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Mar 13

obsession / protection, chapter 1 ✦ spencer reid

summary. romance author!reader has a stalker. the bau gets involved in her case. as spencer tries to solve the case and protect her, their feelings for one another blossom like characters in one her books. (partially inspired by s1:e18).

romance author!reader x spencer reid (criminal minds), 2.8k.

It all started with a bouquet of roses.

You had gone out for groceries one evening and came back to see the floral arrangement sitting on your front porch. Twelve red roses in a black vase, with a note attached to one thorned stem.

“I am your husband, your prince, your god. Kneel and worship me, my beloved thing.”

It’s a quote from your latest romance novel, Reflections of Desire, which follows Prince Evander and Princess Zadie through their tumultuous arranged marriage, meant to reunite their two war-torn kingdoms.

The note wasn’t signed. A first, you’d hoped it was from your agent, Aleena, who was known to spoil her clients with little surprises. You shot her an email to thank her for them, only to be met with confusion.

You wrack your brain for anyone who would have done such a thing: Your family doesn’t read your books, by your own request. Your circle of friends is small, and they also don’t go out of their way to read your work.

You tried to write it off as a fluke, odd thing, tried to move on and ignore it.

And then, the notes didn’t stop.

You have a P.O. box for fan mail, but these letters came straight to your house, no return address or stamp. Ramblings of a stranger, someone who has read every one of your books, who seems lustfully inspired by your fantasies spilled onto the professionally published pages.

“It may sound silly, but the way you pour your heart out on these pages makes me feel like I know you. I can feel your desperation, sense how badly you want to be loved. And I can give that to you.”

You’re not surprised when the local police do nothing. No one’s harmed you, physically, but you’re on edge all of the time now. You’re triple-checking locks, looking over your shoulder. You’ve made your Instagram private, but with your thousands of followers, there’s no telling if you’ve shut out the culprit or not.

And then, David Rossi comes to town.

His books are published by a friend of your agent, and the two of you end up at the same dinner. He’s talking about his job with the BAU, the horrors he sees.

“Do you ever deal with…stalking?” you dare to ask, gripping your glass of champagne like a lifeline.

“Occasionally,” David replies. He’s a profiler, and you can feel the way his eyes observe your every move, can practically see the cogs whirring in his head. “Why?”

The conversation among the rest of the table has moved on. Only Aleena knows what’s been going on with you, and you wonder if she invited you here on purpose, so you could speak with him. By the way she’s excitedly flashing her engagement ring to keep the attention on herself, you figure that’s exactly why you’re sitting at this table, in an uncomfortable outfit, eating overpriced food with strangers.

“I’ve been receiving letters,” you manage to spit out. “Creepy, disgusting letters from some man that has read my books. He sent flowers once, too. Last night, I found a cake. My book just became a New York Times best-seller. He said it was to celebrate.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Let me guess: Local police told you they can’t do a thing until he escalates.

You nod, feeling your throat get tight. You refuse to cry here in this fancy establishment, in front of a man you hardly know.

David pulls a business card out from his wallet and slides it over to you. “I can’t make any promises, but give me a call tomorrow. I’ll see if my team can take a look.”

Social skills have never been your strong suit, but you don’t care if it makes you look weird when you throw an arm around his shoulders and give him a brief hug. If it bothers him, he doesn’t show it.

Your conversation with Rossi gives you a glimmer of hope. The letters started coming two months ago, and you’ve been on edge ever since. The money from your books is technically enough for you to relocate, but you’re worried that won’t stop it. You can hardly sleep, and you’re completely unable to work on the draft for your next release.

After scanning all the letters and emailing them over to the team liaison, Jennifer Jaraeu, you sit and wait restlessly to hear back.

Rossi calls you an hour later: The team is in, and they rest of them will fly out tomorrow.

You breathe a deep sigh of relief.

Then, your doorbell rings. The sound makes you jump, heart racing. You aren’t expecting any deliveries, and the idea that it’s him…Your fingers hover over your phone screen, ready to dial 911 if needed as you creep towards the front door.

You peer through the peephole to see a coffee cup from a local café sitting there, with a note taped to the top: “Your usual” with a winky face.

And the hope flickers once again.

The coffee cup you left to rot outside is now being placed in an evidence bag by a local cop.

Rossi, and two other agents who were introduced to you as SSA Emily Prentiss and Dr. Spencer Reid are standing in your living room.

You feel suddenly self-conscious of your space, the brightly-colored knick-knacks and shelves and shelves of books—some classics, some non-fiction, but an over-whelming amount of them are romance. Romance as a genre is so often ridiculed, and so you rarely share your enjoyment of it, let alone your career with people you aren’t close to.

You tell all the details, everything you can remember since this started.

“So these quotes in the letters, they’re from your books?” Emily asks.

Feeling shy, you nod. “They’re full of references to them, too.”

“How do you mean?” Spencer asks.

Your face burns. “Well, I write…what people refer to as dark romance books. The plots usually revolve around… toxic relationships. The things he says about being obsessed with me, wanting to protect me, to own me…It’s rhetoric I use in my writing.”

“So, the unsub has definitely read all your books. That’s interesting, because men usually only make up about 15% of romance readers, and even then, it’s more likely for those men to be gay and reading about queer relationships rather than heterosexual ones,” Spencer rattles off. “Sometimes, stalkers become obsessed with the work of an artist, which leads to an obsession with the artist themselves—I wonder if the opposite may have happened here.”

“Like, he was already stalking me, and found out what I do for a living?” you ask.

“He read your books to feel close to you,” Emily states. “You’re writing these books that center on love, and sex”—You squirm uncomfortably under her gaze—“so he thinks that the men in your books are the type of man you want.”

“It’s not,” you find yourself needing to say.

“We understand that, and we’re not trying to judge you,” David says. “We don’t mean to imply that you brought this on yourself. Stalkers, they become obsessed with the smallest, simplest things. Maybe he took your order at a restaurant, and when you tipped him well, he interpreted it as flirting. Or you held the door open for him at the store. It wasn’t your fault.”

And so, the investigation officially began.

With a list of all your known acquaintances, the spots you frequent, and the list of all your social media followers, the team set to work combing through your life.

And, to your horror, your books.

Dr. Spencer Reid could apparently read at a superhuman speed, and had not only been tasked with staying with you in your home for protection, but with reading your books to help “understand the unsub’s psyche”.

It was impossible to concentrate with him around, feeling so vulnerable and exposed: A stranger in your house, combing through your sexually-charged writings—a very attractive stranger to top it all off. The writer in you couldn’t resist the thought spirals: A hot detective, protecting the innocent victim, alone in her home. She puts on her tiniest nightgown before telling him she’d feel so much safer if he watched over her while she slept. He knows it’s wrong, but he can hardly help himself as he crawls into the bed beside her, and his fingers find their way inside her…

Although his presence was meant to reassure you, it only made you feel more on edge.

He had already finished your first novel, Demonology, about a woman who sells her soul to find true love—only to fall in love with the demon she made the deal with. In that one, the demon, Dante, is who Hazel loses her virginity to, and with a raspy laugh, he declares that she’s let a demon steal her purity, like the filthy slut she is.

Now, he’s halfway through The Stranger, about a camgirl whose new boyfriend is suspiciously similar to her number one fan. That’s the one where the male main character, Ravi, fucks Willow on a livestream, telling her to show all her fans who really owns her.

God, this poor FBI agent must think you’re a fucking pervert.

You find yourself tiptoeing around him as you make yourself dinner, wearing baggy clothes and avoiding eye contact. You try to write, but the only characterization you can come up with for a new love interest is a geeky, long-haired law enforcement agent, and so you shut your laptop in frustration.

You overhear Spencer take a phone call.

“What is it? Okay. Yeah, I’ll ask her. I’ll call you back. Bye.”

You peek your head out of the kitchen to where he’s sitting.

“Our technical analyst went through all of the accounts that follow you on various social media platforms, and there’s one account that stuck out to her—It’s a private account with no profile picture. The username is sir.drsle. Those letters, those are the first letters of the names of all the male love interests in your books, right?”

“Yeah, it is. That username rings a bell…”

“He’s commented on almost every post you’ve made on Instagram in the past few months. They’re innocent enough comments. When you posted about your latest books’ release, he commented ‘Can’t wait!’ and you replied with a heart emoji. That was the day before you received the first letter.”

A shiver went up your spine. “Can you track it?”

“My team is on it.”

“Thank you,” you said.

Spencer gave you an awkward smile.

“I mean, if you guys are getting close, I guess that means you don’t have to sit through any more of my writing,” you joked, trying to ease the tension.

He furrowed his brow. “I was actually planning to finish, just to make sure our profile is thorough. The account could be a dead end; it’s just the first lead we’ve gotten.”

“Oh.”

“That’s not to say you shouldn’t have hope, I just mean—Sorry, this is why the team doesn’t usually leave me to do the socializing,” he said, flushing pink.

You can’t help but chuckle. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not great with people, either.”

“That’s interesting. The way you write…You’re very perceptive. I mean, your characters are incredibly fleshed out.”

“Really?” you asked. “I mean, thank you, I guess…I didn’t think you were paying that much attention.”

