Tea Over Patriarchy

A gal trying to figure out what it means to be a part of the world. Writer and lover of fanfiction. Previously @minealone

[teaoverpatriarchy]

Hi,

I was following up to see if you had the two fanfiction stories I was looking for. They are fosters fanfiction by sukistory also known as theAuthor77. The titles are the Forster clan and just one more.

If you need the story urls I have them. I would really appreciate your help.

Thank you

Hi! I don’t have these stories. Have you checked AO3 and Fanfiction?

[forbescaroline]

235 FAVORITE SHIPS OF ALL TIME (ranked by my followers) 103. brandon foster and callie adams foster - the fosters

[teaoverpatriarchy]

Idc I love them

[teaoverpatriarchy]

The Fallout: A Brallie Fanfic (pt. 3)

Part III: Chapter One

Quinn stirs softly in her car seat. It’s the tiniest sound, but it slices through the stillness.

Stef – never one to shy away from conflict – is the first to speak. “What the hell just happened?”

Lena’s hand moves to Stef’s arm, an attempt at grounding them both. An instinctive gesture.

It doesn’t work. Her own face is pale. Her voice, calm but shaking under the weight of what she has just witnessed, “Did… did you just kiss?”

Jesus lets out a low, stunned, “Whoa,” before immediately receiving a shove from Mariana, her elbow jamming sharply into his side. A familiar warning to shut up.

Mariana then crosses her arms, her eyes darting between Jesus and Jude. “Please tell me I imagined that,” she mumbles. Jude just looks at her and shakes his head – eyes fixed on Brandon and Callie like he doesn’t recognize them.

It would be easier if he didn’t. If they were two strangers.

Eliza stands frozen in time – silent and unblinking; and Brandon isn’t sure if she’s about to collapse or combust.

And Jamie… Jamie emerges from Mariana’s house, the screen door slams behind him as he cradles his fist.

Even from where she stands with Brandon, Callie can see that it’s speckled with blood, skin scraped off at the knuckles. She’s not sure what he punched.

Mariana notices too, already moving, “I’ll get you some ice,” she tells him gently, patting his shoulder. He doesn’t shrug her off, but he doesn’t speak either.

“So…so it’s all true,” Eliza finally speaks, words brittle. She says it with finality. Not a question. All her fears and hidden thoughts confirmed at once.

Callie doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t shrink. She squares her shoulders, even as her heart pounds against the bones in her chest.

“Yes,” she says. “It’s true.”

Brandon’s hand finally drops from Callie’s waist like a tether cut loose. It hangs limply at his side, “We didn’t want you to find out like this.”

Stef’s expression is tangled with disbelief and disappointment, “What way did you want us to find out, B? You’re married. Both of you,” her hands are a wild gesture towards her oldest two children.

“So were you,” Brandon says quietly. “Before you weren’t,” it’s desperate. Ineffective. Perhaps even a bit cruel.

Stef steps back, jaw tightening.

“That is not helpful,” Lena warns, looking at Brandon with disappointment. It was low. Brandon knows it.

Callie’s lip quivers and her fingers tremble as she searches for Brandon’s hand, her fingers knocking against his before they lace them together, “We’ve spent years… hiding, denying, trying to be the people we thought you all needed us to be.”

Tears run unbidden down her face.

Jamie looks at her then. For a moment, his face is carved from stone. Then the fissures begin. His mask cracks, something in his gaze is broken. “And what about what I needed? What we needed?” he gestures to Eliza who still stands unmoving.

Callie opens her mouth, but there’s no defense. Not really. Just silence and guilt and sorrow.

Quinn murmurs again. Louder this time, and all eyes dart to her.

Lena’s voice comes softly, meant to be a salve, “So what now?”

Brandon let’s out a shaking breath, “Now we stop lying. We stay. And we talk.”

No one speaks right away.

Then Stef exhales long and hard through her nose. “Alright then. Let’s talk.”

“Everyone back inside,” Lena says. Her voice is composed despite everything. No one argues as she urges everyone back into Mariana’s house – through the front door and into the unknown.

And just like that, the shock settles. Not gone. Just situated. No one leaves. No one screams. They remain—on the edge of something seismic.

Callie turns to unbuckle Quinn with gentle, practiced hands – desperately needing to feel her daughter’s weight against her chest.

She cradles the sleeping child close, peppering her hair with kisses.

Brandon’s arm winds around Callie’s waist. Together, they follow everyone inside.

In the twenty minutes that have passed since they all prepared to leave, the house feels different. The atmosphere heavy and dense. What was once filled with laughter now carries betrayal. Everything exposed.

Callie feels like she’s walking through mud. Like she can’t quite get her legs and feet to cooperate.

“I’m going to put Quinn in the guest room,” she looks up at Brandon who nods but makes no move to let go of her. Instead, he escorts her into the nearby room and watches as she tucks Quinn beneath the blankets, rearranging pillows as a buffer at the bed’s edge so she won’t roll onto the floor.

Once she’s settled, they both kiss her goodnight and Brandon pulls Callie close.

“It will be okay,” he assures, even though they both know that isn’t true. He runs his fingers through Callie’s dark hair, slipping through it like water.

“No matter what,” he says seriously, drawing her close, “we leave here together. Okay?”

Without hesitation, Callie nods. They share a small, comforting kiss – not passionate, but grounding – before quietly exiting the room and walking towards where they know everyone else awaits.

“I’ll make tea,” they hear Lena say. Though it’s obvious she’s talking more to herself than anyone else, “This feels like something that requires tea. Tea’s comforting, right?”

“Or wine,” Mariana adds, sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, legs crossed.

Callie stays near Brandon. She notices that Jamie stands apart from everyone – like he’s planning his exit…which she wouldn’t blame him if he was.

Lena rummages through cabinets, pulling down mugs while the rumble of water boiling in the kettle intensifies.

It’s somehow unspoken that they are all waiting for Lena’s gentle ceremony to finish, for her to distribute their warm beverages before they talk.

The silence affords each person a moment with their own thoughts. Processing the revelation that Callie and Brandon have never stopped loving one another.

“How about we go into the living room?” Stef says as Lena finally hands each person their drink. “More room for sitting. Talking.”

There are a few nods, but for the most part, the only acknowledgement of her words is their movement into the next room.

It feels awkward and unnatural. An hour ago, everyone was laughing. Content. Now, they all send furtive glances this way and that, waiting to see who will be the first to speak.

It’s Jude. He speaks first, words clipped, “I’m sorry, but are we really doing this again?”

“Doing what again?” Callie asks, the tenderness of an older sister wrapping around each word, her hand instinctively reaching out to the person she has loved and cared for since he was no more than a young child himself.

Jude flinches, “Don’t do that,” he’s angry. “Don’t act like you care about anyone but yourself. This is what you do, Callie. You run. It’s your thing,” and he lists off his examples, “before Moms adopted us. When D.C. didn’t work out. When things got hard with Gael. You burn it all down and disappear,” he’s yelling now, feeling betrayed.

“That’s not fair,” Callie whispers, reduced to tears at hearing what he thinks of her.

“It’s not?” Jude shoots back. “You just blew up your life. Everyone’s lives. Brandon’s, Jamie’s, Eliza’s. Again. Why is it always chaos with you?”

Brandon cuts in, standing up protectively, “That’s enough,” he steps forward.

Jude’s eyes flash.

“No,” Brandon continues. “You don’t get to reduce her to a pattern just because it’s easier than acknowledging it. The truth is, we haven’t destroyed anything. We’ve revealed it. This – what we have – it’s real. And we should have talked about it ten years ago.”

Callie rises from her seat, stepping closer to Brandon. Her hand travels the length of his arm, starting from shoulder and ending at fingertips as she guides him back to their seats.

Eliza watches the whole interaction and scoffs, taken aback by their blatant infidelity.

Callie’s voice is soft as she looks first directly at Jude and then at every other person in the room in turn, “We didn’t plan any of this. We don’t want to hurt anyone. But we aren’t running. This is me – us – staying.”

Brandon agrees with her, “We’ve stayed. Despite everything. We are here. We show up every day for each other. For our daughter. It might not be what you want. But we’ve been here the whole time. Quietly. Completely.”

It isn’t a dramatic revelation, but it’s a revelation nonetheless as Jesus looks between Brandon and Callie, “Your daughter? Not Jamie’s?”

Callie shakes her head no, indicating that Quinn has never been Jamie’s. Finally, her eyes meet her husband’s, “She’s Brandon’s.”

Jamie doesn’t say anything. He stands and leaves. His departure punctuated with the slam of the door.

The reverberation of the door makes Callie visibly wince before she says, almost in a trance, “I’m going to make sure that didn’t wake up Quinn,” and she vanishes into the hallway.

Eliza uses this moment to swipe at a few tears that have stained her cheeks, “I’d like to have a private conversation with my husband please,” she doesn’t wait for a response, but exits the patio door. Waiting outside for Brandon.

When he joins her, he leans against the closed glass doors. From both fatigue and the desire to hide his facial expressions from his family inside.

“How long?” Eliza asks.

“Three years,” Brandon says.

Eliza looks at him incredulously, “Tell me specifically when this all started Brandon.”

He doesn’t answer right away, “I’ve loved Callie forever. Since she and Jude first came to stay with us when I was sixteen.”

Eliza is losing her patience. It’s almost offensive the way he’s barely speaking to her, barely answering her questions, barely looking at her, “That isn’t what I mean, and you know it. When, three years ago, did you first sleep with Callie?”

“After your dad’s funeral,” he sighs.

Eliza looks like she’s been slapped in the face, “So while I was falling apart,” she whispers, “trying to hold my life together and grieving my father, you were fucking your sister.”

“I was falling apart too!” He doesn’t dignify her crude accusation with a response.

“No,” she shakes her head. “You were supposed to be there for me. I know we had our own issues, but I thought at the very least I wouldn’t have to worry about my husband cheating on me after the death of my father,” she scoffs, her voice almost a laugh. “It looks like I gave you too much credit.”

Brandon just looks at her because there are no words in any language that will assuage his guilt and relieve her pain.

