Peace and Comfort - new pryokentic avenger that is still struggling to adjust to their new environment, leading to rough nights and trouble sleeping, has an accidental rendezvous with Nat on the roof, the could start something new and refreshing.
Stubborn Souls - Y/n y/l/n and Natasha Romanoff certainly have a unique relationship, more than friends, less than lovers, two people that share the same desires, but not enough courage.
When to Give up - Natasha and Y/n, Best Friends from the start, but when things start to escalate hearts get broken, and dangerous things start to form. 1 2 3 4 5 ONHOLD TBH…
In It Together - Returning from a mission in the late of night/early morning, you’re beaten and exhausted with thoughts racing about only one person.
Spiders Dance** - Nat is ever persistent with her flirting and the effects it has on you, toying with you on a mission however, may not have been the best idea, or was it? Blurb: flowers^^
Don't Hide - After a rough mission, you slip back into what your life use to be, what you were trained to do. Hiding away and spiraling Natasha’s there to comfort you.
Pumpkin Guts - Your first Halloween. Nat does her best to introduce you to the festivities.
Freefall - Called to the devil and the devil said hey why you been calling this late?
Blushes nd Giggles - After a night of drinking, Natasha let's a side only you see slip in front of the team.
Statements - Assumptions are made about the relationship you have with Natasha, so you took it upon yourself to make a statement :) 2
Wanda Maximoff
Darkness and Chaos - Wanda and you the all powerful unstoppable duo. You're best friends, everyone knows it, what everyone overlooks is your pining for her. What happens when you finally confess? 2
Silent Comfort - you and wanda have a silent love for each other. you’re generally gentle and kind always watching over, but when someone over steps and offends the person you love for most, another you peaks thru.
Summary: when you find yourself falling apart in ways neither she nor success can fix
A/n: im not really happy w how this ch turned out so i apologize if its not up to standards. it got a little hard to write loll. anyway hope yall enjoy ;)
WARNINGS: mentions/descriptions of anxiety, panic attacks, minor depression/self deprecation
prev ch. | next ch.
Two months pass the way big things do.
Fast publicly. Slow privately.
The album drops and stops belonging to you almost immediately.
It’s everywhere.
Edits. Reactions. Lyrics quoted under strangers’ selfies. Industry praise from people who ignored you six months ago. Fans crying in parking lots. Fans screaming your name outside radio stations. Think pieces trying to explain pain you barely understood while writing it.
The tour sells out in under an hour. Three more cities are added.
24 dates. 6 weeks. Twelve cities.
Your manager cries on speakerphone.
Tara screams so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear.
Sasha, sitting cross-legged on your kitchen counter eating dry cereal straight from the box, says: “Cute. You still need therapy.”
You throw a dirty napkin at her.
Because everyone’s celebrating.
Because that’s easier.
—
Your first city—San Francisco.
Home-state energy.
The line wraps around the block before doors.
Fans screaming when your sprinter pulls up. Phones in the air. Signs with lyrics from leaks you forgot existed.
Backstage, you feel weirdly calm. Too calm.
At first it’s just movement. Crew. Voices. Someone calling your name from across the hall. Sasha tying her boot on the couch like she owns the place, “You nervous?”
“No.”
“That’s worse.”
You ignore her. Most of your friends were here; Sasha, Tara, Quen, Manon, and Megan.
You see her before stage call.
Not at first.
Then your eyes catch on something that doesn’t belong to the chaos. Her.
Leaning against the far wall like she’s been there a while. Hoodie. Hair down. Arms crossed loose. Not trying to be seen. Not hiding either.
Just… watching.
For a second your brain doesn’t catch up. Then it does.
And everything else gets quieter.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
It comes out more neutral than you feel.
She pushes off the wall slightly, like she wasn’t waiting for you to notice.
“I didn’t want you to perform differently.”
You huff once. “Bold assumption.”
She shrugs. “You would.”
You almost argue. Don’t.
Because she’s not wrong.
“You excited?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“You look calm.”
“I am.”
She tilts her head a little. Studying you.
“That’s new.”
You almost laugh, “well calm before the storm right,” you sigh.
Because it’s not calm at all.
It’s that same quiet from New York. That same blank space where something should be.
Just dressed better.
Sasha glances between you once. Clocks everything in two seconds.
“Mhm,” she hums to herself, grabbing her phone and standing. “I’m gonna go… not be here.”
You don’t even look at her.
“Please do.”
She brushes past you, shoulder knocking yours on purpose. “Don’t black out,” she mutters under her breath.
You flip her off without turning. Megan watches the whole thing, lips twitching slightly.
“You good?” she asks.
The question lands softer than everything else. Dangerous like that.
You nod, “Yeah.”
Too fast.
She doesn’t call it out.
Just watches you a second longer like she’s deciding whether to, “Okay.”
Someone calls five-minute warning down the hall. Your body reacts before your brain does.
Shift. Reset. Mask sliding into place. Ready to move
“Hey,” she says, stopping you before you move.
You look back. She steps closer. Not touching.
Just… there.
“You’re going to be insane out there.”
You shrug. “I usually am.”
She rolls her eyes softly, “I’m serious.”
You hold her gaze for half a second too long.
“Yeah,” you say quieter. “I know.”
—
The second you hit stage, adrenaline handles everything.
Lights white-hot. Crowd rabid. Every lyric screamed back louder than you can sing it.
You become the version of yourself built for this.
Confident. Sharp. Untouchable.
Every lyric lands. Every movement hits.
They scream like you’re something solid. Like you belong to them.
Like you believe it.
After, backstage is loud again.
People everywhere. Hands on your shoulders. Voices in your ear.
“That was insane.”
“You just leveled up.”
“Do you hear that crowd?”
You smile. Nod. Let them touch you. Play your part.
Then you see her again.
Same hallway. Same hoodie.
Different energy now.
She walks up to you without hesitation this time.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
A moment.
Then she pulls you into a hug. Manon talking with Sasha and Tara a couple paces behind you guys acting like they’re not cheering internally.
It’s quick.
But it’s real.
Warm. Grounded. Familiar in a way that catches you off guard.
“You were insane,” she says against your shoulder.
“Told you.”
“You didn’t tell me like that.”
You smile into her hair for half a second.
Then step back. She looks at you properly now.
Eyes moving over your face like she’s checking something.
“You good?” she asks again.
There it is. Same question. Different moment.
You nod, “Yeah.” You mean it more this time.
That’s the problem.
Because underneath it—
nothing lands. Not the show. Not the crowd. Not her.
She smiles anyway. Soft. Proud.
“I’m glad I came.”
That should do something. It doesn’t.
“Me too,” you say. And you mean that part.
When you come out of your dressing room she’s gone into the hallway with everyone else.
And you’re standing there with noise closing back in around you.
“Go celebrate,” someone says, clapping your shoulder.
“Yeah,” you echo.
Like you mean it.
You don’t plan to text her.
You do anyway.
you still here?
It sends before you can overthink it.
Three dots almost immediately.
Megan: yeah
congrats again ;)
You stare at it.
You: come celebrate w us
Too forward.
You send it anyway.
Another pause. Longer this time.
Megan: depends
is it gonna be annoying
You huff out a quiet laugh. Real.
You: always
But like…small annoying
Typing bubble. Stops. Starts again.
Megan: okay
That lands somewhere softer than it should.
—
The bar is low-lit. Tucked off a side street like it’s trying not to be found.
Not a scene. Not a headline.
Just a place to sit and breathe without cameras in your face.
Sasha picked it.
Of course she did.
Inside, it’s mostly your people.
Sasha already halfway through a drink she didn’t need. Tara loud enough to carry the room. Quen stealing fries off someone else’s plate.
Your team scattered in smaller clusters. Safe. Contained.
Manon and Megan walk in together and it’s like everything shifts.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
Megan spots you first.
You’re already looking.
Of course you are.
“Hey,” she says when you get close.
“Hey.”
You don’t hug.
Not right away.
Then Tara appears out of nowhere and forces one.
“Congratulations again,” Megan says when she pulls back.
“You too.”
There’s that rhythm again.
Too clean. Too careful.
“Drinks?” you ask.
“Yeah.”
It settles easier than you expect.
Conversation flowing around you instead of through you.
Laughter. Stories from the show. Sasha making fun of your set like she wasn’t just backstage hyping you five hours ago.
Megan fits into it naturally.
She always does. That almost makes it worse.
You don’t realize how long you’ve been watching her until she glances over and catches you.
Raises an eyebrow slightly. You look away first.
“Come outside,” you say a few minutes later, quieter.
Not a question. She follows.
The patio is empty. String lights overhead. City noise softened by distance.
Cool air cutting through the leftover heat of the venue.
For a second, neither of you says anything. Just standing there. Close enough to matter.
“You killed it tonight,” she says finally.
“You said that already.”
“I meant it both times.”
You nod. Look out at nothing.
“I didn’t think you were gonna come,” you admit.
She leans back against the railing, “I didn’t either.”
“Then why did you?”
A small shrug, “Felt like I should.”
That lands weird. Not bad. Just… not what you were hoping for.
“Good show though,” she adds.
You huff quietly. “Thank you.”
Silence again.
Not uncomfortable.
Just… full.
“Can I ask you something,” you say.
She nods immediately. “Always.”
You grip the railing a little tighter. Don’t look at her yet.
“Were you—” you start. Stop. Reset.
“Were you actually with him.”
There it is. Out.
She doesn’t play dumb. Doesn’t dodge.
“Jonah?”
You nod like it’s nothing.
Hands in your pockets so she doesn’t see them tense.
A second passes.
Two.
“No,” she says simply.
You look up.Search her face like you’ll catch something she didn’t say.
You don’t.
“It just looked—” you start.
“I know what it looked like,” Her tone isn’t defensive.
Just… aware.
“We were leaving the same place,” she continues. “He talks to everyone like that.”
You huff once. “You’re not everyone.”
That almost makes her smile.
“I wasn’t with him,” she says again, softer now.
Then, after a second: “But even if I was… you don’t get to spiral instead of asking me.”
That hits clean. No cushion.
You nod, “Yeah.”
Silence again.
“I didn’t know if I could ask,” you admit. It comes out quieter than you meant.
Her expression shifts slightly. Not hurt. Not surprised.
Just… something that understands more than you want her to.
“You can,” she says certain.
But your brain doesn’t accept it that easily.
Why would she make it that easy.
Why is she being this patient.
You sound insecure right now.
She’s going to get tired of this.
You swallow. Look away. “Sorry,” you mutter.
She frowns immediately, “For what.”
“For… all of it,” You gesture vaguely between you.
“I don’t know,” you say, quieter now. “It just—” You stop.
Because finishing that sentence feels like giving too much away. She waits.
Doesn’t fill it for you.
“It was stupid,” you settle on. “I don’t even know why I cared.”
That’s not true. You both know it.
“You cared because you like me,” she says, “and I care that you care.”
You laugh under your breath, “Crazy concept.”
“I mean it,” she adds. “That’s not something to be embarrassed about.”
You look at her then. Really look.
“I’m not embarrassed,” you say taking a breath, “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it.”
There. Closer to honest.
She softens just enough.
“You don’t have to do anything with it right now.”
That should help.
Instead—
right now.
Your brain catches on it immediately.
Right now means temporary.
Right now means this could change.
Right now means she’s already thinking ahead.
You nod anyway, “yeah.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I do.” Too fast.
She watches you for a second longer. “I like you,” she says. Simple. No performance.
Your chest tightens.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
That should land. That should fix something. That should quiet whatever’s been wrong all night.
It doesn’t.
You swallow. Look away.
“Yeah,” you say.And you hate how small it sounds.
A pause.
“You’ve been… different,” she says carefully.
You huff. “That’s one way to put it.”
“I can tell you’re trying,” she adds.
That one hits. Harder than anything else.
Trying. Like it’s visible. Like you’re not doing a good enough job hiding it.
“Am I doing it badly?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
She frowns slightly, “No.”
A beat. “You’re just… not used to letting things be simple.”
You almost laugh. Because that’s too accurate.
“Yeah,” you mutter.
Silence again. But it feels different now.
Closer. More honest.
“You could’ve told me you were coming,” you say after a second.
She shrugs.
“You could’ve told me how you felt about the picture.”
Fair.
You glance at her. She’s smiling a little.
Not teasing. Just… there.
For a second it feels like before.
Easy. Uncomplicated.
Like the version of you from a few weeks ago could just step back in and pick this up without overthinking it.
You step a little closer.
Not touching. Just closing space.
She doesn’t move away.
“You staying long?” you ask.
“Not too long.”
You nod.
—
There’s a moment.
Small. Fragile. Where it could turn into something more.
You don’t take it. Neither does she.
From inside, Tara’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“IF YOU TWO ARE HAVING A MOMENT I NEED TO KNOW SO I CAN DRINK ABOUT IT.”
You both laugh.
Breaks it clean.
“Your friends are insane,” she says.
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“They like you though.”
She smiles softly, “I like them too.”
You look at her again.
And this time—
you don’t look away first.
“Come back inside,” you say.
She nods.
The night stays easy after that. Laughter. Drinks. Sasha making fun of you. Manon watching like she knows something no one else does.
Megan beside you more often than not.
Close enough to feel familiar.
Not close enough to mean anything yet.
When she leaves, it’s quiet.
A quick hug.
“Text me when you get back,” you say.
“I will.” She does.
And for a second—
standing outside the bar after everyone’s gone—
you let yourself believe it went well.
You got what you wanted.
You talked. She understood. She stayed.
So why—
why did none of it stick
The feeling creeps back in slow.
Same as before. Same as the VMAs.
Same as the bathroom mirror.
You got exactly what you thought you needed.
And somehow—
it made you feel worse.
—
The next city is Seattle.
Rain all day.
Gray city. Gray sky. Gray mood.
You wake up without going to sleep
You’re irritated before speaking to anyone.
Coffee tastes wrong. The hotel pillows offend you.
Soundcheck feels too loud.
A lighting assistant asks if you want the back screens warmer toned and you answer like he keyed your car.
He blinks. You immediately feel bad.
Sasha watches from side stage with crossed arms, “Apologize.”
“I said no worries.”
“You said it like a mob boss.”
You glare. She glares back harder.
You apologize.
Onstage, flawless.
Offstage, worse.
You slam a dressing room door hard enough to rattle the hinges.
Sasha opens it two seconds later, “Embarrassing.”
Your throat constricts, “Get out.”
“No.”
She tosses you a water bottle. You drink it because she knows you will.
—
The third city — New Orleans
The city gives you everything.
Heat in the air. Music in the streets. Fans dancing in line before doors even open.
The show is electric.
Sweat-soaked. Loud. Alive.
You grin onstage without forcing it for the first time this run.
Sasha watches from the wing and mouths:
There she is.
Then it ends.
Back in the hotel room, still sticky with stage sweat, the emptiness hits so hard it almost feels physical.
You sit at the edge of the bed fully dressed.
Don’t move for an hour.
Phone in hand. Megan posted rehearsal footage.
You watch it four times with the sound off.
Almost text: miss when this was easy
Delete it. There’s a knock.
No answer from you, so Sasha uses her key.
She takes one look at the untouched room service tray and your shoes still on.
“Jesus.”
“Can you leave.”
“No, ”She sits on the couch against the wall.
Doesn’t talk. Just stays.
You cry while pretending you’re not.
She pretends not to notice.
That kindness almost makes it worse
—
By the fourth city — Atlanta.
Your body starts to warn you early now.
Cold hands during glam. Tight chest in rehearsal. Can’t finish lunch.
“Are you sick?” your manager asks.
“No.”
“Then why do you look hunted?”
You shrug. Because saying I think my nervous system hates success sounds ridiculous aloud.
Five minutes before stage call you’re in a hallway trying to breathe discreetly.
Sasha catches you counting under your breath.
She walks over, takes the water from your hand, sets it down, “Look at me.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re counting.”
“So?”
“You only count when you think you’re dying.”
Silence. That one lands because it’s true.
She lowers her voice, “You are not dying in Atlanta.”
“Comforting.”
“I’m serious.”
You hate how much it helps.
—
You’re already dreading Chicago.
The city itself isn’t the issue. Memory is.
The skyline appears through the bus window and your stomach drops before you can stop it.
Glass. Steel. That same stupid curve of buildings you’d recognize anywhere.
Your chest tightens like your body got there before you did.
Too much happened here. Too much almost happened here.
You look away from the window like that’ll fix it. It doesn’t.
By soundcheck, you’re off.
Not visibly. Not enough for anyone to call it out.
But everything feels… half a second delayed.
Voices don’t land right. Lights feel too bright and too far away at the same time.
You forget lyrics you’ve known for months. Laugh it off. No one clocks it.
Sasha does. Of course she does.
She doesn’t say anything yet.
Just watches.
By doors, your hands won’t stay still.
You shove them in your pockets. Take them out. Crack your knuckles. Repeat.
There’s a low hum under your skin.
Not panic yet. Just the warning.
You hate the warning more than the thing itself.
By stage call—
You don’t make it.
You’re bent over a backstage trash can before anyone can stop you.
Violent. Sudden. Nothing graceful about it.
Security turns away like they’ve been trained for this exact moment.
Someone hands you a towel. You don’t take it. Your whole body is shaking now.
“Jesus,” you hear distantly. A hand at the back of your neck.
Firm. Familiar.
Sasha.
“This again,” she mutters.
“Please don’t narrate,” you choke out.
“You need water.”
“Death would be better.”
“Dramatic.”
She pulls your hair back anyway.
You spit. Rinse. Spit again. Your eyes are watering. Not from emotion.
You think.
You look up.
There’s an assistant pretending to check her phone two feet away. Mascara smudged. Trying not to see you like this.
“Cool,” you say hoarsely. “Love this.”
Sasha doesn’t laugh. She grabs your jaw—gentle, but not optional, “Hey.”
You blink.
“Hey,” she repeats. You focus. Barely.
“You’re here,” she says. Slow. Grounded, “Not anywhere else.”
Chicago hums in your chest anyway.
Too loud.Too close.
“You hear me?”
“…yeah.”
Lie.
She softens just slightly.
“I know your mind is working against you right now.”
That—
That almost breaks you more than the vomiting did.
Because she remembers. Because you don’t have to explain it.
Because she’s not asking you to.
Your throat tightens. You nod like that’s enough.
It’s not.
You go onstage six minutes late.
No one knows. No one ever knows.
The second the lights hit, the crowd erupts like you were never gone.
Like you’re something solid. Like you’re not actively trying to hold your body together.
You perform.
Perfectly. You hit every mark. Say every line. Smile at the right moments.
It feels like watching yourself from three feet behind your own eyes.
Second night is worse.
Of course it is.
Word got out where you’d be leaving. Over six hundred kids outside. Chanting your name like it means something.
You wave on your way to the SUV.
Hands brushing theirs.
Phones everywhere. Someone crying. Someone screaming they love you.
You smile. You nod. You play it right.
Then the door shuts.
Tint goes up.
Silence.
Your smile drops so fast it almost hurts your face. You lean your head back against the seat.
Close your eyes. Nothing. Still nothing.
Chicago sits in your chest the entire drive.
Doesn’t leave when you get to the hotel. Doesn’t leave when you shower. Doesn’t leave when you lie down.
Doesn’t leave when you board the next flight.
—
When you reach New York for the next show. You question if you can make it for the next 12.
Press all day.
Morning radio. Afternoon interviews. Surprise appearance. Photos. Dinner with executives who speak in percentages.
By venue call, you’re stripped raw.
Your phone buzzes mid-change.
You almost ignore it.
Don’t.
You flip it over.
Megan.
Your chest does something immediate. Annoying.
Megan: Chicago looked great!
Good luck tonight <3
You stare at it longer than you should.
Read it once. Twice.
Her name at the top. Casual. Easy.
Like nothing’s wrong.
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Type:
thanks
Delete.
