Chapter Text
The song itself was the problem.
Not musically—because, musically, it was brilliant. Beca had stitched it together late one night with headphones on and her laptop balanced precariously on her knees, chasing a feeling she hadn’t been able to name. It started restrained, almost minimalist, and then bloomed into something warmer, fuller, aching in a way that didn’t beg but waited.
The issue was that the song wanted something.
It wasn’t upbeat enough to sell as playful. It wasn’t sad enough to be heartbreak. It sat in that dangerous middle space—longing without desperation, intimacy without resolution. The kind of song that only worked if the audience believed there was something unspoken happening right in front of them.
Aubrey had been the one to say it out loud.
“This number needs tension,” she’d said, arms crossed, eyes sharp as ever. “Not sass. Not jokes. Tension. You don’t get to hide behind choreography on this one.”
They’d tried, of course. Clean lines. Mirrored steps. Clever formations that suggested connection without committing to it. It all read as…fine. Technically impressive. Emotionally flat.
The judges’ notes had been polite but damning.
Strong vocals. Lacks emotional cohesion.
Feels distant for such an intimate arrangement.
So Aubrey had adjusted the blocking.
She’d paired them together more often. Reduced the space between them. Given them moments where they were meant to face each other—not the audience, not the judges, but each other. Moments where the music dropped out just enough that eye contact mattered more than movement.
“This isn’t about being overt,” Aubrey had said. “I’m not asking you to act out a rom-com. I’m asking you to let it look like you care.”
Care.
That was the word that kept sticking.
Because care, as it turned out, was much harder to fake than flirtation.
Standing in the practice room now, Chloe could see it in the mirror: how the choreography asked them to hover close without touching, to turn toward each other and then away again, like gravity pulling and releasing in careful increments. The song built and built, and the choreography demanded something underneath it—something real enough to read from the back row.
Beca had stopped halfway through the run, the music dying abruptly in the speakers.
“This feels wrong,” she’d said, frustrated. “We’re doing the steps, but it’s not landing.”
Chloe had watched her in the reflection then, watched the way Beca’s shoulders tensed like she was bracing for impact.
“That’s because we’re dancing around it,” Chloe had said.
“Around what?”
Chloe had turned to face her fully, heart already beating faster, even then.
“Around the fact that this song is romantic,” she said. “And we’re treating it like it’s abstract.”
Beca’s jaw had tightened. “It’s not supposed to be a love story.”
“No,” Chloe agreed softly. “It’s supposed to feel like one.”
And that—that need to feel something without ever naming it—was how they’d ended up here. Arguing about chemistry. About honesty. About whether tension could be manufactured or whether it had to be understood first.
The practice room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old wood—someone had mopped earlier, and the scent lingered under the hum of the fluorescent lights. It was late enough that the building had settled into itself. No voices in the hallway. No footsteps overhead. Just the quiet thrum of the campus after-hours, like it was holding its breath.
Beca stood near the piano, arms crossed, jaw set in a way Chloe recognized immediately: defensive, thinking too fast, pretending she wasn’t thinking at all.
“That’s not chemistry,” Beca said, tapping her fingers against her forearm. “That’s choreography. It’s empty.”
Chloe turned from the mirror slowly. She’d been watching them in the reflection—how they stood just far enough apart to be respectable, how their eyes kept flicking back to each other even while arguing. She felt warm from rehearsal, from singing, from the frustration that had been building for days.
“It’s not empty,” Chloe said. “It’s just…safe.”
Beca scoffed. “Safe doesn’t read from the audience. They can tell when we’re faking it.”
Chloe folded her arms, mirroring her without realizing it. “So what do you suggest?”
Beca hesitated. Just a beat. Chloe caught it—the micro-pause where Beca’s bravado usually cracked, where something honest hovered before being swallowed.
“I don’t know,” Beca said. “Something real. Something that isn’t—” she gestured vaguely between them “—this polite distance thing.”
Chloe’s heart ticked faster. She swallowed.
“Well,” she said carefully, “how are we supposed to sell romantic tension if we don’t actually know what it feels like?”
