was vibrating against her cheek and Mika’s name was there.

Her heart had actually stumbled. Like, missed a step on the stairs kind of stumbled.

And yeah, she was groggy, and yeah, she probably sounded like a complete idiot when she answered, but none of that mattered once she heard Mika’s voice.

They had laughed. Actually laughed. It wasn’t stiff—it was them, all soft teasing and accidental overlaps and silences that didn’t feel like gaps.

They fell asleep on the phone.

Which—Jules would probably never say this part out loud—but that had been one of the best nights of her year. Nothing fancy. Nothing planned. Just two voices drifting into sleep with something like peace between them.

And now... now she was here.

In Mika’s parents’ house.

Sleeping in an actual bedroom in Ken and Camilla’s actual home.

She’d met them, and they had hugged her. Hugged. Her.

Ken had offered to make her tea twice, and Camilla had this look in her eye like she already knew way too much. Jules liked them. Actually liked them. And Mika had looked... proud? Soft? Not uncomfortable, at least, which felt like a huge win.

Being here felt surreal. Not because she didn’t think she should be here—but because she hadn’t let herself believe she could be.

There was something so specific about the way Mika looked at her now. Like maybe she hadn’t stopped thinking about Jules, either.

And sure, Jules had her doubts. She still didn’t know what this was. She didn’t know if Mika was ready for something, or just open to talking, or just missing a version of them that no longer existed.

But she knew this:

She’d waited for this. Waited through months of silence and heavy nights and little moments where she wanted to reach out but didn’t know if she should.

And now, Mika was noticing her again. Really seeing her. The way she used to. Jules couldn’t pretend that didn’t matter. And she couldn’t pretend that her chest didn’t feel tight in the best, worst way every time Mika looked at her like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.

What Jules didn’t fully expect—what she couldn’t have expected—was how it would feel just being in this house.

Not even the Mika part. Just the home part.

Ken and Camilla’s house was warm. In that deeply lived-in, mismatched mugs, slightly too many coats on the hook kind of way.They had photos—actual printed photos—framed and clustered together like the house had a memory of its own. The kind of home where you knew exactly where the sugar was without asking, and where the bathroom towels were always slightly damp because people actually used them.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was cared for. And for Jules, that hit harder than she’d expected.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t known how different her upbringing was—she had. Her parents were more interested in tarot cards and moon phases than making sure she had lunch packed. They were transient, scattered, always too high or too tired or too distracted with the next spiritual breakthrough to realize she hadn’t been to the dentist in four years.

She remembered long stretches of being alone. Eating dry cereal on the floor with no spoon. Falling asleep to music that never matched the mood. A childhood that felt like a series of strange stories she told people later, laughing because it was easier than explaining the grief underneath it.

So being here, in this house—with parents who asked how her day was, who offered her seconds at dinner, who remembered how she took her coffee—felt like stepping into a completely different planet.

Ken had asked her what specialty she was leaning toward. Not in a performative way, not in that overbearing “tell me your five-year plan” kind of way. (Although he did ask Mika if she had any idea). Just a quiet, thoughtful curiosity. Like he wanted to know who she was becoming.

Camilla had handed her a blanket when she sat on the couch, completely unprompted. Just noticed Jules rubbing her arms and offered it over with a little, “It gets cold around this time.”

No expectations. No assumptions. Just... care.

And it messed with her more than she wanted to admit.

Because it felt good. Too good.

She hadn’t realised how tightly she’d been holding that part of herself—the kid part. The one that still wanted to be looked after. The one who, even now, craved a kind of gentle, everyday love she’d rarely seen up close.

And what got her the most was how normal it felt here. Like she belonged.

It was quiet, but not empty. Mika moved through the house with this soft efficiency, and Jules found herself tracking her without meaning to. Watching the way she interacted with her mom, the way her dad called her “kiddo” in passing, the way none of it felt strained or complicated.

At one point, while Camilla and Ken were packing for their weekend trip, Jules had stood at the kitchen counter peeling an orange, and Camilla just walked by, tapped her shoulder, and said, “You’re welcome here anytime, you know.”

And that almost ruined her.

She’d barely managed a nod and a quiet “Thank you” before escaping to the bathroom and taking a full minute to breathe. Because what do you even do with a sentence like that when you’ve never heard it before?

She didn’t know if Mika saw all of it. The way she was constantly reeling from the simple fact of being cared for. But there were moments when Mika’s eyes softened in that knowing way—like maybe she understood. Or maybe she remembered something Jules had said once, offhand, about how her dad forgot her birthday until she turned seventeen.

Here, things were different.

Here, the lights were always on, and someone always asked if you wanted tea or coffee, and Mika kissed her on the cheek and walked away like it was nothing, even though Jules hadn’t moved since.

She could still feel that kiss.

Not just the contact, but the intent. The kindness in it. The way it had been soft and certain and entirely Mika.

Jules had stood there in the guest room doorway for what felt like forever, one hand on the doorknob, her heart thudding in her chest like it wasn’t totally sure what to do with itself.

And now, lying in bed, she stared at the ceiling and thought about all of it.

How strange and wonderful it was to be in a house that felt safe. How it felt to be looked at like someone worth noticing. And how much she wanted to earn every bit of that attention Mika was slowly, carefully giving her again.

Not because she thought she had to—but because it mattered.

Because Mika mattered.

Jules didn’t sleep right away.

She couldn’t.

She lay there in the unfamiliar-but-comforting bed, surrounded by too many pillows and the faint scent of laundry detergent she suspected was Camilla’s doing, her body still and her brain... not.

That kiss—God, that kiss—was still buzzing under her skin like static.

It hadn’t been dramatic. Mika hadn’t lingered. There was no long gaze, no movie-scene lighting. Just one soft press of lips to cheek, a whisper of goodnight, and then she was gone.

It wasn’t even on the mouth.

Which, somehow, made it worse. Or better. Or both.

Because Jules was pretty sure that tiny kiss had meant more to her than any full, sweeping, cinematic kiss ever had.

It wasn’t about where it landed. It was who it came from.

And it hit her—lying there, warm and very, very awake—that Mika probably didn’t even realize what she’d done.

She probably thought it was a friendly thing. A gentle gesture. Something soft and noncommittal to end the night.

But they had never been just friends. Not really. Not after everything.

