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Shauna wakes to the sound of breathing before she understands she’s awake. That soft, steady rhythm she has slept beside for almost a decade. The room is dim, pale blue light slipping through the blinds, and Jackie is curled into her side like she drifted there in her sleep, head tucked against Shauna’s shoulder, one leg thrown over her hip.
They fall asleep like this most nights. They don’t always start this way, but by morning Jackie is always clinging, searching in the dark for something she doesn’t have to name. Shauna never moves her. She’s convinced that if she tried, Jackie would wake with an apology already half-formed, and Shauna can’t bear that kind of tenderness before dawn.
Instead, she runs her hand down Jackie’s spine, slow and careful, feeling the sleepy shift of her breathing. Jackie murmurs something, too quiet to make out. She presses closer.
Shauna presses her lips to Jackie’s hair. It smells like the lavender shampoo she’s been using for years, a brand she once picked up because it was on sale and kept buying only because Jackie’s eyes softened every time Shauna washed her hair with it. A small ritual. One of the many things they’ve built in the quiet years since their world stopped ending.
A curl brushes against the underside of Shauna’s chin. She closes her eyes. Breathes in. Holds the moment.
She doesn’t want to get up yet. She knows she should, feed the cat, start the coffee, check the weather, mundane things that anchor her. But Jackie’s weight against her is warm, grounding in a different way. She lets herself sink into the mattress.
Eventually Jackie stirs. A soft inhale. The slow unfurling of her body as she remembers where she is. She blinks her eyes open, turns her face into Shauna’s shoulder, and whispers, “Morning.”
Shauna’s chest tightens at the rough, sleep-heavy sound of her voice. Even after years of waking up like this, it was still Shauna's favourite part to every day, “Morning.”
Jackie lifts her head just enough to look at her. Her hair is a mess, curls flattened on one side, sticking up on the other, and her eyes are puffy with sleep. She looks unfairly beautiful anyway, in that fragile, early-morning way that makes Shauna feel protective and overwhelmed all at once.
“Did I crush you?” Jackie asks, already trying to pull back.
Shauna holds her in place with a hand on her waist, not willing to have that idea in Jackie's head make her move from this position. “Not even a little.”
Jackie huffs a small, tired laugh. She relaxes again, cheek brushing Shauna’s collarbone.
Shauna traces her thumb over the curve of Jackie’s hip, beneath the thin cotton of her sleep shirt. “Sleep okay?”
There is a pause, just long enough that Shauna knows the answer before Jackie says it. “Mostly.”
She keeps her tone light, but Shauna feels the tension ghost across her shoulders, the residue of whatever dream she had. It’s better, than it used to be, the bad dreams and everyday haunting, but it's not gone.
“It was cold last night,” Jackie adds, as if that explains everything. It does. Their springs are cold enough that sometimes the air itself feels like memory. Sometimes Shauna wakes with her teeth clenched and has to count the items in the pantry just to quiet her pulse.
Shauna hums in agreement. “I thought about turning on the heat early, but I didn’t want to—”
“—wake me. I know.” Jackie shifts up, propping herself on her elbow so she can see Shauna’s face. Her expression softens. “You don’t have to tiptoe around me, you know.”
“I’m not tiptoeing,” Shauna rolls her eyes. It was a sensitive topic, Jackie and the cold. One that Shauna never wanted to focus on for long.
Jackie smiles, it’s soft, still sleepy around the edges. “You’re sweet.”
“I’m not,” Shauna says firmly, ignoring the blush forming at the base of her neck.
“You are,” Jackie says, leaning down to kiss her cheek. A quick brush of warm lips. Familiar. Easy. It still makes Shauna’s stomach flutter. “And I love you for it.”
The words settle between them in that quiet way they do after so many years, still meaningful, still warm, but no longer sharp with the fear of losing one another. Shauna cups Jackie’s face, thumb brushing the soft corner of her jaw. “I love you too.”
Jackie leans into her hand. Her lashes are still heavy with sleep. She looks at Shauna the way she always does in the mornings, unguarded, gentle, a little surprised that love can survive this long.
Shauna could stay like this forever, but their cat, a black American Shorthair named Nero, begins meowing outside the door, a persistent chorus of complaint. Jackie groans and collapses against her again.
“Our child is starving,” Shauna says, deadpan.
“She’s so dramatic,” Jackie mutters into her neck.
“Well, she gets it from you,” That earns a muffled laugh. Warm breath against her skin. Shauna feels something in her unwind.