“I have a eidetic memory. Once I read something, I don’t really forget it. Even if I were just skimming, I’d still have processed the majority of the information,” he explained.

“Well, I’m still sorry that you have to read it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s…well…”

“I’ve read decades worth of sexual fantasies from deranged serial killers. This is tame to me,” he interrupts you with a little smile.

You smile back.

By the time you go to bed, Spencer’s started your third book, The Pact, about a girl named Clementine who gets married off to a mob boss to repay her father’s debt. You set up the couch for him to sleep, but when you go back downstairs in the morning, it doesn’t seem like he’s rested at all. He’s nursing a mug of coffee, and is now nearly finished with book number four, Blood Hungry, about a vampire named Lucien and the hunter who falls in love with him, Gemma.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

Spencer shrugs. “Most of the team don’t sleep much during an active case. Time is precious in our line of work.”

“I could make you breakfast, if you want.”

“That’s okay, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Well, you already helped yourself to my coffee machine,” you tease.

Spencer looks like there’s an apology ready on his lips before he catches onto the fact that you’re joking. He nibbles at the end of the toast you made him as he begins your latest book, the one that seemingly started this all.

“Can I ask you something?” he says after his plate is cleared.

“Go ahead.”

“What is it about…these topics that seem to draw you in? Or, I suppose, the people that read it? I really don’t mean to judge, but as someone who works in the criminal field, I understand the psychology of why women fall for toxic men—daddy issues, thinking they can fix him—all those tropes. But you don’t play into those. Your female characters are usually just as toxic as the men. Take Clementine, for example: She knows that her husband is involved in organized crime, but she doesn’t ever try to talk him out of it or bring him into the light. She loses herself in his world to prove to him that’s intelligent and indispensable to him, and…”

He notices the amused curl of your lips and stops rambling. “Sorry. Uh, I guess my question still stands, though.”

“I think, for me at least…When you grow up as the girl that nobody seems to notice, when you don’t stand out in a crowd, you don’t get asked out…You develop this fantasy about how it feels to be wanted. And there’s something alluring about the idea of a guy who is willing to break social norms for you, to break laws to be with you. When most guys don’t offer you a second glance, you start to crave the other end of the spectrum: obsession. And obviously, I know it isn’t healthy—I wouldn’t want a relationship like any of the ones in these things I write. But there’s something enticing about the taboo of it all.”

Spencer nods. “I think I understand what you mean.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You? I’m sure women give you their phone number wherever you go.”

He flushes. “Definitely not.”

There’s a thick, awkward silence that lingers for a second, before Spencer’s phone rings.

He steps out of the kitchen to take it, and although you want to follow, you wait. You can hear his muffled voice through the wall, but can’t make out any words.

He comes back a few moments later and asks, “Our analyst, Penelope, was able to track the account—Does the name Justin Carpenter mean anything to you?”

You let out a small gasp. “Justin? Yeah, we used to work together. Just after my first book got published, I was working at a grocery store a few towns over. I cut my hours since I was getting some money from my contract, and they hired Justin to fill my spot—I trained him a little bit.”

“Was there anything about him back then that gave you a bad vibe?”

You frowned. “A lot of the people that worked there weren’t very nice to him. He didn’t have very good hygiene, and he wasn’t a fast learner. I felt bad for him, I thought he was clearly struggling and I…I tried to be as friendly to him as I could. He was a little shy around women in general, but I didn’t take it as a red flag.”

“Did you ever exchange phone numbers, hang out outside of work? Did he know about your book?”

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, he might have overheard a conversation between me and a friend of mine who worked there, about the book, but I definitely never hung out with him or gave him my personal details.”

“Okay, well if he has tried to leave you a note in the past day or so, he would have likely noticed the police presence and been scared off. Right now, all our evidence is circumstantial—I hate to say this, but now all we can do is wait.”

“For what?”

“For him to try and contact you again. And this time, we’ll be ready for him.”

amobigode

Mar 11

alliewrights

Hold On

Mel King x f!reader

Summary: when Mel’s friends from college come to visit, there’s only one way to keep them off her back, and it’s your job as her best friend to help her. How hard can pretending to be someone’s girlfriend really be?

CW: fake dating, friends-to-lovers, mutual pining, fluff, angst, kissing, kind of a slow burn, unresolved tension (in this part), homophobic language (use of “dyke” in a derogatory way), alcohol consumption, a man hitting on you for the plot.

WC: 12.2k

Part 1 of 2.

A/N: this is the longest piece I’ve written on Tumblr so far.

♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡

You learned very quickly on her first day that people had a habit of walking away while Melissa King was still talking.

Not in an intentionally cruel way, but more like just drifting away. Nodding halfway through her explanation and then peeling off the second something bigger demanded their attention. She would never call them back or raise her voice, she would just let the rest of her sentence fall away and move on like she hadn’t been speaking at all.

You hated it.

Mel listens to everyone. Patients rambling about their lives, family members who are spiraling, med students panicking, you name it. She gives her full attention like it’s an unlimited resource. It bothered you that she poured so much into other people and rarely seemed to receive the same in return.

So you decided it had to be you.

At first, it had been small things: lingering after a conversation so she could actually finish her thought with another person in front of her. Asking follow-up questions when she would say something about her personal life. Seeking her out toward the end of a shift for something that wasn’t about a patient.

The first time you approached her about having dinner together, she’d looked almost startled, like she couldn’t figure out why someone would want her company without some sort of agenda. When she explained that she wanted to, but she had to pick up her sister from her day center, you adjusted the plan like it was no big deal. You ordered far too much spaghetti and garlic bread from Pasta Too and showed up at her apartment an hour later.

That was the first time you met Becca. The first time you saw Mel in her own space, far more relaxed than you’d ever seen her at work. You ate at her tiny dining room table while Becca explained why Pasta Too’s spaghetti is actually better than Sienna Mercato’s and Mel laughed along in a way that felt sincere.

After that, friendship settled in naturally. You weren’t work-friends, you were real friends. You learned the King sisters’ routines and had your own specific mug at their apartment.

And at some point, your reasons for showing up became a little less simple.

You told yourself it was just loyalty, or maybe protectiveness over Mel and her casual kindness that she gave a little too freely. Just the satisfaction of being the one person who didn’t walk away from her mid-sentence.

It was easier to just not think about it too much.

Mel was always careful with her heart, and you’ve never been sure there was space for you in that way, not when her life is already so full of responsibility, and certainly not when she’s never once looked at you like she’s wondering.

So you let the feeling hide away in the back of your thoughts where you could keep it smothered. Friendship, after all, was something you already had and you weren’t about to risk losing it.

Which is why, when Mel is off her game today, you notice immediately.

She normally doesn’t miss things. She doesn’t drift her attention in and out during work when nothing is wrong, and she certainly doesn’t stand in the middle of the ER staring at the board blankly until someone calls her name.

But today she does, and you don’t know why.

“Dr. King?” you say gently, nudging her elbow with yours. “You’re still with me, right?”

She blinks like she’s surfacing from underwater. “Right, sorry.”

You’ve watch her the entire morning. She’s competent - she’s always competent - but she’s quieter than normal, even for her. She’s slower between cases, and her smile at a patient’s joke hits her face half a second later than usual.

When you finally get five uninterrupted minutes where nobody is demanding either of your attention, you drag her toward the supply room, closing the door with your hip behind you.

“Okay,” you sigh. “What’s going on with you today?”

Mel doesn’t look at you, instead choosing to count suture kits that don’t require counting.

“Nothing.”

You lean against a shelf, arms crossed in front of your chest and a look of disbelief on your face. “Mel.”

Her tongue pokes the inside of her cheek as she deliberates. Then, with a resigned sigh, she says, “Charlie and Sabrina are coming into town.”

You frown, trying to recall the familiar names from your list of knowledge about Mel. “Those are your college friends, right?”

She nods.

You’ve heard about them before: stories about shared dorm kitchens and bad boyfriends and finals week meltdowns. They were the kind of friends who help shaped Mel when she was in college, long before her mother passed and life changed for Mel and Becca.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” you ask carefully. “You haven’t seen them in what, a year?”

“Eight months,” she corrects. “They come every year.”

“…and they’re staying with you?”

“On my couch,” Mel sighs. “For a few days.”

“So why do you look like someone just told you we’re short staffed for the next month?”

That almost gets a smile out of her.

“Because,” she says, exhaling through her nose, “every time they visit, it becomes a State of the Union on my personal life.”

You blink. “What does that even mean?”

“It means they think I’m overworked. Burnt out. Alone.” She shrugs one shoulder, still not meeting your eyes. “They’re not totally wrong.”

You purse your lips as she goes on.

“They just…” she pauses, looking for the words. “They care. They don’t want me pouring everything into work and Becca and ending up with nothing for myself.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“I know,” Mel says, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “I just don’t have the bandwidth for it right now.”

You soften a little. You know what her days look like. Long shifts, sometimes taking tablets home to finish charting at midnight. Checking in on Becca throughout the day, picking her up in the evenings, making sure her routine isn’t ever disrupted.

“So what do they do?” you ask. “Interrogate you?”