Not after all those nights walking home together, not after hands brushed in the halls and eyes locked a little too long over anatomy models. Not after the hospital visits, the grief, the silences, and the endless in-betweens.

Jules didn’t know when exactly the line had blurred. She just knew that if Mika ever said they’d been just friends, Jules would laugh, politely, and then maybe cry in a private room.

Because she had never wanted anyone the way she wanted Mika.

And maybe—maybe—she’d been in love with her for longer than she’d admitted.

Okay. Definitely.

She remembered the moment it hit her.

Mika had been gone for about a month. They weren’t talking. Jules was in that horrible grey space between heartbreak and denial, pretending she was fine at work, pretending she wasn’t checking her phone every hour, pretending she was handling the distance with grace.

One night, she’d come home from a night shift and collapsed onto the couch, bleary and running on vending machine granola bars and spite. She didn’t want to sleep. She didn’t want to feel.

So she’d put on a movie.

Me Before You.

She didn’t even know why. Maybe because Simone had once said, “Watch it if you want to be emotionally eviscerated in the softest way possible.”

And she did.

She watched two strangers (very) slowly warm up to each other, and fall deeply in love only for things to end so heartbreakingly. Not enough time. And as she watched it, she broke down.

Not because of the movie, not directly.

But because all she could think was: I don’t want this to be us.

She didn’t want Mika to become a “once.” A “used to.” A name that made her flinch when someone brought it up in a story.

She wanted to keep her. She wanted to do dumb stuff together. Make dinner together. Fight over whether they were too codependent. She wanted to touch her in all the small, casual ways that couples touched without thinking. Wanted to fall asleep next to her again, not on the phone, but in the same room, under the same blanket.

She remembered watching the screen blur as her eyes welled up, and she whispered, into the silence of her apartment, “I’m in love with her.”

And she hadn’t said it out loud again since.

Because the truth of it scared her. It was too big, too real.

She’d tried, after that, to go back to her old self. The one who said love was stupid and messy and didn’t work.

She tried to roll her eyes at Simone and Lucas when they kissed mid-conversation, or when they cooked together like it was choreographed. She told herself it was cheesy. Predictable. Gross.

But every time, the thought that crept in was God, I want that with Mika.

Not just the love. The life.

Jules disliked it.

Okay—not really.

But she told herself she did.

She told herself she hated how Mika had managed to worm her way into every deeply held belief Jules had once worn like armor. Like the way she used to scoff at love songs. Or roll her eyes anytime someone mentioned wedding plans. Or how, in her final year of undergrad, she had rejected the most beautiful girl because love was stupid.

And she meant that. She meant it.

Until Mika.

Until that one moment that had unraveled her like a loose thread.

And now, six months later, she was lying in a bed in Mika’s parents’ house thinking about it like it had just happened.

She didn’t like that. She didn’t like that Mika had turned her into someone who believed in possibility.

And the kiss on the cheek tonight—that would haunt her now, too.

Not in a painful way. Not like before, when missing Mika felt like a punch to the throat.

This would haunt her in that slow, golden kind of way. The kind that crawled up your spine at night and whispered, she still cares.

Because that kiss had been more than just soft. And Jules had felt her whole body react. Like she’d been plugged back into something that had been disconnected for too long.

She didn’t like that Mika could do that with a single second of contact. She didn’t like how easily she’d shifted from “I don’t want love” to “I want her, every day, in the small moments, even if it’s just brushing our teeth together in a tiny bathroom.”

She really didn’t like that she was still awake, staring at the ceiling, reliving a kiss that wasn’t even technically a kiss.

Jules turned onto her side, then her back, then her side again. She stared at the wall, at the ceiling, at the shadows cast by the half-drawn curtains. Her brain wouldn’t shut up. Her body buzzed with the kind of tension that wasn’t stress exactly, just... fullness. Like there was too much feeling inside her skin and no room left to stretch.

She thought about getting up. Knocking on Mika’s door. Just to say hi. Or thank you. Or maybe something much dumber like can we do that again? but slower? and this time I won’t pretend it didn’t wreck me.

But she didn’t.

She just lay there, eyes wide in the dark, remembering how warm Mika’s breath had felt against her skin, how quiet her voice had gone when she whispered goodnight.

It was stupid, how much she could feel from something so small.

But that was the thing about Mika. She never needed big declarations. Her presence did all the work.

Jules thought about the last time she’d been touched like that—gently, thoughtfully, without expectation. It had been forever ago. Maybe even that night in the hospital halls. The one she kept replaying.

She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the covers higher.

Why now? Why did Mika have to go and do something like that when she’d started drawing mental boundaries like, okay, maybe we’ll be friends someday, and maybe she’ll never feel what I feel, and maybe that’s okay.

But the cheek kiss ruined that plan.

Because it didn’t feel like just a “friendly” thing.

And God, if Mika walked in right now and whispered her name again, Jules was pretty sure she’d fall into her arms without a second thought.

She rolled over, face half-buried in the pillow now, and whispered to no one, “You’re ruining my ability to be normal, Mika.”

Then she laughed a little. Quietly. Not sad, just resigned.

Mika had taken every belief Jules once had about how love should look or feel, and flipped it inside out.

And Jules, against all her better judgment, was completely, hopelessly in love.

Maybe she always had been.

Maybe she always would be.

The next morning crept in slowly—light slipping through the thin curtains. Jules woke to the faint smell of coffee, the distant sound of a cabinet closing, and the thump of footsteps—Mika’s, she was sure of it—across the floor downstairs.

For a moment, she didn’t move.

Her eyes blinked open gradually, lashes brushing against the pillowcase. The weight of the blankets felt good, grounding. The room was quiet. Too quiet, maybe, for a house with people in it, but Jules had always liked mornings like this. Where time hadn’t kicked in yet. Where the day was still stretching its arms, unsure of what it was going to be.

And then it hit her.

The kiss.

She exhaled sharply and pressed a palm to her face.

Not in regret—no, that wasn’t the feeling—not even close. It was just... too much to wake up to. The memory of Mika’s lips on her cheek was like stepping into sunlight after being inside for too long. Warm. Startling. A little blinding.

She sat up slowly, the sheets twisting around her waist, and ran her fingers through her tangled hair.

Pull yourself together, she told herself, but her body was still holding on to that moment like it had been branded there overnight.

After a quick stretch and a glance in the mirror (where she definitely tried to smooth the lines from her face without looking like she cared), she made her way out into the hallway.