They eventually pull themselves out of bed, limbs reluctant. Jackie steals one of Shauna’s sweaters on the way to the kitchen. Shauna pretends not to notice. She always lets her. Jackie wearing her clothes is a quiet indulgence she never outgrew.
The house is still dim, touched by the pale grey of an early Montana morning. Shauna starts the coffee. Jackie feeds the cat, stretching the sleep from her body. Shauna watches her move, slow, soft, familiar, a tiny strip of the skin on her stomach visible. Jackie catches her staring and grins, cheeks pink from the cold floor.
“Hi,” Jackie says.
Shauna feels her heart stutter a little, the same way it did the first time they kissed. “Hi.”
They share a smile, small and private, then the kettle hisses and the world wakes a little more. Jackie reaches for two mugs, the same ones they’ve used for years, hers is a snoopy one she stole from her childhood home when she was kicked out for being gay, it was chipped at the rim, Shauna’s was plain black and smudged with paint from a project she never finished.
She hands Shauna a mug, their fingers brush. It’s nothing, and it’s everything. Then the quiet morning breaks with Jackie’s phone buzzing on the counter. Shauna sees the contact name before Jackie can turn it over.
DO NOT ANSWER - JOURNALIST
A pulse of dread moves through Shauna’s chest. Jackie’s shoulders stiffen, just barely. Their eyes meet and something deep in the air shifts, soft as a heartbeat, sharp as winter.
The anniversary of the crash is close, they both knew that, it was a big one too. Ten years. Shauna shouldn't have been so shocked at people coming knocking harder.
Jackie picks up the phone before Shauna can reach out and still her hand. She turns her back, not to hide anything, but because she always does this, faces away when she’s bracing for impact.
Shauna watches the tension in Jackie's shoulders fold in on itself. She knows this posture the way she knows her own reflection. She lived through it with her. Slept beside it. Loved her through every brittle winter that followed. She hates it.
“Another one?” Shauna asks softly, Jackie nods but doesn’t turn around.
Shauna moves closer, the way she would approach an injured animal, slow, careful, unobtrusive. Not out of pity, but out of respect for how much control Jackie tries to keep over her own fear. When Shauna touches her back, Jackie finally exhales. Her spine softens beneath Shauna’s palm.
“I thought they’d stop,” Jackie murmurs, almost to herself.
“They never stop.” Shauna’s voice is quiet, a little tired, a little resigned. “It’s almost May.”
She feels Jackie flinch before she sees it. May is a month they survived more than once. It doesn’t matter how many years pass, it still has teeth.
Jackie lowers the phone onto the counter and presses her palms against the edge like she’s grounding herself. Shauna steps closer, their hips touching, shoulder against shoulder. Shauna can’t help the tightness in her chest.
Jackie turns her head slightly, just enough that Shauna can see her profile. “I was talking to Nat the other day, they contacted her first. They want to do a full piece, from our side only. They said they’re willing to let us approve final cut.”
Shauna’s stomach twists, sharp and instinctive. She knew Jackie was more open to talking about what it was like out there, maybe because Jackie would come off a hell of a lot better than Shauna did. “Jackie...”
“I know.” Jackie lifts a hand, stopping her gently but firmly. “I know. I’m not saying yes, or even that I was properly considering it.”
But she’s thinking about it, Shauna feels it in her bones. She tries to steady her breathing. The coffee machine hisses behind them. Nero rubs insistently against Shauna’s legs, but she barely feels it.
Jackie finally looks at her, and there’s a softness there that hurts. “You’re scared.”
“I’m not scared,” Shauna lies. “I’m tired.”
“You’re scared,” Jackie repeats, a little sad, a little certain. She doesn’t say it unkindly. She says it like she’s naming a bruise she knows exactly how to touch.
Shauna swallows. The silence between them grows heavy, familiar in a terrible way.
“I just don’t want our lives dug up again,” Shauna says. “It took years to put all the bones back in the ground.”
Jackie nods. Her eyes drop to the counter. “I know. But maybe if we did one, just one, on our terms, it would stop the rest.”
“It wouldn’t.” Her voice comes out sharper than she meant. “You know it wouldn’t.”
Jackie flinches again, Shauna instantly regrets it. She takes a step closer, reaching for her hand. Jackie lets her hold it, fingers cold but steady.
“I’m not angry at you,” Shauna murmurs. “I’m just...God, I hate this. I hate what they do. I hate that we’re still a spectacle.”