The words landed heavier than she’d intended. They seemed to echo in the room, hanging between them like a challenge.
Beca blinked. Once. Twice.
“…Are you proposing a methodology?” she asked.
Chloe almost laughed. Almost. Instead, she stepped closer—just enough that Beca had to look up at her, just enough that the air between them warmed.
“I’m proposing,” Chloe said, voice steady despite the way her pulse was racing, “that we stop guessing.”
Beca’s eyes dropped—to Chloe’s mouth, then back up again, as if she’d been caught doing something incriminating.
“This is ridiculous,” Beca said.
Chloe tilted her head. “We can be very scientific about it.”
Silence stretched. The piano bench creaked softly as Beca shifted her weight.
“What are the parameters?” Beca asked.
Chloe inhaled. The room felt smaller now, the lights too bright, the quiet too loud.
“One kiss,” she said. “Controlled. Deliberate. No improvisation.”
Beca huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “You’re bossy.”
“And you like rules,” Chloe said gently.
That did it.
Beca uncrossed her arms. Her hands flexed at her sides, like she wasn’t sure what to do with them. “Fine,” she said. “For research.”
“For research,” Chloe echoed.
They stood there for a second longer than necessary, neither moving, both suddenly hyperaware of everything—the sound of their breathing, the faint buzz of the lights, the way Chloe’s skin prickled under Beca’s gaze.
Beca stepped forward first.
She moved slowly, deliberately, as if she were approaching a wild animal that might bolt if startled. Her hand came up—not to Chloe’s waist, not to her face—but hovered for a moment, uncertain, before resting lightly against Chloe’s arm. The contact was almost nothing. It felt like everything.
“Okay?” Beca asked, quietly.
Chloe nodded. “Okay.”
The kiss itself was…careful.
Beca’s lips brushed Chloe’s once, barely there, a question more than an answer. Chloe held still, every nerve ending lighting up at the contact—the warmth, the softness, the way Beca’s breath hitched just slightly.
They tried again.
This time, Beca pressed in more firmly, just enough to feel the shape of Chloe’s mouth, the gentle resistance as Chloe responded without pushing back. No hands roaming. No urgency. Just the slow, deliberate meeting of lips, like they were testing a hypothesis neither of them expected to confirm.
When they pulled apart, it was almost simultaneous.
They stared at each other.
“Well,” Beca said, voice a little rougher than before. “That was…informative.”
Chloe swallowed. Her lips still tingled, like they’d been kissed by static.
“Did it feel,” she asked, choosing her words carefully, “authentic?”
Beca let out a breath. “Annoyingly so.”
Chloe smiled despite herself.
They should’ve stopped there. They knew that. The experiment had yielded results.
Instead, Beca frowned, thoughtful. “One data point isn’t enough.”
Chloe’s smile widened. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
The second kiss was different.
Still controlled—but less tentative. Beca’s hand slid from Chloe’s arm to her waist this time, resting there with intent. Chloe’s fingers curled lightly into the fabric of Beca’s jacket, anchoring herself.
They adjusted instinctively, finding a rhythm that hadn’t existed a moment before. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry. It was focused. Like they were learning each other’s language syllable by syllable.
When they broke apart again, Chloe’s cheeks were warm, her chest rising a little faster.
“Any notes?” she asked, soft.
Beca stared at her like she was trying to memorize her face. “Yeah,” she said. “We’re screwed.”
Chloe laughed under her breath.
They told themselves they were done. That the research phase was complete.
They were lying.
Over the next week, the experiment repeated itself—always with an excuse. A tweak in blocking. A note about eye contact. A question about proximity.
Each kiss sharpened into something clearer, more dangerous. They learned how Beca tilted her head slightly left, how Chloe’s breath stuttered when Beca lingered just a second too long. They learned where to put their hands, where not to, how to stop before it tipped into something they couldn’t undo.
They never talked about it outside the room.
Never named it.
But the performances changed. The tension became electric, undeniable. The audience leaned forward. Judges scribbled notes.
