Chapter Text
megan’s sneaker taps anxiously against the cheap tiled floor of the subway on w 4th, the kind of faux-terra-cotta corporate swore looked “inviting.” fluorescent lights hum overhead like they’re threatening violence. the air smells faintly of bread, pickles, and existential dread.
her visor sits crooked on her head. her apron has a little smear of chipotle southwest that she absolutely did not put there. lara swore this job would be “fun.”
lara lied.
it was… fine for two weeks—predictable, mind-numbing, extra-cash-in-the-pocket fine—until someone walked in and rewrote megan’s entire brain chemistry.
daniela avanzini. junior. nyu dance major. dangerous in the way that soft things are dangerous; honey eyes, curls tied up messily like she forgot she was gorgeous, athleisure that somehow looked like runway couture. she walked in one wednesday afternoon with a light sheen sweat on her forehead and a tote bag tucked on her hip, and megan forgot how words worked.
“hi!” daniela chirped, stepping up to the counter. “can i get a footlong turkey on italian herb and cheese?”
and megan, the proud bisexual disaster that she was, stared too long and said, “on… uh… on the bread?”
daniela blinked. smiled. god, her smile. “yeah. typically that’s where it goes.”
lara choked on a laugh somewhere behind the cookie display while megan’s soul left her body.
still, somehow, impossibly, they vibed. daniela found megan’s awkwardness charming. megan learned daniela liked exactly four olives on the right half of her sandwich. not five. not three. not scattered. right half. she liked twelve seconds in the toaster for perfect cheese melt. she liked her tomatoes thin, not beefy.
and megan learned she liked daniela in that stupid, ruin-your-life, rearrange-your-dna kind of way.
now daniela comes in three, sometimes four times a week, always at weird times—mid-morning, late afternoon, right before close. sometimes she brings friends. sometimes she comes alone. she always smiles when she sees megan. she always says her name too brightly. she always stays a minute after she gets her sandwich, chatting like she doesn’t notice megan melting into the linoleum.
today is no different.
the bell above the door jingles. wind rushes in. and then she’s there—brown curls, pink hoodie that swallows her frame, equally baggy black sweatpants, and the visible skin all flushed from the cold.
megan’s heart flatlines.
lara elbows her so hard she nearly drops the tray of bread. “go get your girl.”
“she’s not my girl,” megan hisses, smoothing her apron. “she’s—she’s a customer.”
“a customer you would commit federal crimes for,” lara mutters.
“shut up.”
daniela steps up to the counter, eyes sparkling. “hi, meg.”
megan hears her name in daniela’s voice and swears it short-circuits her brain. “h-hi. um. turkey footlong? four olives on the right?”
daniela beams. “you remembered.”
megan pretends it didn’t take up an entire filing cabinet in her mind. “yep. totally normal thing to remember.”
lara snorts behind her.
megan builds the sandwich with surgical precision. right amount of lettuce. perfectly thin tomatoes. provolone, twelve seconds, the dance of someone disastrously down bad. daniela leans against the glass barrier, talking about rehearsal schedules, midterms, the way her professor made them improv to an 11-minute remix of baby shark.
she laughs, and god, megan wants to bottle that sound.
the sandwich finished, wrapped neatly, daniela pays—tapping her card, because of course she’s a tapper—and lingers.
“busy today?” she asks.
“uh—no? yes? kind of? we exist,” megan manages.
daniela grins. “you’re cute.”
megan short-circuits. drops a pickle tong. pretends she didn’t.
“see you, meg,” daniela says, soft and warm and entirely unaware of the emotional destruction she leaves in her wake.
and then she’s gone, disappeared into the loud sprawl of nyu’s campus.
lara whistles low. “bro. you’re so cooked.”
megan groans into her hands. “i hate it here.”
…
hours later, megan is sprawled on the patio of the apartment she shares with lara. the metal chair digs into her thighs. the fairy lights above them buzz faintly, threatening to die. yoonchae sits cross-legged on the floor, rolling a blunt with frightening precision.
the campus glows in the distance. someone is screaming about failing their calc midterm. someone else is playing a ukulele unironically. new york is alive, chaotic, deeply unserious.
lara passes the blunt. “to our favorite subway simp,” she announces.
megan glares. inhales anyway. “i’m not a simp.”
yoonchae coughs once, dry and judgmental. “you are whipped,” she says, monotone. “like heavy cream. like stiff peaks.”
megan nearly inhales the blunt. “why are you like this?”
