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The reunion is louder than Chloe expected.
Someone has rented out the back room of a bar—the kind of place that smells like citrus cleaner and stale beer, walls plastered with old flyers no one ever took down. There’s a playlist cycling through songs that were already nostalgic when they first sang them together, and every few minutes someone shouts over the music, “Do you remember when—”
Chloe does. She remembers all of it.
She stands near the bar, drink sweating into her palm, watching the room rearrange itself into clusters of old intimacy. The Bellas are older now—edges softened, lives heavier—but the gravitational pull is the same. Laughter breaks open easily. Inside jokes resurrect themselves like no time has passed at all.
Beca arrives late.
Chloe feels it before she sees her—the subtle shift in her own attention, the way her body angles instinctively toward the door.
Beca slips inside with that familiar half-hesitant confidence, black jacket slung over her shoulder, hair tucked behind one ear. She scans the room once, then her eyes land on Chloe.
They hold each other’s gaze for a beat too long.
Then Beca smiles. It’s small. Careful. It does something to Chloe’s chest that she pretends not to notice.
They don’t rush toward each other. They never do. They drift closer over time—one conversation ending, another beginning—until Beca is standing beside her, shoulder brushing Chloe’s arm.
“Hey,” Beca says.
“Hey,” Chloe answers, too softly.
They stand like that for a while. Easy. Familiar. Charged. Someone—Fat Amy, inevitably—claps her hands loudly from the center of the room.
“Alright, nerds,” she announces. “We’re playing a game before everyone gets too sentimental and starts crying into their drinks.”
Groans ripple through the group.
“Two Truths and a Lie!” Amy continues. “Because I, for one, want to watch you all panic.”
They circle up, dragging chairs and stools together. Drinks are replenished. Someone spills something and doesn’t care.
The game moves quickly at first.
Aubrey goes. Then Cynthia-Rose. Then Stacie. It’s light, funny—truths about careers and travel, lies about secret tattoos or celebrity hookups. Laughter comes easily.
Chloe relaxes into it. Almost forgets to be careful.
Then Amy grins at her. “Red,” she says. “You’re up.”
Chloe blinks. “Me?”
“Don’t act surprised. You’ve been smiling suspiciously all night.”
A few people snicker.
Chloe exhales, nodding. “Okay. Uh—”
She thinks quickly. Too quickly.
“Truth one,” she says, “I still can’t sleep without music on.”
A murmur of recognition. That one’s safe.
“Truth two…” She hesitates. Her eyes flick, involuntarily, to Beca.
Beca is watching her closely now. Not smiling. Just attentive.
“I once stayed up all night helping someone rewrite a song they hated,” Chloe says carefully. “Even though it wasn’t my project.”
There’s a pause.
“And the lie?” Amy prompts.
Chloe swallows.
“I’ve never seriously considered moving out of New York.”
The group erupts into debate immediately.
“That’s the lie,” Stacie says. “No one survives New York that long without wanting out.”
“No,” Aubrey counters. “She loves it here.”
Voices overlap. Fingers point.
Beca doesn’t say anything. She just watches Chloe. And she knows.
She knows because Chloe’s voice had softened on the second truth. Because she’d looked at Beca without realizing it. Because the lie was too clean, too practiced—something Chloe had rehearsed telling herself.
Beca doesn’t call it out. She doesn’t need to.
When the game moves on, Chloe feels the shift immediately. The air between them tightens, like a string pulled just a little too far.
Beca sits closer. Not touching—but near enough that Chloe can feel her warmth. Every time someone laughs, Beca’s knee brushes hers. Every time Chloe turns, Beca’s there.
It’s a quiet negotiation. A glance held too long. A smile that asks a question. A hand that almost reaches, then stops.
They talk—to other people, about other things—but the conversation between them never stops happening. It hums beneath everything else, charged and unfinished.
At one point, Chloe leans in and murmurs, “You okay?”
Beca meets her eyes. “Yeah. You?”
Chloe nods. “Yeah.”
It’s a lie.
Later, when the party thins and people begin hugging goodbye, Beca finds herself beside Chloe again, coats in hand.
“That was a good game,” Beca says lightly.
Chloe lets out a breathy laugh. “You say that like it didn’t emotionally ruin me.”
Beca smiles. Then, quieter: “You didn’t have to protect me, you know.”