Type:
you would’ve hated it
Delete.
Type:
miss you
You stare at that one. Too honest. Too late.
Delete.
You lock the phone.
Unlock it again immediately.
Read the message again like it might change.
Chicago looked great.
You picture her watching clips. Clean ones. Edited ones.
The version where you look untouchable.
Not the version bent over a trash can five minutes before stage.
Not the version who couldn’t breathe in a dressing room three cities ago.
Good luck tonight <3
That stupid heart.
Soft. Easy.
Like she’s still right there. Like you could just—
You don’t answer.
Not because you don’t want to.
Because you don’t know how to answer without it turning into something.
And you don’t trust yourself to hold that right now.
Too many people already have pieces of you today. Too many conversations. Too many hands. Too many expectations.
You don’t have anything left that feels real enough to give her.
So you leave it. Screen goes dark.
Her name disappears. But the feeling doesn’t.
It lingers.
Same as everything else.
Half-finished.
You didn’t answer.
Too many people touched your energy today. Too many smiles borrowed your face.
—
Backstage is chaos pretending to be control.
Stylists moving too fast. Voices overlapping. Someone asking about your in-ears. Someone else fixing your chain.
Hands everywhere. Too many hands.
Your skin feels wrong.
Like it doesn’t belong to you.
You nod when people talk.
Say “yeah” at the right times.
You don’t know what you’re agreeing to.
Eventually,y our vision shifts.
Subtle at first.
Like someone turned the saturation down on the room.
Edges blur. Sound stretches.
Someone laughs across the room and it echoes too long.
You blink. It doesn’t fix.
Your heart starts beating wrong.
Too fast. Too hard.
Like it’s trying to leave.
You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth.
Ground. Ground.
Doesn’t work.
“I can’t breathe.”
It comes out quiet. Lost under everything else.
No one hears you.
“I can’t breathe.”
Still nothing.
Your hands go numb. Fingers tingling.
You flex them. Nothing changes.
Your chest tightens further.
Like a belt pulled too far.
No space. No air.
You try to inhale deeper—
It stops halfway.
Like your body forgot how.
Your vision tunnels. The room pulls back. People blur into shapes. Noise turns into static.
You’re standing but it doesn’t feel like standing.
More like—
hovering.
Wrong. Everything is wrong.
“I can’t—”
You don’t finish it.
Because you don’t know what you can’t.
Breathe. Think. Stay upright.
All of it.
Sasha turns.
Instant. Like she felt it before she saw it.
One look at you—
and all the joking leaves her face.
Gone. She’s seen this before. Not here.
Years ago.
High school bathroom floor. Parking lot after prom. Your bedroom—door locked—after your ex said loving girls was disgusting and then kissed you anyway.
Same look. Same panic. Same you.
“Everybody out.”
Her voice cuts clean through the room.
Sharp. Not loud. Just final. People freeze.
“Now.”
They move. Fast. Door shuts.
Silence crashes in.
You’re crouched before you remember deciding to crouch.
Back against the wall. Hands gripping your own knees like you’re trying to hold yourself together.
Air still won’t come in right.
Your chest burns. Your head feels too light. Too far away.
“I’m gonna pass out,” you say.
It comes out thin.
Young.
Seventeen.
Sasha is in front of you immediately. Kneeling.
Close enough to block everything else out.
“Look at me.”
You shake your head. You can’t.
If you look at her, this becomes real.
“Look at me.” Softer. But not optional.
You force your eyes up. Barely.
“There you are,” she says.
Like she found you somewhere.
“I can’t do this.”
There it is. The sentence. The same one.
Every time.
Her jaw tightens.
“Yeah, you can.”
“I can’t.”
“You can be scared and still walk.”
Tears hit before you can stop them.
Hot. Fast. Embarrassing.
“I’m losing it.”
“No.”
Firm. Grounded.
“You’re having a panic attack.”
You shake your head anyway. Feels like dying. Feels worse than dying.
“You are not dying,” she says.
Your chest disagrees. Your body disagrees. Everything in you disagrees.
“You’re overwhelmed. Different thing.” Her hands grab yours.
Cold against yours. Real.
“Breathe ugly,” she says. “I don’t care what it looks like.”
You try.
It catches.
Breaks.
Comes back uneven.
Wrong.
She doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch.
Just—
stays.
“Again.”
In for four.
You miss it.
“Again.”
In for four.
Out for six.
Your chest fights it.
“Again.”
Her voice doesn’t change.
Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t panic.
So you follow it.
Because it’s the only stable thing in the room.
Outside the door, noise creeps back.
Muffled. Distant.
Doesn’t matter.
Inside—
it’s just you and her. And the feeling slowly loosening its grip.
Not gone.
Just less.
Your breathing stutters into something usable.
Your hands stop shaking as violently.
Your vision comes back in pieces.
Edges first.
Then color.
Then people-shaped things again.
She wipes under your eyes with her thumbs.
Quick. Careful. Like you’re still seventeen and furious about being seen like this.
“I watched this happen once already,” she says quietly.
You swallow.
“I’m not watching it happen again.”
That lands. Deep. Clean.
Painful in a different way.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Two minutes.”
Of course there is.
You laugh once. Broken.
“Cool.”
Twenty minutes late—
you still go on.
Because of course you do.
Lights hit. Crowd erupts. Phones up.
They think they’re watching a star walk onstage.
Confident. Untouchable. Unbreakable.
Only Sasha knows she just dragged you there by the hand.
—
Later, hotel suite dark.
No afterparty.
No drinks.
You sit on the floor against the bed while city lights pulse through the windows.
Sasha is across from you in silence, stealing almonds from the minibar.
Neither of you speaks for a while.
Then:
“You need help,” she says.
Not mean. Not dramatic. Just true.
You stare at the carpet, “I know.”
She nods once, “Good. Because I know what you look like when you don’t make it out.”
Your throat tightens. She tosses an almond at your forehead.
“And I’m too old to babysit a pop star.”
You laugh despite yourself.
First real laugh all week. Then cry right after.
She stays for that too.
You don’t sleep.
Not really.
You lie there with your eyes closed long enough to pretend.
City still moving outside. Light bleeding through the curtains in slow shifts.
Your phone lights up once on the nightstand.
You don’t check it.
Don’t want to know if it’s her.
Don’t want to know if it’s not.
Your body feels wrung out. Like something burned through you earlier and left nothing behind.
No adrenaline. No pride. No relief.
Just… quiet.
The same quiet from New York.From San Francisco. From every room you’ve stood in lately after people stop looking at you.
You turn onto your side.
Pull the blanket up even though you’re not cold.
Sasha’s asleep on the pull out across the room. TV still on low. Some late-night rerun talking to itself.
You stare at the ceiling.
You need help
It replays.
You know. That’s the problem.
You know exactly what this is starting to look like.
You’ve seen it before. Felt it before. Let it get worse before.
Your chest tightens—not panic this time. Something quieter.
More dangerous.
Because this version doesn’t feel urgent. It feels… normal.
Manageable.
Like something you can keep performing through.
You close your eyes. Tell yourself you’ll deal with it after the tour.
synopsis: old habits always return when you and megan are together
pairing: megan skiendiel x masc!reader
genre: NSFW !!!
warnings: minors DTI, mention of underage drinking, swearing, fingering, munch, strap, edge (m receiving), dom!r, bottom!r (for a second), dom!m (for a second) bottom!m, dirty things, pure smut, literally barely a plot
an: first time writing smut, pls be gentle w me. also i listened to the song “make out” by the greeting committee while writing this. and NOT proofread.
———————————————————————
megan was nothing like the girl you met back home in hawaii. that megan was weird. like strangely–genuinely something was wrong with her. but you still loved her, because how could you not? you loved the silly jokes she made. the games she’d spend hours begging you to join her on. the random dances she learned in class. the various different commercial sets she went to over the weekend.
but the megan that stood before you now was different—the one that debuted into katseye was almost unrecognizable from the girl you knew back home. this megan was confident. she didn’t cower away from the spotlight. she didn’t hide behind her humor anymore. she relished in the attention the spotlight handed her. allowing herself to understand herself in a new way.
“do you want me?”
megan laid across your hotel bed. she wore fishnets, high heels, a small black tank top and a skirt that didn’t hide much from the eye, silver outlining calling attention to your eye. her pink bangs grown out. her mouth slightly open.
“w-what?” you asked with a soft chuckle. your hand rubbed behind your neck as you blushed profusely. “like old times…” megan dragged one of her hands up her leg. your eyes trailed her movements as your lips began to part, your mouth hanging open.
the old times megan was referring to the sleepovers you had over the course of your senior year of high school. it was before megan moved to LA to begin her dream academy work. it was routine, megan would convince her parents to let her sleepover, and you would supply the alcohol—curtesy of your older brother. then the pair of you would lock yourselves in your bedroom, talk blindly about anything, watch movies, etc. but one night was different than the rest, changing your dynamic forever.
“have you ever kissed anyone?” megan asked blindly into the air as she sipped from the glass bottle of smirnoff. first, you blushed. second, you consumed about half of your own bottle. you shook your head as you lifted the bottle back up to your lips. “nope.” you muttered and took another large sip of the burning alcohol.
“practice on me.” megan boldly spoke, moving onto her knees, her bottle placed somewhere on your nightstand. she even reached for yours, and placed it on the other side. then her hands rested on her thighs, staring at you expectantly.
“mei…” your voice sounded almost like a whimper as she crawled closer to you. her black strands of hair fell slightly in front of her face. that look of hunger and lust covered her eyes, her brown orbs dilated.
“if we practice, it’ll help us out in the future.” megan reasoned, though she did NOT have to convince you very much. the chinese girl moved even closer, a slight hesitation in her movements as she moved to straddle you. you didn’t even realize your head began to nod as she climbed on top of you. her legs on each side of you. your hands hovered over her body.
“you can touch me.” megan nodded as she guided your hands to her waist. she firmly placed your hands against her jeans. you gazed up into her eyes, noticing the freckles that littered her face. megan was slightly higher than you, her hair falling into strands in front of her face, framing her in the most beautiful way.
that was the first time you saw the confidence that hid under megan’s skin, an alternate ego you liked to call it.
—
“i’m waiting.” megan’s voice rang through your ears—carrying yourself out of the daydream.
“let’s just make out.” megan mumbled, her fingers undoing the belt of her heels. she flung them across the room. her eyes were locked on yours. “we can’t do that meg.” you shook your head as you stepped back, half an inch at a time.
“so? what’s the harm now?” megan wore a devious smirk across her face. similar to a predator stalking their prey. megan took steps toward you, carrying herself in a way that you’ve seen only a few times before.
“not like we haven’t done it before.”
“you know that we won’t just make out” you explained as you looked down, avoiding eye contact with the girl opposite of you. megan’s manicured nails ran down the front of your chest. her finger caught in the button as she played with the accessory. she looked up at you, her eyes hooded and dark—full of hunger.
“there’s no harm in that.” megan mumbled. her face moved closer to yours, breath hitting your lips. both of your mouths parted. her eyes snapped from your lips back to your pupils. yours followed in suit. the tension pulled like a string for a tightrope. after holding back for as long as she could, megan moved forward. your lips blended together. smoothly moving. like both of you knew exactly where to move your lips. the kiss was soft at first.
but as your hand reached to megan’s waist, her body began to grind against yours. her body moved fluidly. your fingers laced themselves tightly around her skirt’s belt loops. megan’s hand reached up to your hair, combing through the baby hairs on your neck. her hands moved messily through your short hair.
“ah, fuck.” you muttered lowly, head pulling back the slightest bit. it was barely above a whisper. you didn’t even think megan heard you. but of course, her smirk grew wider. megan began leading you backwards to land onto the hotel bed. you landed, back first and megan crawled closer to you. you became consumed by nothing but megan. her body moved frivolously against yours. her legs swung around your lap, straddling you. her perfume filled with citrus filled your nose.
“i’ve missed you.” megan mumbled against her skin as her teeth scrapped your neck. “mhm.” you moaned out as she began to suck your neck, placing variations of kisses and tongue swipes to the sensitive skin. your hands began moved up and down on her ass, even grabbing at the body part when needing to.
“have you missed me?” megan pulled back. that delicious smirk she wore around you frequently made an appearance. her tone was seductive as she played with the buttons on your shirt again. her grinds against you beginning to slow down.
“say you missed me yn.” megan pulled on a hair at the back of your neck, forcing you to look up at her. “of course i’ve fucking missed you megan.” you mumbled, pulling her closer to your body—if even possible. “i’ve missed everything about you.” you added, your hands moving to her skirt, playing with the metal pieces that hung from the leather piece.
“your laugh.” you placed a kiss on her cheek. “your smile.” then her forehead. “the way you beg for more when i tease you just a little too much.” your lips hovered near her ear, making sure she could feel every syllable in the way you spoke. “the sounds of your pretty little moans when i hit the perfect spot” megan shivered just the slightest bit. but you caught it. you even caught the soft whimper that left her lips. “i miss it all.” you pulled back, that dumb dazed out face grew onto megan’s face.
“but i do think you have forgotten your place in all this, mei.” you added, fingers tightening around the belt, as you lifted it just an inch higher. you pulled megan so she laid beneath you as you took charge. you hovered over her, megan’s legs instinctively wrapped around your body.
“i’m the one in control baby.” you muttered as you leaned down to kiss megan. your lips moved harshly against each other. it was like the pair of you were starving and the only food left was each other. megan’s hips bucked wildly against yours, trying to find some sort of release for her discomfort.
“slow down mei mei.” you muttered as you pulled away. your eyes drifted to below you, megan’s hips moving against yours. “we have all night.” you added, your free hand moving to caress her face. megan leaned into the touch, a desperate moan leaving her mouth—essentially begging for more. “more yn please.” megan begged, eyes blown and lips swollen.
“okay baby.” you caved and pulled back. your hands raked megan’s thighs, slowly teasing her. you pulled at her skirt, releasing the different buckles on the clothing item. her legs were just left in the fishnets as she moved around, trying to find some sort of release. you sat back, hand moving over the patterned fabric of the fishnets, your eyes traveling form her legs up to her face. megan’s head was leaned forward, watching your every move as she waited for you to move—anywhere. “i know, baby.” you muttered as you pulled at the fishnets, sliding them off of her legs.
and megan laid, bare, just her tank top and underwear on her body. her underwear slick on her body, core dripping from anticipation.
you smirked very faintly and approached her core slowly. you placed featherlight kisses on her thighs as you worked your way up. megan’s hands drifted to your head, taking her fingers through your hair. she tried pulling you closer, to the spot where she needed you most but you fought it. you worked closer and closer to her core, before finally, you placed the softest kiss to her covered pussy. a loud moan left megan’s mouth, her torso moving forward, almost curving into the shape of a ball.
you decided, enough teasing. you pulled her underwear off in one swift move before you went to town. your tongue made swipes, and you mouth made movements. you began to eat megan out like she was your last meal, like she was the only food left on a deserted island. loud moans left megan’s lips as she thrashed against you. megan was always so sensitive to your mouth, especially down there.
“fuck. yn!” megan screamed out, clearly not caring about the neighboring hotel rooms. “i’m—“ as soon as you recognized the word you pulled away, leaving megan in a state of edge. when you pulled back you saw megan’s face, the look of disbelief mixed with pure anger. you laughed in her face, and megan’s eyes softened. you softened immediately at the look on megan’s face.
“i’m sorry baby.” you mumbled, hand reaching up to softly touch megan’s cheek, she leaned into your touch. “let me make it up to you.”
“no more teasing.” megan practically begged. “no more teasing.” you confirmed and kissed megan’s lips. megan deepened the kiss, pulling you in tighter to her, she grinded her body against yours as you ended up between her legs again.
your tongues moved against each other, exploring like it was a new adventure. both of your hands moved around her body, groping at different areas. her waist. her ass. her boobs. everything was fair game.
“care for an old friend?” you asked as you pulled away with a hungry smirk. megan’s eyebrows furrowed as you moved away from her, going over to your luggage. you dug through your belongings and found it—the purple strap that the pair of you bought together during your frequent hook up period.
lust grew in megan’s eyes as you approached, the extra appendage attached to your waist. you smiled as you looked at megan’s face, full of so much anticipation.
“ready?” you asked as you stood at the edge of the bed. megan’s legs wide open and ready. her tank top that she wore previously, now thrown somewhere across the room. megan nodded, fearful that her voice would crack under pressure. you smirked at the motion.
you inserted the strap into megan. she moaned at the new feeling. her arms reaching for you, trying to calm herself by your touch. “fuck.” she whimpered into your ear as she pulled you even closer, your skin touching, chest to chest. as soon as you felt megan begin to move you went to work. you pulled back, thrusting into megan. the noises she let out were lewd, unable to control herself. your hand moved to her breast, you moved your finger around her nipple, tracing the spot for a reaction. megan moaned louder, her body moving against yours, matching your thrusts each time.
“fuck.” you mumbled. the toy hitting your core at the right spot. your hips faltered slightly, but you regained composure and continued. megan was a moaning mess beneath you, not even spewing real words, just mindless babbles of your name and curse words.
“yn. yn. im—“ the girl couldn’t even finish her sentence as your pace became un relentless.
“hold on for me baby, i’m almost there.” you whispered as you moaned at a quicker speed. your thighs began to burn, but you wouldn’t stop, you couldn’t. “fuck, f—“ megan reached for your torso as she pulled you tighter to her, wanting to feel the contact of your skin again.
“shit!” you moaned out as the strap hit your clit in the perfect way. your hips stalled for half a second before you pushed through, working megan closer to her release. “come for me mei.” you mumbled against the shell of her ear.
“oh fuck!” it was like megan exploded. her body convulsed as she finished. you pulled back, rubbing her clit in the way you knew she loves. the action causing her orgasm to lengthen.
two minutes passed before either of you said a word. you laid on top of megan as the both of you tried to regain your breath.
“holy shit.” megan broke the silence, her voice mumbled by your neck. “you’re so beautiful baby.” you muttered when you pulled yourself into a push-up position.
megan’s outgrown pink bangs clung to her forehead. you pushed a piece of hair that fell onto her face, sweeping it behind her ear. sweat raked both of your bodies. the room began to reek of sex.
“you know how to make a girl feel like a million bucks.” megan joked as you pulled out, she made a small noise at the end of her sentence. you handled the strap as quickly and carefully as you could. “ah my aftercare queen.” megan joked again as you came over to help clean megan off. you laughed while shaking your head as you tended to megan’s body.
“always.” you muttered and kissed megan’s forehead as you got into bed with her. you pulled the blanket over yourselves as you wrapped an arm around her waist.
—
an: GUYS!!!! THANJ YOU FOR A 100 FOLLOWERS HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT
Summary: The pair are left in the aftermath of honesty and facing one another at the VMAs.
Prev ch. | next ch.
Morning comes anyway.
Too bright. Too clean. Too early for what sits in your chest.
You wake up half-dressed on top of the sheets, one sock missing, hoodie twisted under your shoulder. Mouth dry. Head not pounding exactly—just thick. Heavy in that dull way sleep doesn’t fix.
For a second, there’s nothing. Then memory comes back in flashes.
Balcony rail cold under your hands.
Her arms around you. Your face in her neck.
I like you, y/n.You don’t get to bleed on me because someone else cut you.Figure it out.
You close your eyes again immediately.
Coward.
The room is quiet enough to hear the AC kick on.
Your phone is face down on the nightstand. DND still on.
You leave it there longer than necessary.
Eventually you sit up. Rub both hands over your face. Stand. Regret standing for half a second. Keep moving anyway.
Bathroom light too harsh.
You brush your teeth staring at yourself like you’re someone you vaguely know. Shower too hot. Let it hit the back of your neck until the mirror fogs over.
Doesn’t help.
By the time you get downstairs, the house smells like coffee
Sasha is already in the kitchen in yesterday’s clothes, hair tied up badly, sunglasses on indoors like she’s hiding from herself.