“I…I…” her breath hitches and for a moment, Brandon doesn’t think she’s going to be able to continue, “I loved you. Why did you marry me if it’s always been her? If she’s the one you’ve loved, the one you’ve written your music for, the one who gets you and is your best friend. Why did you marry me? I…I asked you if you still had feelings for her. You told me no!”

“I thought it was impossible – to have her. To build a life with her outside of what we had as family.”

___

Callie sits curled into the corner of Mariana’s sectional, Quinn nestled against her chest. Her eyes flicker every few seconds to the patio doors, where Eliza and Brandon disappeared minutes earlier.

Every passing second feels like a ripple in still water, spreading outward and touching everything.

 She’s rocking Quinn who did, in fact, wake up crying when Jamie left. She awoke the moment Jamie’s exit shattered the air. Her soft cries broke something in Callie too.

Her cheek is pressed against Callie’s shirt, her small fists curled and anchored at her mother’s chest.

At twenty-one months old, Quinn has mostly stopped nursing. She was easy to wean. Easier than Callie expected. But tonight, the old rhythm has returned – nursing as comfort, not out of need, but knowing.

Quinn may not have the language for what is happening around her, but she understands that the world has shifted. That the people who love and care for her now emanate frantic, stressful energy.

Callie has wrapped them both in a blanket, a small cocoon shielding her daughter from the sharp edges of adult failure. The two of them rock slowly, breathing in sync, hearts steadying each other.

The room is dim except for the kitchen light filtering in, and the porch light from the patio casting shadows in the corner.

No one speaks right away, everyone simply watching Callie. Then, Stef crosses the room, sitting wordlessly beside Callie.

“We always knew, you know?” Stef says, tugging Callie – her own baby – gently to her. Callie rest her head and tear-streaked face against Stef’s shoulder.

It transports her back to being seventeen and overwhelmed by things she didn’t know how to name.

“That she wasn’t Jamie’s?” Callie asks quietly.

“No, honey,” Lena supplies from an adjacent chair. “That you were still in love with each other. We didn’t know it had gone this far. We thought that you had both moved on enough.”

“So it’s never really been over?” Jesus asks and then watches Callie confirm with the shake of her head.

She swallows hard, sitting up and gently adjusting Quinn who has gone slack with sleep, “We tried,” more tears fall. “I promise. We really did. We tried to be other people. Better people. Married and moving on and not…broken. But he’s the only person who has ever really seen me. Loved each part of me – even the parts I didn’t know how to love myself.”

More tears fall. Silent and relentless.

“You were never broken,” Mariana cries too, crawling onto the sectional to sit on the other side of Callie. She rests her head against Callie’s should and reaches over the blanket to brush Quinn’s soft curls.

“She’s right,” Stef says with a sigh. “But you were kids. And you had already been through so much. We thought we were protecting you – keeping you both safe from something else that could hurt you.”

Callie nods, “You did protect us; and I think…I think we made the right decisions then. I needed a family so much more than I needed a boyfriend. But nothing has ever felt complete without him. Even after all these years. We told ourselves that adoption was our forever. That we could have each other forever this way, and that it was enough.”

“But it wasn’t,” Lena says.

“It just all happened so quickly, and we decided that we couldn’t stop it, but we still wanted to protect all of you,” Callie tries to explain.

Stef uses her hands to cup Callie’s face so that she’s looking directly at her, “Do you remember when I told you that nothing you could ever do would make us not want you? That’s still true, love.”

“Mom’s right,” Lena assures, coming over to press a kiss to Callie’s temple, “You don’t have to explain everything tonight. But remember: no matter how tough things get. We’re never going anywhere. Never.”

“But how’s it all going to work?” Jesus finally asks. “I mean…long-term. It’s not like Callie and Brandon can divorce Jamie and Eliza and then get married. And what about Quinn? Is that, like, legal?”

A hush spreads across the room. Mariana glances towards Jude, who has been quiet for a long time – too quiet.

“They can’t marry each other,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Not in California. Not anywhere probably. But they’re not biologically related so yeah…they can have children. That’s legal.”

“It’s just not simple,” Callie adds. “Nothing about this is simple. But I promise it’s real,” she says to everyone. Willing them to understand.

“We want the real you, Cal,” Mariana assures, squeezing her sister’s arm. “You deserve what’s real, and so does Quinn, and we do too. Even if it’s messy.”

Everything still feels tender and unsure, but also unwavering.

___

Outside, through the patio doors, Eliza and Brandon are still silhouettes against the porch light. Unmoving. Unresolved.

Eliza begins to pace, glancing occasionally at Brandon, who stands unmoving in the porch light.

A few strands of café lights buzz softly above Eliza, throwing golden halos on the siding and framing her in a warm glow that does nothing to soften the hurt on her face.

“I have more questions,” she says, “I just keep rethinking everything that has ever happened over the last three years, and even before that: every dinner, every car ride, every time you and Callie stood too close or laughed at something no one else understood. Our wedding,” she is rambling, speaking quickly, her hands gesturing in front of her.

“Okay,” he says. Resolute. It feels torturous. He wants to check on Callie and Quinn, but he doesn’t dare turn to look through the doors. The least Eliza deserves in this moment is his presence.

Eliza asks, “When did you know? That she was pregnant, I mean.”

He’s determined to give her only the information she asks for. Nothing more. She deserves answers. Maybe more than that, but something feels wrong about the intimacy of revealing his life with Callie, “As soon as she found out. Maybe six, seven weeks after we…” he trails off.

Her lower lip disappears as her teeth sink into it, “And you knew right away that the baby – Quinn – was yours?”

“Yeah,” he answers immediately. Certain.

“Did you…did you discuss options? Like, keeping her, or not keeping her, or anything like that?” she’s not sure why she’s asking. A part of her wants to hear him say yes. That for the briefest moment, he thought about how much a baby would hurt her. How it would ruin them. End them.

“No,” Brandon interrupts gently. “We never talked about not keeping her. Or…or terminating the pregnancy,” Brandon says. “Callie told me and we…we planned our whole lives around Quinn. It was never a question.”

“You didn’t think about what it would do to us?” Eliza’s voice comes out hoarsely.

“I…” he isn’t sure how to answer the question, because he did think about Eliza – at least in the periphery of his mind. He thought of her to the extent that he would have to plan a new life around her. But he didn’t think about how a baby with another woman would fundamentally alter their relationship.

He settles on, “I thought about you, but I didn’t think about what having a baby with Callie meant for you.”

“You didn’t think about me as your wife. You thought of me as a barrier. An obstacle to the life you wanted,” she discerns.

“That’s not what I meant,” he tries to explain.

“I watched you when you first held her. When we went to visit Callie in the hospital a couple days after she was born. I remember watching you cry when Callie placed her in your arms. How you held her like she was the most precious thing in the world. I thought I was watching an uncle hold his niece. And I remember telling myself how lucky I was to be with someone so kind. So open-hearted. Thinking My god. I cannot wait to experience that,” her face is red. Splotchy from crying.

She takes a deep inhale before continuing, “I watched you kiss Callie’s forehead and stroke the hair out of her face; and I willed myself to believe that it didn’t mean anything. That you were just overjoyed for her. For your sister.”

The word is a hard punctuation, almost spat at him.

Brandon doesn’t say anything.

“I loved you,” Eliza says finally. Defeated. “And you never loved me.”

“That isn’t true,” Brandon tells her truthfully. “I did love you. I do love you.”

“But you never stopped being in love with her, right?”

“I tried to be who you wanted me to be, Eliza. Who I thought I needed to be, but loving Callie wasn’t our only issue. We started arguing before we were even married.”

“Because of Callie!” Eliza says emphatically. “Because she said the prenup was a bad idea. Because she was your first love and you never told me about it. Because she didn’t like me. And because she is the person you wanted to marry.”

Before Brandon can respond, he feels the push of the patio doors against his back. It’s Stef.

“I understand that this is a sensitive and high emotion time,” she says diplomatically. “But it’s getting a little heated out here.”

Brandon hears Quinn crying behind Stef. He looks over her shoulder to see Callie trying to adjust their daughter against her chest.

He pushes gently past his mom to go to them, “Excuse me.”

“Hey,” he coos, approaching them. “What’s got my baby girl so upset?”

Callie looks up to him, relief and love shining through her eyes. She lets Brandon take Quinn into his arms, “You’re going to be a sleepy girl in the morning.”

“Mama, Dada,” Quinn continues to cry.

“We’re right here,” Callie raises from her seat to place a gentle hand on Quinn’s back, her fingers twining with Brandon’s. “Both right here, baby,” Callie leans her face in close to Quinn’s, her cheek on Brandon’s chest.

He maneuvers Quinn into one arm so that he can bring Callie into his other one.

For a fraction of a moment, it is just the three of them. A whole universe, self-contained.

Until they see Eliza step into the room. Her movements are composed but slow. Her eyes settle on them – Callie curled into Brandon, Quinn sniffling between them – and something in her goes still.

She doesn’t say anything. Noticeably grieving, but still poised.

The quiet opening and closing of the door announces her exit.

Part III: Chapter Two

Jamie doesn’t remember walking to his car. He doesn’t remember how the keys ended up in his hands, or how his fists ended up raw – knuckles split open and blood crusting in patches that sting every time he flexes.

All he remembers is the sound.

Quinn’s cry at the slamming of the door. Sleepy, innocent, unaware. The sound of a child that knows of nothing beyond her own needs.

He knows, deep in his bones – to his core even – that even if he had wanted to, he wouldn’t have been able to soothe her.

Not the way he knows Brandon can. He thinks about Callie and the way she looks at Brandon like he is the sun and moon and gravity holding her whole damn world together.

It breaks him.

The kiss. The betrayal. They all hurt, but not the way it hurts to realize that his wife has never looked at him that way.

She loved him. Maybe still loves him – in her own way. He knows that. It couldn’t have all been pretend. The moments they shared were real, but he knows now that they weren’t enough.

Jamie sits in the driver’s seat, parked three blocks away from Mariana’s house. His window is rolled halfway down, letting in the night air. The scent of cut grass and citrus, mixed with summer sweat clings to his shirt.

