Chapter Text
“Jesus Christ, Van. What even is in this box? I know for a fact it’s not clothes.”
“Those would be my murder weapons. Handle with care, thanks.”
Van could practically feel Natalie rolling her eyes; the thought made him grin. He made his way across the rusty hallway, looking for a plaque that read “306.”
The moment he spotted it, he let the box drop with a heavy thud and jogged toward the door, fishing a keychain from his pocket (WHS letters and a tiny bee charm jangling together).
When the key turned and the door creaked open, a wave of excitement surged through him. He started bouncing in place, spinning—too thrilled to care how ridiculous he looked. Natalie leaned against the doorframe, smiling.
“Okay, Speedy. Calm down before your downstairs neighbors file a noise complaint.”
Van stepped inside, staring in disbelief. “This is perfect, Nat. And no offense, you weren’t the worst roommate, but... wow. My own apartment.”
Natalie gave an exaggerated gasp but followed him in. “This is nice. I could totally help you repaint—maybe redecorate a little. Pretty sure Misty would tag along too.”
“You and Curls McCreepster will probably be my only visitors. But yeah, once I’ve actually unpacked, I’ll take you up on that.” Van plopped down onto the floor—already tired, already content.
“Great. Get your ass up, though. We still have boxes.”
“Right. Thanks, dude.”
Hours later, the place had started to resemble a home. The two of them stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by half-empty boxes and quiet pride.
“This is fantastic. I could cry,” Van declared, then threw himself onto Natalie with mock dramatics. “Weeping uncontrollably now. Sorry.”
“This place fucks, bro. How are you even affording it again?”
Van lay back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “My old man left me some money. And I had savings from that Blockbuster job next to our dorm. Should hold me over for a year or two. I do need to find work, though—if you hear of anyone who’s hiring, let me know.”
Natalie gave him a soft pat on the shoulder. “I will.”
“I’ll figure the rest out later. I just…” Van’s voice dropped. “I couldn’t be that close to that place... to her, anymore." His eyes were stuck to the floor. "I don’t blame her for what happened, but I needed out.”
Natalie’s expression shifted; she offered a half-smile, understanding. “Yeah. That whole thing with Lottie... I love her, but it was really fucked up.” She ruffled Van’s hair. “I’m just glad you’re starting over.”
Van nodded. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—just full. Familiar.
Eventually, Natalie reached for her bag. “I’m gonna get going. I promised Misty I’d go with her to buy her, uh, taxidermy shit.”
Van made a weirded-out face. “Naturally. If I need anything, I’ll call. Don’t worry.”
He walked Natalie to the door.
“Wait. Did you just say taxidermy?”
Natalie stepped into the creaky elevator, shrugging. “God forbid a girl has hobbies.” The doors slid shut.
Van turned to go back inside, but the elevator dinging again caught his attention.
A woman stepped out, phone pressed to her ear. Her voice was low, sharp.
“I don’t give a fuck what your parents think of me. It only becomes my problem when they say that shit in front of my child. I’m not afraid to take it to court, Simone.”
Van blinked. Wow.
He turned, curiosity sparking, as the woman hung up with a muttered curse. She was walking straight toward the apartment next to Van’s.
Is that my neighbor?
She was striking—dark curls swept to the side, elegant posture, the kind of composure that demanded distance. Their eyes met for a second too long, and Van looked away fast before the woman could realize he was staring.
She fumbled with her keys, then glanced back.
“Have I seen you before?” Her tone was dry, slightly irritated.
“Uh… no. I mean, I don’t think so? I kind of just moved in. Today.” A long pause. “Van,” he blurted, and then added, “That’s me. I’m Van.”
God. Every part of him wanted to disappear. But then…
Was that a laugh?
The woman’s face softened. She smiled—just a little.
“Taissa Turner. Nice to meet you.” She extended a hand.
Van shook it, trying not to combust. “Right back at you.”
A moment passed, neither of them saying a word.
“Well, my kid’s expecting me. I’ll see you around, Van.”
“Oh. Right. Good luck with… them. Not that you need it! I’m sure they’re great. I’ll just, uh, stop talking now. Bye, Taissa.”
He all but stumbled back inside and dropped to the floor in defeat.
The ceiling, mercifully silent, offered no judgment. Van lay sprawled out, rewinding every humiliating second like some sort of fucked-up highlight reel.
‘Hi, I’m Van. That’s me.’ Seriously?
But it wasn’t the awkwardness—or the kid—or even the hallway argument that stuck with him. It was the eyes. The voice. The way Taissa had said his name, like she was trying it on for size.
“Taissa Turner,” Van muttered, letting the name float up toward the ceiling. “Sounds like a Marvel villain. Or a perfume you can’t afford.”
He reached for his phone to look her up. Found out she was a pretty well-known divorce lawyer. His eyes scrolled through the pages until he found her Facebook profile.
He almost clicked on it. Almost.