She huffs. “It’s more like…persistent encouragement.”

You’re more confused than ever at why any of this is a bad thing. “That just sounds like they love you.” You study her face, trying to understand what she isn’t saying.

Then, a lightbulb.

“They’re pushy about your love life, aren’t they?”

“Very.”

You nod slowly with the realization. “Okay, so we solve that.”

Mel’s brow furrows. “We?”

“Yeah, we.”

Mel leans back against the shelves next to you. “Unless you can find me a partner in the next two days, I don’t see how you’re going to be much help.”

An awkward laugh follows her words, both defensive and dismissive.

You exchange a look, and the conversation is left dangling as Dana’s muffled voice calls out an incoming trauma from the nurse’s station. Mel heads out of the supply room quickly, ducking her head to try and avoid others noticing the flush on her face at the very private topic of her love life.

You follow, silently brainstorming practically the rest of the day on how to help her.

All day, every time she appears, you notice how her eyes unfocus when nobody is watching her. The little tense curl of her shoulders as she, too, is clearly trying to solve this problem between patients.

And every time, you catch yourself thinking about how you could fix this. How you could make it easier for her.

She’s your friend, after all, right? That’s what friends do.

At the end of your shift, you spot her leaving through the employee door of the hospital. She’s checking her bag, a thin coat draped over one arm and her phone in her hand. The hallway is otherwise empty, not a soul coming in or out.

Perfect.

You fall into step beside her. “Hey.”

Mel glances up with a surprised expression. “Hey.”

“About earlier.” You pause. “I think I found a way to help.”

Her eyebrows furrow as she focuses on your face. “How?”

You stop walking as you make it out the door, standing close enough to her that the cool air feels different outside of the hospital. “I could…pretend to be your partner.”

She also stops walking, mid-step. “Excuse me?”

“Just for a few days,” you clarify quickly. “We tell your friends we’ve been seeing each other, they leave you alone about it, and then they leave and we never have to talk about it ever again.”

You can see the cogs turning in Mel’s head as she says, “…you would do that for me?”

“Who could do it better?” you urge, reaching out and taking hold of her arms gently just above her elbows. “We already spend time together outside the hospital, Becca knows me, I’ve been to your apartment and you’ve been to mine before. It’s a minimal disruption to your life and you get your friends off your back.”

She’s clearly weighing the risk, her gaze lifted somewhere above your heads as she thinks.

“I need to think about it,” she finally says, looking at you.

“Okay.”

Apparently, Mel didn’t have to think about it for long.

The following night, you’d barely had the energy to shower, let alone cook, so dinner had consisted of crackers, a string cheese, and the electrolyte drink you’d bought during your last grocery run when you were trying to be healthier and then forgotten about it until it was the only thing you had besides water.

Now, you’re curled sideways on the couch in an oversized sweatshirt and sleep shorts, a cooling face mask tight across your skin while Love Island plays to an audience of one just a little after 9pm.

Your phone buzzes against the arm of the couch.

Are you awake?

You smile at your phone, picturing Mel on the other end, practically sending a u up? text.

Yeah, what’s up?

Barely a moment passes before your screen lights up again.

Can you come over please? Becca just went to bed.

Your pulse stutters for reasons you refuse to think about, even as you jump off your couch and pull on your coat.

Her apartment isn’t too far from yours, and it’s both silent and mostly dark when you arrive.

She opens the door before you can knock, as if she’s been standing just inside waiting. Given she waited until after Becca was in bed to text you, you assume that was on purpose.

“Hey,” she says softly. “Come on in.”

The TV murmurs faintly from her living room, the volume low. A blanket is rumpled on the couch, telling you that Mel had been mirroring you in your own home.

You slip off your shoes at the front door. You’ve been here enough to know the rhythm of Mel’s apartment.

For a moment she just stands there, her arms folded, like she’s rehearsing words in her head. Then she sighs, closing her eyes.

“I…I want to do it.”

You blink. “Do it?”

“The pretending,” she says with a small, awkward gesture of her hands. “Us, dating. For my friends.”

You smile, mostly out of surprise. “Oh, okay, yeah, let’s do it.”

Mel nods, hurrying past you to the kitchen counter, where she retrieves a folded sheet of lined paper. “I made a list of things we should think about.”

Of course she did.

You can’t stop the small laugh that escapes you as she hands you the paper, filled with her handwriting. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“I was up most of last night,” she admits, not looking even a little embarrassed.

Her handwriting is neat but urgent, like she didn’t want to lose track of the thoughts as they came.

• Becca needs to know it isn’t real.

So her routine won’t be bothered when Mel’s friends leave, that one you understand.

• Relationship details planned ahead.

Makes sense, you need a cohesive story.

• No surprises in front of Becca.

Again, another one you understand. Mel always puts Becca first, anything that would disrupt or dysregulate her is an immediate no.

Your eyes drift over the rest of the list of what seems to be rules, until they finally reach the last line.

• Rules for PDA???

You look up, your eyebrows lifting as your gaze settles on Mel’s face.

She doesn’t even question which one you’re looking at, pressing her lips together firmly. “That one felt…necessary.”

You bite back another smile at her thoroughness. “Are we workshopping these rules right now?”

Mel takes a seat on her couch and you follow suit at the other end, drawing your knees up to your chest. “If we don’t do this right, it’s only going to make them ask more questions.”

“So,” you say carefully, “what kind of rules do you think we should have?”

She looks up until her eyes catch yours, then back down at her hands nervously. “I don’t know,” she admits.

You scoot across the couch until you’re on the seat next to her, and she almost shrinks under your gaze. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” you say slowly. And then you reach for her hand, taking it in yours. “Are you okay with this?”

Mel inhales, short and quick as she looks down at your joined hands. “Yeah, that’s okay.”

Her hand is warm in yours, and you let go before you can think too much about the contact.

“What about hugging?” you ask.

Her head lifts immediately, brows drawing together in confusion. “We’ve hugged before.”

There’s just a tiny bit of defensiveness in her tone. It’s not anger, more like she thinks you’re implying she’s fragile and can’t stand to be touched.

You smile gently. “I know, but I’m not talking about end-of-shift, ‘good job surviving’ hugs.”

She tilts her head a little as you go on.

“I mean,” you clarify, “if we’re pretending. Would your…partner need permission every time? Or is it normal to just -” you hesitate, searching for neutral phrasing. “Touch you.”

Her gaze drops to your hands again, though you’re no longer touching.

“I didn’t think about that,” she admits quietly.

You nod. “Like, if I came up behind you, would that be okay? Or would you want a warning first?”

Mel’s mouth tilts to one side, thoughtful. “I don’t like being surprised,” she says. “But I don’t need formal permission. Just…try not to sneak up on me.”

You study her face, searching for any discomfort there. “Mel,” you say gently, reaching out to take her hand again. She doesn’t pull away. “We don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do. If this is too much, we don’t have to do it. Your friends can kick rocks.”

“It’s okay,” she says quickly, looking back up at you. “I just don’t want this to ruin our friendship.”

Your thumb brushes across the back of her hand lightly.

“It won’t,” you promise. “We’re not changing anything. When they leave, everything will go back to normal.”

The words sound simple and sensible.

Mel’s shoulders loosen, tension easing from her posture as she nods in agreement.

You give her hand one last reassuring squeeze before letting go, leaning back into the couch.

Normal. Everything will go back to normal.

But as Mel relaxes beside you and the conversation moves back to your usual friendly banter, a quiet unease settles in your chest.

Because you’re not fully sure your heart understands the word pretend. And you’re not sure, once that door opens, that you’ll be able to close it again.

♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡

The following day comes too soon, and your shift is over faster than you expected. By the time you’ve clocked out, your feet ache and your brain feels like it’s been wrung dry.

It had been one of those shifts, full of non-stop call lights, two near-misses that left your adrenaline spiking for over an hour after each, and the kind of emotional exhaustion that settled deep in your bones. All you really want is a boiling hot shower, your own bed, and eight uninterrupted hours of silence.

Instead, your phone buzzed in your pocket long before your shift had ended, reminding you of your self-assigned responsibility.

They’re here. Making dinner.

You had stared at the message for a long time when it came in two hours ago, your exhaustion warring with obligation.

No pressure.

Right.

You want to go home. You want to collapse face-first into your pillow and pretend you never offered any of this.

But Mel is expecting you. And more than that, she’s counting on you.

So now you’re in your car, the engine humming beneath you as the city lights slide past in familiar turns and traffic lights while the sky dims into a soft blue-gray as the daytime turns to evening.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel, and you tell yourself that it’s just nerves. This is acting, that’s all.

You and Mel are friends who are going to pretend to be girlfriends for a few days. You’ve run through the plan a dozen times since last night. Becca already knows, Mel promised she had explained everything. Everyone is on the same page.

Still, a small, treacherous worry creeps its way into your thoughts.

What if Becca forgets and says something? What if she cheerfully announces they’re pretending! halfway through dinner?

You sigh and try to shake your head of the thought.

Mel wouldn’t have agreed to this if she thought it would upset her sister in any way. And Becca knows you, she trusts you. That has to count for something.