He hasn’t moved in twenty minutes. He is still gripping the steering wheel.

The engine is off, but the silence is so excruciatingly loud.

He tilts his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes, trying to focus on anything else – clients, the next case, what he wants for breakfast. Literally anything. But it all circles back to Callie and Quinn.

Back to the mundane moments of Callie asking him to pick up milk for Quinn. Back to the morning when he fed Quinn oatmeal while Callie showered. Back to the nights he kissed Callie’s forehead while she was sleeping before going to peek in on Quinn in her nursery.

He thinks about the few times he’s been the one to wake up to a crying Quinn, fumbling for her pacifier and bouncing her on his hip while she cried out for “Mama, Dada.”

The memory brings tears to his eyes and makes him nauseous at the same time, realizing that she was never asking for him.

He never thought to question it. Until he did.

He was Dada. Wasn’t he?

Now…he knows he never really had her. Not fully. Neither of them.

His phone lights up on the center console.

A text from his mom.

Hi baby. Just checking in. Love you.

He presses the lock button, watching the screen go black before tossing it face-down into the passenger’s seat.

He can’t explain this to her. Not yet. Not when he doesn’t understand it himself.

He rolls the window down further and lets the wind hit his face. He stares out at the dark suburban street.

Mere blocks away, Callie is with her daughter. Not his. Probably nestled against the man she’s always loved. The man Quinn knows as her father. She’s Brandon’s daughter.

The word daughter sticks like glass in his throat.

She was never his.

No court documents were signed. No DNA tests ever done. It was all trust. All love – on his part at least. All paper-thin hope that what he gave would eventually be enough.

There’s something deep down inside that he doesn’t want to admit. Cannot admit. Has known since the moment he cradled the tiny newborn girl in his arms. She wasn’t his. Her gray-green eyes and dark brown hair. Round cheeks like Callie’s but the slope of a nose like Brandon’s.

He rubs a hand over his face, wincing at the sting in his knuckles. There’s dried blood beneath his fingernails, and he has no idea if he punched a wall or a tree or whatever was closest.

It doesn’t matter.

He starts the engine and pulls onto the street, but he doesn’t drive home. Instead, he drives aimlessly. Past neighborhoods where the lights are off and the only movement comes from sprinklers hissing against sidewalks. Past schools and closed gas stations and shuttered cafés.

And somewhere in the middle of it, he starts talking to Quinn.

It’s ridiculous—he knows that—but it’s the only thing that keeps him from unraveling completely.

“I know I’m not your real dad,” he says quietly, gripping the wheel at ten and two. “But I was there. I held you when you were three minutes old. I rocked you to sleep in the hospital chair when your mom was still too sore to sit up.”

His eyes sting. He doesn’t wipe the tears away.

“I loved you,” he whispers. “I still love you. Always will, little one.”

It’s not enough. He knows that.

He doesn’t know what his role is now. He doesn’t know if he gets to keep anything—visits, photos, birthdays. He doesn’t even know if he wants to.

But the grief is real. The grief demands to be named.

He turns the car around and heads toward the coast. He doesn’t need to be anywhere in the morning. His world has come to a full stop.

Eventually, he pulls over near Sunset Cliffs and climbs onto the hood of the car, wrapping his arms around himself as the Pacific churns below. Waves crash against the rock face with relentless force.

Somewhere, behind him, a new family is being formed in the wake of his undoing.

And here he is—alone, heart cracked open, watching the tide roll in.

____

The front door closes behind her with the softest of clicks. Not a slam. Not a burst of energy. Not her grief demanding to be felt.

Just the soft, breathless sound of something ending.

Final.

Like a requiem. Like the exhale after holding in a breath for too long.

She doesn’t cry again, her body past tears. Wrung out and hollow.

She descends the porch stairs carefully, her heels catching the lip of the last step. It jolts her – not with pain, but with clarity. Her body registering the weight of what her mind has already begun to process.

The air is cooler now and she shivers. Arms folded tightly around her midsection, she walks to the car. Brandon’s car.

They rode together.

She is reminded that only a few short hours ago, they were husband and wife. Despite their problems, they were together. Now, it’s all gone. Like sand slipping and reshaping. The imprint of their life together smoothed over like it never even existed.

It’s Brandon’s car, but she has the keys. He had asked her to put them in her purse when they first arrived.

Unlocking the car, she slides into the driver’s seat – adjusting the mirrors and steering wheel to her own preferences. Trying to claim something – anything – in a life that no longer exists.

When she finishes, she just sits. From her vantage point, she glances briefly at Mariana’s house, the image of Brandon, Callie, and their daughter coming unbidden to her mind. Brandon’s arms embracing them both. Callie pressed into his side, Quinn’s head against her mother’s chest.

Together. Warm and loved and making the future that never included her.

She thinks she could forgive Brandon if it was all one-sided. If Callie loved him, but he didn’t love her. If it was a moment of weakness. A mistake.

The ache rises in her throat again.

But it wasn’t a mistake. And it isn’t one-sided. She knows – has, to some extent, always known – that he loves Callie. His best friend and the woman he has, from the beginning, shared everything with.

She leans forward, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel. Eyes closed. Breathing slow.

She should have asked more questions. Years ago.

Before Turks and Caicos. Before the wedding. Before she traded in her own doubts for a dream that never quite fit.

The dream of a happily-ever-after that was so desperate to marry the man she had fallen in love with that she ignored every small, almost invisible crack that she knew was there.

Each glance, or pause in conversation, or each way Callie was his reprieve. How he sought her out for comfort, and advice, and companionship.

She wishes that she had pulled Mariana aside, asked her to explain everything about Brandon and Callie’s past together.

She remembers one afternoon, three months after their engagement, so vividly that it burns. A moment that exists before she knew about their past, when she and Brandon were visiting his family.

Standing in Stef and Lena’s kitchen, the big picture window giving her a clear view into the backyard.

Watching Brandon laugh as Callie said something while walking by him.

Watching him reach for her wrist, Callie turning. A gentle tug to pull her into his embrace.

Eliza watched it all, unnoticed by the pair, as Brandon held Callie. Their lips moved, talking. A conversation lost to Eliza behind the glass, but their comfort with one another undeniable.

They smiled as Callie’s hands soothed up and down Brandon’s back.

When they pulled apart, they were still tethered. Fingers lingering, only letting go as Callie walked away and distance separated them.

The memory is mundane. Nothing she saw was suspicious. Not something to warrant jealousy the way a moment of hidden affection between the two would.

Eliza told herself it meant nothing. She was the fiancée. The one wearing the ring.

But…Eliza had felt the jealousy at witnessing their closeness in both proximity and bond. And now she knows why. She knows better.

Why didn’t you tell me about her?

She realizes that Brandon never answered that question. In the wee hours before their wedding, he never answered. Only insisted that his hesitations were not because of Callie.

Maybe that was true. He did have other issues – including the condo and pre-nuptial agreement – but maybe he was even lying to himself then. After all, Eliza had seen the way he looked at the girl who was supposed to be his sister.

It isn’t just the lies that break her. It is how natural it all seems. How easily Brandon and Callie fit — as parents, as partners, as a family. The intimacy between them doesn’t look illicit. It looks inevitable.

And that, somehow, makes it hurt worse.

She thinks about the moment Brandon admitted it. That he’d written music for Callie. That his love never really stopped. How he said he thought it was impossible — that they could never have a life together.

But he has it now. The impossible made real.

He chose it. He chose Callie. Again and again, in secret and in silence.

She lets out a shaky breath, still sitting in the same parking space, and stares out the windshield. She glances up at her reflection in the rearview mirror. She looks like someone else entirely. Skin blotchy. Eyes swollen and glassy. Hair tangled. The corners of her mouth turned down in that particular, involuntary way grief makes permanent.

She looks like someone who has lost everything.

And she has.

Not just the marriage, but the story she had been telling herself for years. The story about who she was. about who hew as. About what their love meant.

Still, she doesn’t fall apart. Not fully. Not yet.

Because the thing about heartbreak — real heartbreak — is that it doesn’t always look like screaming. Sometimes it looks like silence. Stillness. The impossible task of just… continuing.

And she will. She must.

Somehow – though she doesn’t know how – she will continue with a life different than she has imagined.

A life that doesn’t include children with Brandon.

That, as with everything, hurts. And a new grief blooms inside her.

He is a wonderful father. Even in the secrecy and betrayal of this situation, he has somehow carved out a relationship with his daughter.

Loved the little girl endlessly and hopelessly. And has let that be known through his actions.

She will never know a life where that love is extended to her children. Brandon will never sing lullabies to their babies. He will never press a hand to her belly and talk to the child growing there.

Those moments will always belong to someone else.

He said he wrote Outlaws for Callie. But now, Eliza knows: every note. Every composition has been a love letter written in code. Translated in chords for Callie.

She will never know that kind of devotion with Brandon.

She will never know a life where she travels the world with Brandon, tells stranger in every country and on every continent about her husband, the composer.

She blinks hard but no tears fall.

Eliza straightens in the seat and finally turns the key in the ignition. The engine hums to life, low and obedient. She doesn’t know where she’ll go yet — not the place she called home with him. Not yet.

She thinks immediately of Jamie, wondering where he has gone and knowing that he has not returned to the house he shared with Callie and Quinn.

It hurts to know that her brother exists in parallel grief.

Maybe she will go to a hotel. Maybe just drive until her hands stop shaking or she runs out of gas.

One thing is certain. She will not disappear. They may have chosen each other, but she will choose herself.

And whatever comes next — the divorce, the lawyers, the bitter silences, the shifting family dynamics — she will face it with her head held high. Because she deserves more than half-hearted love. More than shadowed glances and decades-old love songs written for someone else.

She pulls away from the curb. Her hands still tremble on the wheel. But her gaze is steady.

Behind her, the house shrinks in the rearview mirror, frame by frame, until it is no longer a house, but a silhouette in the darkness.

Part III: Chapter Three

Jude’s right.