Instead, he sat up, rubbing his face. “Get a grip. You’re not here to spiral over hot neighbors. You’re here to rebuild. Reinvent. Reboot.”
His stomach grumbled.
“Right. Reboot after food.”
He rummaged through a box and pulled out a dented granola bar (dinner of champions). As he chewed, he leaned against the shared wall, catching faint sounds. A laugh, then a smaller voice—a kid’s.
He stayed there for a moment, letting the day settle. Then stood, took a shower, and decided on sleeping.
He pulled on his SpongeBob boxer briefs, a white tank top, and collapsed onto his mattress, but sleep didn’t come.
Three hours in—still tossing—Van gave up. He checked his phone, but the numbers blurred.
“Jesus Christ,” he mumbled, sitting up. He thought about grabbing a glass of milk, but remembered: groceries were a tomorrow problem.
He wandered into the kitchen and dropped onto the old couch that had been gifted to him before moving.
“My dad’s moving out of the country. He’s not taking it. If you want it, it’s yours,” Lottie had told him.
Lottie.
Even now, just thinking of her name hurt. It felt unnatural not being around her—wrong and right all at once.
Van leaned back into the cushions, eyes unfocused, the silence wrapping around him like a blanket that didn’t quite cover everything. He stared out the window, thinking about what it meant for him to leave Lottie behind.
They were fifteen.
They were hiding out under the overhang behind the gym, as the rain soaked everything around them. The storm had emptied the schoolyard, leaving only the two of them in their little corner of dry concrete and quiet.
Van sat cross-legged, hoodie up, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. Lottie leaned against the wall beside him, watching the rain like it was telling her secrets.
Van was the one to break the silence. “You ever think about just… leaving? Like, disappearing and starting over somewhere no one knows you?”
Lottie turned slightly toward him. “All the time.”
Van nodded, not surprised. “I don’t think anyone would even notice if I did.”
Lottie frowned. “That’s not true.”
Van let out a small laugh. “Yeah, Lot. I’m not exactly Mr. Popularity.”
She was quiet for a moment—like she was trying to find the right words. “Well, I see you.”
Van raised an eyebrow.
“You always try to be the funny one, or the loud one. You want to take care of everyone else—never let anyone take care of you. You pretend you’re not hurt when people say mean things about you, or your home life, or your sexuality...” She glanced down at her feet. “But you feel things deeply. You think no one notices. Most people probably don’t.”
She looked back up. “I notice.” A pause.
“And I think,” Lottie said, locking eyes with him—calm, dark, unreadable—“that makes you kind of extraordinary.”
It was too much. Or not enough. Or maybe exactly what someone—her—needed to say. Either way, it made him uneasy.
Did she know Van was into girls?
His heart was pounding. His eyes were getting watery. Her words had hit too hard, too suddenly. “Uh, okay. Wow.”
Lottie blinked. “It’s true.”
Van fumbled for something to say. “By the way, about the stuff people say about my sexuality...”
But Lottie, reading him like always, cut in. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
Silence followed; it was not uncomfortable, just heavy.
She stared at him for a second longer—then started moving. Just a few inches closer. Before Van could speak, she leaned in and kissed him.
He didn’t think. He just felt.
Lottie kissed him gently; like it wasn’t a big deal. Like she hadn’t just cracked something open inside him. It was shy. Quick—but real.
When they parted, Van searched her face for some sign of what it meant.
But she simply turned her eyes back to the rain.
As if nothing had happened. As if it were just part of the day. Like the clouds, or the silence, or the way water slid across the pavement.
And somehow, that was worse than rejection.
Because for Van, the kiss meant everything.
But for Lottie, i t was just another moment. Beautiful. Fleeting. Untouched.
That day, unknowingly, Van Palmer sealed his fate.
They were eighteen.
They didn’t sneak out of prom early.
Lottie had wanted to stay. She liked watching people (or that’s what she’d told Van in the girls’ bathroom, lipstick half-smudged and perfume fading).
“They all look so desperate to be remembered,” she said, flicking a glance toward the dancefloor. Jackie spun in crooked circles, tiara slipping. Laura Lee clapped like every beat was sacred. Shauna leaned against a wall, gaze distant, never quite smiling.
Then there was Nat. Black dress, smudged eyeliner, dancing with some girl who didn’t really matter. Her eyes never really left Van; each glance letting him know that she was watching him.
Van kept his hand on Lottie’s waist, feeling the rise and fall of her breath beneath that soft purple silk. They danced once. Lottie swayed slow; graceful in a way that made Van feel like a joke. And still, she looked at him like he belonged there.
They didn’t talk much, but they didn’t need to.
When she leaned in and whispered, “Let’s go,” he didn’t hesitate.
Nat caught his eye as they slipped out; raised one eyebrow. The look she gave Van landed like a slap.
He didn’t care, though. H e was watching Lottie.
By the time they got to his car—laughing, unsteady, the kind of drunk that made everything feel slightly underwater—Lottie just said, “Can we sit for a bit?”
So they did.