The smell of something toasting grew stronger as she headed down the stairs—bread, maybe. There was a clink of a spoon against a mug, and then, as she rounded the corner into the kitchen, she saw Mika.

Standing at the counter, wearing a hoodie that Jules suspected had once belonged to her dad, sleeves too long, hair pulled back messily. She was buttering toast with the kind of focus people only had before 9 a.m.

She didn’t look up right away.

Jules paused in the doorway. Just… watched her.

There were a hundred things she could’ve said.

About the kiss. About the way she’d barely slept. About how surreal it still was to be in this house with Mika, after everything.

But all she said was, “Morning.”

Mika looked over her shoulder and smiled—soft, casual, like she hadn’t sent Jules into emotional orbit ten hours ago.

“Hey,” she said. “You want tea or coffee?”

Jules stepped further into the room. “Surprise me.”

“Dangerous,” Mika murmured, but she was already pulling a second mug from the cabinet.

They moved around each other easily, like they’d been doing this for years. Jules leaned against the counter while Mika finished making toast and filled the mugs. The silence wasn’t awkward—it had weight, but not tension. It felt like a continuation of the night before, as if the conversation had just slipped into sleep and was now blinking awake again.

Jules watched the way Mika moved. Calm. Deliberate. Her fingers brushing crumbs off the cutting board, her foot tapping slightly against the tile floor.

“Did you sleep okay?”

Jules looked at her over the rim of her mug. “Eventually.”

Mika nodded, biting into a corner of toast. “Same.”

They were halfway through breakfast when Jules nudged the last of her toast crust around her plate and said, “So... what’s the plan for today?”

Mika looked up from her tea, blinking slowly like she hadn’t thought that far ahead. She tucked a leg under herself, curling up in her chair like the question required full-body concentration.

“I don’t know,” she said. “What do people normally do when they’re... reconnecting?”

Jules smirked. “You make it sound like we’re long lost lovers.”

Mika shrugged, her mouth twitching in that not-quite-a-smile way. “I mean, we did emotionally unload on each other, brush our teeth like an old couple, and then I kissed you on the cheek. So.”

“Fair,” Jules admitted. “Extremely fair.”

They sat in silence for a moment, letting the absurdity of it settle. Not awkward—just surreal. The kind of surreal that’s only noticeable once you realize you’ve been acting normal in a very not-normal situation.

“I thought maybe we could go somewhere,” Jules offered. “Get some fresh air. See nature.”

Mika hesitated, eyes dropping to the rim of her mug. “I’d be down to go out.”

Jules tilted her head. “But?”

“I still don't drive.”

The way she said it was casual. Too casual. Like it had been practiced.

Jules didn’t flinch, but she felt the weight of it. She nodded once, just enough to acknowledge it without making it a Thing. “Okay.”

“It’s not like I can’t. I just... don’t, not since Chloe.” Mika added.

“You don’t have to explain,” Jules said gently. “Seriously.”

Mika glanced up, and the corner of her mouth lifted just slightly, like she appreciated not having to go deeper into it. “Anyway, if we’re going somewhere, there’s this bookstore downtown. It’s small. Quiet. Has a cat.”

“You led with bookstore and ended with cat. This is already my favorite date.”

Mika arched a brow. “So it’s a date?”

“I said favorite date. As in, theoretical. Hypothetical. Emotionally charged but legally non-binding.”

Mika let out a soft laugh and stood, taking their plates to the sink. “You’re so annoying.”

“Mhm, you love it.” Jules said, rising to follow her.

“Okay,” Mika said. “Bookstore and cat. Maybe a walk after, if I don’t implode from human interaction.”

“Deal.” Jules grabbed her mug for one last sip, then added, “Should I dress for emotional support animal therapy or casual heartbreak recovery?”

“Casual,” Mika said, heading toward the stairs. “But emotionally available.”

Jules grinned to herself, watching her go. “I’m always emotionally available for cats.”

Mika paused on the stairs and looked back. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Jules smiled, softer this time. “I know.”

“Do you want to bike ride there?” Mika asked as they stood near the front closet. “There’s my mom and dad’s bike you could use, or you could use mine and I’ll use one of theirs. Your choice. There’s helmets spare too.”

Jules blinked. “We’re biking?”

Mika looked up, totally serious. “It’s not far. And it’s nice out. Plus, driving feels... I don’t know. Too official. Biking feels like less pressure.”

“Wow,” Jules said, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall. “So you’re telling me I flew all this way to be taken on a wholesome bike date?”

“You offered coffee and emotional vulnerability,” Mika said, standing now with two helmets. “This is just the logical next step.”

Jules didn’t reply right away, mostly because she was biting back a smile that didn’t want to stay subtle. Mika, looking perfectly casual in an oversized hoodie and jeans, was somehow presenting this idea like it wasn’t completely adorable.

“Alright,” Jules said finally, “but I want your bike. I trust you with brake maintenance more than your parents.”

“Fair,” Mika said, tossing her the matte black helmet. “You’re taller than me anyway. Mine’s got the seat adjusted lower, but we can switch it.”

The bikes were leaned against the side of the garage, and Jules watched as Mika walked over and casually started checking the tires like she hadn’t just proposed an impromptu romantic bike ride through her childhood neighborhood.

“You’re weirdly prepared for this,” Jules said, grabbing one of the water bottles Mika handed her.

“I like riding,” Mika said simply. “It’s peaceful. It’s like driving, but I’m not trapped in a memory I can’t control.”

Jules fell quiet at that. Not because the mood turned heavy—Mika had said it with such clarity, like it was just another fact, like her brain had already built a gentle boundary around it.

“I like that,” Jules said finally, and meant it. “Okay. Let’s go.”

By the time they started pedaling out of the driveway, Mika ahead of her with the easy confidence of someone who knew every crack in the sidewalk, Jules was grinning like a kid. Not because it was funny. Just because it felt like something good.

They didn’t talk much as they rode. It wasn’t awkward—it just wasn’t necessary.

The wind was cool against Jules’ face, tugging at the hem of her hoodie. Her legs ached in a good way. Mika turned around once or twice, checking if she was still keeping up, and each time Jules gave her a thumbs-up like an overly enthusiastic dad.

“Stop doing that,” Mika called over her shoulder.

“Never,” Jules yelled back, breathless and laughing.