“genetics,” yoonchae says, taking it back.
lara kicks her feet onto the table. “so how was it today? did your wife come in?” she asks the question as if she wasn’t there as a witness to the whole affair.
“please shut up,” megan says, face in her hands. “and yes. you were literally there.”
lara’s grin stretches. “and?”
“she smiled at me.”
“oh my god,” lara says, deadpan. “alert the press. she smiled.”
“it was a special smile, you asshole,” megan argues. “like… like a warm smile. you wouldn’t get it because you hate love.”
“so her face did face things,” yoonchae adds.
“you’re both demons.”
lara leans forward conspiratorially. “did you flirt? like flirt-flirt and not your typical loser-rizz-awkwardness combo?”
megan hesitates. “i—i don’t know. i said hi. i asked about her day. i didn’t drop anything this time.”
“character development,” yoonchae mutters.
“i hate both of you.”
lara nudges her. “when are you asking her out?”
megan freezes. “i’m not.”
“why?” lara demands. “she’s obviously into you.”
yoonchae nods sagely. “yes. she looks at you like a cat that wants to be fed. affectionate. needy. slightly confused.”
“you’re describing me,” megan groans.
“exactly.”
megan flops backward dramatically. the patio chair creaks in protest. “i can’t ask her out. what if she just thinks i’m… nice? or weird? or like… a sandwich cryptid?”
lara throws a balled-up napkin at her. “megan. babe. she goes to subway every other day for a sandwich she could absolutely make at home. she stands there talking to you for fifteen minutes. she does everything short of putting her number in your hand.”
yoonchae exhales smoke in a perfectly judgmental plume. “put your number on the sandwich,” she says.
megan blinks. “huh?”
“wrap it in the paper,” yoonchae explains slowly, like megan is stupid. “write your number. give sandwich. she will scream internally. then text.”
lara gasps. “oh my god wait. that’s actually genius. you’re a genius, yoonch.”
yoonchae nods solemnly, like it couldn’t be anything other than the truth.
megan groans dramatically, slumping further back into her chair. “you’re both plotting my downfall.”
yoonchae shrugs. “or your marriage.”
lara claps. “do it. tomorrow. write your number on the wrapping. write ‘for you’ or something cute. or not. maybe just your number. maybe a heart. no, actually don’t do a heart—”
“she should do a heart,” yoonchae interrupts.
“you’re evil.”
“thank you.”
megan groans even louder into her palms. “i can’t believe this is my life. i need new friends, like, asap no rocky.”
lara snorts, passing the blunt again. “you’re gonna ask her out. you’re gonna be so cute. and when she says yes, i’m telling everyone that yoonchae called this.”
yoonchae nods, solemn. “i will accept tribute.”
megan stares up at the string lights. the smoke curls into the air. somewhere, a siren wails. somewhere else, a couple starts screaming about who stole whose vape. typical night.
and still—
some part of her hopes tomorrow comes faster.
she hopes daniela walks through that subway door. she hopes her hands don’t shake when she gives her the sandwich. she hopes daniela smiles that special smile again.
maybe she’ll write her number inside the paper. maybe she’ll circle it with a heart. maybe she won’t run from it this time.
maybe she’ll be brave.
⸻
megan wakes up before her alarm—an actual scientific miracle—and for a second she lies there blinking at the thin early-morning light leaking through the blinds, trying to figure out what deranged force of nature possessed her to be awake at 7:12 a.m.
then her brain helpfully supplies: daniela might come in today.
and suddenly she’s very, very awake.
she rolls out of bed with the graceful precision of a gremlin forced into daylight and thumbs her phone open to check the time. she has her first class at 9:45. plenty of time. somehow. she stretches, cracks her neck, stares at her closet like she’s walking into battle.
today’s outfit needs to look like she didn’t try. which means she’s going to try very, very hard.
she pulls out the cargo mini skirt she thrifted in brooklyn—the one with the asymmetrical buckle that makes her feel like she’s one evil monologue away from becoming a cyberpunk villain. she pairs it with a ribbed black tank top, oversized knit cardigan with uneven stripes, and her steel-toed platform boots that are technically “safety hazards” but make her legs look like weapons. two layered chain necklaces. mismatched earrings on purpose.