Chloe’s chest tightens.
“I know,” she says. “I just—wanted to.”
They stand there, the unsaid pressing gently but insistently between them.
The night ends without resolution.
Just a look. A shared understanding.
And the knowledge that some truths, once spoken—even halfway—don’t stay buried for long.
Outside, the night is colder than Chloe expected.
The door of the bar swings shut behind them with a hollow thud, cutting off the music and the low roar of conversation like someone closing a lid over it. For a moment Chloe just stands there on the sidewalk, the quiet ringing in her ears after hours of noise.
The street is mostly empty. A few scattered pedestrians pass beneath the yellow wash of streetlights, their breath clouding faintly in the cold. Somewhere down the block a car door slams. A cab idles at the curb, bass humming faintly through its speakers.
Beca stands beside her with her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. She tilts her head back, looking up at the streetlight above them like she’s trying to remember something.
The light catches the edge of her cheekbone. The familiar slope of her nose. The faint crease between her brows when she’s thinking too hard.
Chloe realizes, suddenly and helplessly, that this is the first time they’ve been alone all night.
Inside the bar they had orbited each other constantly—standing close, brushing shoulders, sharing glances that lingered too long. But there had always been someone else there. Someone laughing, talking, interrupting.
Now there’s just the two of them.
The quiet feels enormous.
“You almost told them,” Beca says. Her voice is calm. Thoughtful. Like she’s been sitting with the idea for a while.
Chloe turns to look at her. “Told them what?”
Beca lowers her gaze from the streetlight. Their eyes meet. “The truth.”
Something in Chloe’s chest tightens.
For a second she considers pretending she doesn’t know what Beca means. That she’s misreading it. That they’re talking about something else entirely.
But Beca’s expression is steady. Patient.
She knows.
A car passes slowly along the street, headlights briefly washing them in pale white light before disappearing again.
Chloe exhales a thin breath.
“What makes you think I didn’t?” she says.
Beca huffs a small laugh through her nose. “Please.”
Chloe lifts an eyebrow. “Please what?”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Chloe folds her arms, a reflexive defense that makes Beca smile faintly.
“Besides,” Beca adds, “I knew which one it was.”
They start walking without really discussing it, drifting down the sidewalk toward the corner where rideshares usually idle late at night. Their footsteps echo faintly against the quiet storefronts.
Chloe glances sideways at her.
“You knew?” she says.
“Yeah.”
“How?”
Beca shrugs one shoulder, like it’s obvious. “Because you only looked at someone for one of them.”
Chloe’s stomach drops. “And?”
Beca shoves her hands deeper into her pockets. “And you only look at people like that when you’re talking about me.”
The words land softly. Almost casually. But Chloe feels them ripple through her chest like a dropped stone in still water.
She looks down at the sidewalk as they walk. The concrete is damp from earlier rain, reflecting the glow of the streetlights in smeared amber streaks.
“I didn’t realize I was doing that,” she murmurs.
“You didn’t.”
“Then how did you—”
“I know your tells,” Beca says simply.
They walk another half block in silence. A cold breeze threads through the street, tugging loose strands of Chloe’s hair across her face. She tucks them behind her ear, fingers slightly numb.
“I almost left once,” she says suddenly.
Beca’s head turns. “Left where?”
“New York.”
Beca slows a little, processing that. “You never told me that.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Chloe lets out a breath that fogs briefly in the air.
They reach the corner. A rideshare pulls up across the street, someone else climbing inside. The driver glances at them hopefully before pulling away again when they don’t move.
“I had an offer,” Chloe says. “In Seattle. A hospital job. Good hours. Less insane rent.”
Beca’s brow furrows. “And you…almost took it?”
Chloe nods. Beca kicks lightly at the edge of the curb as they walk. “Huh.” The word is small. Careful. “How close did you get?”
Chloe smiles faintly. “I packed a box.”
“A box?”
“Just one,” Chloe says. “But still.”
Beca is quiet for a moment. Then she says, gently, “Why didn’t you?”
The question sits between them.
Chloe stops walking. Beca takes another step before realizing, then turns back to face her.
The streetlight above them flickers faintly. The hum of the city surrounds them—distant traffic, the low thrum of a subway somewhere underground.
Chloe swallows. “Because I thought maybe you’d need me.”