Jackie’s thumb brushes over her knuckle, slow but thoughtful. It’s a soothing motion Shauna knows wasn’t learned. It was instinct from the first month they shared a cot in the psychiatric unit after rescue, when one trembling hand reaching for another felt like rebellion against collapse.
“We could say no,” Jackie offers.
Shauna knows she means it, nut she also knows Jackie wants something else; control over the narrative. A way to shape the story so strangers stop inventing versions that make Shauna sick when she stumbles on them by accident. It's even sicker that what they actually did is often worse.
She doesn’t blame Jackie for that longing. She just can’t share it. She lost every ounce of innocence out there, she has no desire to go back to that mindset. Or maybe the problem is too much desire to go back, though that she will never admit. Not even to Jackie. Especially not to Jackie.
“We could,” Shauna says quietly. “But you want to at least consider it.”
Jackie opens her mouth, then closes it. Her jaw tightens, then loosens. She nods once and Shauna squeezes her hand. “Okay.”
Jackie blinks, not used to Shauna relenting to anything ever. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Shauna repeats, softer. “We can talk about it, maybe.”
Jackie’s shoulders drop, relief written across her face. She leans her forehead against Shauna’s temple, an old gesture that still makes Shauna’s chest ache.
“You’re not upset?” Jackie whispers.
“I’m… trying not to be,” Shauna says truthfully. “And I’m not upset with you.”
“You never are,” Jackie says, quiet admiration threaded through the words.
Shauna huffs out a laugh. “That’s not true.”
“Yeah, well, at least you pretend,” Jackie counters. “You’re too kind to show it.”
Shauna’s heart twists. “I’m not kind.”
“You are,” Jackie says simply. Then she lifts their joined hands and kisses Shauna’s knuckles and Shauna feels something inside her soften, unravel, give way.
It’s just a kiss to the hand. It’s just morning light. It’s just Jackie. And still, it feels like she’s being undone.
Jackie lets go of her hand slowly, like she’s reluctant. Shauna returns to the coffee machine, trying to steady her breath.
Shauna pours the coffee and for that moment, everything is still gentle, but Shauna knows a storm is coming.
They’ve survived worse, but she hates weather she can’t predict.
—
Jackie is still upstairs when Shauna leaves the house, blow-dryer humming faintly through the ceiling. Shauna tells her she’s running into town for groceries. It’s half true. Jackie smiles at her over the banister, hair damp, wrapped in Shauna’s sweater.
Shauna stands there a moment longer than necessary, watching her, sometimes she can't believe this is really her life. She did it, she made it out and she brought the girl with her. After all they went through, all the shit she did, the Jeff of it all, the post-partum insanity that almost drove them apart forever, and the confession that brought them back together. Now they're here, boring and domestic, and safe.
The sky is a thin winter blue, the kind that pretends it’s gentle but isn’t. Montana has that in common with people.
She parks outside the little café she and Tai picked years ago for their monthly catch-up, neutral ground, low lighting, good coffee, no questions asked by the staff. Tai would travel from New Jersey for a monthly conference all Senators had to attend which for some reason was held in a convention centre just 45 minutes from Shauna and Jackie's place. So it became routine, Shauna would make sure all was good with Tai, Tai would make sure Shauna didn't fall off the deep end.
Tai is already there, seated in their usual booth, tapping at her phone with an expression somewhere between focused and bored. She looks up when Shauna approaches, her face softening in that understated Tai way.
“You’re early,” Tai says, sliding the extra coffee across the table.
“So are you,” Shauna says, pointing out the obvious. That earns a small smile, loving the flecks of the old, sarcastic Shauna that would sometimes seep through the domesticated façade.
Shauna sits. The booth is cold at first. She wraps her hands around the mug, letting the heat work its way into her palms.
They talk about the usual things, work, errands, how Simone’s doing, what new thing Sammy’s obsessed with this month, the usual gripes about winter. Shauna listens. She likes listening to the mundane, it keeps her centered, keeps her mind from going back to that place.
Tai eventually leans back. “Alright,” she says, eyes narrowing a little. “What’s actually going on?”
Shauna should have expected that. Tai always notices when something tilts out of place.
“It’s nothing,” Shauna says lightly.
“Your version of nothing is never nothing.” Tai says pointedly.
Shauna stirs her coffee even though it doesn’t need stirring. “Just, you know, the usual requests.” She keeps her tone flat, factual. “Documentaries. Interviews.”
Tai nods, unsurprised. “And Jackie?”
“She's thinking about it.” Shauna sighs.
Tai raises an eyebrow. “And you?”