It’s the first thing Callie thinks the next morning when she wakes up. The words thud in her chest.

Her eyes are bleary, but despite the events of last night, she slept well. Warm and content. She blinks herself fully awake, taking in the early light stretching across the guest room ceiling, cool and gray through the curtains.

Quinn is still curled into a comma against her side. Tucked close into the hollow of her body.

Callie lies still, staring at the ceiling. Her body aches a bit, like maybe she has allowed herself to sleep for too long. She knows what the days ahead will demand – boxes, bags, goodbyes.

She realizes that she needs to clear her things and Quinn’s things from the home she’s shared with Jamie for the last three years.

She has to go back to the house…a reminder of the life she’s built beside him. Now, she will unbuild it. Dismantle it room by room.

Because Jude is right.

She leaves destruction in her wake. Like a tornado ripping through other people’s lives. She doesn’t mean to do it, but she sees the pattern. Crashing into people’s lives, breaking foundations she never meant to touch.

She’s not in love with Jamie, but she does love him. He has loved her. Tried to help her raise a daughter for the past two years.

He’s a good man. And she is shattering his world.

In the fresh clarity of a new day, she feels guilty and ashamed of what will happen next. She knows she cannot change it now, but it all feels so unfair.

It’s unfair that she will get to build a life with the man she loves. With the daughter they have. Unfair that she and Brandon aren’t really losing anything in the aftermath of their decisions.

Eliza and Jamie are losing everything; and she’s not sure how to make it hurt less for either of them when she’s the cause of all their pain.

She thinks all this, and her throat tightens. Before she can stop herself, she is sobbing. She rolls over to bury her face in the pillow. A desperate attempt to muffle the sound, but it slips out. Raw and aching.

The bed shifts beside her, and she feels Brandon’s hand. Warm and secure, pressing into the small of her back.

Callie turns her head and looks into his eyes. The concern she sees in them affirms that she gets a kind of happily-ever-after with him. Even if it’s messy, it’s theirs.

“Cal?” His hand on her lower back presses more firmly, letting her know he’s there. He’s real. “What’s wrong?” his voice is rough with sleep.

He watches her lower lip tremble as she tries to control her crying, “I don’t want to wake Quinn,” she whispers before taking a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

At this, Brandon sits up. He takes Quinn into his arms, cradling her gently and humming under his breath. He bounces her to keep her asleep, waiting until her sleepy whimpers settle. He expertly maneuvers the tiny girl so that she remains asleep when he lays her down in his warm spot, cocooning her between pillows so that it feels like she is still snuggled between her parents.

Callie watches him through glassy eyes. He’s so good at this. At being a father.

When he comes to lie beside Callie, she lets herself be folded into his arms, burying her face into the crook of his neck.

Once her breathing has mostly returned to normal, and she’s sure Quinn is sound asleep, she tells Brandon softly, “Jude’s right. I feel so guilty. So selfish. I ruin everything for the people I love.”

Brandon pulls back just enough to look at her, “Hey,” he says, his voice low and firm. “You’ve never been selfish, Callie. You don’t honestly believe what Jude said, right?”

She shakes her head, disagreeing.

“I’ve known you half my life, and you have never been selfish. If anything, you are reckless. Maybe impulsive, but never selfish.”

She lets out a bitter breath, pressing her palm into his chest, “You really think there’s a difference?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” he assures.

“How…how can you say that? You’re basically agreeing that I always make decisions that hurt other people.”

Brandon watches as her eyes fill with tears again. Sees the insecurities of her teenaged years creep into her mind, doubts about herself forming, “There is a difference, Callie. And I know you don’t believe it right now, but I’ve watched you give away everything to protect the people you love.”

She closes her eyes. Tears still falling.

“Callie, you are – without exception – the most selfless person I know. Since the moment I met you, you’ve been willing to give up everything – your own well-being included – to help others.”

She shakes her head, disbelieving.

Brandon sees her retreating inward. He wants her to know that what he’s saying is real, so he begins to list his evidence, “You went to juvie to protect Jude. Almost got shot to save him from your foster dad. You helped Daphne get Tasha back. You helped Kiara and her little foster sisters get out of that house; and then you got Kiara off the streets,” each example he gives is accompanied by a kiss to her skin – temple, cheek, shoulder.

“You sent the recording to Rita. You went with Diamond so Tina wouldn’t have to. You proved Kyle was innocent. And you advocated for Ximena.”

His forehead is pressed to Callie’s now, his fingers traverse the length of her back. Soft and reassuring.

His breath fans across her face, “Each and every time, Baby, you have made the decision to give up your freedom, your safety, your love, for the people around you. That isn’t selfish,” his knuckles brush against her wet cheek.

“And you let us go,” he adds. “Over and over again. Because you thought it would protect everyone else.”

Callie can’t speak, but Brandon feels her melting into his embrace. A sign that she understands, that she believes him.

“It’s not selfish to finally want something for yourself, okay? It’s not selfish to love and be loved.”

Callie buries her face into Brandon’s chest. Letting his steady demeanor and broad arms be her comfort.

“I know it feels bad right now; and maybe some pieces will always feel bad. But finally…finally deciding to take care of your own heart doesn’t make you selfish, Callie. It makes you human.”

She draws in a shaky breath, “I know,” she says noncommittally. “But it feels so unfair. Jamie thought Quinn was his. I let him believe that. I hurt him so much.”

“I know,” it’s all he says.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him. Or anyone. I didn’t want to shatter everything.”

Brandon cups her cheek, gently guiding her gaze back to him, “We have both done things we thought were right at the time. Nothing we did was out of malice. It still hurts, but it wasn’t intentionally cruel.”

The depths of Callie’s brown eyes search Brandon’s face. She’s unsure of what she’s looking for, but she needs to see him. Really see him.

“I told Eliza I wrote Outlaws for you,” he says, “But I didn’t tell her that pretty much everything I’ve ever written has been inspired by you – every melody, every chord progression. It was you who got me to Idyllwild. You inspired my music; and that music got me a shot at Juilliard too,” he explains. “But I couldn’t say any of that to Eliza because she was already so hurt when she realized I’ve never written anything inspired by her.”

Callie traces the edge of his jaw with her fingers, tears filling her eyes again, “We tried,” she ask. “Right? We really, really tried. Didn’t we?”

She’s asking him something that makes a shared memory blossom for them both. Something they’ve kept hidden from everyone. Their desperate attempt to give each other up.

“We did,” Brandon says honestly. “We really tried, but some things are meant to be. You and me. Us. Quinn. It’s forever. And that’s not something we need to fix.”

Callie looks at him for a long moment, taking in his words.

“Everything else might be broken,” he continues. “Some things just…break. But not us,” he promises. “Not our love.”

She leans forward and her mouth searches his. It’s gentle. Steady. Her own promise to him.

Part III: Chapter Four

Seven Years Ago

“Packing up?” Callie’s voice floats through the doorway of the room that Brandon has always called his. She’s leaning against the frame, arms crossed loosely, watching him with a tender smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Brandon thinks there’s something nostalgic in the way she looks at him – something old and sacred that tugs at his chest.

His own smile appears, slow and fond, before glancing down at the haphazard items spread out around him, “I’m just taking a few things back to LA,” he hesitates, then adds with a half-grin, “Glad you took the job there.”

“Yeah,” Callie replies dryly. She doesn’t hide the sarcasm lacing her voice, “I’m sure Eliza will be thrilled.”

Brandon let out a snort.

“I can’t wait for all the awkward dinner parties,” she teases him, but there’s something brittle right at the edge of the words. Her eyes sparkle, but not with joy – something else shimmers there. Something buried that they don’t acknowledge.

Brandon tries to smooth over the moment, “Eliza’s good with you,” he assured, gazing at Callie for a long moment before adding, “We…uhhm…made the right choice.” It catches in his throat.

It doesn’t sound believable to either of them, but Callie agrees, nodding slowly as if the motion requires effort, “I know. I mean…if we’d chosen each other over the family, who knows what would have happened?”

“Hmm,” Brandon pretended to ponder, tilting his head and playing along, “probably would have flamed out.”

They shared smiles – sad and soft – both aware of the truth, but performing a shared fiction. Creating a shared narrative they must live with. A story rewritten so that it hurts less. But the ache is still there, just beneath the surface. Blooming like a bruise.

“Definitely,” Callie agrees.

Soft, quiet chuckles escaped them both. And a breath of silence passes between them. A gentle weight like the calm before a storm. But it’s a storm they’ve already survived. One they can never stop feeling.

Brandon adds to the story they are determined to tell themselves, “And, you know, who knows if we’d even be in each other’s lives anymore,” he licks his lips, his voice growing quieter, more vulnerable, “This way, I get to have you forever. You’re my best friend.”

Something inside Callie breaks and swells all at once, “You too.”

And it is the truest thing they have said so far. Yet, it isn’t the whole truth. They are best friends, but that certainly does not stop them from also being desperately in love with one another.

She loves him. Still.

And he loves her. Always.

It clings to them quietly and persistently.

Callie extends her hand, reaching for him without thinking, Brandon immediately taking it in his own. They each resist the urge to slot their fingers together. To fit together effortlessly.

“Don’t tell, Mariana,” the words are almost a whisper. The only volume Callie can muster without fear of giving away her true feelings.

Brandon stands slowly from the seat adjacent to Callie, his eyes never leaving her. He closes the distance between the small space and pulls her into a hug.

It’s something that should feel safe, uncomplicated. Solidifying them as siblings – not lovers – but as the space dissipates and she is in his arms, the world shifts.

Her body fits against his like it always has; and the warmth and scent that he knows to be uniquely hers infiltrates his senses. Lavender and vanilla and Callie.

He feels himself falter as he exhales sharply, and lifts his hand to her hair, letting his fingers thread through and caress the soft tendrils. A gentle and loving act.

She looks up at him, and he kisses her. A reverent, achingly slow surrender. Lips that remember. Hands that search. A connection that eclipses everything else.

When they pull apart, their foreheads remain pressed together, eyes closed. Breath shared.

He cups her cheek. His words ghost against her still parted lips as he tells her, “I still love you,” before kissing again.