And every time their lips met—controlled, deliberate, professional—Chloe wondered how long they could keep pretending this was just research.
And Beca wondered when, exactly, the experiment had started running them instead.
The thing about tension was that it didn’t dissipate just because you ignored it.
If anything, it sharpened.
By the time dress rehearsal rolled around, it had settled into Chloe’s body like a second pulse—steady, insistent, impossible to mistake for nerves alone. The auditorium was dim except for the work lights, rows of empty seats yawning open in front of the stage. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, visible only when the light hit them just right.
Beca was already there, perched on the edge of the stage with her laptop open, headphones slung around her neck. She looked up when Chloe entered, their eyes catching for just a second too long.
Something flickered between them.
Not a smile. Not a greeting.
Recognition.
They’d gotten very good at that kind of look.
“Hey,” Chloe said, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder.
“Hey,” Beca replied. Neutral. Casual. Her fingers tapped against the trackpad, then stilled.
Aubrey clapped her hands once, sharp and decisive. “Alright. From the top. Full run. Costumes, spacing, the whole thing.”
The costumes didn’t help.
Nothing overt—simple lines, soft fabrics, colors chosen to complement rather than distract—but Chloe felt hyperaware of how close they put her and Beca together. How the fabric of Beca’s jacket brushed her wrist during the opening phrase. How the lights warmed Beca’s skin, softened the sharpness of her usual edges.
Chloe took her mark. Beca stepped into hers. They didn’t look at each other yet. That came later. It always did.
The first verse was controlled, internal. Chloe sang it facing forward, voice steady, hands loose at her sides. She knew exactly when Beca would turn—knew it down to the measure—and still, when it happened, her chest tightened.
There she was. Not as a friend. Not as a colleague. As a presence.
When the music swelled, the choreography pulled them closer, inch by careful inch. The space between them narrowed until Chloe could feel Beca’s heat, could sense her breath when they passed shoulder to shoulder.
This was the part Aubrey had insisted on keeping.
No touching. No release.
Just proximity and restraint.
Chloe let herself feel it—didn’t push it away, didn’t analyze it. She thought of the practice room. Of lemon cleaner and fluorescent lights. Of Beca’s hand at her waist, deliberate and steady.
She let that memory live behind her eyes as she sang.
When they finally turned to face each other, the audience would have leaned in. Chloe could feel it, even now, in the empty hall. The music dropped back, bare and exposed.
Their eyes locked.
Something in Beca’s expression shifted—not dramatic, not obvious, but enough. Like a door left ajar.
The note Chloe hit then rang truer than it ever had.
Silence followed after. Not awkward. Not empty. Charged.
Aubrey didn’t speak right away. She watched them, eyes narrowed, arms folded.
Then she nodded once. “That’s it,” she said. “Don’t change a thing.”
Chloe exhaled, a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She glanced at Beca—just briefly—and caught the ghost of a smile before Beca looked away.
Backstage was a flurry of movement after that. Notes. Adjustments. Reminders about entrances and exits. Chloe changed out of her costume slowly, hands trembling just a little as she folded it neatly into her bag.
She was zipping it closed when Beca appeared in the doorway.
“Walk with me?” Beca asked, casual again, like it was nothing.
Chloe nodded. “Yeah.”
They didn’t say much as they moved through the quiet corridors, footsteps echoing faintly. The building felt different at night—less institutional, more intimate. Like it was letting them see a softer version of itself.
They stopped outside the practice room without acknowledging it.
Beca leaned back against the wall, arms crossed loosely. “That worked,” she said. “What we did in rehearsal.”
Chloe swallowed. “It did.”
A beat.
“You didn’t overdo it,” Beca added. “Thank you.”
Chloe smiled, small and real. “You didn’t either.”
Silence stretched—not uncomfortable, but heavy with all the things they weren’t saying. The door to the practice room loomed beside them, familiar and dangerous.
Beca broke first. “We should probably—” She gestured vaguely down the hall. “You know. Boundaries.”
Chloe nodded. “Right. Of course.”
Neither of them moved.