There’s a bottle of water and two ibuprofen set on the counter beside your mug.
You glance at them. Then at her. She doesn’t look up right away.
“…Morning,” she says.
“Morning.”
A beat.
“You need anything?”
The question is careful. Too careful for Sasha.
You reach for the mug. “I’m good.”
Both of you know that’s bullshit.
She nods anyway. Picks at a piece of toast she clearly doesn’t want.
“I was drunk,” she says after a minute.
You lean against the counter. “Okay.”
“I shouldn’t have said it like that.”
You stare into your coffee. The worst part is she wasn’t entirely wrong.
“You said what you said.”
Sasha winces slightly at that.
“I know.”
Silence settles again. Normally she’d fill it. Joke. Fight. Throw something dramatic at your head.
Today she just grabs her keys.
“Ima head home,” she mutters.
You nod once.
At the door she pauses.
“She likes you, you know.”
You don’t ask who. You don’t have to.
The door shuts before you answer. The kitchen feels bigger after she leaves.
You unlock your phone.
Groupchat (27)
Tara: WHO THREW UP IN THE PLANTER LMFAOOO Odessa: not me spiritually yes physically no
Billie: all of u are embarrassing Quen: who stole my sunglasses
Tara: whose dog was that
Billie: there was no dog
Tara: then explain the memory
You scroll.
No mention of Sasha. No mention of you leaving.
And no knowledge of the balcony.
That silence feels coordinated somehow.
Your thumb hovers over Megan’s name before you can think better of it.
Chat already open.
Last message from days ago.
No text after the balcony at all.
Just memory.
You lock the phone. Unlock it again thirty seconds later.
Type. hey. sorry about last night.
Delete it.
Type again.
hey. sorry if i was a mess last night. i know that was a lot. thank you for being there. and for being honest.
You stare at it long enough to reconsider.
Phone down immediately.
You pace to the sink. Rinse a clean glass that doesn’t need rinsing. Drink water you don’t want.
Buzz.
Too fast.
You turn the phone over.
Megan: you don’t need to apologize for having feelings
A pause. Typing bubble appears. Disappears.
just mean what you say next time
Another beat.
hope you’re okay today
You read it three times.
Kind. Warm, even.
And somehow still far enough away to make your chest tighten.
You: yeah. i’m good
You too.
Nothing after that.
Of course.
You toss the phone onto the counter harder than necessary.
Coffee’s gone cold.
You drink it anyway.
This is probably for the best. The thought arrives smooth. Familiar.
You can’t do intensity anyway. Things were getting weird.
Too close. Too fast.
Now there’s space again. Room to breathe.
So why does it feel like something got taken from you instead of fixed?
You pick your phone back up. Open the chat.
Type:
what are you doing later
Stare at it.
Then delete every word. Set the phone face down.
Tell yourself space is maturity. Tell yourself distance is healthy. Tell yourself a lot of things while standing alone in your kitchen.
—
On Megan’s side. She woke up before her alarm.
Not suddenly. Not dramatically.
Just eyes open to a room still gray with early light, mind already moving before her body does.
For a second she lies there, staring at the ceiling.
Then it hits in order.
The balcony.
Your face pressed into her neck.
The way you shook once when you were trying not to cry.
Your hands at her waist.
I hate how much I want it. Figure it out.
She rolls onto her side and reaches for her phone before she can stop herself.
Nothing from you. Of course.
She drops the phone back onto the mattress and closes her eyes.
That shouldn’t bother her. It does anyway.
By eight-thirty she’s in the kitchen barefoot, oversized tee hanging off one shoulder, making coffee she barely tastes.
Sophia is already there at the counter eating fruit straight from the container.
She glances up once.
“You look thoughtful.”
“I look tired.”
“You look like you lost an argument in your head.”
Megan opens a cabinet just to do something with her hands.
“I’m fine,” Sophia hums.
That means liar. Megan ignores it.
She doesn’t mean to check your chat again.
She does it three times before ten.
Nothing new.
Then finally—
Your name.
Her stomach drops in a way she immediately resents.
She opens it too fast.
You: hey. sorry if i was a mess last night. i know that was a lot. thank you for being there. and for being honest.
Megan reads it once.
Then again slower.
Then sets the phone down face up on the counter like distance from it will help.
Sophia watches the whole thing.
“Well?”
Megan exhales through her nose.
“She apologized.”
Sophia waits.
“And?”
“And nothing.”
That’s clearly not nothing.”
Megan picks the phone back up. Because it isn’t nothing.
It’s you reaching first. It’s you acknowledging something instead of pretending it never happened.
It’s also still careful. Still halfway protected. Still written like someone standing near a doorway instead of walking through it.
She types:
it’s okay <3
Deletes the heart immediately.
Too soft.
Types:
you don’t need to apologize for having feelings
Pauses. Because she wants to add:
i wanted to kiss you too. i barely slept either. i miss when this was easy. come over.
Instead she types:
just mean what you say next time
Stares at that. Too harsh?
No. True.
Then:
hope you’re okay today
She sends it before she can weaken. Sophia raises an eyebrow.
“That looked emotionally constipated.”
Megan gives her a flat look.
“It looked appropriate.”
“It looked like you wanted to say twelve other things.”
She takes her coffee and walks away.
Sophia calls after her, “Ooooh, so yes.”
—
In her room, sunlight crawling slowly across the floor, Megan sits cross-legged on the bed with her mug cooling beside her.
Your reply comes.
you too
Short. Polite. Nothing to hold.
She stares at it longer than she should.
Then tosses the phone beside her.
Disappointed lands first.
Not because you didn’t write more.
Because part of her hoped the balcony changed something immediately.
That you’d wake up clearer.
That honesty would make you brave.
Instead it’s still this.
Careful little crumbs.
She knows that’s unfair.
Growth doesn’t happen overnight.
Still.
She’s disappointed anyway.
—
By noon she’s supposed to be getting ready for a fitting.
Instead she’s scrolling upward through your chat history.
Not far enough to embarrass herself.
Just enough.
Voice notes sent at 1:14 a.m.
You calling her weird for eating fries with a fork.
A blurry photo of your dog with no context.
Her sending “come outside” and you actually doing it ten minutes later.
Random nothing conversations that somehow felt like something.
Back when replies were fast.
Back when you sounded less afraid.
She presses the phone to her thigh and looks out the window.
She misses you in the stupidest ways.
Your timing.
The way you make eye contact like a dare.
How quickly the room gets funnier when you’re in it.
How soft you got on the balcony when nobody else was there to witness it.
That one is the hardest to shake.
Because now she knows it exists.
And now she knows how quickly you hide it again.
—
Her phone lights up.
Jonah.
brunch later?
She almost laughs.
No response.
No energy.
No interest in anyone easy right now.
Which annoys her more than it should.
Because she could choose easy.
Instead she’s sitting here aching over someone complicated who might disappear the second things matter.
Embarrassing.
—
Manon calls mid-afternoon.
Megan answers on speaker while doing mascara.
“You alive?”
“Barely.”
“You’re thinking about her.”
“No, I’m doing makeup.”
“Same answer.”
Megan smiles despite herself.
Manon continues, voice lazy and sharp all at once.
“You like difficult projects too much.”
“She’s not a project.”
“No,” Manon says. “She’s wounded. Different packaging.”
Megan goes quiet.
Manon catches it instantly.
“You can care,” she says, softer now. “Just don’t confuse care with responsibility.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
A pause.
“…yes.”
Another pause.
“Okay,” Manon says. “Then stop rereading the messages.”
Megan freezes.
“How do you know I’m doing that?”
“Because you’re predictable when you’re emotional.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Love you too.”
The call ends.
Megan sets the phone down and laughs once despite herself.
Then goes still again.
Because Manon is right.
She does care.
Too much, maybe.
Enough to want to text you right now:
how are you really feeling? did you eat? come over and stop acting weird.
But she doesn’t.
Because she knows what would happen.
You’d soften into her.
She’d soothe you.
The ache would quiet for a night.
Then the fear would come back and you’d pull away again.
Cycle resumed.
No.
She refuses to become the place you run when hurting and leave when steadier.
So instead she puts her phone facedown.
Finishes her mascara.
Gets dressed.
Carries the ache properly.
Quietly.
With posture.
With standards.
And all day long, against her better judgment, she misses you anyway.
———
Despite the turmoil, your in New York; VMA’s hours away.
By six p.m., the hotel suite feels like a command center pretending to be luxury.
Steam from irons. Garment bags unzipped across couches. Makeup cases open like surgery kits. Someone from styling asking where your second chain went. Someone from management asking if you’ve reviewed your acceptance notes.
You haven’t.
You’re sitting shirtless in the makeup chair while three people orbit you with purpose.
Hair getting touched. Skin getting dabbed. Rings laid out on the counter in rows like weapons.
Your phone face down in your lap.
Tour announcement deck approved.
Speech outline approved.
Performance blocking approved.
Heart rate absolutely not approved.
“This is the biggest room you’ve done,” your manager says from somewhere behind you.
“Mhm.”
“You need to breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
Tara, already dressed and somehow eating fries in full glam, snorts from the couch.
“No, you’re vibrating.”
You flip her off in the mirror.
She smiles sweetly. “Proud of you though.”
That lands softer than expected.
You look away first.
Because the room is too full. Because if anyone gets sincere right now you might combust.
Someone clips an earpiece onto you.
Someone else fixes your collar.
Your manager crouches in front of you now, serious enough to cut through the noise.
“Listen to me,” she says. “R&B of the Year is yours unless God hates women. Smile when they say your name. Hug Tara first because camera. Thank the right people. Then announce the tour clearly.”
You blink at her.
“Normal sentence.”
She narrows her eyes.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“No jokes tonight.”
“Cruel request.”
She stands. “And stop checking your phone.”
You hadn’t realized you were.
Tara notices immediately.
“Ooooh.”
“Shut up.”
“You are sick.”
“I’m literally nominated.”
“You are literally down bad.”
You grab the nearest pillow and throw it at her.
Miss completely.
The room laughs.
Easy.
That version of you always works.
—
The venue is colder than expected.
Everything gleams too much.
Hallways lined with handlers and security and people wearing lanyards like power. Screens everywhere. Names everywhere. Cameras waiting around corners like traps.
Your stomach has been wrong since the car.
Not sick.
Just aware.
Too aware.
This is the first room of this size.
First stage like this.
First time the thing you built in bars and back rooms and small sweat-soaked venues has been dragged into bright light for everyone to inspect.
So fucking nervous because you’re so fucking seen.
You keep moving anyway. Smile for photos. Shake hands.
Let people congratulate you before anything has even happened.
Someone says they love the album teaser.
Someone says you’re a lock tonight.
Someone says tour announcement is genius.
You nod like this is normal.
Like your chest isn’t trying to escape through your ribs.
Tara walks beside you, adjusting her dress.
“You good?”
“Perfect.”
“You look like you’re about to fight a horse.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means you’re scared.”
“I’m excited.”
“Same thing on you.”
—
You see her near artist holding.
Of course you do.
Like your body knew before your eyes did.
Megan is with the girls, half-listening while Daniela talks with both hands. Lara laughing too loud at something. Sophia checking something on her phone. Manon leaning against a wall like she was born unimpressed.
And Megan—
Yeah.
Pink against cool skin. Hair down. Calm in a way that feels expensive.
She looks like she belongs here.
That annoys you instantly because you know she probably earned that ease.
Her eyes lift.
Find yours.
Pause.
Then she smiles.
Small. Polite. Familiar enough to sting.
You walk over before you can think better of it.
Because not walking over would be weirder.
Because walking over feels insane.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hey,” she says back.
Perfectly matched.
You nod toward the group. “Big night.”
“Yeah.” Her smile stays light. “You too.”
“Congrats on the nomination.”
“You too.”
You almost laugh.
It sounds like two customer service reps trapped in beautiful bodies.
Daniela thankfully fills space immediately.
“We’re stealing your trophy if you win.”
“You’d have to beat Tara in hand-to-hand combat.”
“I absolutely would,” Tara says, appearing beside you from nowhere.
Everyone laughs.
Even Megan.
You look at her too long while she does.
Then look away first.
Coward.
“So,” you say, overcompensating instantly, “you guys performing first or later?”
“Later.”
“Good slot.”
“Is it?”
“No idea.”
That gets a real laugh out of Manon. She looks between both of you once and deadpans, “This is painful.”
Lara chokes laughing.
“What?” you ask.
“You two sound like HR approved this conversation.”
Megan presses her lips together trying not to smile.
You should thank Manon for putting a knife directly in your ribs.
Instead you grin, “Always good seeing you too.”
“Likewise,” she says lazily.
Megan glances at you again. Something softer flickers there.
Then someone from staff calls her group for rehearsal staging.
Saved.
“Good luck tonight,” she says.
“You too.”
Again with the matching.
She leaves with the girls.
No touch.
No pause.
No private look over the shoulder.
Just movement.
Professional.
You stand there a second too long watching where she disappeared.
Tara bumps your shoulder.
“You are so embarrassing.”
“Shut up.”
“She likes you.”
“Helpful.”
“She’s mad at you.”
“Less helpful.”
“She still likes you though.”
You start walking.
“Please find another hobby.”
—
Performance goes by in flashes.
Blackout.
In-ear count.
First step onto stage and then white light everywhere.
Crowd louder than expected.
Camera cranes moving like predators overhead.
Then muscle memory takes over.
You become the version of yourself built for this.
Voice steady. Body loose.
Confidence sharpened into something almost holy.
Every lyric lands.
Every look timed right.
You hear the crowd react and feed off it immediately.
This part has always made sense. When you come offstage sweating and electric, people grab your shoulders.
“That was insane.”
“You killed that.”
“Monster.”
Your manager is crying for no reason.
Tara screaming into your face.
But before you answer any of them—
Your eyes scan the hallway.
Looking.
You hate yourself for it.
—
Later, when they call R&B of the Year, your table goes still.
A/n: may or may not be the last angsty chapter we'll see. mentions of internalized homophobia soo warnings of that 🫤
prev ch. | next ch.
The week moves faster after the album announcement goes live–
Nothing belongs to you anymore.
Not your phone.
Not your schedule.
Not your face.
Not even your excitement.
Everything gets split into content.
Tracklist theories.
Reaction edits.
Industry texts you pretend not to care about.
Friends suddenly remembering they know you.
Your manager saying words like momentum and window and capitalize.
Friday morning finds you in your kitchen still damp from a workout, sports bra sticking slightly to your skin, sweat cooling down your spine while the espresso machine hums beside you.
The house is too clean.
Sunlight pours through the windows like it pays rent here.
You lean against the marble counter, towel around your neck, phone pinned between shoulder and ear while your manager talks in circles.
“I’m just saying if we move the Zach Sang sit-down to Monday, it gives us more room for the Spotify rollout.”
“Mhm.”
“And Republic wants confirmation on the listening party guest list.”
“Mhm.”
“And Drake’s people followed up.”
That gets your attention. You reach for your water bottle. “About what.”
“Dinner next week. Maybe studio after.”
You unscrew the cap with one hand. “Cool.”
“Cool?” your manager repeats. “That’s all I get?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to act like this matters.”
You take a long drink first. “It does matter.”
“You’ve sounded half-dead for three days.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’ve also been out every night.”
“That’s called networking.”
“That’s called self-destruction with bottle service.”
You smirk despite yourself. From the hallway, Sasha appears in oversized sweats and one of your hoodies, hair tied up badly, grabbing a banana off the island.
“Tell her she looks insane,” your manager says through the phone.
Sasha doesn’t miss a beat. “She does. Like haunted hot.”
You flip her off without looking.
“See?” your manager says. “Even Sasha’s concerned.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“You’re coming tonight though, right?”
“To what?”
“Odessa’s friend’s birthday. Hills house. Good crowd. Be seen.”
You close your eyes briefly. Of course, “Yeah,” you say. “I’ll come by.”
“Try not to disappear.”
“No promises.”
You hang up before she can keep going.
Silence settles for half a second.
Then your phone lights up again.
groupchat (5)
Tara: TONIGHTTTTT Quen: hills party 10pm don’t be lame
Odessa: birthday behavior only
Billie: if anyone plays bad music i’m leaving
Sasha: she’s already coming unfortunately
You stare at it.
Another message immediately.
Tara: wear something stupid hot
Sasha snorts from across the kitchen. “They’re right.”
“About what.”
“You’ve been miserable all week. You need to go outside.”
“I’ve been outside.”
She gestures vaguely. “Clubs don’t count. You’ve just been drinking in dark rooms and avoiding your feelings.”
You grab your espresso. “You sound annoying before noon.”
“Mhm.” You lock your phone and toss it onto the counter harder than necessary.
The espresso tastes bitter.
The kitchen suddenly feels warmer than it did a minute ago. Tonight was supposed to be easy.
Just a party. Now it feels like something else entirely.
By 9:30, your house is louder than it needs to be.
Tara is on your bathroom counter doing liner in the mirror like she lives there. Sasha is stealing from your closet with zero shame. Music’s on low but everyone’s talking over it anyway.
You’re in your room half-dressed, staring at three different jackets like any of them matter.
“They all look the same,” Tara calls from down the hall.
“They literally don’t.”
“They literally do.”
You settle on black anyway.
Loose shirt half-buttoned. Rings. Chain. Pants that fit too well. Sunglasses even though it’s night because they buy distance when you need it.
The joint gets tucked behind your ear on instinct.
Sasha appears in the doorway, looks you over once, “Annoying.”
“Thank you.”
“I meant visually.”
“Still counts.”
10:30. You do one shot before leaving.
Then another in the car because Tara insisted.
By the time you’re winding through the hills, city lights stretched out below like spilled glass, the buzz is warm and clean.
Manageable. Exactly where you like it.
Enough to loosen everything.
Not enough to feel too much.
—
11:45. The house is impossible.
Modern glass box carved into the hillside. Music already shaking through the driveway. Valet chaos. Too many expensive cars. Too many people pretending not to notice who else is arriving.
You step out first. Bottle of tequila in one hand.
Sunglasses still on.
Joint still tucked behind your ear.
People notice immediately. They always do.
“Yo!”
“Congrats on the album!”
“Tuesday was crazy!”
“When’s the single dropping?”
Hands on shoulders. Quick hugs. Daps. Strangers speaking to you like friends because your name moved faster online this week.
You smile when required. Laugh when needed.
Keep moving.
The birthday guy, Matt, you think, finds you near the entrance already drunk enough to be emotional.
“No fucking way,” he says, grabbing you by both arms. “You came.”
“You invited me.”
“Yeah but people say that.”
You hand him the bottle. His face changes instantly.
“Are you serious?”
“Happy birthday.”
He yells loud enough to turn heads.
Sasha leans near your ear. “You love being dramatic.”
“I’m generous.”
“You’re vain.”
“Also true.”
Inside is worse. Better. Whatever.
Bodies everywhere. Open kitchen packed. Pool glowing outside through the glass. Someone dancing on furniture in the distance. DJ playing something too loud to hate properly.
More congratulations follow you in waves.
Someone pulls you into a photo. Someone asks about features. Someone asks what the album’s about.
“Money and healing,” you deadpan.
They laugh like that was a joke.
You keep walking. Riding it now.
The attention. The momentum.
The easy confidence that comes when the room wants something from you before you’ve even spoken.
This version of yourself is effortless.
Then you see her. Across the living room.
Megan.
Mid-laugh, head tipped back slightly, one hand resting on Lara’s shoulder while Daniela says something animated beside them. Manon’s there too, already clocking half the room like she’s above all of it.
Megan looks—
Yeah. Very good.
Simple cropped lace top. Low-rise jeans. Hair loose. Skin glowing in that unfair way some people get when they’re actually enjoying themselves.
Relaxed. No performance in it. Just real.
She looks happier than you expected. That part lands strange.