Shoes off. Dress bunched. Van’s blazer undone, bowtie tossed. The windows fogged around them; like the world was pressing in, making space for just the two of them.
Lottie rested her head on his shoulder, and Van didn’t move. A long time passed like that.
“I never know what you’re thinking,” Van said finally. Voice low. Unsure.
She didn’t answer—still, he kept going.
“You don’t talk much either. And when you do, it’s like I have to translate you. Like when you said I walk like I’m looking for someone who’s already gone. What the hell does that mean?” He wasn’t angry. He was smiling a little, even.
Still, no reply. Just her soft breath against his collar.
“I feel like I’m always trying to catch up to you,” he said. “Even when we’re right next to each other.”
Lottie reached for his hand. Twined her fingers through his. No words—just warmth.
Van closed his eyes. Rested his head against hers. “You make me feel like I matter. Like I’m important. But sometimes I wonder if that’s just how you are. If you make everyone feel that way.”
She shifted.
“You do matter,” she whispered.
He held his breath. Heartbeat increasing, he figured that now was the time to let things out. “Do you ever think about what this is?”
Lottie sat up a bit. Turned to face him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… us. This.” He gestured between them, unsure. “I know we’re friends. But sometimes it feels like more. And then other times, I think I’m making it all up.”
She didn’t hesitate. “You’re not making anything up.”
“You always feel so real,” she added softly. “Everyone else is noise. You’re real.”
She studied him.
“I love you, Van,” she said. Calm. Clear. Like she was stating a fact.
Van stared. “But not like that.”
She didn’t answer.
He let out a breathy laugh. “Right. I figured. Fuck—I guess I hoped tonight would be different.”
Lottie was quiet. Then: “Let me show you.”
Van frowned. “Show me what?”
She leaned forward—kissed his cheek, his jaw, his lips. Not rushed, not needy. Just… intentional.
When she pulled back, he was breathless.
“Lot…”
“I love you,” she repeated, even softer this time. “Let me show you.”
Lottie climbed into his lap; her dress hiked up, her movements deliberate. She pulled Van’s hands to her hips—softly, like this was something they had always done. Like it wasn’t fragile, or terrifying.
Van couldn’t breathe.
Not from nerves. Not from fear. Just from need.
Her body pressed into his; her breath caught as his palms slid up and down her waist, mapping the curves like they were something sacred.
“You’re shaking,” she murmured into his ear.
Van let out a breathless laugh. “I didn’t think this was going to happen.”
Lottie kissed the underside of his jaw, down the slope of his throat. Her fingers tugged at his shirt, clumsy and slow. “Neither did I.”
They didn’t speak much after that.
Lottie kissed him like a lullaby; her tongue moved slow, careful. Her hips rolled in figure-eights over his lap. No teasing, no performance. Just rhythm. Contact. Heat.
Van’s hands slipped under her thighs, fingers grazing her underwear (already damp, already soft). Lottie gasped and clutched his shoulder.
He pressed into the place where thigh met hip, guiding her closer. Her moan was small but sharp, a sound that lit him up from the inside.
“Fuck.” He whispered it like a confession. His hand fumbled slightly, then found her again—wet and pulsing and perfect.
He slid in one finger, then another.
The stretch was tight, and Lottie moaned low in her throat. Head tilted back, lips parted, cheeks flushed.
She rocked forward, taking him deeper, her rhythm slow but steady. Her arms looped around his neck; her nails grazed his skin.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered.
He didn’t. He curled his fingers just right, pressing the heel of his hand against her clit. She jerked forward, gasping.
Van’s other hand grabbed her ass, angling her down harder, making sure she felt everything.
The sound of it (wet, obscene) filled the car. Louder than their breathing. Louder than the creaking seat.
“Look at me,” Van said. His voice cracked, low and rough.
Lottie did. Her gaze locked on his—not desperate, not needy, just... there. Present.
She watched him like he was a revelation.
Then, her body locked. A moan ripped out of her, raw and broken, as she came—clenching around his fingers, thighs trembling.
Van held her through it, one hand on her waist, the other still buried inside her. Her skin glistened with sweat. Her body vibrated against his.
Slowly, he pulled his fingers out—slick and shining.
He brought them to his lips, tasting her without shame.
Lottie blinked, still dazed. She leaned in and kissed him again—slow, deep—tasting herself on his tongue, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
When it was over, Lottie lay curled on his lap; her dress rumpled and clinging to her thighs. Her head rested against his chest.
“You make me feel quiet,” she said softly. “Like I don’t have to explain anything.”
Van pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You don’t.”
“Don’t ever change. For anyone.”
So he didn’t.
Van stayed the same. Cheerful. Caring. Loud. Funny. He let his feelings eat him alive from the inside. He never told her what it was doing to him.
Whatever. Lottie told him not to change, so he didn’t.
Even when she never once asked him to stay the night, but never expected him to leave either.
Even when she drifted into silence after sex, leaving Van to dress alone—confused, aching.