The streets were mostly empty, just a few people walking dogs or watering lawns. It was the kind of neighborhood Jules never really grew up in—safe, quiet, dotted with modest front porches and flowerbeds that weren’t just for show.

They parked the bikes outside the bookstore, chaining them to a rusted bike rack Jules was pretty sure hadn’t moved since 2003. Mika pulled off her helmet, shaking out her hair with one hand, and Jules had to look away for a second because Jesus. It was unfair how effortless she looked doing absolutely nothing.

“You good?” Mika asked.

“Great,” Jules said. “Just physically recovering from keeping up with an Olympic cyclist.”

“I coasted downhill half the time.”

“Shut up and take me to the cat.”

Inside, the bookstore smelled like old paper and dust in the nicest possible way. The kind of place with hand-written signs and a display labeled Staff Picks that clearly had no staff consensus.

And in the back corner, on a velvet footstool, was a sleepy orange tabby, snoring.

Mika pointed like it was a national monument. “That’s Atticus.”

“Stop,” Jules whispered dramatically. “He has a name?”

“He’s very important.”

They didn’t speak for a while after that. Just wandered through the stacks, occasionally holding up books and making judgmental faces. Jules found herself drifting near Mika more than not, watching the way she thumbed through a poetry collection with her brows furrowed like it was a test.

They didn’t need to talk. The silence wasn’t silence anymore. It was a conversation with room in it.

Eventually, Jules sat cross-legged on the carpet, Atticus in her lap, purring like a lawnmower. Mika settled beside her, their shoulders brushing.

Jules didn’t say anything right away. Just let herself be. With Mika. In the quiet. On a borrowed bike and under sleepy bookstore lights.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought, If this is what rebuilding looks like, I could do this forever.

“Did you own pets growing up?” Mika asked, still scratching gently behind Atticus’s ear as he melted further into Jules’ lap. Her voice was quiet, more curious than casual.

“Uhm… no,” Jules said, brushing some fur off her jeans. “My parents could barely take care of me and Doug, so an animal? Would’ve been a disaster. Like, the goldfish we brought home from the fair lasted two days. And I’m pretty sure Doug tried to feed it cereal.”

Mika laughed under her breath. “Of course he did.”

“I mean, in his defense, he was five. But yeah. Our house wasn’t exactly a place for living things to... thrive.”

“I get that,” Mika said, her tone softening. “I mean—not exactly. Like, I don’t fully understand, because I had a stable house and, you know, parents who didn’t confuse pets with houseplants or whatever, but like, I get it to an extent. The idea of wanting something soft around but not being in a place where you can really care for it. Or where there’s already too much noise to even try.”

Jules looked at her, and Mika suddenly flushed, realizing she was rambling. “Sorry, that got kind of deep. I was just trying to say... yeah. That makes sense.”

“No, I get what you mean,” Jules said quietly.

Mika cleared her throat and shifted a little, not looking up. “We had two cats. Minnie and Brownie. Chloe named Minnie.”

She smiled at that—small and genuine, not sad, not exactly.

“She was tiny when we found her. I think we were coming back from a weekend trip, and she was just... there. Sitting on the side of the road like she’d been waiting for someone to notice her. No collar, no chip, nothing. My mom tried to tell Chloe we couldn’t keep her, but it was over the second Minnie curled up in her lap.”

“Instant adoption,” Jules said.

“Pretty much.” Mika’s fingers tapped lightly against her leg. “She was all white with this little grey mark right over her nose. Looked like she’d been playing in ash. Chloe picked the name Minnie because she thought she looked like a mouse.”

Jules smiled. “That’s so specific.”

“Chloe was weird. In the best way.”

There was a pause. Mika’s voice was steadier than Jules expected. She didn’t sound like she was forcing it. Just remembering.

“And then we got Brownie a few years later,” Mika continued. “From an adoption shelter. I was twelve. He was... massive. Like, this grumpy, wide-eyed old man of a cat who hated everyone except my dad and would only sleep under the piano bench.”

“Brownie?” Jules asked.

“He was the color of, like, an overbaked brownie. Just kind of… burnt-looking and round. I don’t know. It suited him.”

Jules laughed, shifting as Atticus rolled over dramatically in her lap. “You had the full cat family.”

“Yeah,” Mika said, quieter now. “They were... constant. Even when things changed. Minnie would still climb onto my chest at 2 a.m. and scream for food.”

“Reliable.”

“Yeah.” Mika glanced at her then, eyes soft. “I think pets make you feel more like a person. You know? Like, someone that can be trusted. Someone that shows up. Even when you feel like you're failing everything else.”

Jules’s heart tugged a little. “You’re very good at showing up.”

Mika gave a quiet smile, eyes flicking down again. “Not always.”

“You show up for me."

Atticus purred louder, like he agreed with that. Jules glanced down at him, then back up at Mika, who was now fiddling with the corner of a book someone had left on the windowsill.

“Do you miss them?” Jules asked, gently. “The cats?”

“Yeah. Minnie passed when I was in college. Brownie, a few years before that. But sometimes I still think I hear her claws on the floor at night. It’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb.”

“I think I miss them because they were around when Chloe was,” Mika said. “Like they’re connected somehow.”

“They were part of that life,” Jules murmured.

“Exactly.”

They stayed there for a long while, tucked into the corner of the bookstore like the world outside had paused just for them. No clocks. No rush. Just a sleepy cat, some dust-speckled light, and the space between them getting smaller without either of them doing much about it.

Eventually, Atticus stretched, let out a croaky, disgruntled meow, and leapt off Jules’s lap like he’d just remembered he had somewhere better to be. Jules blinked at the sudden loss of weight and warmth, then glanced sideways at Mika, who was now hugging her knees to her chest, chin resting on top.

“You wanna keep wandering?” Jules asked, voice low like she didn’t want to break whatever calm they’d landed in.

Mika didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were distant, not distracted—just somewhere else for a moment. Maybe still with Minnie. Or Chloe. Or that version of her life where things were a little more whole.

Then she nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go look at the clearance shelf. That’s where they hide all the weird stuff.”

“Weird like how?” Jules asked, already intrigued.

“Weird like a self-published vampire cookbook or a coloring book based on obscure medieval punishments. Once I found a memoir written entirely in haikus.”

“I would buy that immediately,” Jules said, getting to her feet.

Mika stood too, brushing imaginary dust off her jeans. “I know. That’s why I didn’t tell you about it at the time. You’d have read it out loud for hours.”