She doesn’t pull away, she lets his fingers soothe against her cheek, even as tears sting behind her closed eyes, “Brandon, we –”

“No, let me finish,” his voice is gentle, not demanding. Quiet and just for Callie, “I still love you. I’m always going to love you, Callie.”

She doesn’t say anything. She can’t. Because suddenly she is back in Turks and Caicos, standing at the altar—not with him, but near him—and every thought that had rushed through her mind that day had been about him.

His love. Her love for him.

The vows. The flowers. Eliza. It had all blurred into background noise, because as soon as he looked at her, as soon as their eyes met, the only thing pulsing through her body was him. And still, she could not, cannot tell him.

Not that she loves him with every piece of herself. That his love – steady and unwavering – is what has shaped her. That when she stood there as his sister only, her heart was still tied to him.

She had not said it then. But she had thought it: I've been loved by you, Brandon. It is a pretty powerful thing.

It is still powerful. Powerful enough for her to break her own heart. To encourage him to marry someone else.

It would have been so easy, she thinks, to be selfish instead. He already had doubts. She could have said it all. But she didn’t.

Now, she chokes on a sob at this admission. Her eyes fluttering open and then shut once again. She nods against him – because what else can she do?

It is simultaneously everything she wants to hear and the last thing she wants to know.

She can’t speak without falling apart, so she buries her face into the crook of his neck. Her only indication that she has heard him. That she agrees. That she will always love him too.

“But we made the right decision…with the adoption,” he reiterates, his hands dropping to her waist and pulling her closer. Callie hears the tears in his voice.

They can feel both of their hearts breaking.

Callie wraps her arms around him, each holding one another like the memories they don’t want to let go.

“I mean it. This way, I get to have you forever. You have to know that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Me too,” the tears finally fall, silent and heavy, smudging dark streaks down her face and pooling at her chin.

He kisses her once more. Slow, relishing her and committing it all to memory. Because this will be the last time.

“We don’t always get to have our one true love. Not the way we want,” Callie whispers through the ache.

“I married Eliza,” Brandon sighs against her mouth. “But only because I can’t have you. You’re my best friend. My everything.”

Callie doesn’t trust her voice. She slides her arms around his neck and this time she initiates their kiss, fighting the desire to press herself more fully into him, to feel the hard planes of his body against her one last time.

Everything with Brandon has always felt natural and good. Even when they fight, he is still the person she wants the most.

“I love…I love you too. So much,” she tells him around hiccupping breaths.

And then they let go of one another. Finally, reluctantly, there is nothing left to say. They have said everything.

They accept that their love will never disappear, but it will live – quietly, painfully – in all the spaces between what is and what could have been.

They have decided. This is their ending. It is the right ending.

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

[teaoverpatriarchy]

The Fallout: A Brallie Fanfic (pt. 2)

Part II: Chapter One

“Hey,” Callie sighs, leaving Jamie a third voicemail. “Sorry to keep calling you. Are you on your way? Quinn’s family night event starts in fifteen minutes.”

She’s pacing in front of Quinn’s childcare, smiling tightly at the other families and passersby.

She feels ridiculous as she ends the call, tucking her phone into her purse. The San Diego sun feels particularly hot today. She can feel sweat beading at the nape of her neck.

She’s in a pale blue sundress, and she’s afraid if she sweats more, it will become noticeable.

Brandon has already taken Quinn inside to play with the other children before the event starts.

Tucking her phone into her purse, she’s not quite sure how she actually feels. Two simultaneous thoughts intertwine in her mind. She doesn’t particularly care if Jamie attends the event. It’s easier if he doesn’t, she thinks.

But she’s also frustrated that she told him about this event last week, and then at the beginning of this week, and again last night. This morning too.

He should be here.

She enters the childcare and feels the refreshing breeze of air conditioning. There are teachers everywhere greeting families and hugging children.

She sees Brandon chatting with a teacher, Quinn perched happily on his shoulders, sing-songing Dada.

Callie’s heart stutters in her chest at the sight. The beauty of it. Of her baby.

She can see Quinn’s deep, expressive eyes – a soft gray-green that shifts with the light. Her lashes are long and thick, fluttering curiously at the world.

Brandon often tells Callie that Quinn looks like her. Her small, heart-shaped face and brown curls – not quite as dark as Callie’s rich, chocolate locks, but with a hint that suggests her hair will darken as she grows.

Brandon turns his body slightly, and Callie watches as the light catches on Quinn, making her wide smile brighter.

She loves everything about the little girl. Her thoughtfulness, and inquisitive personality. her quiet concentration that mirrors Brandon’s focus, and her stubborn streak that Callie recognizes all too well.

Callie walks towards them slowly, continuing to admire them.

From the periphery of his vision, Brandon sees Callie approaching. Continuing his conversation with a teacher, she watches Brandon use one hand to hold Quinn securely in place, outstretching his other to Callie – beckoning her into his embrace.

She fits against his side, making the picture of a happy family. It’s an affectionate gesture. Subtle enough that it isn’t strange.

Brothers hug sisters. Uncles carry their nieces.

Callie likes the way it feels to fit against Bradon’s side — the kind of closeness that’s never had to be forced. His arm remains around her waist, hand resting lightly against her hip.

She slides her hand up the center of his back, brushing just beneath the collar of his shirt in a gesture so casual it might be missed by everyone else. But not by Jamie.

Not by him.

Because at that moment, he walks in.

He hesitates in the doorway, caught in the cheerful chaos of Family Night: toddlers darting between legs, teachers laughing, parents balancing juice boxes and phones. It takes him a moment to find them — his family — and when he does, the breath leaves his body like someone’s pressed a fist to his chest.

Callie’s head is tilted back, laughing softly at something Brandon just whispered. Quinn is still perched on Brandon’s shoulders, arms draped comfortably across his forehead like it’s her favorite place in the world. And maybe it is.

Jamie stands frozen, his messenger bag slung awkwardly over one shoulder. He realizes too late that he’s overdressed — blazer and slacks in a sea of sundresses and dad jeans. It’s not the clothes, though. It’s everything.

It’s them.

He watches for a moment longer, unnoticed. Callie’s hand moves gently to Quinn’s ankle, a reflexive touch. And Quinn holds out her arms in a gesture to be held.

Brandon shifts his weight, so Callie can reach her. Pulling Quinn into her arms and kissing her little cheek.

Brandon says something to Quinn, who giggles and calls out again, clear and proud: “Dada!”

Callie and Brandon both freeze for just a beat.

They don’t look at each other, but it’s clear they’ve heard it. Heard it again. And they don’t correct her. Not this time.

Jamie steps forward, clearing his throat, “Sorry I’m late.”

Brandon’s eyes flick up first. Calm. Controlled.

“Hey,” his voice is friendly. Practiced, “You’re just in time,” Brandon looks at his phone. It reads five-twenty-eight.

Callie turns more slowly, the warmth draining from her face as she spots Jamie standing merely feet away.

Too softly at first, “Hey. You made it.”

She detaches herself from Brandon, almost imperceptibly. A small step, but Jamie notices. The space between them widens — visibly, deliberately — but the image of them lingers in Jamie’s mind like a photograph burned into the back of his eyes.

“Did I miss much?” he asks casually.

Callie shakes her head, her own dark curls fluttering against her face, “Not yet. They’re about to start.”

“We should find our seats,” Brandon suggests.

“Great,” his voice is even. He doesn’t move to kiss Callie. Doesn’t make a move to hold Quinn who is snuggled against her mother, small fingers holding onto Callie’s necklace.

He stands. Watching. Observing the room and observing them.

The voice of the childcare director cuts through the tension, “Families, thank you for joining us. If you’ll find your seats, we’ll start our program.”

Brandon reaches out, rubs Quinn’s back.

“Dada,” she coos.

Jamie’s jaw twitches. He swallows.

All three adults make alternating eye contact with one another, but no one corrects Quinn.

Instead, Brandon leans forward and kisses her forehead.

The proximity to Callie that this simple gesture brings makes Jamie clench his fist.

Brandon steps back just enough, giving space, giving air. Following the crowd of other families into a room with rows of chairs.

Jamie watches the whole exchange in silence.

Callie falls into step beside Jamie.

“She really loves him,” he says slowly. Waiting for a revelation.

“Mmhmm,” Callie agrees, gently bouncing Quinn in her arms. “She does.”

He doesn’t ask what that means. Doesn’t say what he’s thinking.

But Callie feels it – the accusation, the resignation, the ache. She doesn’t meet his eyes as she moves towards her seat. Sandwiching herself between Brandon and Jamie.

___

The sun has already dipped below the horizon by the time they exit the building, leaving streaks of violet and orange across the sky.

Callie is crouched at the back seat of the car, securing Quinn into her car seat. She’s already falling asleep, clinging to a small blanket.

Brandon stands a few feet away, watching with quiet tenderness.

Jamie lingers for only a second before entering the driver’s side door. Sitting. Waiting for Callie to finish.

“Okay, baby,” Callie whispers to her sleepy daughter, “We’ll be home soon.”

She fastens the last buckle, listening to Quinn babble something indecipherable, thumb tucked into her mouth, her eyes already beginning to flutter closed.

Callie stands, stepping out of the way so that Brandon can quickly kiss Quinn goodbye.

He closes the door softly and turns to Callie.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” she tilts her head to the side. “For always showing up,” she says this part quietly.

“You know there’s nowhere I’d rather be,” his eyes flicker briefly to the side of the car where Jamie disappeared. Then, back to Callie.

“Drive safe,” her voice is soft, wobbly even.

Brandon nods. He doesn’t reach out to hug her, but he does reach for her hand.

The touch is intimate, hidden from Jamie’s line of sight. He squeezes her hand before letting go and walking away.

Callie stands, watching until he’s at his car. She turns to her own door, opening it and sliding into her seat.

Jamie waits until he hears the click of her seatbelt before pulling away from the curb.

His hands are tight on the wheel. The hum of the engine and the rustle of Quinn’s sleep-soft breathing fill the silence.

Callie stares out the window, one hand propped up to cradle her chin in her hand.