Shauna keeps her gaze on the coffee. The milk swirl settles into a muted brown. “I don’t like it.”
“That’s not exactly a revelation,” Tai says dryly. “You’ve hated that stuff since day one.”
Shauna huffs a quiet breath that’s almost a laugh.
Tai studies her a moment longer. “So what is it? The anniversary coming up?”
Shauna feels a tiny, involuntary tightening in her jaw. She hopes Tai doesn’t catch it, but of course, Tai always catches it.
Shauna shrugs. “It’s just noise, you know better than anyone that it gets old quick.”
Tai doesn’t buy that, Shauna can tell. Tai lifts her cup, takes a slow sip, then sets it down with a soft clink. “You and Jackie okay?”
“We’re fine,” Shauna says, quicker than she means. “Really.”
Tai nods like she believes her, and also like she absolutely does not.
Shauna takes a slow breath. The spring light outside the café window shifts slightly as a cloud moves. It makes the interior feel dimmer, like memory closing in.
She tries not to think about it, but of course she does. About the night “get inside dumbass” became a near eulogy. How Nat’s voice had cut through the cold. How she’d found Jackie half asleep in the snow, stubborn and proud and freezing.
How Shauna had stood there, heart pounding in her throat, realizing she’d run out of ways to pretend she didn’t care whether Jackie lived or died. But it wasn't her who saved Jackie, it was Nat, and if it had been left to Shauna. Jackie wouldn't be here today.
Tai watches her for a moment, then speaks, voice gentler than usual. “It’s not happening again, you know. You have her now, she's not going to be taken from you.”
Shauna’s eyes lift. “I know.”
“Do you?” Tai asks, not challenging, just curious, like she’s trying to understand the shape of something unseen.
Shauna picks at the cardboard sleeve on her cup. “I’m not worried, not like that.”
Tai waits as Shauna searches for the right words, the ones that won’t make her sound dramatic or fragile or unhinged. The ones that won’t open a door she’s spent years keeping mostly closed.
“It’s just…” She pauses, starts over. “I don’t like remembering I almost lost her.
Tai nods slowly, as if it was the only thing in the world she ever expected Shauna to say. Of course she doesn't like the memory either, she was the one who let Jackie go outside too. They all felt their shared guilt over that for a while. “Yeah, that’s fair.”
They sit with that. The noise of the café carries around them, low chatter, clinking cups, the hiss of the espresso machine. It feels strangely far away.
Tai taps her fingers on the table. “You don’t have to tell her why it bothers you. Just tell her it does.”
Shauna swallows. “She’ll worry.”
“She already does,” Tai says. “That’s what loving someone looks like.”
Shauna looks away. The window reflects only a smudge of her own face back at her.
“It’s not—” she begins, then settles on the safer truth. “It’s not easy bringing it up.”
Tai nods. “No, but the stuff that isn’t easy is usually the stuff worth saying.”
Shauna huffs a breath. “Since when are you the emotionally wise one?”
Tai smirks. “Since always, you forget I was your gay Messiah telling you how to confess your feelings when you were just lonely and pining.”
Shauna laughs under her breath. It’s small, but it breaks something open. The tension loosens, just a fraction.
They talk about lighter things after that. New movies. Bad drivers. The local sandwich shop that just opened in Wiskayok that Tai swears is the best thing she’s eaten all year. Shauna lets herself relax into the familiarity of it.
When they stand to leave, Tai touches her arm, just once, just briefly.
“You’re okay,” Tai says. “Jackie’s okay. It’s just old air stirring around.”
Shauna nods. “Yeah.”
“Good,” Tai says. “Tell her, trust me, she’ll get it. She's stronger than you give her credit for.”
Shauna doesn’t promise she will, but she knows she will.
Driving home, the road stretches long and empty, the mountains rising steady in the distance. The sky has shifted again, paler, softer. The kind of winter light that doesn’t hurt to look at.
And Shauna realizes she’s not dreading the conversation, not really.
She just wants to get home to her girl.
—
Jackie is on the couch when Shauna gets home, curled into one corner with a blanket over her legs and her laptop balanced on her knees. She looks up as Shauna steps inside, her face brightening in that instinctive way it always does.
“Hey darling,” Jackie says. “Did you get everything?”
Shauna holds up the grocery bag. “More or less.”
Jackie smiles, then pauses the video she’s watching. Something about her expression softens when she looks at Shauna longer than a second. It’s subtle, but it hits Shauna the way it always does, like recognition and relief and tenderness braided together.