“Correct.”

They made their way to the back of the store, through the tall shelves and uneven wooden floorboards, to a crooked metal rack with a handwritten sign that said $3 or less — no regrets.

It was chaos. Beautiful, bizarre chaos.

Mika pulled out a paperback with a title that read "How to Survive a Bear Attack." and showed it to Jules without saying a word. Jules, in turn, held up a thin spiral-bound book titled “101 Ways to Tell if Your Houseplant Hates You.”

They both cracked up at the same time.

Mika leaned in closer, shoulder brushing Jules's. “We should get a couple. Make a terrible reading night out of it.”

“Deal. Only if we do voices.”

It was so easy, too easy, how the day unfolded after that.

They wandered for another half hour, paid for two ridiculous books and a used poetry collection Mika insisted was “objectively sad,” and then stepped out into the sunlight again.

The ride back was slower, easier, their legs tired but content. Jules rode ahead a few times and turned back just to see Mika—her hair blowing a little in the wind, her eyes squinting from the sun, her face relaxed in a way Jules hadn’t seen in what felt like years.

And it hit her again, like it always did when she let her guard down: I want to build a life around moments like this.

Back at the house, they kicked off their shoes at the door and dropped the books on the coffee table. Mika offered drinks—iced tea or “the last sad root beer,” and Jules picked tea because it felt like the kind of day that deserved clinking ice cubes in glasses and condensation dripping onto hands.

They sat on the couch, legs curled under them, their shoulders close but not quite touching this time. Mika had changed into a softer hoodie, something borrowed from her dad again, and she looked impossibly at home.

Jules watched her for a second, sipping tea, thinking about all the things she hadn’t said yet.

Like how easy it would be to fall into her. Like how she already had. Like how none of this—bike rides, cats, old books—would mean anything if it wasn’t with Mika.

“You okay?” Mika asked, catching her gaze.

Jules smiled slowly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About?”

Jules shrugged, but not dismissively. “You. This. How weirdly good it all feels.”

Mika didn’t answer right away, but something shifted in her eyes. A softness. A recognition.

“Yeah,” she said eventually. “It does.”

“You know I, um,” Mika started, her voice barely loud. She was holding her glass with both hands, the condensation dripping slowly between her fingers. “I haven’t been this happy in a while.”

Jules didn’t move, didn’t speak—just watched her.

“I would have, I don’t know… these little moments,” Mika continued. “With my parents, with my siblings. I’d laugh at something, or smile, and it would feel... good. But not like this.” Her eyes flicked up to meet Jules’. “I haven’t been this happy.”

Jules felt her chest pull tight, not in a painful way, but in that fragile, don’t-breathe-too-loud way. The kind that comes when someone says something you didn’t realize you’d been dying to hear.

“Ever since I called you,” Mika said, “I’ve been consistently... okay. Happy, even. Not every second, not magically better, but it’s like—I smile more. I feel lighter.” She gave a shaky laugh, almost embarrassed by her own admission. “Even when I think about Chloe. Even then, I’ll be thinking about her, and I’ll still smile. Because I know—wherever she is—she’d be proud of me for calling you. For being here. For... letting myself want things again.”

Jules swallowed, the words landing in her like warmth, like truth.

“She wouldn’t want my life to end just because hers did, you know?” Mika said, and for a moment her voice trembled, but she steadied it. “She’d want me to love things again. To laugh like I used to. To fall asleep with someone on the phone. To feel okay. To maybe even let someone in.”

Jules blinked, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself still. She wanted to say something, anything, but it was too much. Too beautiful. Too much Mika. And the only thing louder than her heartbeat was the ache in her throat that came from wanting to hold her. Just... hold her. Not to fix anything. Just to let her rest.

Mika gave her a faint smile, almost sheepish. “Sorry. I don’t mean to—make it a moment. I just needed to say it. I think Chloe would like knowing that. That I’m here with you.”

“You’re allowed to make it a moment,” Jules said finally, her voice quiet. “It is one.”

Mika let out a breath. The kind that sounded like she’d been holding it for a long, long time.

Then, gently, Jules reached across the couch and placed her hand over Mika’s.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” Jules said. Her voice was calm but there was something anchored deep in it—something real. “You should be happy. You’re allowed to be happy.”

Mika didn’t look away, but she didn’t speak either. Just listened.

“And I agree about Chloe,” Jules went on, her thumb brushing lightly over the back of Mika’s hand. “She’d want that for you. I think your parents do, too. I mean, I don’t know what their grief path is like—no one really talks about that stuff, not honestly—but... despite what they’re going through, I think they just want to see their little girl happy. That’s all.”

A long moment passed, quiet but full.

Then Jules said it again, more softly, like the words had a second layer. “I really am glad you’re happy.”

Mika shifted slightly, just enough for their knees to touch.

“Are you happy?” she asked.

Her voice was quiet. So quiet it almost disappeared into the space between them.

Jules didn’t answer right away. Her fingers stilled.

She looked down, like the answer was written somewhere on the carpet.

Then finally, she said, “Right now, in this moment? These days with you… yeah. I’m happy.”

Mika nodded once, barely.

“And in general?” she asked.

It was gentle, not pushy. Like she was opening a door but not dragging Jules through it.

Jules hesitated again. Longer this time.

“In general,” she started slowly, “I just... I miss you.”

Her voice cracked a little around the word miss, and she felt it more than she heard it. Her throat tightened, and her chest felt suddenly, stupidly full.

“And I think,” Jules added, voice low, “that’s just kind of what it is, for me. You’re not something I can let go of. You’re not temporary." She bit her lip, like maybe she regretted how much she’d just let slip.

But Mika didn’t say anything at first. She just nodded. Her eyes didn’t get glassy, didn’t tear up, but something behind them softened in that unmistakable way. She leaned just a little closer. Barely noticeable. But Jules felt it. Felt all of it.

The stillness hung there for another beat, neither of them rushing to break it—like they both understood that something unspoken had just happened and were letting it settle in, gentle and slow.

Then, as if on cue, Mika blinked and pulled her hand away just long enough to nudge Jules lightly on the knee.

“You wanna play a game or something?” she asked, voice casual again, but not dismissive. She was still a little flushed, cheeks faintly pink, like maybe she knew what Jules had almost said, and maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t afraid of it.