she studies herself in the mirror. edgy. cool. borderline chaotic. comfortable. checks all her personal boxes.
and then—
her hair.
also known fondly to megan as: her sworn enemy.
she groans at her reflection, because her bangs are already doing that stupid splayed-out thing that makes her look like she lost a fight with a leaf blower. usually she’d pin them back with those tiny black clips she has approximately 83 of. but today she wants… effort. so she wrestles with a round brush and heat protectant and her curling wand like she’s casting a spell with dark magic. her hair ends up shiny, bouncy, and actually nice, which stunned her enough to pause and stare for a full twenty seconds.
makeup comes next—dewy base, sharp eyeliner, a berry-tinted gloss that makes her lips look way more put together than she feels. she looks… good. really good, if she says so herself. like someone who has their shit together. like someone who could flirt with a girl without combusting.
this is, of course, delusional, but the confidence is kind of intoxicating.
she pads into the apartment kitchen and decides to keep the momentum going. she makes breakfast. real breakfast. eggs and toast and a sliced-up fruit bowl and even coffee in an actual mug, not a venti iced something with too much syrup.
the smell must travel because lara shuffles in wearing megan’s stolen hoodie and socks that don’t match, hair sticking out like she’s been electrocuted.
lara rubs her eyes. “why does it smell like someone competent lives here?”
megan flips an egg with smug precision.
lara looks up—and immediately wolf whistles. “HELLO? who are you and what have you done with my roommate?”
megan rolls her eyes but blushes. “i just wanted to look… nice today.”
“you look like you’re about to be on the front cover of a fashion magazine,” lara says, circling her like she’s appraising a very fancy sculpture. “did you do your hair? oh my god, you did your hair. and your bangs aren’t waging war. i’m so proud.”
“stop,” megan grumbles, shoving toast at her. “eat.”
“no, seriously, you look amazing,” lara says, tone softening. “like… actually amazing. i hope miss four-olives sees this.”
“lara.”
“i’m just saying.” she bites into her toast. “she’s gonna lose her mind.”
megan pretends she’s not preening.
…
her classes go stupidly well.
in patternmaking, her professor squints at her draft for a full ten seconds, then nods with the rarest of creatures: approval. in textiles, her peers ask how she got her dye gradients so smooth. one girl compliments her boots. two people say they like her hair. someone she’s never met before tells her she looks “insanely cool today.”
the cafeteria has edible food for once. real food. warm food. illegal level good for a thursday. she eats an actual leafy, green vegetable. she nearly cries.
her life is going too well but she’s not questioning it. she’s basking. she’s floating. she’s borderline smug. the universe is clearly building her up for something huge.
maybe tonight is the night.
maybe she’ll do it.
maybe she’ll give daniela her number.
she tries not to spiral about it, but every time she imagines daniela’s smile, her stomach does a stupid cartoon flip.
…
her shift at subway begins as usual—she ties her apron, washes her hands, adjusts her visor, high on the energy of a good day.
and then the bell above the door jingles.
daniela walks in.
and megan’s soul exits her body like smoke through a screen door.
of course she looks extra pretty today, which is deeply unfair in megan’s totally correct and unbiased opinion. hair in a top bun. cheeks flushed from the cold. dark-colored hoodie that slips off one shoulder. she spots megan and her face brightens like someone turned on a sunlamp.
“hi, meg,” she says, warm smile and all.
and megan, whose confidence had been soaring mere minutes ago, becomes a certified bisexual disaster. “h—hi! uh. hi.”
daniela looks her up and down, not subtly at all. “you look really pretty today.”
megan almost rips the pair of gloves she’s putting on. “i—thank you. i—uh—i like your…” she gestures vaguely at all of daniela. “you.”
daniela blushes. blushes.
“turkey footlong?” megan blurts, desperately redirecting.