Even when it became clear that no matter how close they got, Lottie would always keep one eye on the horizon, like she was waiting for a dream more vivid than anything Van could give.
Still, Van watched her.
Because when Lottie looked back—just for a second—it felt like the world stopped to listen.
They were twenty-four.
Lottie’s dorm smelled like incense, patchouli, and rain-wet denim. The air was still warm from what they’d just done. Van lay tangled in her sheets shirtless, binder tossed aside and sweat cooling on his skin.
Lottie laid curled against him, tracing slow circles on his chest. Her hands never hesitated, her mouth never lied. But her heart?
God, Van never knew where it was.
They’d just made love. Or fucked. Or something between. It had felt like everything. Like closure and eternity, simultaneously.
Van had told himself not to read into it (and of course, failed).
She pressed a kiss to his neck, then whispered: “You know, you’ll be fine without me.”
Van’s spine went stiff. “What?”
She propped herself up on one elbow. Her smile was soft, but unreadable. “I just mean… you’ve grown so much. You don’t need me anymore.”
He sat up. The covers fell away. “What the hell does that mean?”
Lottie blinked. Still calm. “It’s not a bad thing, Van. It’s beautiful. You’re finally becoming who you’re supposed to be.”
“Wh—Jesus Christ, Lottie,” Van muttered, grabbing his jeans off the floor. “You do this every time. You act like I’m some kind of transformation project. Like I’m your little butterfly, and now you’re setting me free.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“No—but it’s what you meant.” He spun around. “I’m not a phase, Lottie.”
“I never said you were—”
“Then what am I?” His voice cracked. “Because you talk to me like I’m special. Like I’m seen. But every time I reach for you, you pull back and go all dreamy and distant. Like this is something I’m making up.”
She sat upright, sheets gathered around her. Her eyes were wide now; defensive. “That’s not fair.”
“I’ve been in love with you since the moment I met you. And you know that.”
Van’s throat tightened.
“I never expected anything to happen between us. And then… you kissed me when we were kids. You said I was extraordinary. We slept together, and you made me feel like I mattered. Like I was enough.”
His voice dropped.
“And I keep hoping you’ll mean it the same way I do.”
“You are different, Van,” Lottie whispered. “I do mean it.”
“No, you don’t. You think I’m special—but I'm not special to you. Not like you are to me.”
Silence. The kind that wraps around your ribs and squeezes.
Lottie swallowed. “Van…”
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t say anything. Just—don’t.”
He pulled on his shirt, fingers trembling. He looked around the room, taking it all in like he might never see it again.
How could he have been so stupid?
“I can’t do this anymore.”
Lottie stood, but didn’t move toward him. “Van, please—”
But he was already at the door.
“You’ll always make people feel like they’re the center of the world,” he said, hand on the knob. “But you’ll never stay with any of us long enough to prove it.”
Then he opened the door—and walked away.
This time, for real.
“Yes, Nat. She’s super sexy. Out of this world.”
Van was pacing the meat aisle, one hand clutching the handle of a shopping cart, while the other held his phone. His back and neck ached from spending the night half-asleep on that old, fancy couch (damn you, rich people who prefer aesthetics over comfort), while reliving every unspoken word and almost-moment from a decade-long, slow-burn gay tragedy.
Now, well past five p.m., he’d finally dragged himself out to grocery shop and continue his spiral—this time, with protein in his system and his best friend on the phone.
“And you embarrassed yourself like that? In front of this super sexy, out-of-this-world, middle-aged female lawyer?” Natalie sounded more horrified than supportive, but that was just her love language.
“I made her laugh!” Van protested weakly, grabbing a pack of ground beef he probably wouldn’t cook. “That’s gotta count for something.”
“You should give her, like, a gift basket or something. Misty says it’s polite.”
Van wedged his phone between his shoulder and ear, tossing a box of cereal into his cart. “A gift basket? That’s for when someone moves in, not when you move in and humiliate yourself in front of them.”
“Be the change you want to see in the world,” Nat said mockingly. “Do something, Palmer. Get some.”
“Oh right, brilliant! I’ll send my terrifying-yet-attractive, probably-straight MILF lawyer neighbor a gift basket full of random shit she might be allergic to. Then I’ll flirt and maybe—who knows—she’ll bite, we’ll have sex, and I’ll start helping her kid with their math homework on weekends?” His voice was getting sharper, more frantic. “Next thing you know, they’re calling me Dad Van and I’m at the school talent show filming their clarinet solo. Great plan, MistyNat! Really airtight.”
He heard Natalie sigh in defeat as he started scanning the shelves for eggs.
“Van?”
He froze. A chill ran down his spine, like a sixth sense kicking in.
And sure enough—standing barely two feet in front of him—was the walking embodiment of all of his gay panic.
Taissa. Holding a shopping basket. Watching him.
“Jeez, okay, what y—who was that?” Natalie asked through the phone.
Van didn’t move. “I—I gotta go,” he stammered. “I’ll call you later.”