It’s too quiet.

Jamie’s voice is even, “He didn’t even flinch when she called him Dada.”

Callie doesn’t respond.

“Sorta like he’s been waiting to hear it,” it’s close to an accusation.

At this, Callie’s cheeks flush. Not with embarrassment. Moreso anger. But she’s not sure if it’s anger at Jamie or the situation they are in, “She has been saying it. For weeks. You’re just never around to hear it.” The air thickens with implication.

The words leave her mouth sharper than intended.

Jamie lets out a low, humorless laugh, “You say that like it’s not a choice I made for all of us,” his voice rises a bit. “Because someone has to keep things together,” another accusation.

“Keep your voice down,” Callie hisses, turning to make sure Quinn is still sleeping. “I didn’t ask you to keep things together. I asked you to show up.”

It feels like a slap, because he knows it’s both true and untrue.

“Did you?” he asks rhetorically. “Really, Callie?”

Callie’s jaw goes slack, her mouth hanging open, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that every late night. Every missed dinner, and every skipped event – that is what has made space for you and Brandon to become whatever it is you are now. You don’t get to resent me for being gone when it’s the only reason you get to have him.”

Callie blinks. Unable to speak.

His voice is calm, but there’s hurt underneath. Unmistakable pain.

“I never asked for that,” she says.

His hands are fixed at ten and two on the steering wheel. Dark streets roll past.

“You didn’t have to. It’s what you chose – every time you let him pick her up from childcare, or put her to bed, or sit next to you like he belongs there.”

Neither speak for several minutes.

Callie stares ahead, her expression unreadable. Hands now knotted together in her lap. Then, so quietly, “He does belong. With her.”

Jamie swerves to the shoulder, putting the car in park.

“And what about me?”

She doesn’t answer right away. The silence loud and devastating.

“She loves him so much. You…you were always trying to build something with me. A version of life you thought I needed,” she’s crying now. The emotion of it all consuming.

“You said you wanted stability. A future. A family.”

“I…I did,” her tears are almost sobs, but she holds them back, not wanting to disturb Quinn.

___

The house is dim and cool. The hallway lit only by the dull glow of Quinn’s nightlight.

Callie tucks a blanket around her little body, brushing the curls away from her forehead.

“Good night, my baby. Mama loves you,” she presses a kiss to Quinn’s cheek, still chubby with babyhood. She lingers longer than usual, just looking at her.

She slowly leaves the room, closing the door with a soft click.

She walks into the living room like she’s forgotten how her body moves. Her sundress clings slightly to the back of her legs with the sweat of a long evening. Her arms hang limply by her sides.

The house feels empty. Despite Jamie’s presence in their bedroom.

Callie sinks into the sofa and curls her knees to her chest, bare feet tucked beneath her. She can see the faint outline of her reflection in the blank screen of the television.

She reaches for her purse on the floor and fumbles with the zipper for a moment before reaching inside to take out her phone.

Without thinking about the time, or the implications, she calls Brandon.

He answers on the second ring.

He’s in the study reading, so as not to wake Eliza – who was already in bed by the time he got home.

“Hi,” he says. There’s silence on the other end of the line for a second, just the faint sound of breathing.

“Hi.”

Brandon’s voice goes low, concerned, “What happened?”

“I think he knows everything,” she doesn’t clarify.

Brandon knows, but he asks anyway, “Knows what exactly?”

“That Quinn loves you. That I love you,” her voice cracks around the words, just enough to betray the weight of everything.

“Come here. Please. Just come here. Both of you.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, she smiles. She would love nothing more than to scoop Quinn into her arms and run to Brandon.

She shakes her head, silent tears escaping her eyes, “You know I can’t. Not right now.”

“Okay,” he concedes easily. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

She lets out a breath she doesn’t realize she’s holding, “I think he’s always known. He said he’s never here because he knows I prefer you. He’s not wrong, Brandon.”

She hears Brandon swallow thickly on the other end of the line.

“I’m sorry, Callie.”

“Not your fault.”

“I know, but I don’t want you to carry this alone.”

She exhales a long, slow breath, “I don’t want to hurt him. I hated seeing the shattered look in his eye today.”

“I get it,” he thinks about Eliza.

Part II: Chapter Two

The whole family buzzes with excited energy beneath the grand archways of the San Diego Symphony. The lobby hums with evening chatter, polished shoes tapping against the marble floors. Velvet programs are folded neatly into people’s hands.

Callie stands near the glass entryway, watching her daughter toddle between family members. Mariana is knelt down in front of her, complimenting the little girl on her cream-colored dress, dusted with little gold stars.

“I’m so proud of Brandon,” Lena says admiringly, holding a flute of champagne. “I still can’t believe his composition was selected.”

Stef leans into her wife with a nostalgic smile, “Our first baby. All grown up and writing full symphonies. Conducting a national debut.”

Callie smiles. It’s genuine, but it aches a little.

Things are still tense with Jamie. They probably always will be. But he’s there – making conversation with Jude and Mariana, carrying Quinn’s diaper bag slung over one should like an accessory he isn’t sure he’s allowed to put down.

He was holding Quinn earlier, her expressive eyes scanning his face like she couldn’t quite figure out who he was but implicitly understanding that she should. Like a nearly forgotten dream. She had not cried, but she had not reached for him either.

She’s in Jesus’s embrace now, mid-giggle as he tosses her gently in the air, catching her on the descent with exaggerated flair. The sound of her laughter cuts through the noise of the lobby and lands directly in Callie’s heart. Her tinkling laughter filling Calling up.

When fifteen minutes remain before the start of the performance, Callie steps forward and reaches out for Quinn. Scooping the little girl into her arms and nuzzling her nose against the soft curls above her ear.

“Come to Mama, my sweet baby,” she says. She turns to the group, telling everyone, “I’m going to change her before we find our seats inside.”

Without speaking, Jamie hands her the diaper bag. Their fingers brush, and for a split second, she sees something flicker behind his eyes. She smiles appreciatively at him and is surprised to see his effort to return the gesture. A small, forced smile.

Inside the elegant, the sound of rushing water from one of the marble sinks echoes gently through the space.

Callie hears the water stop, the door open and close, leaving her and Quinn alone.

She lays Quinn down on the changing table, humming softly. Quinn babbles and chats in her two and three word phrases as Callie changes her.

After a fresh diaper is secured, she lifts her up and leaves the stall, heading to the closest sink. She balances Quinn on her hip to help he wash her little hands.

The water runs cool and clear between her finger, tiny palms splashing enthusiastically.

“Are you ready to hear Dada conduct his music now that you have a clean diaper,” Callie coos playfully to Quinn, dabbing at the water droplets she’s splashed onto her chin.

Quinn continues to splash, “See Dada?” it sounds like a genuine question as she turns her head towards the door.

“That’s right,” Callie smiles. “It’s going to be loud, though,” she warns teasingly. “But don’t worry. Mama brought headphones for you.”

She makes a funny face in the mirror, and Quinn giggles, delight bubbling out of her.

That’s when Callie hears it – the metallic whose of a flushing toilet in a stall behind them.

She thought they were alone in the bathroom.

Her body stills and the color drains from her face when she sees Eliza exit the stall.

She exits slowly, not startled, and walks to the sink beside them. Callie’s heart climbs into her throat.

For a moment, no one speaks. She can feel the tension, but she does her best to remain composed. Fully intending to pretend everything is normal. She dries Quinn’s hands and straightens her dress.

She brings Quinn close to her chest and kisses her temple. Smiles like everything is fine.

“Hi, Mama,” Quinn responds, making Callie release a breathy laugh.

“Hi, baby. Say hi to Aunt Eliza too?”

She turns her body slightly towards Eliza so Quinn can see who she’s referring to.

She watches Eliza lick her lips. Their eyes meet.

Quietly, she asks, “Does Jamie know that she calls Brandon Dada?”

Callie stiffens. Her mouth suddenly dry.

“Uh yeah,” she says too lightly, feigning nonchalance with a purposeful lilt to her voice. “He does. It’s cute,” she tries to make it sound normal, “she’s so little, and she loves Brandon so much. I’m sure it won’t be forever.”

Eliza nods, turning on the faucet. “Right…of course. I just wasn’t sure how Jamie felt about it.”

Their eyes meet in the mirror. Eliza’s gaze even. Steady.

“It’s sweet how close they are,” Eliza chooses her words carefully, smiling in a way that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “She looks a lot like you,” she pauses for a beat. Then, delicately, “but there’s something about her smile, her eyes. Something familiar.”

Callie’s pulse flutters. She shifts Quinn on her hip, pressing her cheek to her daughter’s hair.

Eliza doesn’t say anything else. Just leaves the space open. A quiet knowing without declaration. Before she leaves the bathroom, she glances at Quinn again. Her face softens, not with affection, exactly, but with a kind of aching awareness.

Only when Eliza is gone, the door closed, does Callie exhale.

___

She knows they shouldn’t be back there. She’s surprised no one stopped her, but something about tonight – the conversation with Eliza and the swirl of things left unsaid – makes her feel like she needs to see him. Just once more before the lights go down.

Backstage hums with energy. A rare kind of anticipation that only comes before art meets audience. Hushed voices. Tense smiles. Musicians tuning, adjusting sleeves. Waiting. The buzz from the crowd beyond the velvet curtain is a distant rumble, rising and falling against the hush.

Callie approaches Brandon, standing in a pocket of light near the wing. His head is bowed as he checks the arrangement again, his fingers tapping against the music stand. He straightens his collar and rolls his shoulders.

She thinks it looks like he’s trying to shake off the weight of expectations.

Otherwise, he looks calm. Confident. Handsom. But she knows the truth in the quiet tremor of his fingers. The way he bites the inside of his cheek.

The intimacy of knowing him so well makes her yearn for him. She wants to reach out for him, but she doesn’t.

Instead, she steps a little closer. Her voice soft as the shadows around them, “Hey.”

Brandon turns to see Callie and Quinn. His face visibly brightens. And she blushes like they are teenagers again at seeing his reaction to her presence.