At a red light, you flex your fingers against the steering wheel to try and steady your heart pounding in your chest.

This is no different than acting. You just have to be warm and familiar, and a little affectionate. Physical affection, you remind yourself, is part of the performance. Hugging. Sitting close. Holding her hand.

Your stomach flips and you try to force yourself to focus on the practical stuff instead.

A couple of months, that’s the story you’ve agreed on.

Long enough that sleepovers make sense; your toothbrush is already sitting beside Mel’s in the holder, your spare hoodie is hanging in her hall closet, a pair of socks in her dresser like you’re there all the time.

But not long enough that Charlie and Sabrina will be upset she didn’t tell them right away.

You’re new and easy and still in the honeymoon phase. You can do the honeymoon phase.

You pull into the parking lot of Mel’s apartment complex, parking in the closest spot you can find to the building’s single entry door. You turn off the engine and sit there for a moment, listening to the ticking quiet of the cooling car. Then you reach for your bag, step out into the cool air, and head toward the building.

When you make it to her floor, the spare key she’d given you slides easily into the lock.

You don’t hesitate. Because if you hesitate, you’ll overthink everything, and you’ve already done enough of that in the car.

The door opens to the warm, lived-in comfort you’ve come to associate with Mel’s apartment: there’s the low hum of voices, the soft clatter of dishes, and the unmistakable smell of garlic in sauce on the stove.

You toe off your shoes beside the door like you always do and set your backpack down.

“I’m home,” you call, the rehearsed words leaving your mouth before you can second-guess them.

The conversation and laughter coming from the kitchen halts immediately and silence takes its place.

From where you stand in the entryway, you can see the layout clearly: Becca and two women you don’t recognize are seated at the dining table, mid-conversation, their attention slowly pivoting toward you. One of them holds a drink in her hand, hovering mid-air like she was about to take a sip before you interrupted.

Mel stands at the small island with her back to the room, her shoulders hunched in concentration as she chops vegetables. She hasn’t turned around, clearly more prepared for you than anyone else was.

This is it.

You cross the apartment room on quiet feet, slipping into Mel’s personal space like you’re comfortable doing it. For half a second you catch the faint smell of her strawberry shampoo, the soft cotton of her shirt brushing your forearm as you wrap your arms gently around her waist.

You feel her entire body jolt in surprise at the contact.

Before she can turn, before you lose your nerve, you lean in and press a soft kiss to the curve of her shoulder.

Three things happen at once:

The first is that your own heart kickstarts into overdrive. You’re pretty sure Mel can feel it against her back, it’s pounding that hard against your chest. Your lips against her body, even through her shirt, is too much for your poor nervous system to take.

The second is that Mel freezes.

Not the small startle you’d expected from her, like when you first touched her, and certainly not the quick recovery you both rehearsed for, but a full, stunned stillness, as if her brain is short-circuiting. The knife remains suspended in her hand above the cutting board. You can feel the sudden inhale she takes, the way she goes rigid beneath your arms.

And the third, behind you, the room goes utterly and profoundly still.

You glance behind you.

Becca’s expression is bright with recognition and something like poorly-contained delight.

The other two women are looking at you like you’ve just materialized out of thin air.

You loosen your hold a little, suddenly aware of the heat that’s rushing into your face, the way Mel hasn’t moved an inch.

“Hi,” you say, voice soft, uncertain.

The taller of the two women, a redhead, blinks first. “Who are you?”

You glance at Mel, still frozen in front of you, then back at them, offering a small, sheepish smile. “I’m…I’m Mel’s -” you falter, unsure of yourself. “She didn’t tell you?”

Mel finally turns around in your arms. Her face is pink and her eyes are wide, the shock slowly giving way to embarrassment. A flicker of nervous laughter hovers at the corner of her mouth.

“I was going to,” she admits. “I just…hadn’t gotten there yet.”

The two women remain frozen. The one holding the drink sets it down very carefully.

Becca looks between all of you, clearly thrilled. Your name leaves her mouth suddenly, loud and excited. “That’s Mel’s girlfriend!”

The declaration lands in the room like a dropped plate.

Charlie and Sabrina, though you’re not sure which is which, both snap their attention from Becca back to you, then to Mel, then back again - their expressions astonished.

Mel lets out a small laugh that’s clearly made out of panic. “I -” She glances up at you, her cheeks flushed an even darker shade of pink. “Yeah, this is - we’re -”

You squeeze her lightly, trying to ground her before she can spiral.

“Hi,” you say gently, offering a small and apologetic smile. “Sorry for the dramatic entrance.”

Neither of them responds immediately.

Becca, however, looks immensely pleased with herself.

The brunette leans back in her chair, eyes wide. “Mel,” she says slowly, “you literally told me on the phone the other day that you don’t have time to date.”

“I didn’t say that,” Mel mutters.

The other woman gestures vaguely in your direction. “There is a person attached to you.”

You become acutely aware of your arms still around Mel’s waist, and you take a step back from her.

Mel sighs, tension cracking into shy resignation. “I-I was going to tell you,” she says. “It’s just…new.”

New.

Becca nods emphatically, as if confirming everything.

Charlie and Sabrina are still staring at the two of you, processing, rewriting the narrative in real time.

And slowly - very slowly - the shock in the room begins to melt into other things.

Curiosity. Delight. And the sense that your relationship has just become the most interesting development of their entire visit.

The silence breaks all at once.

The redhead recovers first, shoving her chair back as she stands and crosses the short distance toward you, her eyes bright with disbelief and curiosity.

“I’m Charlie,” she says, studying you. “And I have questions.”

The brunette rises more slowly, though her expression is just as stunned. “Sabrina,” she introduces herself, shaking her head like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. “Jesus, Mel, we leave you alone for five minutes…”

Mel makes a strangled noise behind you and abruptly turns back to the cutting board, knife meeting wood in quick thunks that suggest she’s channeling every ounce of her flustered energy into chopping the veggies.

“It’s really nice to meet you both,” you say.

Charlie leans an elbow on the counter like she’s settling in for an interview. “How long have you been dating?”

“Charlie,” Mel says warily without turning around.

“What? I’m pacing myself.”

“Two months,” you answer, trying to keep your tone easy.

Sabrina’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Only two months?”

Behind you, the knife pauses for a second before resuming it’s rhythm.

Becca, meanwhile, is practically vibrating in her chair. “They hold hands when they watch TV,” she announces proudly.

Mel drops a piece of zucchini.

“Becca,” she says weakly.

“And she sleeps over all the time,” Becca continues, clearly taking delight in divulging fake details. “Her toothbrush is blue.”

Your face warms.

Charlie presses her lips together, fighting a grin and losing. Sabrina looks openly charmed.

Mel’s shoulders creep higher toward her ears.

You take pity on her.

“I’m going to go change,” you say gently, placing a hand on the small of Mel’s back in passing. “Long shift.”

Mel nods quickly without turning around. “Yeah. Go. Please.”

Becca waves enthusiastically as you retreat down the hall like you live here - which, for the purposes of the next few days, you pretty much do.

You change into the clothes you’d stashed here yesterday: soft sweatpants and a tank top, the comfort of them helping to settle your nerves. The muffled cadence of voices carries from the kitchen, and you’re unable to make out the words, but they’re animated.

But while you’re gone -

Mel keeps her eyes on the cutting board long after you’ve disappeared down the hall.

The moment the bedroom door clicks shut, Charlie leans forward, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper.

“Mel.”

Mel sighs, “Don’t.”

Sabrina’s smile is soft. “She’s so cute.”

Mel’s knife slows.

Charlie props her chin on her hand. “Also, the way she walked in and just -” she gestures vaguely towards Mel, “-claimed her spot?”

Sabrina studies Mel’s back for a moment, thinking heavily. “Hey,” she says quietly. “Why didn’t you tell us? Really.”

Mel shrugs with a small lift of one shoulder. “I told you, it’s new.”

“Did you think we wouldn’t be happy for you?”

Mel’s brows knit faintly. “What? No.”

Sabrina presses, but carefully. “We’ve been giving you grief about dating for years now. Was it because we always said ‘boyfriend’?”

There’s no accusation in it. Just a question.

Mel finally turns around, knife in hand, leaning back against the counter.

“I didn’t think you’d be upset,” she says. “I just…didn’t want it to be a thing. You guys already think I work too much, and with Becca and everything else…” she gestures vaguely. “I didn’t want to add another conversation.”

Charlie frowns a little. “The only reason we’ve ever bothered you about dating is because we want you to be happy. We don’t care who it is.”

Sabrina nods. “If anything, I’m just offended you didn’t call me after your first date.”

Mel’s face flushes immediately. “I didn’t - it’s not -”

Becca kicks her feet under the table, happy with both the chaos and her sister’s embarrassment.

“For the record?” Charlie grins.

Mel looks up warily.

“She’s cute,” Charlie says. “And the way she looks at you? Yeah. I approve.”

Sabrina nods again. “Very much.”

Mel presses her lips together tightly, failing to hide the warmth and the smile creeping into her expression. “I know,” she admits quietly.

Dinner is surprisingly natural once you return.