Beca let out a quiet laugh. “We’re terrible at this.”
“At boundaries?” Chloe asked.
“At pretending this is just choreography.”
The honesty in Beca’s voice hit harder than any kiss had.
Chloe stepped closer—not into her space, not quite. Just enough to be heard without raising her voice. “Then maybe,” she said carefully, “we stop pretending. Not—” she rushed on, seeing Beca tense “—not defining it. Just…acknowledging it.”
Beca studied her face, searching. “And then what?”
Chloe shrugged, a little helpless. “Then we keep choosing where the line is. Together.”
For a long moment, Beca said nothing. Then she nodded. “Okay.”
It felt like an agreement. Fragile. Intentional.
They didn’t kiss.
That might’ve been the bravest part.
Performance night came faster than Chloe expected.
The house was full—every seat occupied, the low buzz of anticipation humming through the auditorium. Chloe stood in the wings, hands clasped tightly in front of her, breathing through the nerves.
Beca stood beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
“You good?” Beca murmured.
Chloe nodded. “You?”
“Terrified,” Beca said. Then, softer: “But…ready.”
When the lights came up and the first notes rang out, something settled in Chloe’s chest. The fear gave way to focus. To trust.
They found each other onstage the way they always did now—inevitable, magnetic. The tension wasn’t manufactured anymore. It didn’t have to be.
When they faced each other during the bridge, Chloe let herself look—really look. At the intensity in Beca’s eyes. At the vulnerability she never showed anywhere else.
The audience was silent.
After the final chord, the applause came fast and loud, rushing up to meet them. Chloe bowed, heart pounding, adrenaline singing in her veins.
Backstage, Aubrey pulled them both into a rare, fierce hug.
Later, much later, when the building had emptied and the night had gone quiet again, Chloe found herself back in the practice room one last time.
Beca was there already, sitting on the piano bench, hands resting on her knees.
They looked at each other.
No excuses. No methodology.
Just choice.
“Hey,” Chloe said.
Beca smiled. Not defensive. Not careful.
“Hey,” she said back.
Success, it turned out, was its own kind of complication.
The morning after their win, Chloe woke with the echo of applause still ringing in her ears—and the weight of restraint pressing down on her chest. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She reached for it reflexively, half-asleep, already knowing who it would be.
becs: still buzzing. u?
Chloe smiled into her pillow.
chloe: same. i don’t think my nervous system got the memo that it’s over yet
There was a pause—just long enough for Chloe to imagine Beca rereading the message, deciding how much of herself to let through.
becs: coffee later?
Not now. Not I miss you. Later. Controlled. Safe. Chloe typed back yes, then stared at the word like it might confess something on her behalf.
They met at a café off campus—the kind of place that smelled like burnt espresso and cinnamon, where the tables were too small and the music was always a little too loud. Neutral territory. Public. Smart.
Beca was already there, hunched over her laptop, hair messier than usual, glasses perched low on her nose. She looked up when Chloe approached, her face lighting in a way that was immediate and unguarded.
It did something unhelpful to Chloe’s heart.
“You look tired,” Beca said.
“So do you.”
“Occupational hazard,” Beca replied, closing her laptop. “Successful performance hangover.”
They ordered coffee. Sat across from each other. Knees didn’t touch. Hands stayed firmly on their own sides of the table.
They talked about logistics first—notes from Aubrey, potential adjustments if the setlist changed, what they’d do differently next time. It was easy. Familiar. The language of collaboration gave them something to hide behind.
But the silence crept back in anyway.
“I keep thinking about that pause,” Chloe said finally. “In the bridge.”
Beca nodded. “Where the house went completely still.”
“Yeah.”
“I almost forgot to come back in,” Beca admitted. “Not because I didn’t know the cue. Just—” She shrugged. “Didn’t want to break it.”
Chloe’s fingers curled around her mug. “Me neither.”
Their eyes met, and something stretched tight between them—thin as wire, humming.
Beca looked away first.
“This is the part where it gets complicated,” she said quietly.
Chloe didn’t argue. “It already is.”