“yeah,” daniela laughs, “four olives on the right.”
megan builds the sandwich with trembling hands, trying to remember how breathing works. but she does it. she does the thing. when she gets to the wrapping, she reaches for the sharpie. her heart jackhammers in her ribs.
she writes her number neatly on the inside fold of the paper. and adds a small heart beside it before she can talk herself out of it.
yoonchae would be proud.
she hands the sandwich over with a shaky smile. “um… have a good night.”
daniela’s eyes linger on her for a beat too long. “you too, meg.”
and then she’s out the door.
megan immediately ducks behind the counter, face buried in her hands. “oh my god,” she whispers. “oh my god.”
lara, sweeping the lobby, pumps a fist. “YOU DID IT!”
…
an hour after her shift ends, megan is back home, hair in a messy bun now, hoodie on, scrolling mindlessly on her bed when her phone buzzes.
unknown number: so i found something inside my sandwich :)
megan stops breathing.
another text—
unknown number: friday? 6 pm? there’s a little coffee shop on bleecker with mismatched chairs and terrible open-mic nights
unknown number: want to meet me there?
and then she somehow regains enough consciousness to hurriedly save daniela’s number.
another—
daniela: i hope the heart was intentional because i’ve been hoping you’d ask me out
megan lets out a noise that could be described as either a squeal or a dying bird.
she types back—hands shaking, entire body vibrating:
megan: yes. absolutely yes. i’ll be there
and before she can even worry about if that sounded too desperate, her phone buzzes again—
daniela: good. i can’t wait to see you
daniela: and by the way—you looked really pretty today
daniela: like… really pretty
⸻
megan skiendiel is dying.
not literally, but spiritually, emotionally, metaphysically—she’s in the middle of her bedroom holding two shirts she can’t distinguish from each other anymore, pacing like she’s preparing to testify before congress.
her date is in three hours.
three.
hours.
that is nothing. that is negative time. time is meaningless.
so she does the only reasonable thing: she group-texts lara and yoonchae.
megan: emergency. SOS. 911. i am losing my mind
lara: what did u do
megan: i have a DATE
megan: a DATE with DANIELA AVANZINI
lara: girl we know
lara: no need to rub it in our face
megan: NO BUT LIKE TODAY
lara: MEGAN IT’S IN YOUR GOOGLE CALENDAR
megan: THAT MAKES IT WORSE
yoonchae: i’m on my way. don’t do anything until i get there.
megan: I ALREADY DID THINGS
yoonchae: stop doing things. i’m walking.
and true to her word, fifteen minutes later there’s a knock, and yoonchae steps inside, wearing her puffer jacket, holding an iced latte, looking mildly inconvenienced but emotionally supportive in that quiet, stoic way she does.
lara emerges from her room like she’s entering an arena. “all right. where’s the corpse.”
“me,” megan says, gesturing at herself with dead eyes. “i can’t do this.”
“you can,” lara says. “you’re just very dramatic.”
“i can’t,” megan insists, voice pitching high. “i’m sweating already. what if she doesn’t actually like me? what if she only liked sandwich me? what if date me is a downgrade?”
yoonchae tilts her head. “you are a downgrade from sandwich you. but not by that much.”
“i… what—”
“you’ll still do fine,” she shrugs. “we’ll fix you.”
lara claps her hands like a general. “OUTFIT CHOICES. now.”
megan gestures hopelessly at the explosion of clothes on her bed—tops, jackets, jeans, boots, one pair of pants she forgot she owned, a hat she bought ironically but might be kind of cute? it’s a disaster.
lara whistles. “jesus christ, you really spiraled.”
“i panic-planned,” megan mutters.
“you panicked. period,” yoonchae corrects.
they get to work, like a pair of fashion angels descending onto the desecrated battlefield that is megan’s bedroom.
lara narrows in on the black leather bomber jacket first. “this is perfect. it says ‘effortless cool’ but also ‘i could steal your girl’ and ‘yes, i know what moisturizer is.’”
“also,” yoonchae adds, tugging at the hem, “warm enough that if she forgets a jacket, you can give it to her.”
megan pales. “i would die.”
“she would marry you,” lara says. “and even if she didn’t, i would marry you if someone gave me their leather jacket on a cold night.”
“she’s a junior NYU dancer,” yoonchae deadpans. “she definitely forgets her jacket.”
megan groans but allows them to keep assembling.
they choose a fitted black long sleeve shirt with a subtle square neckline—simple, flattering, a little sexy but still daytime-appropriate. then baggy dark-wash jeans with a slightly frayed hem, because megan’s legs look criminally good in them and the loose fit balances out the jacket. silver belt. layered necklaces again. tiny hoops.
yoonchae steps back, observing megan like a scientist studying a mildly disappointing specimen. “better. you look like you go to NYU in a non-annoying way.”