“You ready?”

He exhales through his nose, “As I’ll ever be.”

Callie brushes her fingers lightly against his forearm, “You’re going to be brilliant. I mean it. I’m so proud of you.”

He searches her eyes and sees the reassurance and belief in him that she offers so freely.

He leans in and kisses her gently on the lips. Unhurried in the secrecy of their space backstage. He only pulls away when he hears Quinn’s sweet, small, “Dada.”

“Hey, my girl! Look at you,” he takes Quinn into his arms, tapping her headphones. “How’d you get so cute? Like being backstage with all the cool kids, huh?” he asks her.

Callie doesn’t tell him what Eliza overheard in the bathroom. Eliza will probably tell him this evening, in the privacy of their home.

Callie bites her lower lip, thinking that Eliza’s words revealed how close she is to the truth. That the moment they’ve been delaying for two years may be closer than ever.

She doesn’t say any of this. Not tonight. Tonight is his.

“Break a leg,” she wraps her arm around his neck, her voice tender.

They kiss once more. Brief. Electric.

“Tonight’s for you. Both of you,” he murmurs.

“For us,” Callie says, referencing all three of them in the singular word.

She takes Quinn back into her arms, giving Brandon one last look before he’s gone, disappearing into the state light and the swell of the waiting orchestra.

She bounces Quinn, “Let’s go watch Dada.”

Part II: Chapter Three

“Why was Callie crying?” her question floats into the space of their bedroom hours after the performance has ended. Their home now. Brandon showered, teeth brushed, and pajamas on, is already in bed. He’s curled beleath the comforter in the low lamplight of their bedroom.

His body aches pleasantly with exhaustion and pride. Everything has gone better than he could have imagined. The standing ovation playing over and over in his mind, echoing throughout his bones.

He turns his head slightly to look at Eliza. She’s seated at the vanity across the room, patting moisturizer gently into her cheeks. Her reflection meets his in the mirror.

“I guess she liked it,” he shrugs. “She wasn’t the only one crying,” he adds, hoping the night will make the question dissolve.

“Yeah,” Eliza agrees. She’s still peering at him through the mirror, though her fingers now move more slowly in circular motion over her skin. “But…she seemed particularly moved. Like she felt it differently than the rest of us.”

Brandon offers a soft chuckle, trying to keep his voice light. “She knows how much music means to me. She’s been around long enough to see how far I’ve come. Before conservatories and deadlines and commissions.”

He says it all so plainly, so reasonably, that it’s almost believable. A logical explanation that isn’t quite a lie. Not exactly. But not the whole truth either.

Not that the piece was born the moment Callie placed his hand on her stomach and whispered that she was pregnant.

Not the truth that the chord progression mimics the rhythm of Quinn’s earliest heartbeat on the monitor. Not that every measure was written for the two people he loves most in the world.

Eliza closes the small glass jar and rises from the vanity. She walks over to join him in bed. She looks pretty, Brandon things. Her long, red hair falls in waves around her freckled shoulders. The pale, baby pink of her nightgown catches in the lamplight and is almost the same shade as her skin.

She smells like lavender, and he can feel the warmth of her body as she slides beneath the blankets. For a moment, there is only the rustling of fabric as they both settle onto their respective pillows.

She turns to face him. He’s laying on his back, looking up at the ceiling, “Have you ever written something for Callie?”

His heart skips a beat. He could lie. He considers it. It wouldn’t be the first time. In many ways, his life seems to be crafted of small, curated lies. Careful things that are meant to patch up the cracks between his two lives. Gentle evasions meant to hold his marriage together with delicate threads. Though he’s not sure why when neither of them are happy in this marriage.

He could lie, but he knows Eliza. And he knows that she would know. She would hear it in his voice. Besides, she already knows the answer. What she’s really asking for is the truth, so he gives her a bit of it.

 “Uh…yeah,” he says slowly, rolling over to face her. “Back in high school. A song on guitar.” He tries to read her expression in the dim light. “Nothing groundbreaking. Just something I wrote…when I was learning how to feel things out.”

Eliza nods, everything about her posture and facial expression unreadable.

“The one you played with Someone’s Little Sister?” she references the garage band he was in at seventeen. The words are neutral enough, but her lips are drawn into a tight line.

Brandon looks surprised, “Yeah. You remember that.”

“I knew it was a love song,” she says, her voice sounding tired. “I just didn’t realize it was personal.”

“That was a long time ago,” he says. His tone is distant.

“Was it?” two words that land heavy between them.

“I used to imagine that your music was ours,” she tells him. She lets out a small, deprecating laugh, “that I was even your muse. It was comforting, thinking that maybe something inside you was shaped by me.”

She pulls the comforter up closer to her chest, needing something to hold onto, “But I think some part of me always knew. Maybe not the details of it all. But something in me knew where your music really came from.”

“Eliza,” he reaches out to caress her cheek. He doesn’t want to hurt her. To continue hurting her. What could he say that wouldn’t make it worse?”

She cuts him off gently, “You don’t have to lie, Brandon. Not tonight. Especially not after the performance.”

He studies her face—beautiful and tired. Her red hair spilling across the pillow, her freckles dulled by the warm light from the nightstand. This woman who knows him, but not all of him. Who’s tried to build a life with him based on a version of the truth that even he can’t fully commit to.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says.

“I know,” she replies. Her voice cracks a little. “But that doesn’t mean you didn’t.”

He looks away.

She swallows hard, then offers a small, strained smile. “It really was a beautiful composition tonight. The way it built slowly. Like grief. Like love. The kind that lingers after the person is gone.”

Brandon says nothing. He doesn’t have the words.

She reaches up to turn off the lamp, leaving them in near darkness.

“You didn’t write that for me, did you?” she asks after a beat. Her voice is almost inaudible.

He closes his eyes. “No,” he whispers.

And that, finally, is the truth.

___

The house is dark and silent. Quinn and Jamie have been asleep for hours. Callie tries to sleep, but she can’t, so she pushes her blankets back and lets her feet meet the carpeted floor.

She glances at Jamie to make sure she hasn’t disturbed him and then walks out of their bedroom.

Her pacing disrupts the stillness of their home. Every movement she makes sounds loud, ringing in her ears in the silence.

She wears an oversized t-shirt and pajama bottoms. Jamie doesn’t know that the shirt used to belong to Brandon.

She slipped it on before bed, needing to feel close to him even in his absence.

She opens the door to Quinn’s bedroom and slips inside, sitting on the floor beside her small, toddler bed. She places her hand on Quinn’s back and lays her head on the pillow, sharing the space with her daughter.

Quinn’s breath is even. Peaceful. Small puffs of air ghosting across Callie’s face with every exhale. She sits for a long time, feeling the rhythm of her breathing.

After a long while, she kisses her forehead twice, before leaving.

She’s in the living room, balled into the corner of the sofa, thinking about Brandon. Remembering the feel of his body pressing hers into the sofa during their lovemaking.

The light from above the kitchen sink reaches, just faintly into the living room, leaving everything in silhouettes and outlines.

She closes her eyes and hears the music all over again.

Brandon’s symphony. Hers. Quinn’s.

It had not just moved her—it had unmade her. From the first delicate measure, she had known. It was their story. The rising tension of longing. The resolve of soft piano chords that mimicked Quinn’s sleepy murmurings. The ache in the second movement. That was what their grief felt like, she thought. And sacrifice. And then the ending. A swelling, defiant, yet tender crescendo ending in a lullaby for a life not meant to be hidden.

Tears slip down her cheeks now, silent and unprovoked. Her body holds so much. Her chest tight with the ache of loving two people more than she ever thought she could.

Callie presses her fingers to her lips as if to keep from crying out. From whispering the truth into the dark. That it was hers. That it was Quinn’s. That he had written them into the world, even if no one else knew it.

And yet, Eliza might know. Jamie too.

He had not said anything to her on the way home. Had not said anything as she cried in her seat – unable to even stand during the ovation.

A thought needles its way back into her mind.

Does Jamie know she calls Brandon Dada?

Callie exhales shakily. The guilt flares, then folds beneath the deep love that continues to pulse through her.

She doesn’t regret the music. Or the man who wrote it. Or the life they made between what was allowed and what was undeniable.

She just regrets the hiding. The hurting. She knows that Jamie and Eliza don’t deserve any of it.

It feels like a constant negotiation between truth and betrayal.

She feels herself sinking further into the sofa’s cushions, wrapping her arms around her knees.

She lets herself remember every note. Lets herself be broken open by it again.

When her phone buzzes quietly on the coffee table, she already knows who it is.

Are you okay?

Her thumbs hover over the screen. She types, deletes, types again. Finally, she settles on

It was beautiful. I don’t have words.

You don’t need words. I wrote it for you.

Callie presses her phone to her chest. Her tears come softer now.

Because he had. He had written it for her. And because, in some small way, she had always known he would.

I love you every day and every night.

Part II: Chapter Four

“Congratulations,” Callie hugs Mariana tightly, the familiar scent of her little sister’s shampoo bringing a rush of nostalgia.

They are at her new home for a housewarming party. Sun spills through her open windows and amiable chatter fills the air.

“I got you something,” Callie says, pulling a small gift bag from behind her back.

“Oooh! What is it?” Mariana asks excitedly, already reaching inside.

Callie laughs, keeping one arm wrapped around Mariana, “Nothing fancy. Open it.”

She watches Mariana pat the tissue paper, pushing it out of the way until her hand lands on something solid. She pulls out a rectangular picture frame.

“Callie!” she gasps with adoration and appreciate. “I love it! It’s perfect.”

It’s a picture of Callie and Mariana standing together, smiling at the camera. Their cheeks are sun-warmed and bright with laughter. Both are in swimsuits with wet hair. They are young in the photo. Soft, childlike angels are still present in their teen years.

The photo was taken during a weekend camping trip with the family.

“We look so cute,” Mariana gushes. “Look at your cheeks! They look just like Quinn’s.”

Callie laughs at that, “I lost all my baby fat. It’s sweet to see it on her again,” she says, turning her head slightly to get a glimpse of the little girl.