As if she feels it, her eyes move through the room and find yours.
Recognition.
Then something quieter.
She smiles. Small.
Not distant. Not inviting either.
Then Daniela grabs her arm mid-story and Megan looks away again.
Keeps laughing. Keeps talking.
Doesn’t rush over. Doesn’t cross the room. Doesn’t make you the center of her night.
And that—
That hits harder than it should. Sasha appears beside you with two drinks seemingly out of nowhere.
“Oof.”
“Shut up.”
“You just got humbled in 4K.”
“She said hi.”
“She smiled and kept it pushing.”
You take one of the drinks from her. Down half immediately.
Across the room, Megan laughs again at something Lara says.
Doesn’t look back this time.
The buzz in your chest shifts shape. Still warm. Just sharper now.
The first hour disappears the way house parties always do.
In fragments.
Someone handing you a drink before you finish the last one. A producer you vaguely know congratulating you too hard. Billie arriving late in a leather jacket like she was born annoyed. Odessa already barefoot for reasons no one questions.
You keep moving.
You keep talking.
You keep yourself just busy enough not to look across the room every ten seconds.
It doesn’t work.
—
Tara fixes that.
“There you are,” she says, grabbing your wrist with no warning.
“Dangerous opener.”
“Shut up and come on.”
She yanks you through the kitchen, Quen getting dragged too, protesting loudly while still following.
“Where are we going?”
“To people who matter.”
“I hate when you talk like that,” Quen mutters.
You already know before you arrive.
The group is gathered near the sunken living room.
Megan. Lara.
Sasha somehow beat you there. Odessa leaning against the back of the couch.
Adela standing polished and perfect with a drink in hand, laughing at something Manon said before Manon disappears into the next room.
And Megan—
Megan sees you coming.
Doesn’t move. Just watches.
Tara raises six shot glasses like she’s conducting an orchestra.
“Everyone shut up.”
Nobody does. But they take the glasses.
You end up directly beside Megan because of course you do.
Close enough to feel her body heat.
Not touching. Not one inch.
“Cheers to what?” Lara asks.
“To me being beautiful,” Tara says instantly.
“To the album,” Odessa corrects.
“To free liquor,” Sasha adds.
You glance sideways. Megan’s smiling into her glass.
“To bad decisions,” you say.
That gets a laugh out of her before she can hide it.
Everyone throws them back. The tequila burns clean and immediate.
Lara coughs dramatically.
Adela barely reacts. Megan winces, laughing.
You hand her the water bottle already in your other hand without thinking.
She pauses.
Takes it.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Too late. You already did.
—
After that, nobody separates exactly.
The group just shifts. Reforms.
Moves room to room like a weather pattern.
And somehow, no matter where people drift—
Megan stays near you. Not with you.
Near you. There’s a difference.
A few feet at most.
Across the kitchen island. Beside you on the patio bench.
At your shoulder while someone else tells a story.
Like gravity with boundaries.
You talk more to everyone else than to each other.
It’s almost funny.
You make Lara laugh so hard she spills her drink.
Sasha keeps interrupting everyone.
Odessa starts an argument about best album intros with strangers.
Quen disappears, reappears, disappears again.
And Adela—
Adela talks to you a lot. Too much to be accidental.
She asks about the rollout.
About producers.
About visuals.
Then somehow about tattoos.
Then about whether you’re going to some party next week.
Smooth. Strategic.
Flirty enough to blur the line.
You know exactly what it is.
Networking with lip gloss.
And honestly, under different circumstances, you’d entertain it.
You still answer easily. Smile on instinct.
Lean in when the music gets louder. Give her enough charm to keep the conversation alive.
Because that version of you is practiced. Because it costs nothing.
But your attention keeps breaking rank.
Across her shoulder. Past whoever’s talking.
Back to Megan. Every time.
Megan notices Adela too.
You know she does because each time Adela touches your arm lightly, Megan suddenly finds something fascinating somewhere else in the room.
Her drink. Her phone. The ceiling.
Anything but you.
And yet somehow—
She’s always still nearby.
—
Then come the smaller collisions. Passing each other in the hallway.
Shoulders brushing in the kitchen. Her hand reaching for ice at the same time yours does.
Fingers knocking together. Both of you pulling back too fast.
“Sorry,” she says.
“You’re good.”
Neither of you sounds normal.
Later, someone squeezes past in the crowded living room and Megan’s palm lands briefly against your bicep to steady herself.
Just a second. Barely there.
But your whole body registers it like a strike.
She removes it immediately.
Keeps talking to Daniela like nothing happened.
You need another drink after that.
—
No one says anything.
That’s the wild part.
No teasing. No comments.
No one calling it out. But everyone knows.
You catch Manon watching the space between you both like it’s television.
Sasha smirks every time she walks by.
Lara keeps looking between your faces mid-conversation like she missed context.
Even Billie, from a corner seat, ready to leave, glances up once and mutters to Tara:
“This is exhausting.”
Tara nods solemnly.
“It’s beautiful.”
—
The night thickens. Music louder now.
Bass deeper. Lights dimmer because someone messed with them or because it’s late enough not to matter.
More drinks appear from nowhere.
People stop pretending they’re leaving. Shoes come off.
Couples form in corners.
Hands settle on waists.
Bodies lean closer to hear things they don’t need repeated.
The party gets softer and messier at the same time.
The smoke circle forms the way they always do.
Naturally.
Like people can sense when the night needs to slow down for a minute.
The back patio’s crowded now. Cushioned outdoor couches, string lights overhead, city glittering below the hills like it’s part of the décor. Music still thumping from inside, muffled through glass.
Different world out here. Looser. Blurrier.
Sunglasses atop your head now. You finally pull the joint from behind your ear, inspect it, then tuck it right back.
“Saving that for character development?” Tara asks.
“Exactly.”
“You’re so committed to theatrics,” Odessa mutters.
Two blunts are already in rotation anyway, moving lazy hand to hand.
Manon beside the fire pit.
Odessa on the floor cushion.
Jake Webber here for absolutely no clear reason, laughing too hard at everything.
Tara talking with both hands like she’s being filmed.
And you—
Sunken into the corner of the couch, drink in one hand, smoke in the other, trying not to look through the glass doors.
rying and failing.
Because inside—
Megan is there somewhere. Moving through rooms. Laughing with people.
Existing too loudly in your head for someone not even next to you.
You take another hit.
Pass it left.
“Yo,” Jake says, pointing at your tucked joint. “That’s actually smart.”
“It’s called preparedness.”
“It’s called addiction,” Quen says.
“Same thing in Los Angeles,” Tara replies.
That gets a round of tired laughter.
For a minute, it feels normal.
Easy.
Then the patio door slides open.
Sasha stumbles out dramatically, drink in hand, already irritated at the concept of air.
“You two are pissing me off.”
You don’t even look at her, “Hello to you too.”
“I’m serious.”
“You usually are. That’s the issue.”
Manon shifts slightly beside you. Alert now.
Quen glances up from the blunt.
Everyone feels the temperature change but the blunts continue to rotate.
Sasha points vaguely back toward the house.
“This weird little Victorian slow burn bullshit with Megan.”
You exhale smoke through your nose, “Please never say Victorian slow burn again.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I really don’t.”
“Yes you do, “ She leans closer.
Tipsy enough to be blunt. Sober enough to mean it, “You like her.”
You shrug.
“She likes you.”
You shrug again, “That doesn’t require a panel discussion.”
Tara quietly mouths oh no to Odessa.
Manon’s eyes flick between you both.
“Sash,” Quen says carefully.
But she’s already rolling downhill.
“No, because I’m tired of watching you do this thing where someone actually cares about you and you start acting brand new.”
You laugh once. Dry.
“Dramatic.”
“Accurate.”
You finally look at her.
“Drop it.”
She should. Everyone knows she should.
Instead she doubles down, “Grow a pair.”
You shake your head, looking away, “Not tonight.”
“Then when?”
“Sasha,” This time it’s Manon.
Sharp. Warning.
Sasha ignores that too.
Because she loves hard. And sometimes people like that cut hardest, “Not everyone is your ex.”
The patio stills.
Even Jake shuts up.
Your jaw tightens.
“Sasha,” Odessa pleads a little.
But she keeps going, voice lower now, more pointed, “Not everyone thinks being gay is something to hide.”
That one hits clean.
No room to dodge it. No room to joke.
You stare straight ahead.
Silence. Heavy enough to hear the music inside through the glass.
Your throat works once before words come.
Low. Controlled.
“Cool.”
Instant regret flashes across her face.
Quen sits up.
“Nah,” she says sharply. “That was too far.”
Manon’s expression hardens.
“Way too far.”
Tara mutters, “Jesus Christ, Sasha.”
Jake quietly gets up and disappears inside like prey escaping a wildfire.
Sasha sets her drink down fast.
“I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” you say.
Your voice sounds steady enough. That almost makes it worse.
You stand.
Brush imaginary lint off your pants.
“It’s true enough, right?”
“No,” Sasha says immediately, eyes wide now. “I said it wrong.”
You nod once. Maybe to end it.
Maybe because speaking more feels dangerous.
“It’s fine.”
It isn’t. Everyone knows it isn’t.
You grab, Sasha’s drink from the table, you definitely need it more than her—Then turn toward the stairs without looking through the glass.
Without looking for Megan. Without trusting what your face looks like right now.
The door shuts behind you.
And the patio exhales only after you’re gone.
—
You push past bodies, shoulder slipping between strangers, the house too loud, too warm, too full of people who don’t notice you’re unraveling.
Billie bumps into your chest on instinct, steadying you by the shoulders.
“yo— you good?”
You swallow once. It doesn’t go down clean.
“She’s out back,” you say instead. “Sasha. She needs to go home.”
A pause. Not long. But sharp.
Billie’s face shifts the second she sees you properly“…are you okay?”
You almost say yes. It’s automatic. Muscle memory. You don’t.
“Got it,” she says instead, softer now. No push. No interrogation. Just understanding in the way only she seems to do it. “I’ll take care of it.”
You nod once, “Thanks.”
You move past her before you change your mind.
—
The balcony at the end of the hall is smaller.
Quieter. Less people think to come here.
City spreads out underneath like it doesn’t care what you’re doing up here.
You lean forward slightly on the railing. Exhale.
Nothing feels stable in your body right now. Not drunk. Not sober. Something worse in between.
Crossfaded in your feelings more than anything else.
You laugh once under your breath at that thought.
It dies immediately.
Behind you—
A door opens.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just careful. You don’t turn right away.
You already know who it is before she speaks.
“Can I come out here with you?”
Her voice is calm. Measured. Like she’s not trying to escalate anything. Just… enter it.
You close your eyes for half a second“…yeah,” you say.
Footsteps. The door shuts again.
Now it’s just the city and the two of you.
She stops beside you but doesn’t lean on the railing immediately.
Not touching. Not avoiding either.
Megan just watches you for a second.
Then she exhales slowly.
“I’m not guessing anymore,” she says. Simple. Flat.
No anger.
Just finality.
You let out a short laugh that has no humor in it, “Guessing what.”
She turns her head slightly toward you, “You know what.”
That lands.
Silence stretches.
You grip the railing harder, “I wasn’t doing anything,” you say too quickly.
Even you hear it. She nods once.
Not convinced.
Just listening, “That’s the problem,” she says. Then she steps closer.
Not into you. Just closer to you.
She takes a deep breath “I don’t do mixed signals,” she continues. “I don’t do almosts. I don’t do whatever this is when it’s convenient and disappearing when it gets real.”
You swallow. Your throat feels tight again, “I didn’t mean—” you start.
But it breaks halfway. Because you don’t know what you’re even defending anymore.
Megan watches that happen. Not judging.
That’s the worst part.
She just waits. And it forces it out of you.
“I’m sorry, Megan,” your eyes trace her face
“…you’re not wrong,” you say quietly.
Megan’s expression doesn’t change. Just softer around the edges now.
You swallow, “It’s—I” you exhale through your nose, like you’re annoyed at yourself for even starting. “It’s not like I woke up and decided to be like this.”
Her voice stays calm, “I didn’t think you did.”
Your voice drops, “It feels real with you.”
A breath.
“I hate how much I want it,” truth spilling out in pieces that don’t line up.
Megan goes still. The calm doesn’t leave her.
But something in her softens. Not enough to lose herself in you.
Just enough to see you more clearly.
“You’re not the only person who feels things,” she says quietly.
You look away, “I know.”
“No,” she says gently but firmly. “You don’t.”
That hits quieter than Sasha did. Worse, somehow.
Because it isn’t an attack. It’s clarity. She steps closer again.
Now she’s close enough that if either of you moved wrong, you’d touch.
You don’t move. She does.
Her hands come up, carefully, settling on your shoulders.
Not grabbing.
Not holding too tight. Just grounding.
And that’s when your face finally gives up on you.
You don’t mean to. But your eyes sting. Your breath changes.
You look down.
She notices immediately. Of course she does.
Her arms slide in, pulling you in before you can pretend you’re fine.
You fold into her without resistance. Face pressed into her neck.
Warm. Real. Unfairly calm. Her hand moves up and down your back once.
Slow.
“I’m sorry about your past y/n,” she says. Her voice softer now.
Still steady. Just closer. You don’t answer.
Because if you do, it’ll fall apart completely.
She holds you there for a few seconds longer.
Letting you exist like this without forcing you to perform anything.
Then she shifts.
Not letting go. Just adjusting.
Pulls back slightly so she can look at you.
Her hands stay looped around your neck. Yours are still around her waist.
Neither of you fixes it.
The space between you is wrong now.
Too small. Too charged.
Foreheads almost meet without either of you deciding it.
Then do. Again.
The same exact mistake pattern.
Just slower this time. Her breath catches slightly. Yours does too.
Your noses brush.
Neither of you moves away.
Her eyes drop to your lips. She watches them for a second too long.
Then looks back up.
“I like you, y/n,” she says quietly. Honest. Uncomplicated.
“I want you,” she breathes voice cracking as she closes her eyes and slides her hands to your shoulders, “But I’m not gonna keep standing here while you hide from me.”
Your grip tightens slightly at her waist. Not pulling her closer.
Just reacting.
She notices everything. Always does.
Her hands slide down from your shoulders to your chest now.
Not pushing. Just creating distance where she needs it.
Still close. But clearer.
You don’t move yours from her waist.
She lets that happen. One last steady breath, “You don’t get to bleed on me because someone else cut you.”
Silence again.
Different this time. Not heavy.
Final. Her eyes stay on yours.
No softness left to negotiate with.
“Figure it out.”
And then she steps back.
No abruptly or angry. Just done with standing in something that doesn’t know what it is yet.
The air changes immediately when she creates space.
She turns first.
Walks back toward the door.
Doesn’t slam it. Doesn’t look back twice.
Just once. Quick.
Then she’s gone inside.
And the balcony feels colder than it did before she came out.
Back-to-back schedules. Press. Promotions. Quick turnaround. Chicago just happens to line up with it.
That’s it.
The second you step outside, the air hits different.
Cooler.
You pause for half a second.
“…okay,” you mutter under your breath, adjusting your jacket, “this is kinda nice.”
Sasha bumps your shoulder lightly.
“First time discovering weather?”
“Shut up.”
Your phone’s already in your hand before you even get to the car.
Habit.
Notifications stacked.
Tags. Mentions. Clips.
You scroll lazily, not really paying attention—
Until you do. A rehearsal clip.
Her.
Quick cut. Stage lights. Movement. Caption already doing too much.
You watch maybe half a second.
Lock your phone. Like you didn’t.
“Car’s here,” your manager calls. Sasha, vlog camera in hand, is already sliding in first.
You slide into the backseat, door shutting behind you as the city noise dulls out.
Chicago moves fast. Faster than LA.
Everything feels closer together and somehow louder at the same time.
You rest your head back, watching it blur past the window.
You could text her. You don’t.
Because if you text her right now— it looks like you were thinking about her.
And you’re not giving her that.
By the time you get to the hotel, everything already feels… busy.
Not chaotic.
Just… building.
People moving quicker. Talking louder. Energy sitting right under the surface.
You don’t say it out loud.
But you know why.
Room’s high up. View’s nice.
You don’t really care.
You drop your bag, kick your shoes off, walking further in like you’ve done this a hundred times.
Your phone buzzes. You don’t grab it immediately.
You already know who it is.
Still—
You reach for it.
Megan: you here yet
You huff a quiet laugh through your nose.
No “hi.” No nothing.
Just straight to it.
You: just landed
You pause.
you: missed me?
You stare at it.
…whatever.
Send.
Three dots pop up immediately.
Disappear. Come back.
You smirk a little despite yourself.
Megan: don’t do that
Megan: you’ve been here 5 minutes
You laugh quietly, dropping back onto the bed.
You: so that’s a yes
This time it takes a second longer.
Megan: you’re annoying
Megan: but yeah hi
That lands easier than it should.
You: hi
A beat.
You: u at rehearsals?
Megan: just finished
Megan: it’s actually insane here
Megan: like… a lot
You can picture it immediately.
Her in the middle of everything. People pulling her in ten directions. Noise. Lights. Energy.
You smile a little.
You: you love that tho
Megan: i do
Megan: i just don’t wanna mess it up
That—
That’s new.
You sit up slightly without realizing it.
You: you won’t
You don’t overdo it. Just send it.
Pause.
Longer this time. You hear your manager calls through the door–something about a radio spot.
Megan: yeah?
You: without a doubt
Three dots again.
Megan: you coming tonight?
There it is.
Casual. But not really.
You lean back, staring up at the ceiling for a second.
You could say no. You probably should say no.
You have work. Stuff lined up for the rest of the trip. A meeting with Drake.
You: yeah
Sent anyway.
Megan: okay good :)
Megan: i’ll send you where to go
You: aight
You lock your phone, letting it drop onto the bed beside you. Stare at the ceiling for a second longer than necessary.
It feels normal. Easy.
Like it always does.
But there’s something sitting under it now.
Small. Subtle. Not enough to name yet.
Just enough to notice. And you don’t know if it’s the city. The timing.
Or the fact that this time—
You’re walking into something that doesn’t just belong to you anymore.
—
The radio thing runs longer than it should.
It always does.
Same questions. Same answers. Same polite laughs like you haven’t said all of this before.
You play your part.
You’re good at that.
—
“Alright, that’s a wrap—”
Headphones off.
Mic pushed back.
You’re already standing before they finish thanking you.
“Appreciate you,” you nod, polite, quick.
Phone in your hand before you’re fully out the door.
—
You: just finished
You: pulling up in a few
Send.
No response.
—
“Car’s here,” Sasha says, already moving.
You follow, sliding in beside her, door shutting as the noise dulls again.
But not completely.
You can still feel it.
“She’s gonna kill you if you miss her set,” Sasha says, glancing over.
“I’m not missing it.”
—
The car pulls up near the venue, and it’s immediate.
Noise.
Movement.
People everywhere.
—
You step out, adjusting your jacket automatically, eyes already scanning without meaning to.
Backstage access gets you through faster—but not fast enough.
There’s still bodies.
Still people.
Still too much in between.
Your phone buzzes in your hand.
Megan: backstage
Megan: left side when you get in
Your stomach lurges in anticipation.
—
Backstage hits you in layers.
Music bleeding through walls.
Voices overlapping.
Someone counting down in rhythm somewhere you can’t see.
Tape on the floor. Cases stacked. Crew weaving between people like it’s choreographed chaos.
It’s loud—but controlled loud.
Like everyone knows exactly where they’re supposed to be.
—
You spot them before anything else.
The girls.
Already in their stage outfits.
Hair done. Makeup set. That in-between moment where they’re not performing yet but they’re not just standing around either.
Warming up physically. Rolling shoulders. Stretching. Quiet vocal runs under their breath.
Focused.
Locked in.
—
And then you notice the extras in the space.
Three guys you don’t immediately recognize.