The words come out softer than she intended. But once they’re out there’s no pulling them back. Beca doesn’t move. Her expression shifts in slow, almost imperceptible increments. Surprise first. Then something deeper. Something harder to name.
“Need you?” she echoes.
Chloe shrugs helplessly. “You were…starting to take off. Producing bigger projects. Touring with artists. Everything was changing.”
Beca’s voice is quiet when she asks, “And that meant you had to stay?”
“No,” Chloe says quickly. “It just meant I wanted to.”
Beca looks down at the sidewalk. Her voice, when she speaks again, is rougher. “You’ve always done that.”
“Done what?”
“Stayed.”
Chloe doesn’t know what to say to that. After a moment Beca lifts her head again. “You want a coffee?” she says abruptly.
Chloe blinks. “At…midnight?”
Beca glances at her phone. “Two thirty, actually. My treat.”
“That’s worse.”
“There’s a place open around the corner,” Beca says. “Unless you’re secretly an eighty-year-old who needs to be in bed.”
Chloe laughs.
“Lead the way.”
The diner is nearly empty. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that strange, too-bright glow that makes time feel suspended. The smell of coffee and syrup hangs thick in the air.
They slide into a booth near the window.
Outside, the street is quiet. Occasionally headlights streak past like brief comets. A waitress brings them coffee without asking, the mugs heavy and warm between their hands.
For a while they just sit there.
Chloe wraps both palms around her mug, letting the heat seep into her fingers.
“This feels weirdly familiar,” she says.
Beca smirks faintly. “You mean sitting in a booth at an ungodly hour talking about nothing?”
“Exactly that.”
“Yeah,” Beca says. “We used to do this a lot.”
They fall into it easily after that. Talking. About old Bella competitions. About disastrous rehearsals. About the time Fat Amy accidentally set off the dorm fire alarm with a toaster.
Their laughter fills the quiet diner.
But under it all, something deeper moves. A current pulling them slowly back toward the things they’ve avoided saying.
Eventually Beca leans back in the booth, studying Chloe over the rim of her coffee.
“That song you stayed up rewriting,” she says.
Chloe freezes slightly. “What about it?”
“It was mine, right?”
Chloe blinks. “Lots of people hate their songs.”
“Yeah,” Beca says. “But only one of them had you up until four a.m. with a keyboard and a legal pad.”
Chloe looks down at her coffee. “I don’t remember that.”
“Liar.”
She smiles faintly. “Maybe a little.”
Beca tilts her head. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Chloe shrugs. “It wasn’t my project.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Chloe hesitates. Across the table Beca’s gaze is steady. Because I was already in love with you, Chloe almost says.
Instead she says lightly, “You were stressed.”
“Everyone was stressed.”
“You were…extra stressed.”
Beca studies her a long moment. Then she says quietly, “I kept it.”
Chloe’s head snaps up. “What?”
“That version,” Beca says. “The one you recorded for me.” Her voice is calm. Matter-of-fact. “I still have the demo.”
Chloe stares at her. “You…still listen to it?”
“Sometimes.”
The diner suddenly feels too bright.
“Why?”
Beca shrugs one shoulder. “Because it’s good.”
“That’s not why.”
“No,” Beca admits.
Chloe’s heart is pounding now. “Then why?”
Beca holds her gaze.
“Because it reminds me that someone believed in me before I did.”
Chloe’s throat tightens. She looks away quickly, blinking hard. The moment stretches.
Finally Beca reaches for the check. “Come on,” she says softly. “Before we accidentally start crying in a diner at three in the morning.”
It’s almost three when they step back outside.
The city feels different now. Quieter. The air colder. They walk a few (more than a few) blocks toward Beca’s building in Tribeca. Neither of them suggests separating.
The lobby is warm and softly lit. The marble floor reflects the glow of recessed lighting overhead.
In the elevator they stand side by side. The doors slide shut with a soft chime.
“Forty-five,” Beca says, pressing the button.
The elevator begins its smooth ascent and for a moment they just stand there.
Chloe notices a tiny thread clinging to the shoulder of Beca’s jacket. Without thinking she reaches out. Her fingers brush lightly against the fabric as she plucks it away.
Beca looks down. Their hands linger there for half a second too long.
“You’ve always done that,” Beca says quietly.