Shauna clears her throat. “You’re still watching that baking show?”
Jackie nods. “It helps me think.”
“About the documentary?” Shauna questions, pushing her communication skills to the maximum.
Jackie’s smile shifts, still warm, but with an edge of tension underneath. “Yeah.”
Shauna swallows, sets the groceries on the counter, and takes off her coat. She moves slowly, giving herself time to find the right words. She can feel Jackie’s eyes on her, waiting.
“I, uh, met Tai for coffee,” Shauna says finally, coming to lean against the doorway to the living room.
“Wasn’t that supposed to be tomorrow?” Jackie asks.
“Yeah, but we just bumped it up, her conference doesn't start until tomorrow and so it made more sense to do it on her free day.” Shauna explains, stretching the truth ever so slightly.
Jackie nods, and Shauna can tell she’s trying not to read too much into that. Trying not to ask why. Shauna wishes she could be easier to read. For Jackie, at least.
She takes a few steps closer and sits on the arm of the couch instead of the cushion. She needs the slight elevation. The angle. The ability to escape if words start coming out wrong.
Jackie closes her laptop, sets it aside. “You okay?”
There it is, soft, immediate concern. It never used to unnerve Shauna. It does now, only because she’s about to place something heavy between them.
“I’m fine,” Shauna says, then adds, quieter, “Just thinking.”
Jackie pulls the blanket up her legs a little. “About the interview?”
“Some of it.”
Jackie watches her carefully. Not pushing. Just present. Waiting in that patient way she learned somewhere between the third and fourth winter of their lives.
Shauna lets out a breath. “I don’t like this time of year.”
Jackie’s breath stalls, almost imperceptibly. “I know.”
“It all gets loud,” Shauna continues. “The emails. The reminders. The questions.” She shrugs, keeping her voice even. “It’s just noise, but it builds.”
Jackie moves the blanket aside and shifts a little closer, her leg brushing Shauna’s knee. “You should have told me.”
“It’s not—” Shauna looks away. Across the room. At the plant she keeps forgetting to water. Anywhere else. “It’s not about the interview, not really.”
Jackie’s voice softens. “What’s it about?”
Shauna chooses her next words with care. Like stepping on thin ice she knows can hold her, but still tests every inch.
“It’s the memories,” she says. “Certain ones.”
Jackie goes still, the way someone does when listening becomes a form of reverence.
Shauna inhales. “When people bring it up, I remember things I don’t want to.”
Her voice stays level. Controlled. It’s the only way she knows how to speak about that place.
“I remember that night,” she continues slowly, “when Nat told you to get inside.”
Jackie’s lashes lower, a shadow crosses her expression.
“You were out there too long,” Shauna says, barely above a whisper. “And when they brought you back in… you were so cold.”
Jackie exhales shakily, but she keeps her gaze steady. “Shauna, that was years ago.”
“I know,” Shauna interrupts gently. “I know it was years ago. I know you’re fine. I’m not worried about losing you. That’s not…” She shakes her head, searching for the right shape of the feeling. “It’s just the reminder. That I almost did. That’s what I don’t like.”
Jackie looks at her with something soft and breaking and unbearably kind. She reaches up and touches Shauna’s hand, fingertips light.
“I forget sometimes,” Jackie says quietly, “that it scared you too.”
Shauna doesn’t respond. She doesn’t know how.
Jackie stands, closes the distance, and sits beside her on the arm of the couch, their hips pressed together now. “Hey,” she murmurs. “I’m here.”
Shauna closes her eyes. Lets out a slow breath. “I know.”
“And I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know.”
Jackie leans her head against Shauna’s shoulder. The weight is warm. Familiar. Something loosens in Shauna’s chest in a way she didn’t expect.
“You don’t have to explain it more,” Jackie says softly. “I get it.”
“I didn’t want to make you feel guilty,” Shauna admits.
“You didn’t,” Jackie murmurs. “You never do.”
Shauna opens her eyes and Jackie is watching her with that expression again, the one Shauna still hasn’t gotten used to, even a decade into loving her. The one that says You don’t scare me. Your shadows don’t scare me. I’m here.
And just like that, everything settles.
Jackie nudges her knee. “Come here.”
Shauna moves without protest. Jackie pulls her onto the couch, arranges them until Shauna is half tucked against her chest and half draped over her lap. It’s ridiculous. It’s comfortable.
Jackie presses a slow kiss to the side of her head. Shauna exhales into the warmth. The noise in her head quiets and for the first time that day, she feels like she’s home.