He hung up and tried to fake a casual smile, but it probably came out more like a grimace. “Heyyy… Taissa! I was just, um… talking to a friend.”
Taissa gave him a polite, unreadable smile. “Yeah. I guessed as much.”
Fuck. How much had she heard?
Van decided the best move was to play pretend. “So… how have you been? What’re you doing here?”
Taissa blinked. “Getting my groceries.”
Van felt his stomach turn. Was he allergic to acting normal in front of this woman?
“Listen, Van,” she spoke softly. “I wanted to talk to you about yesterday.”
She stepped forward—and for a moment, Van forgot how to breathe. They were close now. Really close. Inches apart. His face flushing, like someone had turned on a heat lamp inside his skull.
And then, of course, she just reached past him to grab a cereal box.
Van wanted to fling himself into the freezer section. Get your shit together, dude.
“I’m, uh, what about it?” he offered, stepping back like he’d just remembered how legs work.
Taissa examined the cereal box label, unmoved. “Well,” she said, lifting her gaze just enough to meet his eyes, “I’m afraid I didn’t welcome you into the building, and you caught me in a somewhat bad moment. So, I apologize for that first impression.” She broke eye contact and placed the cereal box inside the red basket.
She offered Van a soft smile. “Anyway, whatever you need, you know where to find me.”
Van swallowed. Hard. The 20-second eye contact had worked wonders on his hormones; he was still crashing out over the phone call, and he was sure he was blushing.
“Oh, right. Right back at you. And don’t even worry about it, Taissa. My first impression of you was not negative in the slightest.” He wanted to facepalm himself as soon as those words left his mouth.
Taissa raised her eyebrows in surprise, then chuckled into a smile. “Okay, great! You can call me Tai." She grabbed her phone and checked the time. "I better get going now. I have to pick Sammy up.”
“Of course. I’ll see you around, Tai!” he offered smoothly, after forcing his body to stop reacting like a fucking mid-puberty teenager anytime the woman spoke.
Taissa— Tai, started toward the checkout line with that same graceful stride, calm and composed (like Van wasn’t internally combusting at every second of their interaction).
Just as she reached the end of the aisle, she paused, tilted her head.
“Oh, by the way… Van?”
He barely managed a sound. “Yeah?”
Tai glanced over her shoulder, profile sharp and perfect beneath the white lights. “You’re blushing.”
As if that wasn’t enough to send him into cardiac arrest, the woman felt the need to add to his despair.
“And I’m not straight.”
As soon as he realized what she meant, he felt like throwing up. Tai simply turned and kept walking, leaving Van standing there with a half-full cart, an overcooked ego, and a heart beating somewhere in his throat.
He did not recover for several hours.
By the time Van made it back home, grocery bags biting into his hands, he had replayed the Tai moment in his head at least fourteen different ways. Ten ended in humiliation. Four involved fantasies that probably required therapy.
He dumped the bags on the counter, hands trembling slightly. “‘You’re blushing.’ And I’m not straight,” he muttered, collapsing onto the couch with a groan, one hand over his eyes.
“What the fuck.”
He could still hear Taissa’s voice in his head—calm, amused, maybe even... flirty? If he let himself be delusional for a second. Meanwhile, he felt like a soda can that had been kicked down a flight of stairs.
Van sat upright, hands on his knees. “What the fuuuuck.”
Just as he considered texting Natalie for emotional triage, there was a knock at the door.
Then another.
Then a third—more insistent.
“I’m coming! Jeez,” he called.
He opened the door to find a very small, very serious child in a dinosaur hoodie and light-up sneakers.
“I just heard you say a no-no word,” the kid informed him.
Van blinked. “What?”
The boy repeated himself, slower this time, like Van was the one with Velcro shoes. “You. Said. A. No-no. Word.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry, kid. Won’t happen again.”
Van peaked his head outside the door, looking sideways to check if there was anyone looking for their kid.
Before he could ask any follow-ups, though, the kid marched past him into the apartment like he was there to conduct a surprise inspection.
“Do you live alone?” he asked.
“Uh. Yeah?”
“No pets?”
“Nope.”
“No PlayStation?”
Van raised a brow. “Okay, you’re awfully judgy for someone with flashing shoes.”
“They’re cool. They light up.”
“I noticed. I’m temporarily blinded.”
"Listen kid, where are your p—Hey!" Just as the kid opened the fridge like he paid rent, Van heard the distinct click of heels in the hallway.
“Sammy? Sammy!”
And there she was. Taissa Turner in the doorway—composed, exasperated, beautiful.
Van’s brain stalled. He didn’t really mind staring at Taissa’s face for hours on end, but he had embarrassed himself in front of her enough for a year. It was starting to annoy him a little, how stupidly nervous this woman made him barely two days into meeting her.
“He walked in,” Van offered.
She sighed. “I’m so sorry. Yeah. He tends to do that.”
“Cool. Uh, there he is.”