Hanging near them like they’ve been here longer than you.
Relaxed. Comfortable. Leaned against equipment cases like they belong.
You don’t think much of it yet. You just walk in.
“Hey,” you call out first.
Megan turns immediately.
Like she’s been half-expecting you.
Her face softens a little when she sees you. That shift you’re starting to recognize now.
You walk the rest of the way over.
“you’re late,” she says, but she’s smiling.
“i know,” you shrug. “radio thing ran long.”
She nods like that’s acceptable.
Which is annoying.
You step closer.
“you good?”
“yeah,” she says, adjusting her sleeves slightly. “just going through it.”
Then she opens her arms slightly.
Not dramatic. Just enough.
You pause but of course—
You pull her in.
Tight hug. Arms around her waist.
Quick, grounded, familiar in a way that doesn’t feel performative anymore.
She exhales into it, stays close for a half second longer than she needs to. Then lets go. Unfamiliar brown eyes catch yours over her shoulder; one of those guys watching your every move.
“you’re sweaty,” she mutters drawing you back to her.
Your hands reluctantly drop from her waist.
“Yeah, I had to run a little,” you flush rubbing the back of your neck.
She smiles. The thought of you rushing to her.
That’s it. Simple. Normal.
You shift your attention slightly.
The guys nearby.
Still watching, now that you’re closer.
Megan gestures loosely.
“Oh—this is 2hollis, rommulas, and, Jonah,” She introduces. “They’ve been here all day.”
You nod once.
“cool.”
Then, because you don’t know what else to say:
“what’s good.”
It’s slightly awkward.
Not hostile. Just everyone deciding how to place you in the room.
“yo,” the tallest one says back, easy enough.
Handshake situation happens.
Nothing weird. Just new people energy.
Jonah is last.
He steps forward a little slower than the others.
Shakes your hand . Normal. Friendly.
But something about the way he looks at you—just briefly—sticks.
Like he’s already figured something out and you haven’t caught up yet.
“I’ve heard your stuff.” he says.
You nod. You let it pass. You always do.
Megan turns back toward her mirror setup almost immediately.
Fixing something with her hair. Rolling her shoulders again.
Getting back into it.
Like you didn’t just arrive. Like nothing shifted.
But you notice anyway.
The way the room rebalances slightly when she moves. The way people track her without meaning to.
The way Jonah’s attention doesn’t fully leave her even when he’s talking to someone else
—
You move through the rest of the girls after that.
Quick greetings. Familiar energy with Manon and Lara already joking mid-sentence like you’ve been here longer than five minutes.
Sasha drifts off toward Daniela, immediately pulled into whatever chaos is happening there.
Normal rhythm.
You fit into it easily.
Manon leans slightly toward you as Lara keeps talking to someone else.
Not subtle. Not loud either.
Just casual enough that it lands directly.
“That one,” she says, eyes flicking past you, “has been making puppy eyes at Megan all day.”
You follow her gaze before you even fully register you’re doing it. And there he is again.
Jonah. Lean frame. Rat-tails. Leaned back like he belongs in the space without trying.
Talking to Megan. She’s laughing at something he said.
It’s light. Easy.
Her head tilts slightly when she laughs—like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.
And you feel it.
Not a reaction. Not yet.
Just a shift.
Like something in the room got slightly narrower.
—
You don’t look at him long. You don’t need to.
You already know he noticed you.
You just didn’t notice you noticed him back.
Megan is already back into her pre-show rhythm.
Stretching. Rolling her shoulders again. Speaking softly with one of the choreographers.
Megan laughs again at something he says—short, easy.
And this time it lands differently.
Not because it changes anything.
But because you’re aware of how easily he can still make her laugh while you’re standing right there.
You look away first this time.
Not because you lost anything.
Just because you don’t need to keep staring to understand what you’ve already registered.
Stage crew calls for them to go to their marks.
Megan looks for you, “don’t disappear on me okay,” she teases giving your hand a quick squeeze as one of the staff hands her a mic.
—
The lights drop before you even fully settle into place.
Not dramatically. Just… suddenly.
Like the room decides it’s time.
And then the bass hits.
—
You don’t talk after that.
You can’t. Because Megan walks out first and the entire venue shifts with her.
It’s not even a thought—it’s instinct.
Your eyes lock immediately.
And they stay there.
She moves like she’s built for it.
Not rushed. Not forced. Just sure.
Every step hits like it’s been rehearsed a hundred times and still feels new.
The girls fall into place around her, but your attention doesn’t split.
It doesn’t go anywhere else.
It stays on her.
On the way she smiles mid-line like she knows exactly what she’s doing to people.
On the way she owns silence before the beat even drops.
Sasha leans in slightly beside you, shouting over the sound.
“Okay no she’s actually insane for this.”
You don’t look away.
“Yeah,” you say, almost automatic. “I know.”
Sasha clocks you immediately.
“Oh my god,” she laughs. “You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing.”
“The stare. You’re gone.”
“I’m not—” you start, then stop because Megan hits a turn in the choreography and the crowd reacts like one body; her eyes locking on yours.
You exhale once through your nose.
“…okay maybe a little.”
Sasha grins like she won something.
The set is tight. Too tight.
The kind of performance where everything clicks so clean it feels unreal.
And Megan—she doesn’t miss once.
Not once.
—
By the time the final chorus hits, you’ve stopped moving altogether.
Just watching.
Completely locked.
And then it ends.
A beat of silence. Then chaos.
—
Backstage is louder this time.
Sweat. Music still bleeding through walls. People shouting congratulations over each other.
You’re moving before you even think about it. The girls are in a group hug.
Sasha gets pulled into a hug from Daniela immediately.
“YOU GUYS WERE INSANE,” she’s yelling, laughing, already half crying.
Sasha spins her slightly. “YOU WERE INSANE!”
It’s instant.
No barrier.
—
You don’t even make it two steps before Megan sees you.
She’s still catching her breath, hair slightly messed now, stage outfit sticking a little from heat.
And she just walks straight into you.
No hesitation. No performance left in her.
Just her arms around your shoulders.
—
“you were unreal,” you say immediately into her neck.
Her laugh is muffled.
“I blacked out half of it.”
“You didn’t miss anything.”
She pulls back just enough to look at you, “you’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“you’re always lying.”
“Never to you.”
That gets her. A small smile before she shakes her head.
Her hands are still on your arms.
Yours are still at her waist.
Neither of you moves them yet.
“you did really good,” You say softer now… mean it too much.
“Thank you.”
Behind her, Jonah is there again.
Watching.
Not interrupting.
Just… present in a way that doesn’t fade.
Megan doesn’t notice immediately. Or maybe she does.
Hard to tell.
“You did amazing,” he tells her as she lets her arms drop from you. Smiling at him mumbling a thanks.
Sasha pops up beside you both, out of breath.
“Okay I’m sorry,” she says directly to Megan, “but I think I just became a fan.”
Megan laughs, stepping slightly out of your space.
“You think?”
“No I KNOW,” Sasha says, then immediately turns, pointing at Manon across the room. “YOU DID THAT THING DURING THE BRIDGE??”
Manon grins. “I always do that thing.”
Sasha gasps like she’s offended and impressed at the same time.
It breaks the intensity just enough. You step slightly back from Megan now.
Just enough space to reset.
But not fully. Never fully.
—
Sophia is off to the side.
You notice she hasn’t really joined the chaos yet.
Arms crossed loosely. Observing.
Not cold. Just… measured.
She catches you looking and doesn’t move away.
If anything—she holds it.
So you walk over first.
“you good?” you ask.
She studies you for a second.
“I didn’t know what to think of you,” she says bluntly.
You huff a quiet laugh.
“honest start.”
“I like honest.”
“cool,” you nod. “me too.”
A pause.
Then she adds: “you’re… different with her.”
You don’t pretend not to understand.
“…yeah.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“good different or bad different?”
That one hits closer than expected.
You look toward Megan for a second without meaning to. She’s laughing at something Sasha said now.
Fully relaxed again. Like nothing heavy exists in her orbit.
You look back.
“…both,” you admit quietly.
Sophia studies you. Waiting. So you keep going.
“I mess things up,” you say. “like—on purpose sometimes. or without realizing. depends on the day.”
She doesn’t interrupt.
“I don’t really… let things be easy.”
Then, quieter:
“but with her—it’s different. I don’t know why. it just is.”
Sophia nods slowly like she’s filing that away.
“Then don’t ruin it,” she says.
Across the room, Megan glances over. Finds you mid-conversation.
Her eyes linger a second longer than casual.
Then she looks away again.
—
When you reach the the club it doesn’t feel like a place so much as a pulse.
Low ceiling. Heavy bass. Lights cutting through smoke in slow, color-stained waves. Everything moves like it’s slightly delayed—like reality has to catch up to the sound.
And Megan is still next to you.
Not always touching. But never far.
Sasha disappears almost immediately into the crowd with Daniela and Lara, already laughing like they’ve known each other for years instead of hours.
You catch Sasha shouting something like, “YOU’RE ACTUALLY INSANE,” over her shoulder.
Megan laughs from beside you.
“she’s loud,” she says.
“you’re loud,” you answer automatically.
She bumps your shoulder lightly.
“not like that.”
You don’t respond. Just look at her. That’s enough.
—
At some point, she pulls you toward the floor.
Not dramatic. Just her fingers catching your wrist and tugging once like it’s obvious you’ll follow.
And you do. Of course you do.
The crowd tightens around you both almost immediately.
Too close. Not enough space to overthink anything.
Which is probably the point.
You end up beside her first. Then behind her.
Then slightly closer than that without either of you acknowledging the transition.
It just… happens.
Her hand brushes yours once while turning.
Then again when someone passes behind her.
And the second time, it doesn’t move away fully.
Just lingers near your fingers like it forgot to leave.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she says without looking at you.
“What thing.”
“the staring.”
“I’m not staring.”
She finally looks at you now.
“You are.”
“…okay yeah.”
That gets her to laugh.
Soft. Real. Not performative anymore.
She turns slightly, leaning in so she can actually hear you over the music.
And you feel it immediately — how close everything is now.
Not just bodies.
Everything.
“You’re different here,” she says.
You tilt your head.
“how.”
“less in your head.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“Maybe I’m just different with you.”
Your hand settles at the small of her back without you deciding to do it.
It just happens.
Natural. Automatic.
Like your body stopped asking permission a while ago.
She notices. She always notices.
But she doesn’t move away.
Instead she leans in slightly closer.
Like she’s making a decision without saying it out loud.
And then she sees Sophia.
Across the floor.
Still not fully in the chaos.
Watching more than participating.
Measured. Observant. Quiet in a way that feels intentional.
Megan pauses.
Then gently taps your arm.
“i’m gonna go talk to her for a second.”
You nod. Not because you want space.
But because you trust her to come back.
You watch her move through the crowd.
It’s different when she’s not right next to you.
The room feels slightly off balance.
Sophia notices her approaching before she arrives.
Her posture shifts a little — subtle, but present.
Megan stops beside her.
They talk. You can’t hear it over the music.
But you can see Sophia’s face clearly enough.
Megan says something that makes her pause.
Not defensive. Just… processing.
Then she looks over her shoulder briefly.
At you.
And back to Megan.
A few seconds pass.
Then Sophia nods once. Slow.
Like she’s accepting something she didn’t fully have language for before.
You don’t interrupt.
You just wait.
When Megan comes back, she’s slightly softer around the edges. Just more settled.
“She likes you,” she says as she reaches you again.
“didn’t feel like it at first.”
“She’s cautious,” Megan shrugs. “but she gets it now.”
“gets what.”
She looks at you for a second longer than necessary.
“…you’re not trying to take anything from us.”
That lands quieter than expected. You don’t respond right away.
Just nod once.
“yeah,” you say finally. “i’m not.”
Her hand finds your wrist again.
Not pulling this time. Just holding.
And when she leans in closer again, the space between you disappears like it was never really there to begin with.
—
Across the room, Sasha is yelling at Lara about something completely unrelated.
Manon is laughing at her.
Daniela is filming something she’ll probably never post.
Everything is loud.
Everything is moving.
—
You feel it before you think about it.
The way Megan turns toward you instead of away.
The way the space between you closes without either of you pretending it’s accidental anymore.
“You’re still staring,” she says, softer now.
You don’t even bother denying it this time.
“…yeah.”
That makes her smile. Not teasing. Something else.
Her hands land lightly on your shoulders.
Not for balance. Not because the crowd pushed her.
Because she wanted to.
Your hands settle at her waist again. This time slower.
Deliberate.
The movement between you changes.
Less playful.
More… aware.
She steps closer. You match it.
There’s no space left now. Not really. You’re foreheads softly touch once.
The noise of the room dulls—not actually quieter, just… further away.
Like it’s happening somewhere behind you instead of around you.
“You’re different tonight,” she says.
“you said that already.”
“I know,” she smiles faintly. “I meant it more this time.”
You tilt your head slightly.
“…good different?”
She looks at you. Really looks this time.
“yeah.”
Her fingers shift slightly against your shoulders; curling slightly around the back of your neck, threading through your nape.
Your grip at her waist tightens just enough to notice.
It’s not rushed. That’s the thing. Nothing about this is rushed.
She leans in first. Just a little.
Enough that your foreheads almost touch again—
Then do. Everything slows.
Actually slows.
You can feel her breath now.
Close enough that it’s impossible not to.
Your noses brush slightly when she exhales.
Neither of you pulls back.
Your eyes drop. Just for a second.
Her lips.
Then back up.
She notices. Of course she does.
Her gaze flicks the same way.
Down. Back up.
A pause. Not long.
But long enough to mean something.
“…we shouldn’t,” she murmurs smiling.
But she doesn’t move.
“yeah,” you say.
You don’t move either.
Your hand shifts slightly at her waist.
Her fingers tighten.
And then—
—
“MEGAN—”
Daniela.
Too loud. Too close.
Reality crashing back in all at once.
Megan pulls back just enough to look past you.
“…what?”
“Lara’s drunk and Manon is arguing with her, Sophia says we need to go” Daniela says in one breath, already reaching for her arm.
Megan exhales, somewhere between a laugh and frustration.
“oh my god—”
She looks back at you. And for a second—
Neither of you say anything.
Because what almost just happened is still sitting there.
Unfinished.
“I—” she starts.
Then stops. Shakes her head slightly instead.
“…hold that thought.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“yeah. go.”
Daniela is already pulling her away.
“COME ON—”
“I’m coming,” Megan calls, stumbling back a step, then steadying.
She looks over her shoulder once.
Just once. Then she’s gone into the crowd.
And just like that—
The space feels too big again.
Sasha appears at your side like she’s been watching the whole time.
“…wow.”
You don’t look at her.
“don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I absolutely was.”
You exhale, running a hand over the back of your neck.
“…yeah.”
Sasha nudges you lightly.
“you’re in trouble.”
“…I know.”
—
The next morning feels quieter.
Not peaceful.
Just… after.
The girls are leaving early.
Flights stacked. Tight turnaround. Back to LA.
You’re not. You’ve still got another day here.
Press. Shoots. Obligations you can’t move.
It’s too early for how late the night went.
Lobby half-awake. People moving slower than usual.
You spot them near the entrance.
Bags packed. Hoodies up. Sunglasses on.
Still tired. Still glowing a little from the night before.
Megan sees you almost immediately. Of course she does.
She walks over. No hesitation.
“you’re not coming with us?” she asks, even though she already knows.
“got stuff here,” you shrug. “leaving tomorrow.”
She nods. Doesn’t like it.
Doesn’t argue it either.
A small pause.
Then—
“last night—”
You both say it at the same time.
And stop.
She huffs a quiet laugh.
“You go.”
You shake your head. “nah. you.”
She looks at you for a second.
“…we’re good,” she says.
Simple. Careful. You nod once.
“yeah. we’re good.”
It’s not a lie. But it’s not the whole truth either. She steps a little closer. Not as close as last night. But not distant.
“text me when you land,” you say.
She tilts her head slightly.
That gets a small smile out of her.
“okay.”
Movement picks up again.
Daniela is already dragging Lara toward the door. Manon arguing with someone over something minor. Yoonchae hoodie up and sunglasses on as Sophia’s typing away on her phone.
Sasha shouting a quick goodbye from across the lobby.
Chaos. Normal.
Megan lingers half a second longer.
“don’t disappear,” she says quietly.
It lands heavier than it should. You hold her gaze.
“…I won’t.”
She searches your face like she’s trying to decide if that’s true.
Then nods. Once.
And then she’s gone too.
—
The day stacks fast after that.
Interview. Cameras. Same questions dressed up like they’re new.
“Tell us about the album—”
“What inspired this era—”
“Any collaborations we should be excited for—”
You answer everything clean. Sharp. Controlled. Easy.
You don’t check your phone in between takes.
Not at first.
But by the second break—
You do and still, nothing.
—
Sasha notices. Of course she does.
“you’re doing it again,” she says, sipping something she probably shouldn’t have this early.
“doing what.”
“acting like you don’t care when you clearly do.”
You don’t look at her.
“i don’t.”
She lets that sit. Doesn’t push it. Which is worse.
The rest of the day blurs.
Car to studio. Studio to meeting. Meeting to car again.
Always moving. No time to sit in anything.
Which should help. It doesn’t.
—
By the time you’re getting ready for the night—
You check again. Still nothing.
You toss your phone onto the bed a little harder than necessary. Forcing yourself to remember that she doesn’t actually have to text you.
“we going or what,” you mutter.
Sasha raises an eyebrow.
“yeah. let’s go.”
—
The club with Drake is different.
Not louder. Just… tighter.
Controlled.
Private sections. Low lighting. Security everywhere without being obvious about it.
You’re at a table tucked away from most of it.
Drake across from you, mid-conversation, relaxed in a way that still feels calculated.
“…I’m just saying, timing matters,” he’s saying, gesturing slightly with his drink. “you drop that record too early, it doesn’t hit the same.”
You nod. “we’re holding it,” you say. “letting it breathe first.”
He studies you for a second.
Then smirks. “good. most people rush that.”
It’s business.
Real business.
The kind you don’t fumble. You stay locked in.
You listen. You respond. You hold your weight in the conversation like you belong there.
Because you do.
Your phone buzzes. Once.
Drake keeps talking.
“…and visually—you gotta match that energy. you can’t have a weak rollout behind strong music.”
“yeah,” you nod. “we’ve been building that out.”
Your phone buzzes again. You glance at it this time.
Just a quick look.
Name catches immediately.
Tara.
You don’t open it yet. You shouldn’t. You don’t.
“…you even hearing me?” Drake says, half-laughing.
You snap back instantly.
“yeah—visual rollout has to match the record or it falls flat.”
Usually, there’s intention behind it. A message. Something that feeds into the version of you people expect.
Tonight—there isn’t.
Just sweats. A clean fitted tee. Hair still slightly damp from your shower.
Comfortable.
Real.
You pace once through your living room, glancing toward the front windows without meaning to. The house feels familiar—same open layout, same floor-to-ceiling glass, same quiet sitting over the hills.
But it doesn’t feel the same.
Not after last time.
Not after she’s already been here.
Your dog keeps pace with you, nails tapping lightly against the floor, energy too big for the stillness of the house.
“Relax,” you mutter, scratching behind her ear.
She doesn’t.
Of course she doesn’t.
Headlights sweep across the front of your house.
Your chest tightens—
Just slightly.
You don’t rush it.
You walk to the door, hand brushing the handle like this is normal.
Like you haven’t been thinking about this all day.
You open it.
She’s already halfway up the path.
Hoodie. Loose sweats. Hair a little messy again like she didn’t try too hard.
And this time—
There’s no pause.
No reset.
Just recognition.
Her eyes meet yours and she smiles a little, like she’s picking up right where you left off.
“Your driveway is still insane, by the way.”
You lean against the doorframe.
“Good. It’s doing its job.”