—
They stay tangled on the couch for a long time. Long enough that the sun shifts in the window and the room warms in that pale winter way, barely, but enough that Shauna feels the difference on her skin.
Jackie’s hand moves in slow circles on her arm, lazy and absentminded, the kind of touch that says more than words ever would. Shauna lies there, listening to her heartbeat, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath her ear. She lets herself sink into it. Into the peace of it.
Eventually, Jackie speaks, her voice low in Shauna’s hair. “We don’t have to do it.”
Shauna’s breath hitches almost imperceptibly. Jackie must feel it, because her hand pauses mid-circle before continuing, gentler now.
“The documentary,” Jackie clarifies. “We don’t have to do any of it. Not if it’s going to do this to you.”
“It’s not doing anything to me,” Shauna says automatically.
Jackie huffs a soft breath that is very close to a laugh. “Shauna.”
Shauna closes her eyes. “I’m not… falling apart, or anything.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“But I don’t want you to think I can’t handle it,” Shauna insists, lifting her head slightly. Jackie’s sweater brushes her cheek, her hips press steady beneath her.
Jackie looks at her with quiet seriousness. “I don’t think you can’t handle it. I think you shouldn’t have to if it hurts you.”
Shauna swallows. Looks down. The fabric of Jackie’s sweater is soft, pilled, and stretched from years of being borrowed. She runs her thumb absently along the seam.
“I know why you want to do it,” she murmurs.
Jackie doesn’t deny it. “I hate how people talk about us,” she says. “How they fill in the blanks. How they think they know what happened. Who we were.”
Shauna nods. She understands that. The hunger to reclaim the story. To flatten the speculation. To stop strangers from turning their lives into a puzzle they think they can solve.
Jackie takes a breath and her voice softens. “And maybe I thought, if we said something together, it could give us some peace.”
“Peace,” Shauna repeats quietly. “From a documentary.”
“Not from them,” Jackie says. “From the silence.”
Shauna goes still as Jackie shifts, trying to catch her eyes. “You and me,” she clarifies. “We don’t talk about it. Not really. Not unless something forces us to.”
Shauna’s chest tightens. She should say something but she doesn’t.
“I thought maybe doing one thing together, on our terms, I don’t know.” Jackie offers a small, helpless smile. “I thought it might be healing.”
Shauna drops her gaze again. Her fingers toy with the hem of the sweater. “For you?”
“For both of us.”
Shauna’s throat feels too tight to swallow. She hates that it does. She hates that Jackie can still find the places she guards too carefully, even after all these years.
“Shauna,” Jackie says softly, brushing a curl behind her ear. “Look at me.”
Shauna does and Jackie’s eyes are warm. Clear. Steady. Unwavering in that way she’d learned only after rescue, when uncertainty had finally given way to conviction.
“I won’t say yes if it hurts you,” Jackie says. “I won’t do anything that makes this harder.”
Shauna inhales slowly. “I don’t want you to give something up because of me.”
Jackie smiles, small, crooked, full of affection. “I gave up a lot of things for a lot of years. This isn’t one of them.”
Shauna stares at her. At the familiar curve of her jaw. At the faint scar near her hairline. At the softness in her expression that still feels unbelievable sometimes.
Jackie continues, “But…” She squeezes Shauna’s hand. “I also don’t want you to go quiet on me. Not about this.”
Shauna looks away. The couch feels suddenly too soft, too intimate.
“I’m not going quiet,” she mutters.
Jackie tilts her head. “You are, a little.”
Shauna frowns. “I’m talking now.”
“Because I asked,” Jackie says gently. “You never volunteer it.”
Shauna doesn’t have an answer for that. Jackie leans forward, pressing her forehead against Shauna’s. It’s grounding. Warm. A touch that feels like truth.
“I don’t need a documentary,” Jackie whispers. “I need us. To be okay. To talk. To not let winter do what it always tries to do.”
Shauna closes her eyes. The truth of it moves through her slowly, like warmth seeping into cold fingers. After a long moment, she nods. “Okay.”
Jackie pulls back just enough to see her face. “Okay?”
Shauna lifts a hand to Jackie’s cheek, her thumb brushing lightly along her skin. “We won’t do it.”
Jackie exhales, a soft, shaking sound that tells Shauna she hadn’t realized Jackie was holding tension too.
They sink back into each other, limbs tangling again, the blanket slipping slightly as Jackie pulls her closer and for the first time since the call pinged in their kitchen, Shauna feels like something heavy has been lifted from both of them.