Taissa glanced around his apartment (a little messy, but not tragic), then at Van. The kid (Sammy?) darted back to her side, peanut butter in hand.
“Sammy, this is Van. Our new neighbor,” she said, sounding more stressed than she looked.
“Hey, buddy,” Van said awkwardly.
“Mom, she’s perfect,” Sammy whispered.
Taissa looked like she might drop dead on the spot. “Sam!”
“Please, Mom.”
Van frowned. “What’s happening?”
Taissa gave him an apologetic look. “Oh, it’s nothing. I have court tomorrow, and my sitter bailed. I’m calling around. But someone has a very big mouth.”
“I trust her,” Sammy insisted.
Van winced. “He and him, actually. Did you say court?” He wouldve patted himself on the back if he could. Yes, fake ignorance. You go, Palmer.
Taissa looked horrified. “Oh god—I’m sorry. Sammy, you heard him?”
Sammy nodded. “I still trust him.”
“Anyway, yes. I’m a lawyer. I have a pretty big case going on, and tomorrow’s the first audience.” Tai rubbed her temple, then looked up. “Would you mind… watching him? Just for a few hours? He’s eight. Mostly functional. I really just need someone to make sure he doesn’t try to microwave metal.”
Van hesitated. “I don’t know anything about kids.”
“You don’t have to. He’s self-sufficient. Mildly feral, but manageable.”
Still hesitant, Van looked at her—and immediately regretted it. She was giving him the same wide, pleading look her son had just pulled. A double attack. Unfair.
Fucking beautiful women. Always Van’s downfall.
Then Taissa added, “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. You’ll be paid, of course. Really well. You have my word.”
Well. That helped.
“I mean… yeah, okay. Sure,” he said, half-shrugging. “I wasn’t doing anything tomorrow.” Maybe I should’ve kept that to myself, he thought. After all, it was a Friday night.
Taissa lit up. She pulled a notepad from her bag and scribbled something down.
“Thank you. Seriously. It’d be from three to nine.” She tore off the paper and handed it to him.
Her number.
“Text me. I’ll send details.”
She turned to go, then paused, glancing back with that half-smile that made Van feel like the room had tilted slightly.
“Thanks, Van. Truly.”
He stood in the doorway long after she was gone, eyes unfocused.
Then he shut the door, leaned his forehead against it, and whispered to himself once again the only words that could possibly sum up his day.
“What the fuck.”
The night had gone... surprisingly smoothly. Van still couldn’t believe he’d agreed to babysit Taissa’s kid. However,after Natalie Scatorccio and Misty Quigley witnessed yet another one of his textbook emotional spirals, he felt a little calmer. He even turned down Misty’s help—which felt like growth (especially considering she had taken the Red Cross Babysitter Training Class. Twice). Say what you will about Quigley, but she was weirdly amazing with kids.
Still, by the next afternoon, Van was pacing. The small piece of paper Taissa had given him—her number scribbled in careful, no-nonsense handwriting—kept shifting between his fingers like it might start smoking. His knee bounced. His hands were sweating.
“Okay, this is bullshit. Just text her, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, half to himself, half to whatever nervous demon had taken over his body.
He felt completely ridiculous. Embarrassingly so.
Phone in hand. Number typed in. Easy part done.
Now came the hard part: actually saying something.
it’s van
Deleted.
sup
Deleted.
Why was this harder than filing taxes?
hi taissa
this is van btw
Good enough.
Send.
And then: stillness. Three minutes passed in slow motion.
Typing…
Van’s heart took off like it had heard a starting pistol.
Hi, Van. Please, I insist you call me Tai.
I’m glad you texted.
He blinked. Reread it. Once. Twice.
“I’m glad you texted”?
He swallowed.
sorry it took me so long
so, what should i keep in mind while taking care of sammy tonight?
Typing…
Well, Sammy’s a good kid. Curious sometimes, but if you tell him to chill out, he usually listens.
I’m leaving some premade hot dogs—help yourselves.
No snacks after dinner or he’ll have nightmares (he says he doesn’t, but he does ).
Bedtime’s at 9. I should be home by then, but if not, just make sure he brushes his teeth and doesn’t try to negotiate more than one bedtime story.
If he gives you any trouble, text me. Or bribe him with dinosaur facts. That usually works.
Van smiled. The message was thorough, casual. A little warm. But there was something in the tone—dry, maybe playful—that made him sit up straighter.
gotcha! im sure we’ll have a good time :)
Typing…
Good. I knew I could count on you.
You just have that face.
Van blinked again. That face?
...A trustworthy one, I mean.
(And maybe a little flustered, which Sammy seems to find funny.)
His cheeks burned. For the third time that day, Van questioned the entire fabric of reality. He read the message again, convinced he was imagining it.
He wasn’t.
Was Tai… actually flirting? That couldn’t be possible.
Van threw himself back onto the couch, exhaled into the ceiling, and said, “What is happening.”
He was going to try to play her game, and figure it out. He typed, very carefully:
im flustered?
rude.
but fair.