They left together but walked separately, instinctively spacing themselves out once they hit campus. Old habits. Necessary ones. Students passed them, waving, congratulating them on the show.
“Miss Beale!”
“Ms. Mitchell, that song was incredible!”
They smiled. Thanked them. Stayed appropriately distant.
Only once they were inside the faculty building—once the door closed behind them—did the silence become unbearable.
Beca stopped walking. Chloe did too.
“I don’t regret it,” Beca said abruptly. “I hope you don’t think I do.”
Chloe’s heart thudded. “Neither do I.”
“I just—” Beca ran a hand through her hair, pacing once before stopping again. “I need to know we’re not pretending this is nothing just because it’s inconvenient.”
Chloe took a step closer. Not touching. Never touching first anymore.
“We’re not pretending,” she said. “We’re choosing not to rush it.”
Beca laughed softly. “You always make it sound so reasonable.”
“It’s my brand.”
That earned her a real smile.
They stood there, the air thick with the things they weren’t saying. Chloe could feel the pull now—not just physical, but emotional. The way Beca’s presence bent the room slightly toward her.
“Chloe,” Beca said, voice lower. “If we cross that line—really cross it—I don’t know how to go back to pretending I don’t feel this.”
Chloe’s throat tightened. “Who said anything about going back?”
That was the moment.
The one where the space between them collapsed—not fast, not desperate, but inevitable. Beca stepped in, close enough that Chloe could feel her breath, could see the small freckle near her collarbone she’d memorized without meaning to.
They stopped there.
Foreheads almost touching. Hands hovering uselessly at their sides.
This wasn’t research. This wasn’t choreography.
“This is the part where we’re supposed to be careful,” Beca whispered.
Chloe closed her eyes. “I know.”
Neither of them moved.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway—voices, laughter. Reality intruding at exactly the wrong time.
They pulled apart like magnets forced away from each other.
Beca exhaled shakily. “We should—yeah.”
“Yeah,” Chloe agreed.
They didn’t kiss. Again.
That night, Chloe lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying the almost over and over. The restraint hurt more now—not sharp, but dull and constant, like an ache that settled into the bones.
Across campus, Beca sat on her bed with her guitar untouched beside her, staring at a half-written melody that refused to resolve.
They were past pretending nothing was happening. But not yet brave enough to decide what was.
The rule they never said out loud became obvious in its absence.
No closed doors.
It wasn’t decided in a conversation or negotiated like adults who were very good at pretending to be adults. It simply…emerged. A quiet understanding shaped by near-misses and interrupted moments and the shared knowledge that they were balancing on something thin.
Open spaces. Public enough to behave. Private enough to breathe.
So they met in hallways, in rehearsal rooms with the lights still on, in cafés where the barista had learned both their orders. They talked about music, about teaching, about the show’s unexpected momentum. They laughed—really laughed—in ways that startled them both.
And they did not touch. Not really. The lack of it became its own language.
Chloe noticed it first in small ways: how Beca stood just a fraction closer than necessary when they talked. How her knee angled toward Chloe under tables they didn’t share. How her gaze lingered, unguarded, whenever Chloe forgot to keep hers neutral.
Beca noticed it in bigger ones: how Chloe remembered details she never repeated. How she asked questions that weren’t idle. How she made space—literal, emotional—for Beca to exist without performance.
It felt intimate. Too intimate. It felt like holding a breath indefinitely. The day it almost broke was, unsurprisingly, terrible.
Two students got caught sneaking out after curfew. A parent called demanding to know why their daughter’s grade had slipped. A last-minute schedule change meant the choir room was unavailable for rehearsal, and Aubrey was in a mood that could only be described as volcanic.
Chloe’s patience was threadbare.
She found Beca in the music office, hunched over her laptop, jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful.
“Let me guess,” Chloe said gently. “The sound file corrupted itself?”
Beca didn’t look up. “Fucking. Twice.”
Chloe closed the door behind her—left it ajar, deliberately—and leaned against the filing cabinet.
“You want help?” she asked.