Without making a big spectacle of it, you move alongside Mel in the kitchen - pulling plates from the cabinet she always uses, setting the table, spooning pasta and vegetables into neat portions that don’t touch on Becca’s plate while Mel protests that she can do it herself.

“You cooked,” you remind her, brushing past her. “Sit down.”

Mel only hesitates for a moment before relenting, her shoulders relaxing as she slides into the chair beside Becca.

You place a plate in front of Mel, another in front of Becca, and pause when Becca looks up at you expectantly.

You smile. This, you’ve done a thousand times.

“Orange juice?” you offer.

She nods enthusiastically.

“Coming right up.”

By the time you sit down with your own plate, this feels like things are back to normal. No forced niceness or awkward small talk, just having dinner instead of performing for Mel’s friends. It makes everything feel like less of a lie.

Charlie and Sabrina exchange looks over their forks any time you and Mel interact.

They don’t say it outright, but it’s obvious in their expressions with every gesture.

Questions come, but they arrive wrapped in curiosity rather than interrogation. How did you meet? Who asked who out? Do you work the same shifts often? Is Mel finally taking days off? You move through them carefully, Mel’s awkwardness at the nature of the questions helping make your answers feel natural.

A couple of months. Work friends first. Coffee after a long shift. It just sort of happened.

Becca contributes freely, offering enthusiastic confirmation of dinners and movie nights and hand-holding like she’s your relationship’s personal publicist.

Mel’s friends seem pleased with all of it.

By the time dishes are rinsed and stacked and the apartment settles into nighttime quiet, the initial shock has settled into warm approval. Eventually, yawns begin to spread around the living room. Blankets are claimed, the couch is prepared with pillows, and lights are dimmed.

You and Mel exchange a glance.

So far, so good.

The bedroom door closes softly behind you.

The quiet feels immediate and intimate after the grilling conversation you’ve been fielding all evening.

For a moment, you and Mel just stand there in her bedroom, looking at each other - then, like a string that’s been pulled too tight finally snapping, you both dissolve into soft, nervous laughter.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“I know,” she breathes, pressing a hand to her forehead as she leans back against the door. “Charlie’s face when you walked in -”

“You froze.”

“You kissed my shoulder!”

“You should’ve seen your face!”

She laughs again, trying to muffle the sound in the sleeve of her shirt.

“I thought I was prepared,” she admits. “I was not prepared.”

You grin, keeping your voice low as you say, “For what it’s worth, I think they believe us.”

Mel nods, passing you to flop onto her bed. “Yeah, they definitely do.” She’s quiet for a moment before adding, “Becca is being…extremely helpful.”

You smile, following to sit next to her. “She’s committed to the mission.”

She laughs, throwing an arm over her face, shielding her from the overhead light. You hurry back to the door, flipping off the ceiling light and instead turning on the lamp by her bedside.

“You know,” she says after a moment, not quite meeting your eyes, “you don’t actually have to stay the night. If you want to sneak out once everyone’s asleep, that’s okay.”

The words are soft and almost insecure.

You tilt your head. “Do you not want me to stay?”

Mel flushes instantly and she turns her head away under the pretense of smoothing the edge of her comforter, refusing to look at you.

“Of course not,” she says quickly. “Having you here has made this…a lot easier for me. It's actually kind of fun, pretending.”

You watch her reach up and tuck a corner of the blanket, redundant since it’ll be pulled back soon anyway. The movement betrays her nerves.

“I’m going to go brush my teeth then,” you say, keeping your voice low for the sleeping apartment beyond the bedroom door. “I’ll be right back.”

Mel nods quickly. “Okay.”

You offer her a small smile before disappearing into the hallway, the door closing behind you.

Mel exhales slowly, pressing her fingertips into her forehead to steady herself.

She can still feel the ghost of your arms around her waist earlier, she thinks back on the way you plated her dinner, poured Becca’s juice. The way you move around them like you’re part of her home.

This is supposed to be pretend.

Instead, watching you walk out of her bedroom toward the bathroom, your hair still slightly mussed from your long shift, something else is settling in her chest. A strange awareness that having you here, acting the way you are, doesn’t feel like much of an act at all.

♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡

The first light of morning is just barely brushing the edges of the blinds, painting the room in soft gold rays. You stir, only half-aware of the alarmingly cozy weight draped over you.

And then you open your eyes.

Mel is pressed up against you, her face tucked into your collarbone, both arms curled around your waist, one over, one under you. Her legs are tangled with yours, her body molded against you in a way that feels almost possessive. You inhale slowly, trying not to move too much, because you’re sure that the moment you do, the spell will break.

She’s asleep, but it’s not the restless sleep you’ve seen her in after a long shift when she falls asleep on her couch before you’ve left her apartment. There’s no furrowed brow, no twitch to her limbs. She’s just peaceful right now. The rise and fall of her chest is steady and calm, and it makes your heart squeeze.

You can feel the weight of her arms, the gentle press of her soft skin against yours, and the warmth of her hair brushing across your chest, stray hairs falling out of her usual braid. Your fingers itch to smooth her hair down, to trace the line of her arm. But you stay still, because again, this is delicate and you’re painfully aware that it’s stolen time.

Pretend. It’s just pretend.

But your thoughts betray you. Your chest feels tight, it knows you’re lying to yourself. You’ve been pretending for the last twelve hours straight, but the longer you hold her in this exact minute, the less fake it feels. You wonder if she knows deep down that this is no longer just a mission or a favor to you - that this isn’t entirely pretend.

A small, sleepy sigh escapes her lips and you catch the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, even in her sleep. You let your hand drift lightly along her back, just enough to feel the warmth of her body under the blanket, careful not to wake her.

Time seems to stretch. A minute is an hour, an hour is a second.

Eventually, though, the morning nudges you toward motion. You don’t want to get up, but you also know the world is coming. And with it will come Mel’s shift at the hospital.

She works today, you don’t.

Against your better judgment, you press a soft kiss to the top of her head. She moves just a little in her sleep and her arms tighten around you, her body trying hard to avoid the wake-up that her mind is heading toward.

“Coffee?” you whisper softly, more to yourself than her, partially because speaking her name might wake her and also because you know she doesn’t actually like coffee.

A soft groan drifts from her lips.

Careful not to wake her further, you slowly begin untangling yourself from Mel. One arm slips out, then a leg, moving cautiously. Her weight shifts against you, a small stir in her sleep.

Don’t wake her. Don’t wake her.

Finally, you’re free - fully separate, but the warmth of her still lingers on your skin. Relief washes over you for a moment…until you catch a glint of moisture on your collarbone.

Oh.

She’s drooled on you.

You giggle softly, trying to be discreet as you dab at it with the blanket, heart hammering. And that’s exactly when her eyes flutter open.

She blinks, slow and still half-asleep, and looks up at you. For a heartbeat, you think she’s going to say something, or maybe even recoil. But instead, she just watches you carefully, the tiniest trace of embarrassment in her gaze. Her mouth quirks to the side both in shyness and amusement, and she doesn’t look away.

“Morning,” she murmurs, her voice husky from sleep.

“Morning,” you echo quietly.

You both move to get ready - brushing your teeth, pulling on clothes and glasses, and tidying up her bed together quietly. There’s a strange feeling in the air, almost as if both of you are aware of the lingering closeness, the newness of it, yet trying not to admit it out loud.

By the time you emerge into the living room, the sun is rising higher, painting the apartment in gold. Becca is already perched on the couch, chatting happily with Charlie and Sabrina, who are lounging comfortably and clearly already invested in the dynamic.

“Morning!” Becca calls, her eyes lighting up when she sees you.

Charlie and Sabrina glance up, both smiling warmly, and you offer a small, nervous wave.

Mel stands behind you, her glasses propped up on top of her head as she rubs her eyes and greets the trio with a yawn.

You make your way into the kitchen, tying your hair back as you go, then opening the fridge and get to work making breakfast like you’re the host here.

Eggs crack softly against the bowl’s rim. Butter melts in the pan with a gentle hiss. Bread slides into the toaster. You rinse strawberries, slice them into halves, then add blueberries and orange slices to a bowl for everyone to share.

The eggs cook quickly – they’re just for you, Charlie, and Sabrina. Mel and Becca both hate the texture, something you learned toward the beginning of your friendship during a late-evening takeout debate on whether or not breakfast foods were acceptable as dinner.

The answer, by the way, was a resounding no from both of them. You disagreed.

Hyper-aware of Sabrina’s eyes on you from the living room and the need for performance, you call out softly, “Babe, can you c’mere for a moment?”

There’s a pause in conversation, and it seems to take Mel a moment to register that you’re talking to her. She appears in the entry to the kitchen, crossing the room slowly. When she reaches you, you slide an arm around her waist and pull her gently against your side, your lips brushing the side of her head.

Her body goes still.

You lean closer, your voice barely a whisper that’s meant only for her. “If you want them to stop interrogating you,” you murmur, “you’re gonna have to sell it a little harder.”

Mel exhales softly, and you can almost feel the decision as she makes it. Her fingers curl into the front of your shirt and she leans into you, resting her cheek against your shoulder, her arms wrapping around your middle as she buries her face against your neck.