She replied a minute later:
I didn’t say it was a bad thing.
See you at 3. :)
He stared at the screen, stunned.
see you at 3.
That felt more dangerous than anything that had come before.
The clock struck 3 p.m., and Van was fully spiraling.
He hadn’t had time to process what was actually happening. Was this already a crush? That couldn’t be right. He’d met the woman less than a week ago. Surely his brain was just short-circuiting from stress and not, say, attraction.
He’d save that breakdown for later. No backing out now.
Grabbing his keys, Van walked over with clammy hands and a chest that felt too full. He knocked.
Almost immediately, the door swung open.
Taissa stood there, effortless and unfair. A sleek blouse tucked into tailored, high-waisted slacks; every line of fabric skimming over her like it had been sketched directly onto her body. The soft gleam of her earrings caught the light. Her perfume (something clean, with a sharp floral note) hit him a second later.
Somehow, he was the one who felt like he was on trial.
“Wow.”
It slipped out of his mouth before his brain had even caught up. His eyes went wide as he clapped both hands over his face.
“Oh my god. I’m so—”
Tai just smiled. Slow, unreadable, amused.
“Hi, Van.”
That was it. No teasing, no questions—just a look that said she’d heard him loud and clear… and maybe didn’t mind.
Before Van could even think about what had just happened, Tai made her way back into the apartment. “Please, come on in.”
Taissa’s apartment was exactly what Van expected. Minimal, immaculate, and absurdly put-together. Warm lighting, deep green houseplants that actually looked alive, and furniture that clearly hadn’t come from a clearance section. Everything had sharp edges or soft textures; no in-betweens. It smelled faintly like sandalwood and something floral—expensive and understated, just like her.
Sitting on the couch, Van spotted the little menace that rummaged through his apartment the day before. He was wearing headphones, that Van could tell were way too big for his head.
“Hi, Sammy.” Van waved.
He answered mockingly, “Hi, no-no word sayer.”
Van rolled his eyes at the boy, and pretended to say in a whisper, “You snitch!”
Tai watched the encounter tenderly, before checking her watch. “Shoot, I gotta run. Make yourself at home, Van. He has homework to do, only once he’s done can he play on the PS5. Don’t let him near stuff that can light fires, I’ll see you both later!”
She rushed to give Sammy a kiss on the forehead, and then made her way to the door, leaving a trace of her cologne all over the room.
The next few hours passed in a blur of mild chaos and unexpected bonding.
Van and Sammy spent some time at the kitchen table doing homework—mostly math. Van squinted at the worksheet like it was written in ancient runes, while Sammy explained long division like a seasoned tutor.
They took a break to construct what Sammy called the “Mega Space Fortress 9000” out of LEGOs, which collapsed twice before being rebranded as “a secret government jet.” Sammy zoomed it around the living room with high-stakes sound effects.
Dinner was easy. Tai had left the pre-cooked hot dogs in the fridge, individually wrapped in foil with a sticky note that said “Just reheat :)”, and a cartoon doodle of a smiling face Van was pretty sure was supposed to be him. He tossed them into a pan, warmed up some buns, and plated everything with mustard, ketchup, and a few carrot sticks for appearance.
“These are good,” Sammy said around a mouthful of bun. “But Simone grills them better. She does the little crispy lines on the sides.”
Van glanced up, caught off guard. “Simone your other mom?”
“Yeah. She’s awesome. She knows every dinosaur and she has this song she sings when I brush my teeth. Even when I don’t want her to.”
“She sounds super cool.”
“She kind of is,” Sammy said proudly. “She can even do a cartwheel. In jeans.”
Something in Van’s chest tightened: sudden and strange. Maybe it was the way Sammy said her name, so casual and full of certainty, like Simone was the kind of mom who just showed up in all the ways that counted. Van didn’t know her, but he could guess which woman she was in the framed pictures—the one with soft eyes and a kind smile pressed close to Taissa’s.
That felt like a whole life he hadn’t even brushed the surface of.
After dinner, Sammy picked out a bedtime story (an old favorite about a detective mouse) and made Van do all the voices. He laughed so hard during one particularly dramatic moment, that he got the hiccups. Eventually, tucked under his blanket and holding his stuffed dinosaur like a tiny bodyguard, Sammy fell asleep mid-sentence.
Van turned off the light and stepped out quietly.
He wandered through the quiet apartment. Not snooping, just… looking. The place was calm, understated, but full of little touches. Houseplants thriving in corners. A warm, almost woody scent lingering in the air. A photo of Tai and Simone with toddler Sammy on the hallway table. Both women smiling, cheek to cheek, like they belonged to the same world.
Van paused outside Tai’s bedroom. The door was cracked open a few inches.
He didn’t go in. But he looked.
The bed was made tight and deliberate: hospital corners, crisp navy duvet, a small throw blanket folded with military precision. On the nightstand: a glass of water, a tube of hand cream, a stack of hardcover books with bookmarks halfway through. One had a legal pad sticking out with scribbled notes. A single bobby pin rested beside a ceramic dish that probably held jewelry at night.