“thank you?” megan tries.
lara grabs her shoulders. “listen, you look hot. not too hot, but like, date-hot. coffee-shop-warm-lighting hot. i’d be happy if my date showed up looking like you.”
“are you sure?” she whispers.
lara softens. “yes, babes. you look really, really good.”
yoonchae nods. “and you smell normal. that’s important.”
“thank you for that?” megan mutters again.
they push her to the mirror.
she looks… cute. cool. more confident than she feels. the jacket makes her feel grounded. the hair looks way better today because she re-curled two front pieces. her lip gloss is subtle. everything is balanced.
she looks like a girl who could go on a date with daniela avanzini and not combust on sight.
maybe.
hopefully.
lara plops onto the bed. “okay, now the mental prep. because you’re gonna freak out.”
“i’ve been freaking out,” megan says.
“no, that was the pre-freak. this is the actual freak.”
“great.”
yoonchae sits beside her. “you are smart. and funny. and nice. and you work very hard. you have good taste in clothes most days.”
“most?”
“don’t fight me.”
lara continues, “daniela likes you. she asks for you when you’re not working.”
megan blinks. “she does?”
“yes! i didn’t tell you because i knew you’d short-circuit, but she literally said, ‘is megan here today?’ and when i said no, she looks like i just kicked her puppy. her megan-shaped puppy.”
“laraaaa,” megan whines, face turning fire hydrant red.
“but for real, meg, she likes you,” lara says gently. “this isn’t one-sided.”
yoonchae taps her knee. “and if it goes badly, we will drag you home, make brownies, and make fun of everyone you’ve ever dated.”
“and if it goes well?” megan asks, voice tiny.
lara grins. “then we still make brownies and make fun of everyone you’ve ever dated.”
megan laughs—real, shaky, relieved.
she breathes.
okay.
she can do this. she can meet daniela in a coffee shop with mismatched chairs and terrible poetry nights. she can sit across from her, maybe brush hands, maybe smile too much.
she can maybe even hold her jacket out with a casual, “hey, you cold?”
and if daniela smiles like she does at subway—soft and warm and a little shy—megan might actually ascend.
yoonchae stands, flicking invisible lint off megan’s shoulder. “you look good. don’t be weird.”
lara points at her. “be a little weird. she likes that about you.”
“you guys…” megan swallows. “thank you.”
“don’t thank us yet,” lara says. “text us the second she kisses you.”
“or the second she breathes near you,” yoonchae adds.
megan groans but she’s smiling.
she grabs her jacket.
she’s ready. or as ready as someone like her can possibly be.
tonight, she has a date. with the girl who made a shitty subway sandwich taste like possibility.
and she’s going to show up for it—heart racing, hands sweating, brain overthinking—but showing up nonetheless.
…
megan’s heart is a jackhammer.
she stands outside daniela’s apartment building in the east village, leather jacket warming her arms, breath puffing white in the evening air. she checks her phone for the time even though she already knows it. she’s early. of course she’s early. she’s incapable of being fashionably late; she is only ever anxiously punctual.
the door opens before she can psyche herself out.
and there she is.
daniela avanzini, in low-rise jeans and a baby tee the color of strawberry milk, hair in a half-up-half-down style that looks unfairly good on her. y2k perfection. not a leotard. not ballet tights. not the subway-ordering version of herself.
megan forgets how to breathe.
“hey,” daniela says, smiling like she isn’t actively murdering her.
“h-hi,” megan manages. “uh—ready?”
“mmhm,” she hums, locking the door behind her. “you picking me up? so old-fashioned of you. are you’re nineteen and not some fifty year old in disguise?”
“i—i just thought—walking together is—“ cute? polite? endearing? “—nice?” she settles on.
daniela laughs softly, and megan wants to bottle that sound. “it is.”
they walk. megan keeps her pace slow so daniela can match her stride—a few inches shorter, but walking with the confidence of someone tall in spirit. megan opens the building door for her, then the street entrance, then the café door three blocks down.