“Better,” you whisper, continuing to flip the eggs. “I made breakfast,” you say, your voice returning to normal volume so everyone can hear you. “Figured you and Becks might want fruit.”

“Yes please!” you hear Becca call from the living room.

Mel tilts her face towards you, sliding her glasses from the top of her head onto her nose. “Only if you share with me.”

Oh fuck.

For a moment, the domesticity of the situation you’ve found yourself feels dangerously close to real. Mel’s face is close enough to your own that you could lean in and kiss her if you wanted to, it would be so easy. And you want to, her lips are right there -

Down, girl.

You blink hard, turning away as your brain reminds you of the harsh reality you’re currently in. Mel isn’t your girlfriend, this is all pretend, and you just told her to play it up. You can’t let yourself be fooled by the acting you literally just made her do.

You can feel Mel still staring at the side of your head, her gaze scanning your face with the tiniest trace of confusion in her expression and you know the wheels are turning inside.

You plate the eggs, and then butter toast slices as they come out while the bread is still steaming.

Mel’s hands still haven’t left your shirt yet, and your free arm is still around her waist. But even that has to end if you ever want to eat.

Plates clink softly as you and Mel carry everything to the table.

Mel stays tucked against your side until the last possible second before sliding into her own chair. Her fingers trail lightly across your arm as she lets go. Subtle, but not so much that it goes unnoticed.

She's a surprisingly good actress.

You set the plates down and give a sheepish half-shrug.

“Not exactly a five-star breakfast,” you say, sliding into your seat. “I’m a nurse, not a chef.”

Charlie snorts as she joins you at the table, Sabrina and Becca not far behind. “This looks like a Pinterest breakfast compared to what Mel feeds herself.”

“Rude,” Mel mutters, reaching for a strawberry.

The table conversation drifts, everything from light teasing to stories from the night before, Becca explaining in detail why she doesn’t like the texture of eggs.

You aren’t listening. You’re too focused on the way your heart feels dangerously close to splitting open. You remember, with painful clarity, the night you sat in your car and cried while you promised yourself that you wouldn’t cross this line. That your friendship with Mel mattered more than wanting her.

But this pretending you’re doing feels like someone is reaching into your heart and prying all those carefully-sealed pieces back to the surface. And that’s worrisome, because this isn’t real. In two days, her friends will leave, the act will end, and you’ll have to step back across the line that you shouldn’t have crossed in the first place.

Mel laughs at something Sabrina says, and the sound pulls your eyes up despite your best effort. Her gaze meets yours instantly, like she was waiting for you.

You force a smile back, the kind that says everything is fine, even though you’re starting to feel anything but.

Charlie leans forward across the table, tilting her head with a playful grin. “So…coffee?”

Sabrina nods. “Yeah, I could use some caffeine.”

Your gaze immediately flicks back to Mel. You know she doesn’t keep coffee in the apartment, neither her nor Becca drink it, and the thought of her trying to host without it sparks fondness. Without a word, you turn toward her and hold up your hands, one in a fist on top of the other laid flat, forming the unmistakable shape of rock.

Mel freezes for a moment, then smirks and mirrors your gesture.

You play a single round of rock-paper-scissors quickly, and of course you lose.

“Alright, alright,” you say, holding your hands up in mock-surrender as you stand from the table. “I got it.”

As you slip on your shoes and grab your keys, you tell Charlie and Sabrina to have Mel text you their order as you head out the door. You give a wave over your shoulder with a quick “be right back!” as you shut it behind you, grateful for the out this has given you.

Inside the apartment, Mel stretches, letting out a soft sigh as she begins to gather her things for her shift at the hospital.

She hates the idea of leaving her friends when they're here specifically to visit her, but she was comforted by you promising to play host since you had the day off. Plus, that meant Becca didn't have to go to the day center.

Becca’s eyes light up at the sight of her sister retreating back to her bedroom for something and, without a word, she follows Mel, careful not to draw attention from Charlie or Sabrina. Once Mel is in her room and has begun rummaging through her drawers for her phone charger, Becca quietly closes the door behind them.

“Okay,” Becca says, sitting on Mel’s bed as she watches her flit about the room. “You have to tell me something and promise not to lie.”

Mel pauses, caught off guard. She sets the charger down on the bed carefully and glances at her sister. “Uh…need help with something?”

Becca tilts her chin, her expression confused. “I thought you said this whole thing with you and her was fake.”

Mirroring her confused expression, Mel sits down on the bed next to Becca. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been with you since birth,” Becca says pointedly. “And it doesn’t feel like you’re pretending. You want to kiss her, don’t you?”

Mel’s cheeks warm instantly. “What? Becca - I -” She pauses, looking down at her hands, trying to gather the right words through her fluster. “It’s…it’s complicated.”

“Why does it have to be complicated?” Becca asks innocently.

Sighing, Mel folds inward as she clasps her hands in her lap. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” she admits quietly, like the words are dangerous.

Becca blinks at her, clearly processing. Then, matter-of-factly, she says, “But you like her, I can see it. That’s not fake.”

Mel bites her lip, both flustered and relieved at her sister’s bluntness. “Becca…” she starts, but her twin shakes her head.

“No, no excuses. Just don’t mess it up,” Becca says simply. “If she makes you happy, then it’s not fake.”

“Okay. I…okay.” Mel smiles. “But you can’t tell anyone, okay? Even her.”

“Cross my heart,” Becca says plainly.

Mel nods in acknowledgement, standing to tuck her charger into her bag.

You aren’t gone for much longer, stepping back through the apartment door with two drink trays in hand, setting them down carefully on the kitchen counter. The smell of coffee and tea fills the small space. You’ve brought coffee for everyone else, but Mel’s drink is hers alone - boba, both sweet and piping hot.

She’s got her work backpack balanced on a stool and is shoving necessities into it when you set her drink in front of her.

“You didn’t have to get me boba,” she murmurs as she lifts the cup and straw. “That means you had to go to two different shops.”

You shrug, feigning casualness even though your chest tightens at the way her eyes linger on yours. “I didn’t want to leave you out just because you don’t drink coffee,” you say softly. "You're worth it."

You’re interrupted by Charlie popping her head into the kitchen, her voice bright and teasing as she says, “Okay, lovebirds, out of my way. Don’t get between me and coffee.” Her eyes turn to you. “Seriously, thanks for going.”

Sabrina follows her in, peering at you over her shoulder with a grin. “Are you guys always like this? Or is it just for show?”

Mel’s hands tighten around her own cup. She swallows and glances over at you, a mix of exasperation and worry in her expression. But you just shrug and reach for her, drawing her to your side by her waist, doing your best to ignore the muffled little squeak she lets out at the unexpected contact.

The moment lingers longer than necessary. You keep your arm around her waist just a second past performative necessity, long enough to feel the warmth of her through her thin shirt, long enough for your brain to feel like she belongs there. Charlie rolls her eyes and shoos you both out of the way, and Sabrina’s grin only widens as she steals her drink and retreats.

Mel pulls away first, mumbling something about leaving for work before she’s late.

You walk her to the door without really thinking too hard about it.

She slips her shoes on and double checks for her badge.

You see Dr. King nearly every day at work, but it feels weirdly intimate to see the transition, watching her change from the Mel you’ve gotten over the last eighteen hours to the doctor you know and lo-

Whoa.

Where did that come from?

“Where did you go?”

Your eyes snap up at the sound of Mel’s voice, and you realize you’ve been lost in your thoughts just standing at the door with her. You shake your head, ridding yourself of the intrusive thought that just infiltrated your brain, willing it to disappear.

“Ha-have a good shift,” you whisper, ignoring her question.

Her eyes are questioning as they search your face, but you watch as she lets it go and turns toward the door.

Then she’s gone.

Her apartment feels different without her in it.

Quieter.

Becca claims the far end of the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees. Charlie and Sabrina commandeer the coffee table with enthusiasm, the kind reserved for people who have nowhere to be. You settle in easily among them and let the day unfold in simple, comfortable ways.

Board games come out first, something strategy-heavy that Becca insists has clear rules and “no emotional ambiguity.” Charlie cheats at least twice, and Sabrina calls her out both times.

You laugh more than you expect to and allow yourself to relax.

And somewhere between Charlie’s dramatic (cheater) victory speech and Sabrina reorganizing the game pieces while insisting on a rematch, you begin to understand them. And, by extension, you understand Mel a little better too.

They fill space easily, just the two of them. Charlie with a bright warmth and charm, Sabrina with a dry steadiness that keeps everything relaxed and easy. They tell college stories in fragments: late-night study sessions Mel insisted she didn’t need but showed up to anyway; the time Charlie dragged Mel to a party and she spent the entire night befriending the host’s anxious dog; Sabrina getting locked out of their apartment at two in the morning and Mel sitting on the hallway floor with her for an hour just to keep her company until her roommate made it home to let her in.

You can see it clearly: two extroverts who decided at some point that Mel was theirs to keep, and an introvert who let herself be adopted without admitting out loud that she needed them.

It makes sense why she loves them. And why they love her right back.

But throughout the day, every so often, your gaze drifts toward the front door and you have to make a conscious effort not to religiously check your phone.