Van imagined her here—pulling off her earrings, stretching her neck, exhaling the weight of the day. Maybe she paced when she was stressed. Maybe she read herself to sleep. Maybe she just lay in bed in the dark, thinking too hard.
The room felt lived-in in a way that made Van’s throat feel tight.
He stepped back, retreating to the living room couch. No TV, just the soft tick of a wall clock and the occasional creak from the ceiling above.
At 11:03, the front door clicked open.
Taissa stepped in, heels in one hand, briefcase in the other. Her blouse was slightly wrinkled now, and a few strands of hair had slipped from her bun. She looked exhausted—and still sharp enough to knock the air out of him.
“Hey,” she said, closing the door softly behind her. “Sorry I’m so late. The case I’m on just wouldn’t end.”
Van stood from the couch, brushing his palms on his jeans. “It’s okay. We had fun. I think I got verbally destroyed by an eight-year-old about condiment preferences, but otherwise? Solid evening.”
That earned him a quiet, grateful laugh. She lingered near the door for a second, eyes scanning the room, then him.
“Thank you for staying this long. I know it was out of nowhere, and… a lot.”
“I didn’t mind,” Van said. “Seriously.”
She looked at him longer this time. A softer expression crept in; her shoulders dipped slightly, like something had unspooled beneath the surface. The kind of look that lingered a moment too long to be casual.
“He really likes you, you know?”
Van’s hand came up to scratch the back of his neck. “He’s a cool kid.”
“Thinks you’re funny,” she added, almost teasing. “He doesn’t say that about just anyone.”
There was a pause. The air felt more still than it had all night.
Taissa moved toward the kitchen, set her things down, and turned to the sink to fill a glass of water. One hand steadied her on the counter; the other rested lightly on her hip. Her sleeves were rolled up. Her wrists bare. Her perfume hung in the air, now that she was closer.
She glanced at Van from over the rim of the glass. Her eyes were sharp, but not unkind.
“Can I ask you something?”
Van, who had been half-dozing, blinked himself upright. “Yeah. Of course.”
Tai set the glass down and leaned her hip against the counter, still watching him.
“I was wondering if you’d consider babysitting Sammy regularly on Fridays."
Van raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"It’d be from after school until I get home from work. I could drop him off, or you could come here, whatever’s easier. I’d pay you weekly, obviously. And I can be flexible if anything comes up.”
Van stared at her a second too long. The request wasn’t that shocking, not really. He’d expected some version of this. But something about hearing it out loud—the easy way she said it, like it was no big deal—made his throat go dry.
“Oh,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “That’s… a real thing you’re asking.”
“It is.”
He scratched at the back of his neck. “I mean, I don’t know, Tai. It was fun today, but I don’t exactly have child-wrangling credentials. I’m not even—like—I’m barely functional myself half the time.”
Tai tilted her head. A corner of her mouth lifted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You were great with him. He likes you.”
“Yeah, but you don’t even know me.” Van winced. “Like, not really. I could be, I don’t know... weird. Or a creep.”
“You are weird,” she said. Her voice was lower now, almost dry. “But not in a bad way.”
Van raised a brow. “Wow. That’s cool. Thanks.”
Tai let out a soft breath, folding her arms casually across her chest. “Look. I may not know you well, but I’ve gotten a decent impression. You care. You listen to him. You take things seriously even when you’re pretending not to.”
Van blinked. That one hit closer than he expected.
In order to break the tension, she added, casually, “Also, I doubt you’d do something bad enough that it could ruin your chances with your... what was it that you called me? MILF neighbor?”
His stomach dropped through the floor.
“Oh god,” he whispered.
Tai’s expression didn’t change much, but her eyes glinted.
“You called me ‘terrifying.’ You were spiraling about me being hot, and a lawyer. And I’m assuming you figured that out from Googling me… which was kind of flattering, honestly.”
Van covered his face with both hands. “I’m actually going to die now.”
“But you didn’t run away,” Tai said, stepping a little closer. “You stayed. Made him laugh. You even made me laugh.”
Her voice was softer now. The kind of soft that had weight to it.
“That tells me you’re better at this than you think. And if you babysit Sammy every Friday…” She tilted her head slightly. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
Van knew the offer was crazy. Babysitting Sammy every week? Him? The guy who still couldn’t keep his own life together—and who’d just humiliated himself in front of her? That was a bad idea. A really bad one.
And, if he hadn’t been completely sure he was crushing on her a few hours ago, he was absolutely certain of it now—maybe to a dangerous degree.
Things could get messy. Fast. Way faster than any sitcom or awkward first-date story he’d ever lived through.
He swallowed hard, the weight of it settling into something strange and warm beneath his ribs. But, beneath all the nerves, something else stirred too: maybe this was the kind of messy he could handle.
“Okay,” he said, voice low but certain. “I’ll do it.”