She shakes her head, stepping past you like she remembers the way in.
And that—
That does something to you.
Because she does.
Remember.
You close the door behind her, turning just in time to see your dog absolutely bolt toward her.
No hesitation.
Full speed.
“OH—” Megan laughs immediately as the rottweiler practically skids into her, all energy and zero coordination.
“Hi—okay—hi—”
She crouches a little without thinking, letting her sniff her hands, already smiling softer than before.
“She’s—very excited,” Megan laughs, trying to keep up as your dog circles her like she just made a new best friend.
“Yeah, she does that a lot, sorry.”
A beat.
Then, honest—
“…she likes you though.”
“Yeah?” Megan glances up at that, “What’s your name cutie,” she says back to the dog.
You shrug.
“Harley.”
Your dog nudges into her again, nearly knocking into her knee this time.
“Okay—yeah, she definitely has… a lot going on,” Megan grins, scratching behind her ear anyway.
“Yeah she’s kind of ADHD,” you deadpan.
“That tracks.”
She stands back up, brushing her hands together lightly, still smiling.
Her eyes drift around the house again—but not like last time.
Not impressed.
Not overwhelmed.
Just… taking it in differently.
Like she’s more comfortable here now.
“Feels quieter without them,” she says, glancing toward the studio hallway.
You catch that.
“Yeah,” you nod. “Less chaos.”
She looks back at you.
“…kinda better.”
That lands softer than it should.
You tilt your head slightly, like you’re considering it.
“Don’t let Lara hear you say that.”
Megan laughs under her breath.
“I won’t. She’d take it personally.”
A small silence settles. Not awkward.
Just… there.
You nod toward the back of the house.
“You tryna see the setup again or you tryna lose first.”
She crosses her arms immediately.
“You’re still on that?”
“Always.” She steps a little closer this time, not stopping as far away as she did at the door.
“Talk is cheap.”
You smile, “Good thing I’m not just talking.”
She rolls her eyes—but she’s smiling too.
Then turns, already walking further into the house like she belongs there now.
“Show me the setup first,” she throws over her shoulder.
You watch her for a second.
That difference again.
Not new. Not unfamiliar.
Just… closer. Then you follow.
Because yeah—
This isn’t the first time she’s been here.
But it’s the first time it feels like she chose to be.
After the tour, you both drift back into the living room like it’s the natural place to land.
She doesn’t sit right away—just lingers for a second, looking out through the glass at the yard, your dogs cutting across the property in the distance. The two dobermans move fast, controlled, all purpose.
Your rott?
Currently chasing nothing. Missing it completely.
Megan huffs a quiet laugh under her breath.
“…they’re not the same at all.”
You drop onto the couch, grabbing a controller off the table.
“Yeah, those two actually have jobs.”
She glances back at you, smiling.
“And she doesn’t?”
You look over at your rott, now halfway into a bush for no reason.
“…emotional support.”
“That’s important,” she nods seriously, finally sitting—closer than she probably realizes.
Not touching.
But close enough that you notice.
You clear your throat slightly, leaning forward, grabbing the second controller.
“I was thinking we start with Smash, then we can get into Mario Kart… maybe even hook up out my GameCube,” you ramble, already setting things up.
She watches you for a second.
Not the games.
You.
“You planned this,” she says, tilting her head.
You pause.
“…no.”
“Yeah you did.”
You scoff lightly, not looking at her.
“I didn’t plan it—I just… have options.”
She leans back into the couch, one leg tucked under her, still watching you.
“Mhmm. And the order was just… what, coincidence?”
You glance at her finally.
“…it’s a good order.”
She smiles.
Small.
Knowing.
“Sure.”
You shake your head, handing her the controller.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she says, taking it—but her fingers brush yours for half a second.
It’s quick.
Accidental.
But neither of you pulls away immediately.
Then she does.
Like she noticed it too.
You look back at the screen, clearing your throat.
“Alright,” you mutter, focusing a little too hard now, “don’t get mad when you lose.”
She laughs softly, settling in beside you.
“I thought we established I’m winning.”
You glance at her.
“…you talk a lot for someone about to get humbled.”
“Please,” she nudges your arm lightly with her elbow, “just pick your character.”
You huff a quiet laugh. But your shoulders drop a little.
Relaxing.
Because this—
This feels easy. No pressure. No performance.
Just her. Next to you.
Talking shit like it’s normal.
You load into the first match.
It starts exactly how you expect.
Fast.
Competitive.
Loud in a way that isn’t actually loud—just the two of you talking over each other, reacting, leaning forward like it matters more than it does.
“You’re spamming,” she accuses immediately.
“I’m playing the game.”
“That’s not playing—that’s panic.”
You laugh under your breath, eyes locked on the screen.
“You’re losing.”
“Barely.”
“You’re at 120.”
“I can come back from that.”
“You’re not coming back from that.”
She does.
Barely.
And she knows it.
The second her character lands the final hit, she turns toward you—already smiling.
“Oh my god.”
You drop your controller back against your leg.
“…you got lucky.”
“Say it again,” she leans in slightly, grinning now, “say I got lucky again.”
“You got lucky.”
She laughs, shaking her head.
“You’re annoying.”
“Scoreboard.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling when she looks back at the screen.
“Run it back.”
Time moves without either of you noticing.
Smash turns into Mario Kart.
Mario Kart turns into you both talking more than actually playing.
At some point, your dog shifts—fully climbing across both of you now, forcing you closer without asking.
Megan adjusts automatically, shoulder brushing yours this time.
Neither of you moves away.
“You’re actually a terrible driver,” she mutters, eyes still on the screen.
“You’re crashing into me.”
“You hit me first.”
“That’s literally not true.”
“It is.”
You glance at her.
She’s already looking at you.
There’s a second—
Then she looks back at the screen like nothing happened.
“…you’re still losing,” you add.
She nudges your knee lightly with hers.
“Shut up.”
—
You order food without really discussing it.
It just happens.
Your phone in your hand, her leaning slightly closer to see the menu.
“Nobu?” she raises an eyebrow.
“You complaining?”
“No,” she shakes her head, “just didn’t expect you to casually order Nobu like it’s pizza.”
You shrug.
“It’s easier.”
“Of course it is.”
Her shoulder stays against yours a second longer than it needs to before she leans back again. But not as far this time.
By the time the food gets there, the games have slowed down.
Less competitive.
More… background.
Boxes open on the table.
Half-eaten.
Chopsticks abandoned between rounds.
“Okay wait,” she says suddenly, sitting up a little, “do you have Minecraft.”
You blink.
“…yeah.”
Her eyes light up slightly.
“Play that.”
You look at her for a second.
Then nod. “Alright.”
—
Minecraft changes everything.
The energy drops.
Not in a bad way. In a softer way. Quieter.
You’re both leaned back now instead of forward.
Talking in between placing blocks, breaking them, rebuilding something slightly better.
“What are you making,” you ask, watching her character move with zero plan.
“I don’t know yet.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s evolving.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“That looks like a box.”
“It’s the start of something.”
“Of what.”
“…mind your business.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling.
And you help anyway. Adding to it.
Fixing things she doesn’t notice.
She catches it eventually.
“…did you just fix my wall.”
“It was bothering me.”
“It wasn’t bothering me.”
“It should’ve been.”
She leans over slightly, bumping her shoulder into yours.
“Stop.”
But she doesn’t undo it.
And somewhere in the middle of it—
She shifts closer again.
This time slower.
More absent.
Your hand stills on the controller for half a second.
Then keeps moving.
Like it’s normal.
Like this isn’t new.
—
“Wait—no that actually looks good,” she says, looking at the structure now.
You glance at the screen.
“…yeah.”
“You helped.”
“I improved.”
She laughs softly.
“You’re so—”
She doesn’t finish that.
She shifts slightly again.
And this time, when she leans back—
Her body is slightly resting on your shoulder..
Not fully. Not heavy.
Just enough to feel it. You go still for half a second. Then relax into it.
“…comfortable?” you ask, quieter now.
“Mm,” she hums, not moving.
“Don’t get used to it.”
She smiles.
“Too late.”
Overbuilt. Messy in places. But clearly something you both made. Nobu boxes scattered across the table. Your dog asleep across your feet.
And her—
Still leaning against you.
Not asleep. But close.
Too comfortable to pretend otherwise.
You don’t notice the time until she shifts slightly.
Her head lifts from your shoulder, just enough to check her phone.
“…oh.”
You glance down, “what.”
“It’s almost two.”
You huff quietly.
“…that’s not real.”
She turns the screen toward you. It is.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Like if you don’t acknowledge it—
It doesn’t end.
Your dog stirs at your feet, stretching, breaking it.
Megan exhales softly, sitting up a little straighter now.
“i should probably go.”
You nod. Not too fast.
“yeah.”
But you don’t stand yet. Neither does she.
Another second passes.
Then you finally push yourself up, grabbing the empty boxes off the table just to do something with your hands.
“i’ll walk you out.”
“you don’t have to—”
“i know.”
You do it anyway.
—
Once she’s gone,t he house is quiet again.
Too quiet.
You walk back inside, slower this time.
Everything’s the same.
Same couch.
Same TV. You clean up quietly. Waiting for her text letting you know she made it home.
Once the foods put away, glasses in the sink, coushions fluffed; you drop back onto the couch.
controller still sitting where you left it.
Pick it up.
Set it back down.
Pointless.
Your phone buzzes.
You don’t rush it this time.
But you don’t wait long either.
Megan: made it :)
You stare at it for a second.
Then—
You: good
A pause.
you add—
had fun tonight
You send it before you overthink it.
Lock your phone.
Lean your head back. Exhale.
You’re not trying to distract yourself after someone leaves.
You’re just…Sitting in it.
On the other side Megan smiles.
Small. Real.
Types back—
Megan: me too :)
Then locks her phone.
Doesn’t overdo it.
But she keeps thinking about it anyway.
The shift doesn’t happen all at once.
It slips in quietly. At first, it’s just texting.
Then it’s:
“wanna hope online” “come over?” “you still out?”
And somehow—
That becomes enough.
You’re at a party you should care about.
Music loud. People louder. Names that matter moving through the room like it means something.
You’ve got a drink in your hand you’re not really drinking.
Someone’s talking to you—laughing at something you half-said.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You don’t check it right away. You already know.
Still—you pull it out.
Megan: you still out
That’s it. No follow up. No pressure.
You glance around the room. Nothing’s changed.
But it feels…off now.
You type back before you can think too hard.
You: yeah you home?
Three dots.
Megan: yeah
ou stare at it for a second.
Then you’re already setting your drink down.
“Yo, you leaving?” someone calls out.
You’re halfway to the door.
“Yeah,” you throw over your shoulder, not slowing down.
“Where—?”
You don’t answer. Just stop for food and make your way to hers.
You don’t knock.
She opens the door before you can.
Like she was already there.
Waiting.
“Thought you were busy,” she says, leaning against the frame.
You shrug, stepping inside.
“I was.”
That’s all you say. She smiles anyway. Moves aside to let you in.
Like this is normal.
It becomes a pattern after that.
Not planned.
Just… repeated.
This time, she comes with you.
Another party. Different crowd.
She stays close, but not glued to you.
Talking to people. Laughing. Holding her own. After all she was known as her own type of party girl.
You watch her more than you should.
She fits.
Too easily.
At some point, she ends up next to you again.
Shoulder brushing yours.
You lean closer.
“Wanna get out of here?”
She doesn’t even hesitate.
“Yeah.”
No discussion. No goodbye tour. You just leave.
Together.
Late dinners become a thing too.
Not fancy. Not planned.
Just wherever’s open after her rehearsal and your studio sessions.
You across from her. Or next to her. Or in your sports car.
Talking about nothing.
Everything.
Laughing more than either of you expects.
It stops being subtle to everyone else before it stops being subtle to you.
You’re outside her rehearsal building again.
Same spot.
Different car.
Different night.
Engine running low, sun dipping just enough to soften everything.
This time—when the doors open—
It’s not just her.
The girls spill out with her. Lara first. Loud as ever. Manon right behind her.
Daniela, Sophia, Yoonchae trailing—
And then Megan.
She spots your car immediately. Of course she does.
But before she can even move—
Lara does.
“Oh my god,” she says, stopping mid-step, grabbing Manon’s arm. “She’s here again.”
Manon doesn’t even try to hide her smile.
“She’s always here.”
Megan exhales, already walking past them.
“Can you guys not—”
“NO,” Lara calls after her, following anyway. “Because this is crazy.”
You step out of the car just as they reach you.
Calm. Casual.
Like this isn’t becoming a thing. “Hey,” you nod.
“Hey,” Manon says easily.
Lara looks between you and Megan like she’s watching a show unfold in real time.
“So this is just… normal now?” she asks.
You glance at Megan.
Already opening the passenger door for her.
“Get in the car,” you say simply.
Lara’s jaw drops.
“OH my god.”
Megan shakes her head, ducking into the seat.
“You’re so embarrassing.”
“Am I wrong?” Lara fires back.
You smirk, leaning against the door.
“…you getting in or you got more to say.”
Megan looks up at you.
Then—she laughs.
Actually laughs.
“Bye guys.”
Manon just waves.
Sophia watches quietly a soft smile finding her lips.
Daniela mutters, “Yeah… this is a thing.”
The door shuts.
You walk around the car. Lara’s voice carries one more time—
“DON’T DO ANYTHING WE WOULDN’T DO.”
“Which is nothing,” Megan calls back.
“EXACTLY.”
You get in.
Pull off.
Like that didn’t just happen.
“Your friends are loud,” you say after a second.
She leans back in the seat.
“They like you.”
You glance at her.
“…that’s dangerous.”
She smiles. “Yeah. It is.”
This time the two of you eat in your car. She’s quieter.
ot off—just… thinking.
You notice it.
“Rehearsals bad?” you ask.
She shakes her head.
“No, they’re good. Just—” she pauses, pushing her food around slightly, “it’s getting real now.”
You tilt your head.
“Lollapalooza?”
She nods.
“Chicago. Big stage. Big crowd.” A small breath. “I’m excited, I am. I just—don’t wanna mess it up.”
You lean back slightly, studying her.
“You won’t.”
She looks up.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you shrug. “You care too much to mess it up.”
That lands. She smiles a little softer.
“…you’re not as annoying as you act.”
“Don’t start.”
She laughs.
“What about you?” she asks. “Album almost done, right?”
You nod. “Last few songs.”
“And?”
You pause.
Then—
“…it’s the first one I actually like.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly.
“That’s a big statement.”
“Yeah.”
You glance at her.
“…it sounds like me.”
She holds your gaze for a second longer than usual.
“Good,” she says quietly.
Another party.
This one’s mutual.
Your people.
Her people. Same room.
Different corners. At least—that’s how it starts.
Sasha clocks it first.
From across the room. You standing with Megan.
Too close to be casual. Too comfortable to be new. She leans toward Quen.
“…oh she’s gone,” Sasha says.
Quen follows her gaze. Sees you. Sees Megan.
“Yeah,” she nods slowly. “That’s bad.”
“Bad?” Sasha grins. “That’s serious.”
Across the room—
Lara is doing the same thing.
“Look at them,” she says, nudging Manon.
Manon doesn’t even look surprised, “I’ve been looking.”
“They didn’t separate once,” Lara adds.
Sophia folds her arms still a little hesitant about you.
Daniela watches you both carefully. “…yeah, but she looks happy.”
That quiets it.
Just for a second.
You don’t notice any of it.
Or maybe you do. You just don’t care.
An hour in—
You lean closer.
“Wanna get out of here?”
She doesn’t hesitate anymore.
“Yeah.”
Lara sees you both heading for the door.
Throws her hands up.
“AGAIN??”
Megan doesn’t even turn around.
“Text me when you get home,” Manon calls.
You glance back just once.
Nod. Then you’re gone.
It starts showing up online after that.
More consistently.
More obvious.
A clip from that party—
You and Megan in the background.
Talking. Close. Too close.
Captioned:
“wait… is this who I think it is??”
A picture from outside her rehearsal building.
Your car. Clear as day this time. No guessing needed.
Comments stacking—
“ain’t no way…”
“this is getting suspicious”
A breakfast post from you both of your fruit bowls and two matchas—
Hers on the counter.
Same matcha she posted a day later.
Fans zooming in like detectives.
"they're always together now!!"
"i thought y/n was only friends with manon ?!!"
"two gay party girlsss what could go wrong ahahahah 😅😅 "
You’re sitting next to her again, sprawled out on your couch.
Different night.
Quieter. Phone in your hand.
You scroll past something quickly.
She catches it anyway.
“…they’re talking again,” she says.
You lock your phone.
“People don’t have anything better to do.”
She nods.
But she’s not tense. Not pulling away.
If anything—
She leans into you slightly.
Shoulder against yours.
Comfortable. “Does it bother you?” she asks after a second.
You think about it.
“…not really.”
You glance at her, “Does it bother you?”
She shakes her head.
“No.”
A small pause. Then, quieter—
“…not if it’s you.”
She doesn’t look at you after she says it.
Just stays there, scrolling once more—shoulder pressed into yours like it’s nothing.
Like she didn’t just say something that should’ve changed the air. You don’t respond right away. Not because you don’t have something to say—
But because you do. You just don’t trust it yet.
So instead—
You shift slightly. Closer.
Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough that if she moved—
After they leave. You don’t reach to text her. A part of you is still hesitant for whatever this may mean.
It’s happened before.
Women want to know you. Break your patterns, you’ve just never let them before.
By the time you shower, change, and fall into bed, your body finally catching up to the night, your phone is somewhere across the room.
Face down.
Muted.
Despite the thoughts of her still flashing through your mind, you’re out within minutes.
The sun comes in too early.
It always does.
You make your way to your gym by the time your body fully wakes up like ritual.
Music loud. Weights heavy.
Routine. Control.
Sasha brought you another smoothie this morning. She’s somewhere inside now finishing her own work, TV running, her voice occasionally carrying through the open glass doors as you do tire flips in the yard.
Your phone lights up on the outdoor table. You don’t check it right away.
You take a sip first. Wipe your face with the back of your hand as your dog comes up and brushes the other.
Then–
You glance down.
Megan: morning :)
it’s megan btw
You stare at it for a second. A small, involuntary smile.
“Who’s that,” Sasha’s voice right behind you as she throws you a towel you catch with ease.
You don’t turn fully.
“...no one.”
“Mhm,” she hums, unconvinced, stepping closer, already peeking over your shoulder.
She reads it. Goes quiet for half a second, “Oh Megan,” she sang teasingly.
You finally look at her, “Relax.”
She grins, backing up immediately like she struck gold.
“I knew it.”
You shake your head, grabbing your phone. Ignoring her.
But she’s not done.
“Don’t answer too fast,” she calls, walking back inside. “You’re already down bad, don’t make it obvious.”
“I’m not–”
You stop yourself.
Because arguing it makes it worse.
You glance back down at your phone.
Type. Delete.
Finally,
You: was wondering when you’d use that number
You hit send. Drop your phone.
Walk back to the tire. Focus.
Buzz. You walk back over immediately.
Megan: don’t make it weird already
You huff a quiet laugh.
You: too late
This time, you don’t wait.
You go back to your set.
But your eyes keep flicking back to your phone.
Buzz.
You ignore it.
Finish your workout.
Rack your weights. Then grab your phone.
Megan: ughhh why are you like this
You wipe your hands on your sweats, leaning back slightly.
You: like what
You walk inside, toss your phone down again.
Sasha’s on the couch, already watching you like she’s been waiting.
“Well?” she asks.
You grab your smoothie.
Take a sip.
“Well what?” You reach for your phone again already.
Looking down as her bubbles appear.
Megan: a little annoying
a little entertaining
You let out a soft laugh, “she said I’m annoying,” you roll your eyes at Sasha’s look.
She snorts, “That means she likes you.”
You roll your eyes, but don’t argue.