Jules arched a brow. “Is this your way of changing the subject so we don’t spiral into another emotionally intense moment and cry into each other’s sweaters again?”

“Maybe,” Mika said, getting up from the couch. “But also, I feel like if we talk for another hour straight without a break, I’ll start accidentally confessing things and combust.”

Jules stared. “Accidentally, huh?”

Mika gave her a look that said don’t push it but also maybe. She walked to the cabinet near the TV and crouched down, pulling out a stack of games that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years.

“We’ve got Clue, Monopoly, Uno, Scrabble, and whatever this off-brand version of Jenga is called. 'Topple Tower.' Nice.”

Jules stood and walked over, peering over her shoulder. “You want to ruin our emotional progress by fighting over Monopoly?”

“I’m not trying to destroy our relationship,” Mika said. “I’m just trying to win.”

“I respect it,” Jules said. “But if we’re trying to keep it cute, we should probably do Uno. That way when I crush you, at least the cards are colorful.”

“Oh, you’re confident today.”

“I’m always confident. You just never let me show off because you keep emotionally disarming me.”

“You’re literally talking like we’re in a courtroom,” Mika said, laughing as she grabbed the Uno deck. “Come on. Kitchen table.”

Jules dealt the cards dramatically, one by one, sliding them across the table with unnecessary flair.

“Okay, but real question,” Mika said as she arranged her hand. “Do we play Uno by the rulebook, or do we embrace chaos and stack Draw 2s like lawless animals?”

Jules narrowed her eyes. “Stacking is a crime.”

“Oh my God, you’re one of those people,” Mika groaned.

“Rules exist for a reason.”

“So do feelings, and you’re ignoring both.”

Mika laughed, and Jules didn’t know if it was the cards, or the moment, or the way Mika looked at her then—but it made her feel a little dizzy in the best way. Warm and full and like maybe this was the kind of life she could be okay living forever.

They played two rounds. Mika won the first. Jules won the second. There was light trash talk and dramatic groans and Jules attempting to draw a card with her eyes closed to “enhance intuition,” which didn’t work.

Then Mika paused between rounds, shuffling the deck with the kind of mindless rhythm that said she was thinking about something.

“You know,” she said, eyes on the cards, “I used to play this game with Chloe all the time. She cheated constantly.”

“Oh, so this is emotional for you,” Jules said, mock-serious. “Now I feel bad for trying to win.”

“You should feel bad.”

Jules smiled, letting her foot nudge Mika’s under the table. “I won’t go easy, though.”

“I’d be disappointed if you did.”

As they ate, Jules found herself slowing down—fork resting on the edge of her plate, her body still, like if she moved too quickly, the moment would slip away.

This—this—was nice.

Not in the polite, “Oh, this is nice” kind of way, but in the kind of way that made her want to sink into the chair and stay there forever. The food was warm, the light above the table was soft, and Mika was sitting beside her with her legs tucked under her like she lived here. Which she did. And which, suddenly, Jules realized she wanted to as well.

Not in this house, necessarily. Not in Mika’s parents’ kitchen. But in something shared. Something lived-in. Something like this.

She took another bite, not tasting much, her mind somewhere else now—somewhere just a few days from now.

Because she had to leave.

Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But soon enough that she could already feel the goodbye creeping in. The quiet countdown. The half-packed bag in the guest room. The return flight confirmation buried in her inbox.

And that scared her.

Not because she didn’t want to go back to her life—her residency, her people, her version of structure—but because this... whatever this was becoming, it was real. And the thought of stepping away from it felt unnatural. Like turning down the volume on her own heartbeat.

She glanced at Mika, who was sitting quietly, unaware of the spiral happening just inches away. Her hair was messy, her shirt tight, maybe too tight (not that Jules minded), and she was humming under her breath like she didn’t even notice she was doing it.

Jules felt a rush of something so full, so achingly tender, she had to look down at her plate just to ground herself.

What happens when I leave?

Would the momentum fade? Would this fragile, beautiful thing between them dim in the face of distance and schedules and uncertainty? Would Mika still text her? Still call? Still feel like this when Jules wasn’t sitting beside her at the table?

And even worse—would Jules go back to pretending? To downplaying? To sitting on her couch in her apartment and telling herself that this week didn’t mean as much as it did?

She hated that thought. Hated it more than she wanted to admit. And yet, it was there. She didn’t know what to do with it, not yet.

After a few more rounds, they moved back into the living room. Mika sat cross-legged on the couch, hair slightly damp from a quick rinse, her shirt swapped for a soft crewneck that Jules had absolutely seen her wear many times before. The one with the faded basketball logo and the frayed collar. It made Jules ache a little, how familiar it felt. How right.

She settled beside her, arms resting against the couch cushions like she belonged there. And for a few minutes, they didn’t talk. Just scrolled quietly on their phones, shared the occasional meme, and laughed in sync at something dumb.

Jules didn’t know how to say it—that her brain was doing math in the background. Calculating how many hours were left. How many more mornings they’d wake up in the same house. How many times she’d get to stand next to Mika in the bathroom, brushing their teeth like they did this every day.

She wanted to freeze it. She wanted to ask Mika to pause time. She wanted more.

“You’re really quiet,” Mika said softly, not looking over, just gently tossing the comment into the space between them.

Jules shifted slightly on the couch, exhaled through her nose, and said, “Sorry, just mentally ranking every snack in your pantry. Trying to figure out if eating marshmallows again counts as dinner part two.”

Mika snorted, a soft laugh barely lifting her shoulders. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet,” Jules said, smirking faintly, “you made me dinner and let me win at Uno.”

“I did not let you win.”

“You say that now.”

Mika shook her head but didn’t push. She just leaned back a little further into the cushions, their arms now brushing lightly. Not an accident. Not a mistake.

Jules tucked her legs up under her, glancing at Mika out of the corner of her eye.

Mika wasn’t looking at her, not directly. Her hands were resting in her lap, fidgeting just slightly with the edge of her sleeve. There was a beat, then another, and Jules could feel the hesitation.

Not big. Not panicked. Just... careful.

So when Mika finally spoke, Jules wasn’t surprised—she’d already seen it coming.

“You can lay down if you want,” Mika said, voice low. Not shy, exactly, but unsteady in that way that came with offering something you hoped wouldn’t be taken the wrong way.

Jules raised an eyebrow, teasing already bubbling up before she could stop it. “On the floor?”