The winter light outside grows gold and soft, warming the living room as afternoon bends toward evening.
Shauna rests her head on Jackie’s chest. Jackie’s fingers thread through her hair and everything feels steady again.
—
By late afternoon the house smells like onions and rosemary.
Dinner started almost accidentally, Shauna stood up to stretch, Jackie followed her into the kitchen, and then they were just moving in familiar orbit: Shauna chopping, Jackie stirring, both of them stepping around each other with the kind of domestic muscle memory that comes only from years of shared kitchens and shared lives.
Shauna slices carrots while Jackie hums along to some playlist she put on her iPod. Something old. ’90s alt-rock. Shauna can’t tell if it’s intentional or if nostalgia just bleeds into their lives without asking.
Jackie sways a little as she stirs the pot, off-beat and unselfconscious. Shauna tries not to smile. Fails.
“Don’t laugh at me,” Jackie says without turning around.
“I wasn’t,” Shauna lies easily.
“You were.”
Shauna sighs. “…Okay, maybe a little.”
Jackie laughs under her breath. It’s soft, warm, the kind of laugh that lifts something inside Shauna just by existing.
They cook like that for a while, quiet, close, brushing elbows and bumping hips, the sun slipping lower outside their kitchen window. Their shadows lean long across the counter.
When dinner is ready, they sit at the table without turning on the overhead light. The room settles into a dim amber glow.
It feels like a moment suspended in warm glass.
Jackie eats slowly, pushing food around her plate. “This is really good,” she says.
“You say that every time,” Shauna replies.
“Yeah,” Jackie says, smiling into her fork. “Because it’s always true.”
Shauna looks down at her plate. Her chest tightens with something gentle. Something that feels like being seen.
They eat quietly for a few more moments before Jackie’s hand slides across the table, palm up, a silent invitation.
Shauna hesitates, not because she doesn’t want to take it, but because even after ten years, the softness of moments like this still unnerves her in ways she can’t articulate. She puts her hand in Jackie’s anyway.
Jackie’s thumb strokes the back of her knuckles. It’s slow. Unhurried. A gesture that doesn’t demand anything.
“You okay?” Jackie asks.
The question is light, not probing, not intense, but it lands somewhere deep.
“I’m fine,” Shauna says, and she is, as much as she will ever be.
Jackie nods like that’s exactly what she expected. “Good.”
They finish dinner hand-in-hand.
Later, Shauna washes the dishes while Jackie dries. Steam rises from the sink. Music drifts from the living room speaker. Jackie leans her hip against the counter, humming off-key again, close enough that their arms brush each time she reaches for a plate. Shauna doesn’t pull away.
When the last dish is put away, Jackie taps her shoulder. “Come here.”
Shauna lets herself be guided into the living room. The couch blankets are still rumpled from earlier, the pillows a mess. Jackie pulls her down gently until Shauna is half sprawled across her, head resting just below her collarbone.
They fit together easily, like a shape well-worn. Jackie runs her fingers through Shauna’s hair, slow and rhythmic. Shauna closes her eyes.
“You know,” Jackie says quietly, “I really am okay.”
Shauna nods without lifting her head. “I know.”
“And you’re okay.”
Another nod. “Yeah.”
Jackie exhales, her fingers pausing for just a second in Shauna’s hair before continuing. “I just wanted to say it.”
Shauna shifts closer, tucking her face into Jackie’s shoulder. Jackie smells warm, vanilla lotion, detergent, the faintest trace of rosemary from dinner.
Shauna murmurs, “You don’t have to reassure me.”
“I know,” Jackie says. “I wanted to.”
Shauna feels something loosen deep in her chest. A knot that has been there since the email. Since the memory it stirred. Since the winter that never fully leaves them.
She lifts her head enough to meet Jackie’s eyes. “Thank you.”
Jackie’s expression softens, lit by the dim lamp beside the couch. “Always.”
Shauna leans in and kisses her, slow, gentle, the kind of kiss that belongs to evenings like this and ten years of shared life. Jackie cups the back of her neck, pulling her a little closer, a little deeper.
When they part, Shauna rests her forehead against Jackie’s, their breaths mingling.
“Let’s not talk about interviews anymore tonight,” Shauna murmurs.
Jackie smiles. “Deal.”
They settle back into the couch, limbs intertwined, blankets gathered around them. Jackie’s hand finds Shauna’s under the fabric and stays there. Outside, the winter night deepens. Inside, everything is warm and steady and unbearably quiet in the best way.