Time moves slowly throughout the day, and on multiple occasions you catch Becca studying you with a seriousness not often found on her face before she looks back at whatever she was doing before.

When the late afternoon light finally begins to fade and keys rattle in the lock hours later, your heart skips a beat, filled with anticipation and eagerness for you know who’s on the other side, and it worries you how much it feels like coming home.

♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡

Last night had ended quietly.

Mel had come home late, exhausted in that bone-deep way that comes with a shift at PTMC. You’d stayed long enough to make sure she ate something and to help Becca get settled for the night, then slipped back into your own apartment with a promise that you’d see her tomorrow.

The distance had felt strange.

Morning came with the muted gray light typical of Pittsburgh winter, and you moved through the day slowly, as if you were walking through sludge. A grocery run because your fridge was empty, a stop at the pharmacy, laundry folded while your comfort show played in the background. You were doing your best to be productive, but there was anticipation humming in your veins beneath everything, a current of energy that kept pulling your attention toward the evening ahead.

Going out isn’t something you do often, at least not out in public. Mel’s apartment? Sure. But a bar?

You took your time choosing what to wear, something that made you feel good in your body, nice enough that you wouldn’t feel out of place in public. You’d changed twice before settling on something that felt like you.

By the time you returned to Mel and Becca’s apartment, the already cramped space felt fuller.

Charlie and Sabrina had claimed the couch, sprawled out comfortably. A half-finished mug of coffee sat forgotten on the side table. Music played on a low volume. Becca sat cross-legged on the floor with a puzzle spread out before her, focused and content, while Mel moved through the kitchen in socked feet.

You eased into the rhythm without trouble, drifting between the kitchen and the living room, accepting a mug of tea, leaning against the counter while Mel absentmindedly nudged your foot with hers when she passed. It almost felt like it wasn’t a performance.

Eventually, as the afternoon fell closer to the late evening, change began slowly.

Makeup bags appeared on the coffee table and outfit options were considered. Sabrina disappeared to claim the bathroom and emerged ten minutes later smelling like perfume and hairspray. Music volume clicked up; phones were charged.

Energy built gradually instead of all at once, just a group of women getting ready for a night out together.

You were looking forward to it.

And that’s where you find yourself now: tucked into the warm pulse of the bar, the cold of the night already a distant memory that clings to the hems of the coat you’ve draped over the back of your chair.

You’ve chosen this bar meticulously. Light pools in halos from hanging lamps above the tables and the air smells a bit like spilled beer and fried foods that drift from the kitchen. Sound gathers rather than overwhelms, laughter layered over quiet music that has a thud of a bass line that you feel more than you can really hear.

“- I swear I’m not exaggerating,” Sabrina insists, one hand lifted like she’s testifying under oath. “She stood up on the coffee table like she was addressing Congress.”

Charlie is already laughing, her shoulders shaking with each breath. “No, no, you’re leaving out the best part! Tell her what she was wearing.”

Mel groans beside you, sliding lower in her chair. “If this is the toga story, I’m leaving.”

“It was a bedsheet,” Sabrina corrects. “A navy bedsheet. She looked like a stateswoman.”

Becca laughs into her soda, her eyes averted as she listens to a story she’s heard at least twice before.

“I was making a point,” Mel mutters.

“You declared,” Charlie says, lifting her finger in imitation, “’From this day forward, this kitchen is a democracy.’”

Sabrina nearly chokes on her drink, laughing at the memory. “And then she tried to pass legislation banning tequila.”

“It was a good policy,” Mel says defensively, even as the corners of her mouth twitch into a smile she tries to hide.

“You had consumed half a bottle of cheap margarita mix and like two sips of tequila,” Charlie says.

“Listen,” Mel says, pointing at her across the table, “that stuff is disgusting.”

You laugh with the rest of them, the sound escaping bright and easy. Mel’s hand tightens around yours on the tabletop - contact that had started as performative but was now starting to feel natural.

You lean toward Mel. “Did the kitchen remain a democracy?”

Mel sighs. “It did until Charlie tried to impeach me for burning grilled cheese.”

“I still stand by that impeachment,” Charlie says. “You were really drunk.”

Sabrina lifts her glass. “To the shortest-lived government in history.”

Everyone raises their drinks and the soft clink between them rings out as you all take a sip.

The laughter lingers for a few moments longer and Mel’s thumb traces an absentminded circle against the back of your hand. You take the last sip of your drink to give yourself something else to focus on, the ice clinking against the glass before the empty settles in your palm.

“Okay,” you say lightly, glancing around the table. “Who’s in for another?”

Charlie lifts her glass immediately. “Absolutely.”

Sabrina tips hers toward you in silent agreement.

Mel hesitates only a second. “Just water for me,” she says. “I’m pacing myself.”

Becca nudges her soda with two fingers. “I’m good.”

You nod, gathering glasses one by one - yours first, then Charlie’s, then Sabrina’s - the table colder where your hand leaves it. Mel’s fingers slip from yours and it almost feels like it happens reluctantly.

“I’ve got it,” you add, flashing a quick smile at Mel when she moves like she might stand too. “Stay. I’ll be right back.”

She looks at you for a long moment before settling back in her chair.

The bar is only ten feet away or so, and you set the empties down on the worn wood counter, catching the bartenders eye and nodding toward the table behind you.

“One more round,” you say. “Same as before. And a water.”

The bartender gives a short nod and turns around to start pouring.

You sigh, your shoulders loosening, letting yourself relax in the small pause between hosting and performing. It’s nice to just exist without feeling like eyes are on you, being able to focus on the conversation around you, the bass thrumming through the floor. You let yourself space out, nodding along with the music.

You don’t notice him step up beside you until he actually speaks.

He leans one arm against the bar beside you casually, like he’s been standing there longer than he actually has.

“Busy night,” he says. It’s not loud enough to intrude, just enough to be heard over the low hum of conversation.

You glance over, polite reflexes kicking in. He’s maybe mid-thirties, clean cut in a very relaxed way, with flannel sleeves pushed up and an easy smile that suggests he’s comfortable.

“Seems like it,” you reply, returning the small courtesy smile he gives you before shifting your attention back toward the bartending lining up glasses.

His gaze flicks to the cluster of empty cups in front of you. “You ordering for the whole place?”

You laugh quietly. “Just my table.”

“Good,” he says lightly. “Was about to feel left out.”

The bartender sets down the first fresh drink, and you slide it aside to make space for the others.

“I can grab that,” he offers, reaching for his wallet. “At least let me get you this round.”

You shake your head immediately, trying to keep your tone friendly. “That’s kind of you, but I’ve got it.”

He pauses, then lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. “All right, next one, then.”

You tilt your head in noncommittal acknowledgement rather than actual agreement. “We’ll see.”

Another glass lands on the bar, ice clinking inside it. You line it up with the others.

His eyes linger on the drinks, assessing them - and you - without being overt. “So, what are you drinking?”

“Vodka cran.”

“Solid choice,” he says with an approving nod. “Let me upgrade you to something nicer than the well.”

“I’m good, I promise.” You keep your tone light but firm, trying to not invite further negotiation.

He smiles at you again, but there’s an edge of disbelief to his expression now, like your refusal was unexpected.

“What about your friends?” he tries. “I could send something over, be the hero of your table.”

You shake your head. “We’re taken care of.”

He studies you for another moment, then glances past your shoulder toward the room. “No boyfriends hovering nearby,” he says with a laugh, like he’s making an observation rather than the challenge you know is coming.

You lift one of the glasses, checking the level of the drink inside before setting it back down. “That would be because I don’t have one.”

His brows rise in interest.

You meet his eyes for a moment, then add, “I’ve got a girlfriend.”

His smile falters. Not fully gone, but altered.

“C’mon,” he says, the scoff he lets out in disbelief accompanying his words. “You don’t gotta lie about being a dyke just to get me to fuck off.”

You don’t match his scoff or his tone. You make a conscious effort to stay steady, more so out of self-preservation rather than actually caring what he thinks.

“I’m not lying,” you say evenly. “And I’m not interested.”

Another drink appears, then Mel’s water. You gather them closer, creating a careful lineup for carrying.

He lets out a heavy exhale, irritation beginning to show through the seams of his composure. “Your loss,” he mutters, even though he doesn’t step away. But when you reach for the first glass, his hand closes around your arm.

Across the bar, Sabrina’s voice cuts through the laughter of a nearby group. “Hey…uh, Mel, I think your girlfriend needs help.” She nods subtly in your direction, wide-eyed.

Mel turns sharply, following the gesture, and her stomach drops. She sees the man, leaning a little too close, his hand gripping your forearm. It’s casual, it doesn’t look overtly aggressive, maybe even friendly-looking to anyone else. Not you. She knows you. She knows that grip doesn’t belong there, the casualness in your stance is performative, and that’s enough to make her heart hammer.

The protective surge inside her is immediate. Her chair scrapes against the floor as she rises, all pretense of calm gone. “I’ll help you with those,” she calls out as she approaches you, forcing a casual lilt that doesn’t mask her panic. She moves fast through the crowd of people to get to you.