Mika huffed. “No, you… loser,” she said, turning to look at her properly now, cheeks slightly flushed. “You can put your head in my lap.”

Jules blinked, the smile creeping in too easily. “Is that medically advised?”

Mika rolled her eyes but didn’t take it back. “Jules.”

“I’m just saying, you’re offering prime real estate here. I need to consider the responsibility.”

“Jules.”

Jules laughed softly. Not mocking. Just a little breathless, like she was letting the joy in before it got too serious again.

Then, without saying another word, she moved. Slowly. Carefully. She turned and stretched out on the couch, shifting until her head settled gently in Mika’s lap. One hand rested on her stomach, the other tucked under her cheek. She looked up at her, a little tentative, like she was waiting to see if Mika would change her mind.

But Mika didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. She just looked down at her, a breath caught somewhere between her chest and her throat.

Then her fingers moved—tentative, slow—brushing a strand of hair from Jules’ forehead, then staying there, just lightly resting.

Jules closed her eyes for a second. Let herself feel it.

“Comfy?” Mika asked, quiet now.

Jules opened one eye. “You’re not the worst pillow I’ve had.”

Jules shifted slightly, letting out a soft sigh as she adjusted her head against Mika’s thigh, careful not to press too hard, like she was still testing whether she was really allowed to be this close.

“You’re overthinking it,” Mika murmured, her hand already sliding into Jules’s hair again, fingers slow and warm. “You’re not going to break me.”

“I might drool on you,” Jules said, voice muffled against Mika’s sweatshirt.

Mika laughed, low and bright. “Honestly? I’ve had worse.”

“Wow. High praise.”

“You think I offer my lap to just anyone?”

“I mean, I hoped not,” Jules replied, peeking up at her with a grin.

Mika met her gaze, and the look on her face—it wasn’t teasing, or sarcastic, or guarded. It was something else. Something soft and easy and unmistakably fond.

“No one else,” she said quietly. “Just you.”

And Jules froze—not in panic, but in that kind of quiet awe that hits when someone says the thing you didn’t think they’d say out loud.

"Only you."

Mika’s fingers moved slowly, like she wasn’t fully aware she was doing it. Soft brushes through Jules’ hair, her touch feather-light, barely-there. It wasn’t idle though—it was intentional, even if neither of them had admitted it yet.

Jules tried to keep her breathing steady. Tried not to overthink the way Mika’s hand paused every now and then, like she was memorizing the shape of her, relearning the texture of her hair, the angle of her forehead, the curve of her temple.

She tilted her head just enough to look up at Mika—and when she did, Mika was already looking down.

Their eyes met. And stayed.

Too long. Too open. Too full of things neither of them were quite ready to say.

But neither of them looked away.

Mika’s thumb drifted, slow, along Jules’ hairline. Just once. Barely a motion. But it felt intimate—a touch that didn’t ask for permission because it already had it.

Jules smiled. Not wide, not teasing—just soft. “You’re staring,” she murmured, voice barely more than a breath.

Mika didn’t look away. “So are you.”

“Yeah,” Jules whispered. “I know.”

The moment stretched. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just thick with possibility. Like one of them could lean in and it would all change. Not explode. Not ruin. Just shift. Like the next page of something neither of them had been brave enough to read aloud.

Mika’s fingers lingered near her jaw now, her hand gently cupping the side of Jules’ face in a way that felt both casual and not at all casual.

“You’re really pretty like this,” Mika said, almost like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Jules blinked, caught. “Like what?”

Mika’s voice went even softer. “Like... here. With me.”

Jules swallowed. “You’re pretty here too.”

Mika laughed under her breath, her thumb brushing once—once—along the curve of Jules’ cheekbone.

And for a second, just one tiny second, Jules thought Mika might kiss her. 

Not because she leaned down. Not because anything obvious happened. Just because the space between them felt suddenly too small to not.

But Mika didn’t move. Neither did Jules. Instead, she reached up and rested her hand lightly over Mika’s, where it cupped her face. And she held it there.

“We should um—” Mika said suddenly, breaking their eye contact like it physically hurt to hold onto it a second longer. Her hand slid gently away from Jules’ cheek, though not before it lingered just a beat too long. “Movie. Watch.”

Jules blinked, caught between a laugh and the dizzy flutter still settling in her chest. “Did you just... malfunction?”

Mika was already reaching for the remote, even though she didn’t remember where she left it. Her voice jumped an octave in fake casualness. “No. Nope. Nuh uh. Functioning at full capacity. No glitches here.”

“You forgot the word for watching a movie.” Jules said, grinning as she rolled onto her side, arm draped across Mika’s lap now. 

“I was thinking,” Mika defended, clutching the remote like it was going to save her from further embarrassment. “And then you were looking at me like that.”

Jules raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Mika narrowed her eyes. “You know exactly like what.”

The next thing Jules knew, her eyes were opening slowly, reluctantly—like her body was trying to decide if it was ready to rejoin the world. Her cheek was warm, pressed against something soft, and there was a pleasant weight around her. For a moment, she was blissfully blank. Just light and heat and comfort.

And then it hit her.

Did she—
No.
No.
Oh no.

She fell asleep.
On Mika.

They’d had that moment—that moment—quiet and intense and just barely on the edge of something big and maybe beautiful and probably terrifying. And Jules, with all her feelings and barely-contained longing, had responded to it by… passing out?

Her eyes flew open fully now, panic bubbling in her chest. She shifted slightly, and that’s when she felt it—Mika’s hand. Warm and laced between her own.

What the hell.

Jules blinked at their hands. She didn’t remember that part. She didn’t remember anything after Mika’s hand was in her hair and her voice had gone all soft and low and—

“Oh my god,” Jules whispered.

Across from her, Mika stirred. Her head had been resting back against the couch, slightly tilted toward Jules. Her lashes fluttered open slowly, pupils adjusting to the dim light. She blinked a few times, then looked down at Jules, the corners of her mouth tugging into the smallest, sleepiest smile.

“Hey,” Mika said, voice rough and warm with sleep. “You okay?”

Jules stared at her, wild-eyed. “Did I fall asleep on you?”

Mika nodded, still smiling. “You did.”

“Oh my god,” Jules said again, shifting to sit up slightly, which only caused Mika’s hand to slip free from hers—though she didn’t let it go immediately.

“You didn’t snore, if that helps,” Mika added, rubbing her eyes with her free hand. “And your head is surprisingly light.”