And for the first time in days, Shauna feels completely, unquestionably okay.
They go to bed early, the kind of early that isn’t planned but happens naturally, as if the heaviness of the day stayed in the air and nudged them toward quiet.
Jackie brushes her teeth humming that same off-key song; Shauna watches her for a moment from the doorway, leaning against the frame, feeling something warm and familiar settle low in her chest. Domesticity still catches her off guard sometimes. How easy it is. How gentle.
By the time they crawl under the covers, the house is dark except for the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Winter night seeps at the edges of the curtains, cold and patient.
Jackie lies on her back, blanket pulled to her chin, hair fanned messily across the pillow. Shauna turns onto her side, facing her. Jackie notices. She always does.
She shifts, turning toward Shauna, their knees brushing beneath the sheets. “Hi,” Jackie whispers.
Shauna feels a small, inevitable smile tug at the corner of her mouth. “Hi.”
It’s quiet for a while. Not uncomfortable, just quiet in the way nights often are when the world outside is still and the only sound is two people breathing close enough to feel it.
Shauna traces a line on the blanket between them, her fingertip brushing the fabric lightly. It’s not intentional. Just something to do with her hands.
Jackie watches her with soft eyes. “You’re thinking.”
Shauna shrugs. “It’s late.”
“Mhm.” Jackie shifts a little closer. “But you’re still thinking.”
Shauna exhales a slow breath. She considers saying she isn’t. That she’s tired. That she’s fine. But Jackie’s looking at her like she already knows the truth.
So Shauna lets the silence stretch a moment. Lets herself settle into it.
“It just… comes back sometimes,” she says quietly. “Not all of it. Just certain things.”
Jackie’s expression gentles. “Like today.”
“Yeah.” Shauna looks down at their hands, almost touching on the blanket. “It wasn’t… bad. Just sharp. Like brushing up against something I’d forgotten was still there.”
Jackie nudges her fingers an inch closer. The distance shrinks. “It’s always going to be there a little.”
“I know.”
Jackie hesitates before adding, “Does it still feel dangerous?”
Shauna thinks about that. About winter air too thin to breathe. About fires that barely kept them warm. About Jackie’s blue lips that night and the thin thread of fear that knotted itself inside her and never really left.
“No,” she says finally. “Not now.”
Jackie relaxes, barely, but Shauna notices.
“It just feels far,” Shauna adds,“Far, but not gone.”
Jackie nods slowly, eyes never leaving hers. “I think that’s okay.”
Jackie reaches out and slides her hand beneath the blanket, finding Shauna’s. Their fingers lace like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She squeezes Shauna’s hand once. “You want to know something?”
Shauna nods.
“You weren’t the only one scared that night.” Jackie shifts closer until their foreheads nearly touch. Her voice is barely audible. “I heard Nat yelling. I was so tired, but I remember thinking… I don’t want this to be it. I don’t want this to be the last thing.”
Shauna’s chest tightens. “Jackie…”
“I don’t think I knew why, back then,” Jackie whispers. “But I know now.”
Shauna swallows, her heartbeat feels too loud in her ears. Jackie’s thumb strokes the back of her hand. “I didn’t want the silence to be our ending.”
Shauna forces herself to breathe. “It wasn’t.”
Jackie smiles softly. “No. It wasn’t.”
They hold each other’s gaze, the air between them warm with something fragile and honest. It feels like they’re standing at the edge of something deep, not fear, not darkness, but understanding. Shared. Worn. Lived through together.
Shauna shifts closer until her forehead rests against Jackie’s. Their noses brush. Jackie’s breath is warm against her mouth.
The kiss isn’t dramatic. It’s slow, soft, unhurried, the kind of kiss that only comes after years of choosing someone in a thousand small ways. Jackie tugs her even closer, one hand sliding into Shauna’s hair, the other staying firmly wrapped around her fingers.
When they part, Shauna exhales shakily into the small space between them. Jackie’s eyes flutter open, warm and steady and impossibly full.
Shauna moves again, curling into Jackie’s chest. Jackie adjusts the blanket around them, tucking it beneath Shauna’s shoulder with the same absent, protective care she’s had for years.
In the dark, Jackie presses a kiss into Shauna’s hair. “Go to sleep,” she murmurs.
Shauna nestles closer. Jackie’s heartbeat anchors her, slow, steady, familiar. Winter presses close to the windows, but it can’t get in. Not tonight.
Shauna drifts into sleep with Jackie’s arms around her, warm and sure, exactly where she has always wanted to end up.