Chloe glances up.
“Done what?”
Beca’s eyes are darker now. Softer.
“Take care of me like I’m yours.”
The words land between them like a spark. Chloe’s breath catches. “I never—”
The elevator hums upward. Floor numbers blink past. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine.
Beca’s hand shifts slightly closer to hers. “You did,” Beca says. Her voice is barely louder than a whisper. “And I never stopped wanting you to.”
Something in Chloe finally snaps. She closes the small distance between them in two quick steps and kisses her. It’s not tentative. It’s years of almosts and maybes and unfinished sentences collapsing into one impossible moment.
Beca makes a small startled sound against her mouth—but then her hands are there, gripping Chloe’s jacket, pulling her closer.
The elevator keeps rising.
Forty-two.
Forty-three.
They kiss like they’ve been waiting for it longer than either of them is willing to admit.
By the time the doors open on the forty-fifth floor, they’re barely able to stop.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft, indifferent chime. Neither of them moves.
For a moment they stay pressed together in the center of the elevator like the world outside the metal walls has ceased to exist. Chloe’s back is against the mirrored panel, Beca’s hands still gripping the front of her coat. Their breathing is uneven, warm in the small space.
The hallway beyond waits quietly—thick carpet, muted lighting, the distant hush of the city forty-five floors below.
Beca is the first one to pull back, though only barely. Her forehead rests against Chloe’s for a second. Their noses brush when they breathe.
“Elevator,” she murmurs, voice low and a little wrecked.
Chloe lets out a shaky laugh. “Right.”
Neither of them lets go right away.
Eventually Beca’s hand slides down Chloe’s sleeve until their fingers lace together, almost unconsciously, like it’s something they’ve been doing for years instead of something brand new and terrifying.
They step out into the hallway.
The quiet out here is deeper than downstairs. The kind of quiet that belongs to expensive buildings and sleeping cities. The carpet muffles their footsteps as they walk slowly toward Beca’s apartment.
Chloe is hyperaware of everything now.
The warmth of Beca’s hand in hers.
The faint citrus scent of her shampoo.
The way Beca’s thumb brushes absentmindedly across her knuckles as they walk.
They stop outside a dark wooden door at the end of the hall.
Beca releases Chloe’s hand just long enough to fish her keys out of her jacket pocket. The soft jingle of metal echoes faintly in the stillness.
She unlocks the door. The apartment inside is dim, lit only by the ambient glow of the city through enormous windows on the far wall.
Chloe steps in first.
The space is big—bigger than she expected—but it still feels unmistakably like Beca. Minimal furniture. A few carefully placed records leaning against the wall. A keyboard set up near the window overlooking the river.
The skyline spills across the glass like scattered light.
Beca closes the door behind them with a soft click.
For a moment neither of them speaks.
Chloe walks slowly toward the windows, drawn by the view. The city stretches endlessly below—bridges strung with lights, the river reflecting the faint shimmer of traffic.
“God,” she breathes. “You live here?”
Beca leans back against the door, watching her. “Sometimes I forget it’s impressive.”
Chloe glances over her shoulder, smiling faintly. “You shouldn’t.”
Beca pushes away from the door and walks over. She stops beside Chloe at the window. Close enough that their shoulders brush.
Outside, the city hums softly, alive even at this hour. But inside? Inside, the quiet feels thick with everything they haven’t finished saying.
Chloe folds her arms loosely, staring out at the lights. “I can’t believe you kept that demo,” she says after a moment.
Beca huffs softly.
“Why?”
“Because I sounded terrible.”
“You didn’t.”
“I absolutely did.”
Beca turns toward her. “You sounded like someone who believed in me.”
The sincerity in her voice hits Chloe harder than she expects. Chloe looks down at the floor, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of the night—the game at the bar, the walk, the diner, the elevator.
All the truths that had been hovering just beneath the surface for years.
“I should’ve told you,” Chloe says quietly.
“Told me what?”
“That I stayed.”
Beca studies her.
“I kind of figured that part out tonight.”
“No,” Chloe says softly. “I mean why.”
The room feels smaller somehow. More intimate. Chloe lifts her eyes.
“I stayed because every time I tried to imagine leaving…you were the thing I couldn’t picture walking away from.”
The words leave her chest like something fragile, finally breaking free.