“I fell asleep,” Jules whispered, like it was the gravest sin she could’ve committed. “We were—there was—God, I’m the worst.”

Mika’s brows furrowed, still groggy but now amused. “Why are you spiraling? It was cute.”

“It was not cute.”

“It was very cute.”

“I literally collapsed on you after you told me I was beautiful,” Jules groaned, dropping her face into her hands. “That’s so rude. Like, ‘Oh wow, thanks, goodnight forever.’”

Mika laughed now, soft and breathy. “I figured you were emotionally overwhelmed by how charming I am.”

“Please stop talking.”

“No.”

Jules peeked at her through her fingers, heart still racing but now softened by the way Mika was looking at her—gentle, a little sleepy, and definitely not mad about the whole accidental snuggle nap thing.

“When did you—” Jules started, then nodded down at their hands, still close, still almost touching. “When did that happen?”

Mika glanced at their hands too, then gave a small shrug. “At some point. You kinda grabbed mine when you shifted, and I just… let you.”

Jules looked away, cheeks warm, a tired smile tugging at her mouth. “Oh.”

There was a beat.

Then Mika leaned her head back against the couch again, eyes drifting shut for a moment, and said, “You can fall asleep on me anytime.”

Jules laughed under her breath, flustered and full and a little in love. “Don’t tempt me.”

Mika cracked one eye open. “Pretty sure I already did.”

And Jules, feeling a little braver now, just let her hand slide back into Mika’s.

“Do you want to go to bed?” Mika asked.

Jules blinked up at her, their hands still resting close between them, barely touching now but not forgotten. The question was simple, reasonable, but something about it tugged at Jules unexpectedly.

“Maybe,” she said. “I don’t know. I think I just… want more time with you? Is that stupid?”

Mika turned toward her, eyes soft and still a little sleepy. “No, it’s not stupid,” she said easily. “I want more time with you too.”

The words settled around them gently. Like they were both admitting something that had been true for a while.

And then, after a beat, Mika added, quieter: “Maybe you could just… sleep with me?”

Jules’ eyes widened immediately.

Her heart tripped in her chest, that dangerous little flutter that made her wonder if she’d misheard or if Mika had actually just—

Mika’s face went red, immediately. Her expression shifted to panic as soon as she saw Jules’ reaction. “No, no, not—not like that,” she stammered, hands flying up defensively. “I didn’t mean sleep with me like sleep with me—I meant like... actually sleep. In the bed. Platonically. I—God, I hate that word, but you know what I mean.”

Jules couldn’t help it. She burst into laughter. The kind that she had to bury into her own sweater to keep from waking the whole neighborhood.

Mika groaned and dropped her head back on the couch, eyes squeezed shut in pure regret. “I’m never saying words again.”

Jules leaned into her shoulder, still laughing, her voice muffled. “No, please. It was so good. I needed that. You were so flustered.”

“I am flustered,” Mika muttered. “I was trying to be sincere and soft and instead I sound like I invited you to... seduce me.”

Jules grinned, eyes still bright. “To be fair, it’s an intriguing offer.”

Mika buried her face in her hands.

Jules sobered just slightly, nudging her gently. “Hey. I know what you meant. And… yeah. I’d like that. Sharing a bed. No funny business. Just… being near you.”

Mika peeked at her from between her fingers, cheeks still pink. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jules’ voice went a little softer. “I think I sleep better next to you, anyway.”

So they moved upstairs together.

It wasn’t weird. Or, well—it should’ve been. But it wasn’t. Jules changed into her oversized tee and shorts, Mika into a pair of pajama bottoms and a soft tank, and they didn’t say much while brushing their teeth side by side again—like last night, but different. Softer. Charged, but in a quietly yearning way.

The bed creaked a little as they got in. Jules took the left side without thinking, and Mika climbed in beside her, flipping off the lamp with a click that made the dark feel intentional. Chosen.

Neither of them moved for a while.

They just lay there, side by side, eyes on the ceiling, their breathing slowly falling in rhythm.

Jules spoke first.

“Can I—would it be weird if I held your hand?”

Mika reached out immediately, fingers finding hers in the space between them under the blanket. “No,” she said quietly. “Not weird.”

The silence in the room had softened into something warm and heavy, like a blanket that reached every corner. Jules lay there, hand still wrapped gently in Mika’s under the covers, her body beginning to sink into that strange space where sleep hovered just at the edge but didn’t quite take her.

Her breathing had slowed, but she was still there, barely, drifting.

They hadn’t spoken in a while, just exchanged small squeezes of each other’s hands like a quiet language. And then Mika broke the stillness, her voice soft and close and impossibly tender.

“Hey,” she whispered, “you look like you’re about to knock out mid-sentence.”

Jules hummed in response, her lips curved into a faint smile. “I’m just... conserving energy.”

“For what?”

“Keeping my eyes open,” Jules murmured, voice already slurred with sleep.

Mika laughed quietly, that breathy, warm kind of laugh that filled Jules up even in the dark. “You want me to hold you?”

Jules didn’t answer right away. Not because she was unsure—but because her heart jumped at the question, and it startled her more than it should have.

She turned her head slightly, her forehead brushing the edge of Mika’s arm. “Yeah,” she said, barely louder than a breath. “I’d like that.”

There was a soft rustle of blankets, Mika shifting beside her with deliberate, careful movements, like she was afraid of making too much of the moment. Then her arm slid under Jules’ shoulders, her body curving gently to fit behind her.

She didn’t press too close. She just held her. A hand on Jules’ waist. Breath slow and steady against the back of her neck. And after a few moments, she began to stroke Jules’ hair—slow, rhythmic movements that made Jules feel like something inside her was being gently stitched back together.

Jules let her eyes close.

And as she drifted deeper into the quiet, she felt things she wasn’t ready to say out loud.

Like how good it felt to be held like this.

Like how long she’d wanted to feel safe again.

Like how she didn’t realize how tired she’d been until Mika was here, brushing her fingers through her hair like she belonged there.

And maybe she did. Maybe she always had.

Jules thought about all the nights she’d spent alone, pretending she was fine. Nights where she fell asleep clutching a pillow and telling herself it was easier this way—safer not to want anyone too much.

But this? Being held like this, so gently, with nothing expected and nothing rushed—this didn’t feel dangerous.

It felt quietly right.

Not perfect. Not clean. But real. And real was enough.