“Whatever,” you laugh, “I’m going to shower, I have a meeting.”
You glance down again at the messages.
Sasha nods, watching your face, “you’re so cooked.”
“Shut up,” you say as you walk to to your room.
You: i’ll take it
Without thinking.
sooo this about video games or you just felt bold this morning.
You hit send and make your way up the stairs.
Buzz.
Megan: both.
On Megan’s side, she didn’t text you right away. Not in a way where she was trying to match you.
She just–
Wakes up late.
She sent the first message before she could over think it. Pushing it in her pocket and trying not to think to much about it on the way to the studio.
The studio is already loud by the time she gets there.
Music echoing.
Mirrors catching everything.
“Finally,” Lara calls out. “Sleeping Beauty.”
Megan flips her off lightly, dropping her bag.
“Relax.”
The finish stretches and reset positions.
Music starts. Counts hit.
Daniela glances at her. Says nothing.
They go again.
Megan hits all her marks. But she’s not fully there.
Because her phone is in her bag, and she knows she sent it.
And she doesn’t know if you’ve answered.
The music cuts and everyone scatters—water, stretching, phones.
Megan drops to the floor, grabbing hers.
Unlocks it.
Nothing.
She exhales through her nose, nodding once to herself. “Okay.”
“Okay what?” Lara drops beside her immediately.
Megan tilts the screen away, “Nothing.”
Lara leans, already trying to peek.
“Did she text you.”
“No.”
“Yet,” Lara adds for her, grinning.
Megan rolls her eyes.
“Can you relax.”
Across from them, Sophia’s watching.
Quiet.
“You shouldn’t read into that too much,” she says, casual but pointed. “She’s busy. Or she’s just not that interested.”
Daniela hums slightly, “Or she’s doing that thing.”
“What thing,” Yoonchae asks.
Daniela shrugs, “Where people like that don’t answer right away on purpose.”
Megan’s expression doesn’t change.
But her jaw tightens just slightly.
“She didn’t seem like that,” she says.
“She didn’t seem like that,” Megan says.
Manon glances at her, clocking it immediately.
“No,” she agrees. “She isn’t.”
Lara leans back on her hands.
“She liked you.”
“Stop saying that,” Megan mutters.
Her phone buzzes.
Everyone sees it.
She hates that they see it. She unlocks it anyway.
You: was wondering when you’d use that number
Lara lights up.
“Oh my god—”
“Shut up,” Megan says quickly, already typing.
She doesn’t think too hard about it.
Megan: don’t make it weird already
She hits send. Locks her phone. Sets it face down.
Takes a sip. Across the room, Manon’s smiling to herself.
Because this—
This is already different.
For lunch. They end up at a small spot nearby. Nothing fancy. Just fast, easy, familiar. Megan’s sat between Manon and Lara. Scrolling without really seeing anything.
Her phone buzzes.
You: too late
She lets out a quiet breath through her nose.
“Still texting?” Daniela asks, not even looking up from her food.
Megan types, lips turning up slightly
Megan: why are you like this
She hits send.
Sets her phone down this time.
“Be careful,” Sophia says again, softer now. Not judgmental—just real. “You don’t know her like that.”
Megan glances up.
“I know,” she says.
And she does.
That’s the problem.
Her phone buzzes again.
She looks.
You: like what
A small pause.
She types slower this time.
Thinking about it.
Megan: a little annoying a little entertaining
She stares at it for a second before sending.
Manon watches her from the side.
“You’re choosing this,” she says quietly.
Megan looks at her.
You: ill take it
this about video games or you just felt bold this morning
“…yeah.”
No hesitation.
Manon just nods. Because that’s all she needed to hear.
Throughout the day you both run through meetings. Outfits. Schedules. Brand conversations.
People talking at you. Around her.
Megan nods where she needs to. Answers when she has to.
You’re half-listening. Your phone buzzes again on the table.
You flip it over quickly.
Megan: both
“Yo,” someone calls. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you nod, snapping back.
You type quickly.
You: dangerous answer
Lock it. Set it down. Try to focus.
You don’t.
The next few days don’t slow down for either of you.
They just shift.
By noon you’re back in your studio, lights low, hoodie half on, pacing between takes like you’re trying to outrun something that isn’t physical.
Your phone lights up on the desk.
You glance at it mid-step.
Megan: so valorant?
what else do you play
You stop.
Just for a second.
Then grab your phone.
You: depends anything that’ll hurt your feelings when i win
You toss it back down like it doesn’t matter and pull your headphones on again.
It does.
You barely get through the next loop before it buzzes again.
You ignore it. Force yourself to finish the take. Adjust a level. Replay it.
Still thinking about the message.
You cave.
Flip the phone over.
Megan: oh ur one of those
You: one of what
Megan: talks crazy before proving anything
That pulls a quiet smile out of you.
Across the room, your producer glances over.
“There it is,” he says.
You don’t look up. “What.”
“That look. You either just wrote something crazy or someone texted you.”
You scoff lightly. “Focus on the mix.”
He laughs. “Yeah, it’s someone.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your phone.
You: confidence is key
Megan: delusion is loud
You pause.
Then grin.
You: ur funny i didn’t expect that
Megan’s sitting on the floor, back against the mirror, phone in her hand.
She reads your message twice.
Lara leans over immediately. “What did she say.”
“Nothing.”
“That was a smile. That wasn’t nothing.”
Megan nudges her away, typing anyway.
Megan: wow okay i’ll remember that when i beat you
A/n: Spoiling ya. Very excited to keep it going hehehe.
Summary: Help in the studio.
Pt. II | Pt. IV
Monday night after another weekend of partying you walk through your kitchen. The idea doesn’t come in clean. It never does.
It starts as a feeling.
Something low.
Something that lingers longer than it should.
You’re halfway through your kitchen, barefoot, hoodie half on, sweats hung low, when the melody slips in.
Soft.
Dragging.
You stop mid-step.
Because you know that feeling.
You don’t sit on it.
You don’t let it pass.
By the time you’re in your home studio, lights dimmed low, the city barely visible through the glass, you’re already pulling up a track.
A French record.
Old.
Moody.
The kind of song that feels like it was made at 3am with something unresolved sitting in someone’s chest.
Laisse tomber les filles
Laisse tomber les filles
Un jour c'est toi qu'on laissera
You loop a section.
Again.
Again.
Let it breathe.
Let it stretch.
Then you start building around it.
Bass—subtle. Snares—Rattle.
Atmosphere—thick.
You hum over it first. Then words.
Broken.
But something softer calls to be placed behind. A lighter voice. Manon.
You pull your phone out without thinking.
Manon Bannerman: you up? need help with some french and vocals. My house studio. Now.
You stare at the message for half a second.
Send.
You toss your phone onto the desk, already turning back to the track like the answer doesn’t matter.
It does.
You just don’t want to think about why.
At Lara’s house. The girls are sitting around the living room winding down scrolling through phones as a movie plays in the back.
Manon’s phone buzzes in her hand. She glances down.
Reads it once. Then again.
A slow smile pulls at her lips.
“Oh?”
From across the room—
Lara’s head comes up immediately.
“What.”
Manon leans back slightly, casual.
Too casual.
“Y/n just texted me.”
Daniela, Sophia, Yoonchae—
All looking now.
“For what?” Daniela asks.
Manon shrugs lightly.
“Help with French. Studio.”
Lara’s already sitting up.
“I’m coming.”
“That wasn’t an invitation,” Manon says, amused.
“I don’t care,” Lara shoots back. “I’m coming.”
A beat. Manon’s eyes flick slightly—
Toward the couch where Megan is sitting.
Quiet.
Phone in her hand. Not looking up.
But listening.
Manon smiles a little.
Then types.
Manon: can I bring a couple people
A pause. You lean back in your chair slightly.
You could say no.
Keep it focused. Keep it controlled.
You don’t.
You: yeah
A second passes.
Then you add—
pull up
You lock your phone.
But now—
You’re aware.
Of the possibility.
You shake it off.
Turn back to the track.
At Lara’s.
Manon looks up.
“She said yes.”
Lara grins immediately.
“Obviously.”
Daniela laughs under her breath.
Sophia raises an eyebrow.
“Just don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t,” Lara says quickly.
Manon doesn’t respond. She’s watching Megan. Because Megan still hasn’t said anything.
“Are you coming?” Lara asks, already grabbing her things.
A beat.
Megan finally looks up…”I mean, yeah.”
Too casual.
Manon’s smile widens just slightly. Because she knows. Her phone buzzes again.
You: Already let security at the gate know, doors unlocked.
You’re back in the track. Headphones on.
Mic live.
Running the hook again. Your voice is rougher now.
More certain.
The words still aren’t perfect—
But the feeling is.
You pause, adjusting the sample slightly.
Letting it breathe in a different way.
Footsteps echo faintly through the house.
Voices.
You don’t turn around immediately. You finish the take first.
Then—
You pull the headphones off.
Turn slightly.
And there they are.
Manon.
Lara.
And—
Megan Skiendiel
Again.
But this time—
You’re not surrounded by noise.
Or alcohol.
Or expectation.
Just music. And her.
And the fact that–
You kind of hoped it would be her.
You lean back slightly in your chair.
“Perfect timing,” you say, voice lower, more relaxed than the two others have heard.
And this version of you.
This is the one that’s going to get her.
You stand up giddy like a kid laptop in hand and headphones around your neck.
“Listen to the record I’m sampling,” you smile easily.
“Hello to you to,” Lara laughs as she throws her bag on the studio couch.
“Sorry I just really need to get this idea out,” you press a button your voice playing through the speakers, “After the sample, I already have ideas for the first verse and the chorus,” you kissed your fingers like a chef.
Megan smiled bigger, “Manon was right…” she mumbled shaking her head softly, thinkng back to when the girl said how you really were a sweetheart.
This is where you slow everything down and let Megan watch you.
The studio settles into something quieter once they hear the sampled intro.
Not silent–
But focused.
You’re already back in your chair by the time they fully step in, one hand adjusting levels, the other tapping lightly against your thigh to the rhythm still looping through the speakers.
“Okay, play it again,” Manon steps closer, already locked in.
You nod once, hitting the spacebar.
The sample fills the room again.
Soft.
Haunting.
French vocals stretching over the beat you built underneath.
She doesn’t move closer. She lingers by the couch.
Leaning lightly against the arm rest, arms crossed loosely–not closed off, just…still.
Watching. You don’t acknowledge it just yet.
Manon gets in the booth adding vocals behind yours in the intro.
You’re in it.
“Say it again,” your voice murmurs through Manon’s headphones.
She repeats the line, slower.
Clear. Precise.
You join her behind the glass as Lara takes a seat in the producers chair.
You’re repeating the same lines with her. Voices blending beautifully.
Your accent slips slightly on the second word.
Manon smiles, stepping closer to the mic.
“Relax your mouth more—you’re overthinking it.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“Yeah, I’ve been told that.”
You try again. Closer. Better.
From the other side of the glass–
Megan watches.
And it’s–
Different.
You’re not performing. Not trying to be smooth.
Not trying to impress anyone in the room.
You’re focused.
Almost stubborn about it.
Repeating the same line until it sounds right.
Not good. Not passable.
Right.
Your brows knit slightly.
Jaw set.
Voice lower now as you run it again.
There’s something about the way you listen.
Really listen.
Not just to the track—
But to correction.
To tone.
To feeling.
And Megan notices it immediately.
Because people like you—
People with your reputation—
Don’t usually let themselves be taught like that.
But you do. Easily.
Without ego.
You run it again.
This time—
It lands.
Manon’s smile widens.
“Yeah. That’s it.”
You grin a little under your breath, satisfied. Not cocky.
Just—
Locked in.
And Megan catches that too.
The difference.
The way your confidence here isn’t loud.
Doesn’t need to be.
The two of you leave the booth. You lean forward past Lara and Megan, replaying the take.
Listening. Then–
Without really thinking, you glance up.
And there she is. Already looking at you.
Watching.
A beat passes.
You hold it for half a second longer than you should.
Then tilt your head slightly.
“Something to say?”
Megan uncrosses her arms slowly.
Posture straightening up enough to step a little closer.
“…you sound better like that.”
You raise an eyebrow slightly.
“Like what?”
She shrugs, but her eyes stay on you, “Not trying.”
hat hits.
Because she’s right. You let out a quiet breath through your nose, glancing back at the screen, “Yeah,” you mutter“…working on that too.”
Manon looks between the two of you.
Smiling to herself.
This isn’t just observation anymore.
This is interaction.
And neither of you—
Is pretending not to feel it.
You step back into the booth solo, playing with the first verse as the girls digest it.
I guess you had no idea that you could have persuaded me
Girl, you could have had me doing anything you pleased…
Your voice trails off as you signal them to go back on the track.
Girl, you should have took your time and thought of what to say to me.
I’m not as hard as I make it…mm
The track fades out slower this time.
Not because it needs to—
But because no one moves to stop it.
You’re still in the booth when the last note stretches thin and disappears.
For a second, no one says anything.
Then—
A quiet exhale.
You push the headphones down around your neck, stepping out, rolling your shoulders like you’re shaking the song off your body.
“Alright,” you mutter, voice a little rough now, “that’s enough before I overwork it.”
Lara leans back in the chair immediately.
“Yeah, no—cut yourself off. That’s when you start ruining it.”
You exit the booth taking the headphones off and cracking your neck lightly.
“Exactly.
Manon smiles,“you definitely got what you needed from me,” grabbing her phone, “I killed it.”
Needed. Not finished, that matters.
There’s a natural shift after that.
The kind that doesn’t get announced.
Movement starts again.
Lara stretches her arms over her head, walking backward toward the door.
“I’m getting a drink,” she says, already halfway out. “You have expensive taste, right?”
“Obviously you saw the house,” Manon followed.
You huff a quiet laugh, grabbing your water.
“Unfortunately.”
Manon adds, shaking her head, “I’m not letting her pick something without supervision.”
Their voices fade as they move into the main house.
Lighter now.
Less focused.
And just like that—
It’s quieter…different.
You lean against the edge of the desk, taking a slow sip of water.
Your body’s still buzzing from the session. Not adrenaline.
Something lower.
She hasn’t moved.
Megan’s still there, a few steps away, hands loosely tucked into the pockets of her hoodie now.
Watching you—
But not in the same way as before.
Less analysis.
“You always stop like that?” she asks.
You glance up.
“Like what.”
“Before it’s done.”
You tilt your head slightly, considering it.
You shrug, “If I don’t I won’t stop..how you think I release two albums this year.”
She laughs.
“So what’s the song about,” she pushes of the desk grabbing her phone.
“A girl who realizes I would’ve given it all to her,” you say like it was nothing.
She nods slowly. Like she understands that more than she should.
A beat passes.
You push off the desk, “C’mon.”
You don’t explain. You just start walking.
She follows. Of course she does.
The shift hits the second you step out of the studio.
The house opens back up around you.
Wide.
Bright in a softer way now—warm lighting, reflections bouncing off glass and marble.
Floor-to-ceiling windows cracked open just enough to let the night air slip in.
Lara’s already at your bar.
Of course she is.
Two bottles out.
One open.
“You weren’t kidding,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “This is ridiculous.”
Manon laughs quietly, leaning against the counter.
“Don’t encourage her,” she looks to you, “she acting like she ain’t have money growing up.”
You shake your head, moving past them toward the sliding doors, pressing a single button that opens it all up
“Don’t worry about it,” you laugh “Help yourselves.”
Your voice easy again. Looser now. Not the persona. Not the studio version either. Something in between.
The glass disappears into the wall with a smooth click.
Night air rolls in immediately. Cool against your skin. The backyard stretches out–clean lines, soft lighting tucked into the landscaping, the pool reflecting everything back in slow ripples.
You step outside like it’s instinct.
Behind you–
Footsteps. You don’t turn. You already know.
You drop into one of the patio chairs, leaning back, head tipping slightly toward the sky for a second as your hand grabs the joint from your pocket like second nature.
Breathing Letting everything settle.
There’s a pause.
Then—
A shift of weight beside you.
Megan doesn’t take the chair next to you.
She sits on the armrest. Close.
Casual enough to mean nothing.
Close enough to mean something.
“Can I?” she asks, nodding lightly toward your hand.
You glance down at the joint already reaching for a lighter thrown on your patio table. You hand it to her lighting it as it hangs out her mouth.
She takes a slow pull, then leans back slightly–
Not away from you. Just enough to exhale.
SIlence settles again.
Inside–
Lara’s laughing at something. Manon’s voice softer underneath it. Distant.
Here–
It’s quieter. You glance at her. She’s looking off taking another hit.
She looks down at you. A beat. Then she smiles
Not teasing this time.
Not sharp.
Easy. Soft.
“You’re different her,” she says handing you the joint.
You huff lightly, taking it from her, hands brushing.
Inhaling looking away toward the pool, “Yeah. You’ve mentioned,” you tease.
She shakes her head slightly, still watching you, “I mean it.”
You don’t answer right away. Because you know what she means.
And you don’t have a clean response. She’s not the first to push like this; she’s just the first you’re letting.
You take another slow pull, “Better or worse?” you ask, voice quieter now.
She tilts her head slightly, like she’s actually thinking about it.
“...better.”
You nod once. Like you’ll accept it. Event if you don’t fully believe it yet.
Another pause. It stretches. Comfortable. She shifts slightly on the armrest, turning just enough to face you more.
“So,” she says, nudging your knee lightly with hers, “what do you do when you’re not being mysterious in a studio at 10 p.m.?”
You let out a quiet laugh. Passing the joint back to her.
“Not much mystery to it,” you say. “Gym. Music. Drive around too much.”
She smiles.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you glance at her, “What about you.”
She shrugs, relaxed.
“Dance. Practice. Try not to embarrass myself in front of my group.”
You snort softly, “I don’t think that’s a problem for you.”
“Mm,” she hums, not fully agreeing. Another small pause.
Then—
The conversation shifts. Not deeper or heavy. Just—real.
Video games. Places you’ve both been. Places you haven’t.
You learn she’s from Honolulu.
She learns you’re from Las Vegas but also Toronto?
It’s easy. Too easy. At some point—
You stop thinking about what you’re saying. You’re both laughing more freely.
Which is rare. And she notices that too.
Because the version of you sitting here—
Leaning back, laughing quietly, passing the joint without looking—
Isn’t trying to be anything.
And somehow—
That’s the version she keeps watching. She keeps feeling.
Even when you’re not looking.
The joint begins to burn out, “So you’re writing another album.”
You adjust slightly feeling a little more exposed at the topic of your music.
“Yeah, figured I give the world a little more of me,” you rub your fingers.
“Three albums in a year is a lot,” she admires.
“I only have one interview out and people still act like they know everything about me,” You sigh like you’ve run out of breath, “I want this story to be told from my point of view this time.”
“Your other albums weren’t,” she puts the rest of the joint out in the ashtray, asking casually.
“Bits and pieces I suppose.” You don’t look at her when you say it. Just trace the rim ashtray with you thumb like it suddenly matters more than the conversation.
A small pause settles between you. Not uncomfortable.
Just… aware.
Megan watches you for a second longer than she should, expression soft.
“Feels like people filled in the rest for you,” she says, quieter now.
You huff softly at that, “Yeah,” you nod, glancing out at the pool, “they’re pretty good at that.” The water shifts with the wind, light bending across it.
“They’re not completely wrong though,” you add, almost like an afterthought.
That’s the slip. You feel it the second it leaves your mouth.
Megan catches it immediately. “I didn’t say they were,” she replies, just as calm.
No judgment. No edge.
That makes it worse.
You glance at her then, just briefly.
“…you don’t really seem like you care either way,” she continues, tilting her head slightly.
You lean back deeper into the chair, exhaling through your nose.
“I care,” you say.
A pause.
“Just not enough to fix it,” That one sits heavier. Megan studies you for a second, something softer behind her eyes now, “Or you don’t think it’s worth fixing,” she says.