Beca finally looked up, frustration flashing into something softer at the sight of her. “I want to throw my laptop out a window.”
“Tempting,” Chloe agreed. “But frowned upon.”
That earned a breath of a laugh. Not enough. But something.
They worked side by side in near silence. Chloe sorted sheet music. Beca rebuilt the file from scratch. The closeness was maddening—shoulders nearly brushing, the faint citrus scent of Chloe’s soap, the steady rhythm of Beca’s typing.
At one point, Chloe reached across Beca to grab a binder.
Beca froze. Chloe felt it instantly—the shift in the air, the way Beca’s breath caught. Her arm hovered there, suspended between them, her sleeve brushing Beca’s wrist.
Time slowed.
“Sorry,” Chloe murmured, pulling back.
Beca swallowed. “It’s fine.”
It wasn’t.
The silence stretched, brittle and humming. Chloe’s heart thudded uncomfortably loud in her ears.
“Chloe,” Beca said quietly.
Chloe turned. Their faces were too close again. This kept happening.
“Yes?”
Beca looked like she was choosing her words with care—or like she might abandon words altogether.
“I don’t think I’m very good at this,” she said.
“At what?”
“At wanting something and not taking it.”
The honesty cracked something open.
Chloe exhaled slowly. “Neither am I.”
They stood there, the open door a thin fig leaf of propriety, the rest of the world reduced to the space between them. Beca lifted her hand—stopped herself halfway.
“Tell me to stop,” she said.
Chloe met her gaze, heart pounding. This was the line. The one they’d been skirting for weeks.
“Beca,” she said softly, “if I tell you to stop, I’ll be lying.”
Beca’s breath shuddered.
She leaned in—not fast, not slow. Careful even now. Their foreheads touched first, a gentle collision that sent a jolt through Chloe’s chest.
“This can’t be a hallway thing,” Beca murmured.
Chloe smiled faintly. “Uh huh.”
“This can’t be half-choices.”
“I know.”
The door creaked as someone passed by outside. A reminder. A warning.
Beca laughed quietly, a sound edged with disbelief. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”
Chloe closed the distance the rest of the way, just enough that their noses brushed. “I think we already are.”
They didn’t kiss. Again. Ugh, by the way.
Instead, Chloe reached out and took Beca’s hand.
It was a small rebellion. Fingers lacing briefly, deliberately. Something that could be dismissed as accidental if anyone saw—but felt anything but.
Beca squeezed once, hard, then let go.
They stepped apart, space snapping back into place like an elastic band.
Later that night, Chloe stood at the kitchen sink, hands braced on the counter, replaying the moment over and over: the almost, the choice, the way Beca had looked at her like she was something precious and terrifying all at once.
Across campus, Beca finally finished the file she’d been working on all day. She saved it, closed her laptop, and stared at her reflection in the darkened screen.
“This isn’t sustainable,” she told herself.
But the thought of letting go—of drawing the line somewhere safer, somewhere emptier—felt worse.
They weren’t crossing the line.
They were building it.
The night it finally shifted did not arrive with drama.
No argument. No confession. No moment where the world cracked open and made room for them. It arrived quietly—like most honest things did.
It was raining.
Not a storm, not even a downpour—just enough to soften the edges of the campus, to darken the stone paths and turn the lamplight into long, blurred reflections. Chloe noticed it only because she’d forgotten her umbrella and because Beca, walking beside her, had slowed her pace to match Chloe’s without comment.
They didn’t talk much. They hadn’t needed to lately.
The season had settled into its run. The applause no longer startled them. The tension onstage had become muscle memory—real enough now that neither of them questioned it. They were good. Too good. And the restraint that had once felt virtuous had begun to feel…delayed.
Deferred.
Chloe stopped under the overhang outside the music building, rain ticking steadily against the roof. She glanced at Beca, who was watching the water bead on the concrete like she might be able to read an answer in it.
“You can come in,” Chloe said before she could second-guess herself. “Just until the rain eases up.”
Beca hesitated. It was small, but Chloe felt it—the familiar calculation, the careful weighing of consequences.