“you don’t have to do all that,” daniela says, but she’s smiling into it.
“i—uh—no, i want to. like—it’s not weird, right?”
“no,” daniela says, head tilting, eyes soft. “definitely not weird.”
the café is warm, filled with fairy lights and mismatched mugs and the faint smell of cinnamon. megan nearly trips over a stool on the way to the counter—nothing catastrophic, just a small stumble, but her ears go red instantly.
daniela’s hand brushes her elbow, steadying her. “careful, cowboy.”
megan short-circuits.
they order—daniela gets an iced matcha with lavender, megan gets and iced vanilla lattes because she’s too nervous to commit to another flavor—and when daniela reaches for her wallet, megan gently pushes her hand aside.
“i got it.”
“megan—”
“please? i want to.”
daniela bites back a smile. “okay.”
when they sit, megan—without thinking—pulls daniela’s chair out for her. it’s clumsy, awkward, halfway almost knocks into the table leg, but she gets it done and daniela’s face goes pink in this soft, fond way that makes the room feel warmer.
they talk.
at first it’s the light stuff—classes, majors, professors they hate, subway horror stories. megan tells her about the time someone asked for “just a bowl of olives,” and daniela loses it laughing, her hand covering her mouth, shoulders shaking.
daniela tells her about a choreography project she’s been working on, how she’s stuck on a transition, and megan listens like it’s gospel.
they relax. the awkwardness melts. megan’s shoulders loosen. daniela’s leg brushes hers under the table and doesn’t move away. megan’s brain bluescreens for a solid twelve seconds.
when the date winds down, they wander outside, sipping the last of their drinks. the sky is purpling into early night, cold enough that their breath fogs.
daniela rubs her hands up and down her arms. “ugh. i always forget a jacket. one day i’ll learn.”
megan immediately shrugs out of her own leather bomber, handing it over. “h-here.”
daniela blinks at her, surprised and delighted. “megan, no—you’ll freeze.”
“i’m actually, like, super warm for some reason,” megan insists, even though she’s totally lying. “take it.”
she slips into it, the sleeves long on her, the collar swallowing her neck, and megan is… undone. there is no surviving this. it’s over for her.
they walk the last block to daniela’s building, shoulders bumping.
when they stop at the door, megan shoves her hands in her pockets, suddenly shy again. “so… i had a really good time. like—really good. thank you for—uh—coming.”
“thank you for asking me,” daniela says, stepping closer. dangerously close. “you know… you did great tonight.”
“i… did?” megan whispers.
“mmhm.” daniela’s eyes flicker down to her lips. “except for one little thing.”
megan freezes. “what?”
“you didn’t kiss me.”
megan’s brain dissolves. melts. puddles onto the sidewalk.
“i—i didn’t want to mess up or—like—assume—”
“megan,” daniela murmurs, reaching up to hook a finger into the collar of megan’s shirt and tugging her down—gentle, sure, devastating. “i want to kiss you.”
and because of the type of person daniela is, she kisses megan.
and it’s soft. warm. slow. sweet in a way that unthreads every knot in megan’s chest. daniela tastes like lavender matcha and lip gloss and something achingly familiar.
megan doesn’t move for a second—too shocked—until daniela smiles into it and megan finally kisses back, hands hovering awkwardly at daniela’s waist, not quite touching.
when they part, daniela stays close, her breath brushing megan’s cheek.
“if you want another one…” she whispers, stepping back, slipping out of megan’s jacket and handing it to her, voice coy and devastating. “you’ll have to be brave enough to do it yourself.”
“i—yeah—i can—i can do that,” megan stammers.
“good,” daniela says, smirking. “text me when you get home.”
she disappears into her building.
megan stands on the sidewalk for a solid twenty seconds, jacket held in limp hands, heart beating completely out of her body.
then she grins—huge, uncontrollable, borderline stupid.
she just had a date.
with daniela avanzini.
and she gets to kiss her again—if she’s brave enough to initiate it.
she’s already planning.
…
megan: just got home!
megan: i had a really good time today
megan: so… would you be free next tuesday? i heard about this really cool band playing nearby
megan: i think it could be fun if ur into that kind of thing
daniela: i had a really good time today too
daniela: and it’s a date ;)
oh. megan is so screwed.