You let out a quiet laugh—short, almost surprised.
“Something like that.”
Silence again. But it’s different now.
Closer.
She shifts slightly on the armrest, not pulling away—just settling. “Your music doesn’t sound like someone who doesn’t care,” she adds.
You don’t answer right away.
Because she’s right. And you don’t like how easily she keeps being right.
So instead, you glance over at her, a faint smirk pulling at your mouth—
deflection, instinct.
“Yeah?” you murmur, voice lower now, “what does it sound like then.”
Megan holds your gaze for a second.
Long enough that it almost feels like she’s going to say something real.
Something too real.
You see it—
The shift.
The thought forming.
Then—
She exhales softly, the corner of her mouth lifting just a little.
“Mm…” she hums, buying herself a second, “dangerous.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Dangerous?”
She nods, glancing down briefly before looking back at you, a little lighter now—but not fully.
“Yeah,” she shrugs, “like you know exactly what you’re doing.”
Her eyes flick over your face again.
Slower this time.
“Even when you pretend you don’t.”
That lands quieter than anything else she’s said. You let out a soft breath, something almost like a laugh under it, “Pretend, huh?”
She tilts her head, a hint of a smile still there.
“Mm,” she nods, “it’s subtle. I’ll give you that.”
You shake your head slightly, looking away for a second, jaw tightening just a touch.
“Or,” she adds, softer now, almost like she’s correcting herself—
“you just don’t like people knowing.”
There it is, You glance back at her. And this time—
You don’t have a quick answer.
So you don’t give one.
From inside—
Lara’s laugh cuts through the quiet again.
Louder this time. Closer.
“Okay—what are you two doing out here?”
The moment breaks just enough.
Manon steps out behind her, linking arms with Lara before she can wander too far.
“It’s late,” she says, glancing between the two of you, a knowing smile tugging at her mouth. “We should probably go before she decides to live here.”
“I might,” Lara mutters, swaying just slightly as she looks around. “This place is insane.”
Then her eyes land on you.
On Megan. On how close she’s sitting.
A slow grin spreads across her face. “Oh,” she drags out, eyebrows lifting, “that’s what’s going on.”
You roll your eyes immediately, leaning back like it doesn’t phase you.
“Relax.”
Megan shifts just slightly beside you—not pulling away, but aware now.
“Mm,” Lara hums, clearly not convinced, “you don’t usually look that relaxed.”
“Okay,” Manon cuts in, laughing under her breath as she tugs her back. “We’re leaving.”
Lara lets herself be pulled, but not without one last look over her shoulder.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she calls out.
“…actually, do. Just tell me about it later.”
You shake your head, a quiet laugh slipping out despite yourself. The moment lingers for half a second longer—
Then it shifts.
You push yourself up from the chair. “C’mon,” you nod toward the house.
Megan follows as you lead them to the door.
The house feels warmer inside now.
Quieter.
Manon’s already got Lara halfway out, steadying her as she slips her shoes back on.
“You good?” she asks.
“I’m great,” Lara insists, leaning into her slightly. “I just like her house.”
You snort softly, leaning against the wall.
Manon glances back at you. “Thanks for having us.”
You nod once, “Thank you for the help.”
Her eyes flick briefly between you and Megan again—
Not missing anything.
Then she turns, guiding Lara out toward the car.
The door stays open.
Night air drifting in.
Footsteps fade.
Voices lower.
And then—
It’s just you and Megan.
She lingers by the entryway. Not moving to follow right away.
You notice. Of course you do.
You lean back slightly against the wall, arms loose at your sides. Watching her.
“…you’re not going?” you ask, tone light.
She exhales softly, glancing toward the door—
Then back at you.
“…I am,” she says.
She doesn’t move.
Instead—
She steps a little closer.
Not as confident as before. Subtle.
“I just—” she starts, then stops, a small breath leaving her as she runs a hand lightly through her hair.
There’s a flicker of nerves there now. Real.
And that’s new.
You catch it immediately. Your head tilts slightly.
“What?” you ask, quieter this time.
She presses her lips together for a second—
Then just says it.
“Can I get your number?”
A beat.
“…for video games,” she adds quickly, a hint of a smile trying to cover it, “or—whatever. Another hangout.”
There it is. You don’t answer right away. Of course you don’t.
Instead, your mouth pulls into something just slightly teasing.
“Video games,” you repeat, pushing off the wall.
She rolls her eyes lightly.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make it sound worse than it is.”
You step a little closer now.
Not enough to crowd her.
Just enough to shift the space.
“I don’t think it sounds bad,” you say, voice lower.
“I just didn’t think you’d ask.”
That lands. She huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah, well—” she shrugs slightly, glancing away for a second, “figured I’d try.”
There’s something honest in that.
Unpolished.
You study her for a second.
Then—
You pull your phone out.
“C’mere,” you say simply.
She steps in.
Closer.
You hand it to her.
Her fingers brush yours again as she takes it—
Lingering just a fraction longer this time. She hands you her own.
She types quickly.
Adds her name.
Hands it back. You glance down at it.
Then back up at her.
“…for the record,” you say, slipping your phone into your pocket—
You pause, “I’d like to see you again too.” No joke this time.
Just honest.
It catches her slightly off guard.
In a good way. Her smile softens.
“…good,” she says quietly.
From outside—
“MEGAN,” Lara’s voice calls.
She glances toward the door, then back at you.
Reluctant now.
“…I’ll text you,” she says.
You nod once.
“I know.” A small smile. Then she turns—
Finally stepping out into the night.
And just like that—
She’s gone. The door closes softer than it should.
A/n: The ending is a little rushed but I have a general idea for where I want this fic to go hehehe. Hope y'all enjoy ;)
Summary: Can't get you off my mind.
Pt. I | Pt. III
You woke up earlier than you should’ve. Given how the night ended, it didn’t make much sense—but your body was used to it by now.
Stripped down to just a sports bra and basketball shorts, you rolled over—
Empty. Your bed was untouched on the other side, sheets still neat where no one had been.
For a second, you just stared at it.
Then—
You exhaled. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, cutting across your room in soft lines. Too bright. Too calm.
Noise from the kitchen pulled you out of it.
Voices. Movement. For a brief second, you wondered if you did bring someone home—
Wouldn’t be the first time you didn’t remember right away.
But the second you turned the corner—
You relaxed.
Quenlin Blackwell
Tara
And—
Sasha. Your hometown best friend turned influencer, standing at your stove like she owned it, making eggs like this was her kitchen.
“Good to know you guys can always make yourselves at home,” you muttered, voice still rough, stretching as you leaned against the counter.
Sasha didn’t even look up.
“We decided to have a pool day at yours.”
Of course you did.
Tara turned immediately, bright and entirely too awake.
“I proposed the idea, after I woke up in your lovely guess room and remembered your even lovelier pool” she said, beaming like she deserved praise, “but don’t worry—”
She pointed dramatically toward Quen.
“I made her get you your smoothie.”
Quen held it up without looking, already mid-sip of her own drink.
“You’re welcome.”
You took it, eyeing them all for a second before taking a long sip.
“…I don’t remember agreeing to this.”
“You don’t have to,” Sasha replied easily, flipping the eggs. “You just have to own the house.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head.
Outside, through the glass doors, the pool caught the sunlight just right. Calm. Quiet.
A complete contrast to last night.
And for a second—
Your mind flickered back there.
A voice. A look.
A question you didn’t answer properly. You take another sip of your smoothie, grounding yourself.
Tara watches you over the rim of her cup.
Narrowing her eyes,“you’re thinking about her aren’t you.”
You don’t even react this time. Just lean back against the counter,“good morning to you too.”
Quen lets out a laugh, “Oh she definitely is.”
“Jesus fuck,” you groaned, “Did Odessa or Tara blab to you?”
Sasha glances between you all, confused.
“Wait Fomo right now…who are we talking about?”
Tara lights up immediately.
“Oh my god, okay, so last night we ran into our friend Manon, who also had Lara, Daniela, and Megan with her—”
Her eyebrows wiggle on the last name, eyes locking onto you as she pokes your cheek.
“—and their party girl read right through ours.”
“She did not,” you throw your head back, scoffing, “we were having a standard conversation with the standard charm I give everyone.”
They don’t buy it. Not even a little.
And the truth is–yeah, you were thinking about her. Just not in the way you usually think about women.
Not easy. Not surface-level. Not something you could brush off after a night of fun.
With Megan–you were..nervous. Genuinely nervous.
“You don’t let people get close…” her voice lingers in your head. Too clear. Too accurate. Your friends voices blur.
Why would you let people get close? The memory hits before you can stop it.
“I never really loved you.”
You’re 17 again. Standing too still. Caring too much. Hear racing too fast.
“I don’t even think I liked you.”
The words didn’t land all at once. They settled. Sunk in slow–like they still do.
“I–” you’re voice broke, you tried to find something to hold onto.
“What we’re doing is wrong,” she cut in sharp. Bitter, “I’m not gay. I never was; you confused me.” A pause. Her eye never met yours.
“That’s why I can barely look at you anymore.”
The tears fell before you could stop them. “Okay,” little you managed.
“I’m sorry, but once you realize being ‘normal’ is an option,” she exhales, like she’s relieved to say it out loud..”everything’s easier.”
And just like that–A year and a half, half your teenage years, turned into nothing.
After that—
You didn’t let things get close enough to be redefined.
Then everything changed. Your music blew up. Your name spread.
And suddenly—
You’re surrounded by people who want you?
Girls you never thought would even look your way. Older girls.
Confident. Experienced. Safe in a completely different way.
And then—
Alexa. Thirty-five. Effortless.
The first person you let yourself fall into after her.
It wasn’t serious. Not officially. But it was… something.
Until it wasn’t.
“I didn’t know there was a green light to fuck other people,” you mumbled, arms crossed, trying to keep your voice steady.
Alexa had sighed, like you were being unreasonable, childish, “What’d you expect?”
That hit harder than it should’ve.
“I’ve mostly been with guys,” she shrugged lightly. “I’m bound to miss them.”
You had tried to process that. Tried not to react, “I kind of expected you to communicate that.”
She dismissed you with a shake of her head, already done with the conversation.
“We’re not together, Y/n.” A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Our relationship is mostly just for looks anyway–I scratch your back you scratch mine”
It stuck. You had let yourself think it meant something.
After that—
You stopped asking. Stopped expecting. Stopped defining.
Because if nothing is defined—
Nothing can be taken from you.
If you never expected anything–
You could never be disappointed.
Coming back to the present, the kitchen, the noise, your friends still talking around you.
Tara’s mid-sentence. Quen’s laughing. Sasha’s flipping something on the stove.
Everything normal. But your chest feels tight.
Because for the first time in a long time—
Someone didn’t just accept the version of you that’s easy to understand.
She questioned it. Looked past it.
And somehow—That’s worse, you don’t know how to handle it.
You don’t say anything after that. Just grab your smoothie. Turn.
“I’m working out,” you mutter, already moving.
Behind you—
Tara scoffs, “Of course you are.”
Quen laughs, “She’s spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling,” you call back, pushing the glass door open. But you don’t slow down either.
The guest house sits just off the main patio—same glass walls, same clean lines, just smaller. More private.
Your gym.
Weights lined up perfectly. Machines you actually use. Floor-to-ceiling windows that stay open, letting the warm air roll through.
From here, you can see everything—The pool. The chairs. Your friends already stretched out like they’ve committed to doing absolutely nothing.
Billie Eilish, joined shortly after. Her dog joining your own with the rest of the girls in the yard. She’s right behind you. Of course she is.
“You’re not getting out of it that easy,” she says, already grabbing a pair of weights, “Odessa filled me in.”
“I’m not trying to get out of anything,” you shoot back, dropping your smoothie on the bench.
She glances at you. “Mm.”
You don’t argue. You just stared. Heavy. Controlled.
Count the reps. Focus on the burn.
It helps.
For about thirty seconds.
Then—you don’t let people get close
You lose count.
“You lost count,” Bille probs without looking up.
“Going til failure,” you mutter, resetting your grip.
She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t need to. She was one of the first celebrities to get close to you; taking you under her wing even though you were just a couple years apart, she guided you, protected you, like a sister.
Outside, Tara’s voice cuts through the air, loud as ever.
“I’m telling you, it was tense—like actually tense.”
Quen laughs, “I wish I was there.”
Normal.
Everything’s normal. Except you’re gripping the bar a little too tight. Moving a little too fast. Trying a little too hard to outrun something that isn’t physical.
“Take a second,” Billie says quietly.
“I don’t need a second.”
“You do.”
You pause.Just barely.
Then exhale, stepping back from the rack.
Running a hand through your hair. Your chest rises and falls a little heavier than it should.
Outside, the sun reflects off the pool, bright enough to make you squint.
For a moment—You just stand there.
And even with everything—The noise, the movement, the distraction—
She’s still there. Right in the back of your mind.
Unmoved.
Billie watches you from across the room.Not saying anything.
Just… there. Because she knows.
You can run yourself into the ground if you want.
It’s not going to change the fact that something shifted last night.
And you felt it.
Across the hills, Megan is just waking up. She’s usually the last one to. Sunlight filters through the curtains, softer here–less harsh than it probably should be. The kind of morning that feels slower than the night before deserves.
She groans quietly, turning over, pulling the blanket tighter around herself as she stretches.
Her head isn’t pounding. But she’s not exactly refreshed either.
Downstairs–
Voices. Giggles. Slightly too loud for this early.
She exhales, already knowing. They’re talking about last night. Of course they are, they needed to debrief Yoonchae and Sophia who decided to have a night in.
She drags herself up slowly, running a hand through her hair before slipping out of bed. The floor’s cold. The house is warm.
By the time she makes it downstairs–
The five girls are already gathered in the kitchen, mid conversation, energy high in that way it only is when something interesting happened.
“…I’m just saying, she did not expect that,” Lara insists, pacing slightly.
Daniela laughs, shaking her head, “No, she definitely didn’t.”
Manon leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching the two of them with a knowing smile.
Megan steps into the doorway.
“…good morning to you too.”
They all look up at once.
“Oh,” Lara grins immediately, “perfect timing.”
Megan narrows her eyes slightly, “why are you all smiling like that.”
Daniela gestures toward her, “Because we’re talking about you.”
“Shocking,” Megan mutters, moving past them to grab a glass.
Manon watches her closely now. Not missing the way Megan moves a little slower than usual. A little more in her head.
“So,” Lara starts, leaning against the counter, “are we gonna pretend last night wasn’t a thing?”
Megan takes a sip of water, unfazed.
“It was a thing.” A beat, “It just wasn’t a big deal, she’s Y/n Y/l/n– she was probably just playing off of me.”
Sophia smirked at that while sipping her coffee.
Manon lets out a quiet laugh at that, ““Right,” she says. “Not a big deal.”
Megan glances at her “…what?”
Manon tilts her head slightly, “You’ve been thinking about it.”
Not a question. Megan doesn’t answer right away.
Because—
Yeah. She has.
Yoonchae noticed the pause, “you have been thinking about it.”
Megan exhales lightly, setting the glass down, “I just didn’t expect her to be like that.”
Lara perks up immediately, “Like what?”
Megan thinks for a second. Trying to put it into words–
“Quieter,” she says finally, “More… real,” Megan adds, almost like she’s figuring it out as she says it.
Manon nods, “Yeah..I know Y/n at parties–she usually is more like charming, ‘let me get you a drink,’ play girl shit ya know.”
Daniela crosses her arms, “so she was acting?”
Megan shakes her head.
“No.” Simple. Certain.
“She didn’t have anything ready,” Megan continues. “Like—there were moments where she didn’t know what to say.”
Lara grins, “Oh, she liked you.”
Megan rolls her eyes slightly, but there’s a hint of a smile there.
Sophia’s voice cuts in from behind them—
“Or she’s just good at making people think that.”
Everyone turns slightly as Sophia joins from the couch.
Megan glances at her.
“She has a reputation for a reason,” Sophia continues. “You don’t want to get caught up in something messy, especially with how fresh we are to the industry—2025’s been big for us and 2026 is only going to get bigger”
Daniela nods slightly, “Yeah. It’s not just rumors.”
Lara groans, “Oh my god, you guys are so dramatic.”
Manon shrugs, “C’mon– deep down she’s a sweetheart who loves to party and she’s hot. That already cancels out like half the concern.”
“Minimum,” Yoonchae mumbled.
Megan lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head, “You’re all ridiculous.”
But she doesn’t dismiss it completely. Because she knows. She’s heard the same things. Seen the same headlines.
She just—
Doesn’t fully believe them anymore. Not after last night, after the way you hesitated.
Manon takes a seat at the island…”so what did she actually say to you?”
Megan’s lips press together slightly, thinking, “I think that’ll stay between us.”
Manon and Lara smile knowingly at the other.
Because now she knows. This isn’t just curiosity anymore. And whether Megan admits it or not—
She’s already looking forward to the next time she sees you.
The pool glints under the sun, water moving slow and easy. Your dogs tear through the yard, one of them launching straight into the pool.
“OH my god—” Sasha’s voice rings out.
Laughter follows. Normal. Everything’s normal. Except your head won’t shut up. You grab your water, taking a long sip, trying to reset. It doesn’t work.
You don’t even realize you’re staring at your phone until Billie speaks again.
“You waiting for something?” she asks.
You blink, glancing down. Screen filled with clutter.
“…no.”
She doesn’t respond. But she doesn’t look convinced either.
Outside, Tara calls out—
“Who are you ignoring right now?”
“I’m not ignoring anyone,” you shoot back.
You shake your head, running a hand through your hair.
“You guys are annoying.”
“Yeah, but we’re right,” Tara fires back.
You don’t answer–there’s nothing to answer. No text. No confirmation. No plain reason to be thinking about her like this.
You step out into the sunlight, the heat hitting your skin immediately.
Too bright.
Too open.
Billie follows behind you with a soft knowing smile, “you liked her,” she stated catching up to your side and bumping into you softly as you made your way to the sun chairs beside the three other girls.
“I like a lot of people,” you drop into a chair, grabbing your water again.
The girls stare as Billie takes a seat beside you.
Sasha snorts, staring over her glasses.
“Liar.”
You lean back, eyes drifting to the pool, your dogs still running like nothing’s changed.
Everything looks the same. Feels the same.
But something’s off.
The next few days pass the way they’re supposed to.
Busy.
Loud.
Full.
On paper–
Nothing changes.
You’re in your studio more than usual. Lights low, headphones on, pacing between takes like you’re trying to outrun something you can’t quite name. You’re playing with beats everywhere.
Your studio.
Your couch.
Kitchen counter.
Bathroom.
When you finally start adding lyrics, you hesitate.
Just for a second.
“Something’s different,” your producer Illangelo.
You shrug it off, “It’s not.:
But it is. Because for the first time–
You’re not writing at someone, something.
You’re writing around something, through someone.
And it sounds…less detached.
That something, sits in rehearsal.
Mirrors. Sharp counts. Music loud enough to drown everything else out.
“Five, six, seven–”
She misses a step.
Barely noticeable, but she notices
“Can we run it again,” she says immediately, brushing it off.
They reset.
But when the music starts again—
Her timing is just a fraction off.
Not enough for anyone else to call it out. Enough for her to know.
Thursday. Five days after you’re encounter with Megan.
You’re driving. No destination.
Just movement. City lights blur past, engine low, steady.
Your phone lights up on the passenger seat.
Notifications stacking.
Mentions. Tags. Messages.
You ignore them at the light, scrolling thru until one catches your eye.
MEGAN MEI-YOK SKIENDIEL followed you.
The next light you’re opening up the app. Megan goes through a similar process. Sitting on her couch and look through insta she shifts to the notifications section.
they/ny/ln followed you back.
A soft smile spread across the dancers face as you took a deep breath pressing the gas.