“Okay,” Beca said finally.
Chloe’s apartment was modest and warm, the air carrying the faint scent of tea and something citrusy from the cleaner she used on the counters. Lamps cast a soft, golden light that immediately felt different from the fluorescent brightness of campus. Private. Human.
Beca took her shoes off at the door automatically, like she’d been there before. Like she belonged.
Chloe noticed the way Beca’s shoulders lowered as she stepped inside, tension draining out of her inch by inch. She set her bag down, fingers lingering on the strap longer than necessary.
“This is…nice,” Beca said.
“Yeah,” Chloe replied. “It’s not fancy.”
Beca smiled. “I like it. It’s you.”
The words landed gently and devastatingly.
Chloe busied herself with the kettle, grateful for something to do with her hands. The silence that filled the space wasn’t awkward—it was thick, expectant, like the pause before a held note resolved.
They sat at the small kitchen table, mugs warming their palms. Rain tapped against the windows. Somewhere outside, a door slammed and footsteps faded away.
For a while, they talked about nothing. About a Bella who’d finally nailed a difficult harmony. About a lyric Beca couldn’t quite let go of. About how strange it felt when something you’d worked so hard for stopped feeling fragile.
Then Beca went quiet.
Chloe noticed immediately. “What?”
Beca traced the rim of her mug with her thumb, gaze fixed there instead of on Chloe. “I keep thinking about how careful we’ve been,” she said. “And how that’s starting to feel less like respect and more like fear.”
Chloe’s chest tightened. “Fear of what?”
“Of wanting something badly enough that it changes things,” Beca said. She looked up then, eyes open and unguarded. “Of losing you if I get this wrong.”
Chloe stood slowly, as if sudden movement might shatter the moment. She crossed the small space between them and rested her hands on the back of Beca’s chair—not touching her, but close enough that Beca could feel her presence.
“You already changed things,” Chloe said softly. “Just by being here. By choosing me again and again in all the ways that matter.”
Beca swallowed. “That’s what scares me.”
Chloe reached out then—this time without stopping herself—and tucked a strand of hair behind Beca’s ear. The gesture was tender, unhurried. A choice.
Beca leaned into it without thinking.
The contact felt different here. Not charged like the practice room. Not restrained by eyes that might see.
Real.
“Beca,” Chloe said, her voice steady despite the way her pulse thundered, “look at me.”
Beca did.
The space between them closed—not rushed, not desperate. Their foreheads touched, breath mingling, the world narrowing to warmth and quiet and the undeniable truth of what had been building for weeks.
“This isn’t research,” Beca whispered.
“No,” Chloe agreed.
They kissed.
Not careful this time.
It wasn’t frantic or consuming, but it was unmistakably intentional. Chloe’s hand slid to Beca’s jaw, thumb resting there as if it had always known the shape. Beca’s fingers curled into the fabric of Chloe’s sweater, grounding herself, anchoring the moment.
The kiss deepened—not in urgency, but in certainty. In the simple, breathtaking relief of not stopping.
When they pulled apart, they stayed close, foreheads still touching, breaths uneven.
Chloe smiled, soft and a little awed. “Hi.”
Beca laughed quietly, the sound full and disbelieving. “Hi.”
They didn’t go further. Not because they didn’t want to—but because they didn’t need to prove anything.
They sat on the couch instead, legs tucked together, Beca’s head resting against Chloe’s shoulder. Chloe absently traced patterns on Beca’s sleeve, each touch deliberate, reverent.
Outside, the rain slowed.
Inside, something settled.
Later—much later—when Beca finally stood to leave, she paused at the door. Turned back.
“We should talk about this,” she said. “Soon.”
Chloe nodded. “We will.”
Beca hesitated, then leaned in for one last kiss—gentle, lingering, a promise rather than a question.
When the door closed behind her, Chloe stood there for a long moment, hand still on the knob, heart full and steady in a way it hadn’t been in a long time.
They had crossed the line. But not recklessly. Not secretly.
They had stepped over it together.
And this time, neither of them looked back.