She reaches the bar just as the man’s grip tightens on your arm. You turn toward her instinctively, your lips parting to explain, but there’s no time. She doesn’t hesitate - her hand is on your waist in a protective hold, pulling you close to her.

“Let go of her.”

You pivot back to the man and take a steadying breath. “Oh look,” you say, “there’s the girlfriend I told you about.”

The words hang in the air between you, both a declaration and a warning. The man blinks, caught off guard as you pull your arm from his grip.

Your hand moves of its own accord, reaching up and your fingers pressing lightly against Mel’s jaw, tilting her face towards yours. Before you can overthink it, you lean in, pressing your lips to hers.

Mel freezes, startled, but doesn’t pull away from you. Her lips part slightly and you can taste her drink on her breath, the sweetness pairing with the faint saltiness of her skin.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny but sharp oh no cuts through - something you don’t voice. You’ve crossed the line you’d been toeing so carefully, but the sensation of her lips, the softness, the way she begins to respond and move against you in return, makes it impossible to pull away. You linger there, holding her mouth against yours, memorizing the way she tastes and the feeling of her hair against your cheek.

Finally, you ease back enough to breath. Your thumb grazes her lips, committing them to memory. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes wide and luminous, and there’s softness mixed with confusion as she studies your face.

And for the briefest instant, your gaze flicks from her face across the room, catching a shadowed profile near the dart boards - dark hair half-up, the rest falling over one shoulder, a stance that’s familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist. Recognition hits you, but before you can dwell on it, someone moves in between you and the sight, and the moment shatters into background noise. You shove the thought aside, telling yourself it was nothing.

The man’s presence has faded to background noise, but the bartender’s voice cuts through, clear and final as she addresses him: “you gonna order or move along?”

He mutters something under his breath and steps back, retreating, but the air between you and Mel is charged with electricity. Your hand slides from her jaw, lingering for a second on her shoulder, and you step back to gather the drinks. But the nerves in your body still thrum from the feeling of her lips on yours and the realization that kiss wasn’t performative, at least not for you.

It feels dangerous.

Surprisingly, it’s Mel who recovers first.

The world rushes back in around her and she becomes acutely aware that you’re still standing very close to her and your expression mirrors her own stunned silence.

She clears her throat softly. “I -” Her voice comes out thin and a bit strangled, so she tries again. “I’ll help you carry those.”

You nod, grateful for something practical to do, and turn toward the bar as the bartender slides the last glass forward. Neither of you mention what just happened. And neither of you look directly at each other.

Your fingers brush as you divide the drinks and you both pretend not to notice.

The walk back to the table is both quiet and quick. Mel can still feel the shape of your hand on her face, your mouth on hers. Her lips tingle as if the imprint remains.

She focuses on not dropping the glasses.

Sabrina looks up first from conversation as you approach, a grin already forming on her face. Charlie’s gaze flicks between the two of you, eyebrows raised with amusement.

“Well,” she says, accepting her drink, “that was quite the little show.”

Sabrina snorts into her own glass. “Seriously, ten out of ten performance, very convincing.”

Becca doesn’t comment. She just watches Mel carefully, perceptive eyes studying her face as she takes a sip of her soda.

Mel sits. Her pulse is still too fast.

Conversation resumes with surprising ease. Sabrina launches into another story, Charlie chimes in, you slide back into your seat and responding when spoken to. It all lends itself to the rhythm of the night knitting itself back together as though nothing unusual has happened.

Not for Mel.

She hears the conversation without absorbing it. Words drift past her like radio static. Her fingers curl around her water glass, condensation dampening her skin.

She can still feel you.

She risks a glance at you.

You’re laughing at something Sabrina said, your shoulders are relaxed but your smile doesn’t seem to quite reach your eyes. You almost look shaken. Maybe thoughtful? As if you’re trying to act normal and hoping nobody notices that you’re making a conscious effort to do so.

Mel’s stomach flips.

Her friends continue chatting, comfortable and obvious, the moment already filed away as proof of a cute couple.

But Mel can’t file it away.

Charlie is halfway through dissecting some disastrous Hinge date when you lean back into your chair, finally relaxing back into the conversation.

“Did he actually show up?” you ask, grinning. “Or -”

Sabrina cuts in animatedly. Charlie protests. The conversation overlaps in the messy, affectionate way it almost always does when people feel safe.

You turn a little, instinctively, to include Mel, who’s been strangely silent this whole time.

“What do you think?” you ask her, nudging her knee under the table lightly. “That’s totally a red flag, right? Am I being dramatic here?”

She doesn’t answer, and you turn fully to look at her. To make sure she’s okay.

There’s something noticeably undone about her. The composure she usually wears is missing, her expression filled with rawness, her lips even turned into a slight frown, and you can immediately tell she wasn’t listening. It’s identical to the expression she wore at work a while back when she was worried about her deposition and couldn’t focus on anything else.

“Mel?” you prompt softly.

You’re really close to her. Your shoulders are almost touching, she could bump you if she wanted. The golden bar light catches the curve of your lip, the same place where your thumb had brushed hers earlier, and her brain helpfully replays the exact feeling of your hand on her jaw.

You tilt your head when she doesn’t respond. “Are you okay?”

She swallows hard.

This is a mistake. This is toeing that line again.

This is -

She leans in.

Her hand comes up, fingers sliding around the back of your neck and tangling in your hair as she brings your lips to hers again. Her mouth presses against yours with a softness that feels like she’s testing it. Like she’s asking a question she’s afraid to hear the answer to.

The table noise fades. Sabrina is still talking, Charlie is talking over her, and you have absolutely no idea what’s going on with Becca in this moment - but it all feels so far away.

Mel’s lips are warm as they move against yours, and you place a hand on her thigh to steady the way you’re leaned into her. Your lips part against hers and she tilts her head, deepening it. There’s a quiet sound from your throat, barely there, but she can feel it.

And God, she doesn’t want to stop.

But she does.

She pulls back slowly, her lips brushing yours one more in a lingering, almost unconscious follow-through before she forces herself to create space. She keeps her eyes closed for a second too long, trying to understand why she would do that.

When she opens them, you’re staring at her with the most unreadable expression on your face.

Nobody at the table says a word. To them, it’s ordinary, you’re just any other couple.

From her other side, Mel catches Becca watching her. Her soda straw is paused halfway to her mouth, her eyes moving between her sister’s face and yours. There’s no confusion in her expression, no surprise. Only a quiet, satisfied knowing, like she’s just seen a puzzle piece settle exactly where it belongs.

The night goes on without much disruption after that. Someone orders fries for the table, you laugh at something Becca says so hard that you have to wipe tears from your eyes, glasses clink over and over. Life continues.

And yet, nothing feels the same.

You sit beside Mel with intentional space between your thighs where there hadn’t been any earlier. Your knee no longer touches hers under the table and when your fingers brush reaching for a fry, both of you pull back too quickly. You fold your hands in your lap to stop yourself from reaching for her again.

Because now you know.

You know the shape of her mouth, the warmth of her breath, the way she leaned into you instead of away from you.

This performance has edges now, sharp ones. And they hurt.

So you keep your hands to yourself.

But still, the distance never fully holds. Her shoulder finds yours when she laughs. Your elbow grazes her arm when you reach for your glass. When she leans closer to hear Sabrina over the music, her hair brushes your cheek and you tense up so suddenly it steals the air from your lungs.

Across the table, Becca watches the two of you with contentment, sipping her soda and swaying faintly to the music that only she seems to be paying attention to. Both Charlie and Sabrina remain blissfully unaware, long since settling into the comfortable assumption that this is how the two of you fit together.

By the time the tab is paid and chairs scrape back from the table, the night has changed and the air is filled with a strange electricity that you don’t fully know what to do with.

Back at the apartment, the ritual of bedtime unfolds in tired smiles, far too late to avoid the hangover that’s sure to haunt you at work tomorrow. Charlie and Sabrina reclaim the couch with gratitude and soft blankets. Becca disappears into the her own bedroom long enough to change before reemerging to hug you goodnight with affection.

And then it’s just the two of you again.

Mel changes in the bathroom while you sit on the edge of her bed, staring at your hands like they might confess what you’re too afraid to say. When she returns, the room feels smaller. Quieter.

You slide beneath the blankets on your usual side and she turns off the lamp.

Her breathing evens out beside you, slow and steady, the rhythm of someone who has surrendered fully to sleep. Or is pretending to.

You lie on your back, staring into the dark, the nerves in your body aware of the mere inches between you.

Tomorrow, her friends will leave. Tomorrow, her spare key will be returned to her. Tomorrow, there will be no reason to stay the night, or hold her hand, or call her babe in any capacity. No reason to kiss her.

Your chest tightens.

You don’t know how to go back.

You don’t know how to fold your heart back into the safe little shape it fit into before this weekend.

Beside you, Mel shifts in her sleep - or something like it - and her fingers brush the back of your hand where it rests on the mattress between you.

You freeze. She stills.

Neither of you pull away.

You stare into the dark above you, heart pounding, and try to memorize this: the warmth, this unbearable tenderness of wanting something you’ve already begun to lose.

Tomorrow, this ends.

And you’re not ready to let it go.

♡ ───────── ♡ ───────── ♡

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