For a second Beca just stands there. The city glows behind them, reflected faintly in the window glass. Then Beca steps closer.
“Chloe,” she says, almost like a warning.
But Chloe’s already shaking her head, a nervous laugh escaping.
“I know,” she says quickly. “It’s been years and that’s a lot to just drop on someone at—” she glances at the microwave clock on the kitchen counter “—three in the morning.”
Beca reaches out. Her fingers close gently around Chloe’s wrist. It stops the spiral instantly.
“Hey,” she says softly.
Chloe looks up. Beca’s expression is different now. Softer. More open than Chloe has ever seen it.
“You’re not the only one who stayed,” Beca says.
Chloe frowns slightly. “What do you mean?”
Beca gestures vaguely around the apartment.
“I could’ve moved to L.A. years ago.”
Chloe blinks. “What?”
“Producers do that,” Beca says. “Apparently it’s where we’re supposed to live.”
“But you didn’t.”
Beca shakes her head once. “Couldn’t picture leaving.”
The meaning lands slowly. Chloe’s breath catches. “Because of…?” she asks, though the question feels flimsy even as she says it.
Beca’s mouth curves slightly. “Yeah,” she says. Then, quieter— “Because of you.”
Chloe’s heart stutters painfully in her chest. For a moment they just stand there, staring at each other in the soft half-light of the apartment.
Then Chloe laughs, a little disbelieving. “We’re fucking stupid.”
“Massive idiots,” Beca agrees.
“All that time…”
“Yeah.”
Chloe shakes her head. “I almost moved across the country because I thought you didn’t need me.”
“Chloe,” Beca steps closer. She lifts a hand slowly, like she’s giving Chloe time to pull away if she wants to. Instead Chloe leans into the touch instinctively. Beca’s fingers slide gently into her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “You’ve always been the person I needed.”
Chloe closes her eyes briefly at the admission.
When she opens them again, they’re standing inches apart.
“You’re going to ruin me saying things like that,” she whispers.
Beca smiles faintly. “Good.”
Chloe laughs softly. Then her gaze drops to Beca’s mouth. The tension between them snaps tight again, sudden and electric.
Beca notices. “Careful,” she murmurs.
“Why?”
“Because if you keep looking at me like that…”
Chloe tilts her head slightly. “Like what?”
“Like you did in the bar,” she whispers. “The way you only look at people when you’re talking about me.”
Chloe’s cheeks warm. “Well,” she says, voice soft but steady, “I am talking about you.”
Beca exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I noticed.”
Chloe reaches out then, her hand sliding lightly along Beca’s sleeve until their fingers intertwine again. The gesture feels natural now. Easy. Like something long overdue.
“Can I kiss you again?” Chloe asks.
Beca’s eyes darken immediately. “You’re asking now?”
“I’m trying to be respectful.”
“That’s very new for you.”
Chloe grins faintly. “So is kissing you in elevators.”
Beca leans forward slightly, her voice dropping as she attaches her hand to Chloe’s neck. “Then maybe stop trying to be respectful.”
Chloe doesn’t argue. She closes the distance between them again, her hands sliding up to rest lightly against Beca’s shoulders as their mouths meet.
This kiss is slower. Deeper. The kind that unfolds carefully instead of crashing together. Beca’s hands settle at Chloe’s waist, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between them.
Outside the window the city keeps moving—cars threading through streets, lights flickering across the river—but inside the apartment time seems to stretch.
Chloe kisses her like she’s memorizing something she’s waited years to learn. Beca kisses her back like she never intends to let her forget it again.
Eventually they break apart, both slightly breathless. Chloe rests her forehead against Beca’s.
“So,” she murmurs.
“So,” Beca echoes.
Chloe glances toward the keyboard by the window. Then back at Beca. “You still have that demo?”
Beca smiles slowly. “Of course.”
Chloe’s heart does something warm and terrifying all at once.
“Play it for me?”
Beca raises an eyebrow. “At four in the morning?”
“Perfect songwriting hour,” Chloe says.
Beca studies her for a moment. Then she takes Chloe’s hand again and leads her toward the keyboard by the window.
The city stretches out endlessly beneath them.
And somewhere between the quiet notes of an old demo and the soft press of their shoulders together, the space between what they almost said for years finally disappears.