“I’m glad you like it,” she hugs Mariana again.

“I love it. You’re the best big sister.”

“I’m your only big sister,” Callie nudges her gently, “and I’m only eight months older than you.”

Mariana sticks out her tongue teasingly, “Still older.”

“Haha,” Callie deadpans good-naturedly.

Soon enough, Mariana is absorbed into the crowd and attention. People oohing and aaahhing over her new home; and Callie is left to observe.

Outside, Jamie is crouched in the small front yard, blowing bubbles for Quinn to catch. The drift up and over her head before descending. She squeals with delight each time she pops one.

Stef and Lena are in the kitchen, coordinating the first dinner in Mariana’s house. Jesus and Jude are tangled in cords, trying to mount a TV and installing a gaming system in the guest room – adamant that Mariana must have one even if it goes against her aesthetic.

Brandon and Eliza aren’t there yet.

Callie was with him this morning. They took Quinn to the zoo. But she misses him already.

Everything feels incomplete when they aren’t together.

Callie enters the kitchen and pours herself a glass of wine, “Hey, Moms,” she greets both Stef and Lena who stop what they are doing to each come press a kiss to her cheeks, one woman on either side of Callie.

“Hey, love,” Stef greets. “Getting hungry?”

Callie nods, “It smells good.”

“Well, it should be done in about fifteen minutes. Just enough time for you to round everyone up…please,” she adds cheekily at the end.

Callie winks, “You got it.”

She flits lazily from room to room, letting all of Mariana’s guests know that dinner will be on ready in fifteen minutes and that they are eating on the back patio.

Eliza and Brandon finally arrive, looking a bit flustered but not too out of sorts.

Eliza is wearing a coral wrap dress, her hair in soft waves down her back.

It makes Callie self-conscious for a moment. Acutely aware of the texture of her jeans clinging to her legs.

Eliza holds a bouquet of lilies and eucalyptus in one hand. Her other is looped through Bradon’s arm, resting at the crook of his elbow.

Brandon has trimmed his beard since this morning – Callie can tell. He looks handsome and casual.

The sight of him makes Callie blush.

Before she can greet them, there is a flurry of Quinn, the patter of small feet on hardwood. Jamie rushes after her, following close behind.

She comes to Brandon’s leg, tugging his pants and insisting, “Up!”

He laughs, face splitting into an incandescently bright smile. “Hey! Missed you too, Bug.” He takes her into his arms, spinning her gently. “I saw you playing with bubbles out there. Was that fun?”

She nods, understanding more language than she can produce.

Brandon kisses her cheek and sways with her, holding her close when she lays her head against his shoulder.

“She hasn’t had a nap today,” Callie offers a timid smile – tinged with fatigue and adoration. “Unless you count the twenty-minute drive.”

“She didn’t sleep after the zoo?” Brandon ask, quirking a dramatic brow at Quinn. “You didn’t let Mama rest after the zoo?”

Quinn giggles at his teasing tone, burying her face into his neck.

The scene feels almost domestic. Almost natural.

Eliza shifts next to them, her posture still. Controlled. Jamie hasn’t moved at all from the doorframe.

“Dinner should be ready,” Callie finally says. “I can take those flowers for you, Eliza.” Callie reaches out for them, but Eliza takes a step back. A slight but unmistakable movement.

“Thank you,” Eliza says. Her voice is polite and crisp, but she doesn’t move to hand the bouquet to Callie. “I actually want to give them to Mariana myself, though.”

Callie can do nothing but nod, “Of course.”

Jamie, ever the awkward savior, claps his hands together. “Should we eat?”

And for the first time in a while, Callie is grateful for his presence. For cutting through the thickness of the air that lingers among the group.

They file onto the back patio—Mariana’s backyard strung with warm lights, the table set with mismatched chairs and paper name cards. Brandon sets Quinn into a booster seat between him and Callie.

It’s only in afterthought does Brandon realizes that maybe Jamie should be sitting in the seat he occupies.

But no one says anything. Jamie takes a seat to Callie’s other side, and Eliza into the seat next to Brandon. The air is warm and layered with grilled vegetables and laughter. For a while, things feel normal.

Callie and Brandon take turns cooing over Quinn, making sure she’s eating her food and drinking water.

Brandon’s arm is draped across the back of Quinn’s seat, and his fingers are close enough to brush Callie’s bare shoulder every time she leans into Quinn.

“Tell us about your days,” Lena says warmly. “I miss this. I miss always knowing what was happening in everyone’s life.”

Jude perks up first. “I’m on week two of shadowing in the juvenile court clinic,” he says. “It’s heavy, but honestly kind of incredible.”

“You always did like to fight for the underdog,” Stef smiles proudly. “Just like your sister,” she gives Callie a pointed, loving look.

Jesus jumps in, “I finally got the zoning permits approved for that expansion. Took forever. Bureaucracy is a beast.”

“That’s huge!” Mariana clinks her glass to his. “My backyard gym dreams live on.”

Everyone laughs.

Then Stef turns to Brandon and Eliza. “What about you two? Anything exciting today?”

Eliza opens her mouth to answer, but Brandon beats her to it, smiling as he leans forward slightly, “Callie and I took Quinn to the zoo this morning. She was obsessed with the meerkats. Wouldn’t stop talking to them.”

Stef raises a brow, eyes flickering between them. “Well, that sounds fun. What were you up to, Eliza?”

“I was with my mom,” Eliza says evenly, “Jamie and I are helping her finish up the last of the estate business. It’s been a long three years…” she takes a meaningful drink from her full wine glass.

Callie quietly cuts up Quinn’s food, offering her a soft, “Wanna try this, honey?”

Brandon leans in closer to help, and his fingers brush Callie’s shoulder. Almost caressingly.

Lena catches the moment—brief but there.

___

The party winds down with the haze of twilight. The porch light flickers on. Everyone helps clean up before gathering their things and making their way out the front door.

In the front yard, people gather in little clusters, saying their goodbyes. Eliza is deep in conversation with Lena. Jamie has wandered off with Jude to talk about one of the cases he’s following.

Quinn is fast asleep in Brandon’s arms, her curls sticky with watermelon juice, her head nestled against his collarbone.

Callie opens the back door of her car. Leaning in, she unbuckles the straps of Quinn’s car seat. Brandon carefully lowers Quinn into it, moving slowly so she doesn’t stir, making soft shushing noises.

As he clicks the final buckle, Callie rests her hand lightly on his back.

“Thank you for today,” she says softly. “She loved the zoo.”

Brandon turns to face her, the space between them suddenly hushed. “I love her,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “You know that, right?”

Callie nods, eyes shining. “She loves her Dada too.”

Brandon exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken all day. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks.

Callie nods in affirmation, “Yeah.”

And then—without thinking, without calculating—he leans in and kisses her goodbye.

It’s tender. Familiar. Reciprocated. The kind of kiss you give someone you love after a good day. A habit born of real life.

But this moment and this place is not private.

This kiss is a breach of discipline. The realization that they have gotten too comfortable living in the dual worlds they’ve created.

Behind them, the voices fall quiet. Stef and Lena stand frozen near the steps. Jude pauses mid-laugh. Mariana stares, eyes wide. Eliza goes absolutely still.

Eyes fluttering open, and in the periphery of a mind that can only think of the kiss, Callie can hear Jamie punch something before the slam of Mariana’s front door.

Callie realizes it first. She pulls away just slightly, eyes widening as her hand lingers on Brandon’s chest.

Brandon looks up, gazing over her shoulder, taking in the stunned silence of their family.

“Oh,” he breathes. Just that one word. Small. Devastated.

“Brandon,” Callie’s voice trembles.

“I forgot where we were,” he says.

“So did I.”

And just like that, everything changes.

All sounds and motions are sucked into a vacuum. It’s as if someone has pressed pause.

Brandon’s hand lingers at Callie’s waist. He watches her take a steadying breath before turning her body towards their family.

She’s braver than he is. She is acknowledging it. It has happened. It’s done. And now…the world knows.

Part II: Chapter Five

Three years ago

Callie sits in her car outside Brandon’s studio. It’s a small place nestled on a side street of San Diego’s downtown district. A neighborhood still caught somewhere between renovation and memory.

Old brick buildings line the block, their faded paint and rusting signage whispering of earlier decades. The storefronts are eclectic – a used bookstore with handwritten hours in the window, a small café that smells of espresso. Tucked between them is a narrow building with tall arched windows and chipped blue trim.

It’s an endearing area, and Callie can understand why Brandon chose to rent a space in this area. His studio is on the second floor, above a music supply shop that has long since stopped making a profit.

The day is beautiful. Bright and sunny. It seems wrong somehow. Like the day shouldn’t be so nice when she feels so conflicted. Like, the sky should reflect her internal state: maybe a dull pewter with fractured sunlight – too bright in some places, too dim in others.

That’s how she feels. The idea of having a baby, in general, simultaneously elates and terrifies her. The idea of having a baby with Brandon all the more so.

A narrow staircase hugs the side of the building — wrought iron railing, half-covered in ivy, and worn wooden steps that creak under the weight of every footfall. A buzzer at the bottom doesn’t work. But Callie knows to knock softly on the blue door at the top.

It’s a place you could miss entirely if you didn’t know to look for it. Tucked away. Private. The kind of space that seems to exist just outside of time.

Callie is sitting in her car, parallel parked right outside the building. She’s gripping the test results in her lap – two different pregnancy tests, secured in a zip lock bag; and paperwork from her gynecologist. Three different confirmations of what she already knows.

It’s silly, but she thinks she felt the exact moment she got pregnant. Before her missed period. Only days after her night in the study with Brandon, she felt different. Something in her knew.

Taking a deep, courageous breath, she exits her car and ascends the stairs. Before knocking, she listens for his piano. She wants to make sure that he will hear her.

There’s the faint sound of piano notes, so instead of knocking, she twists the doorknob. She’s not sure if she’s relieved or disappointed that it’s unlocked.

When she steps inside, the scent of old wood and sheet music is almost olfactory overload.

The melody Brandon is playing vibrates through the walls.

The studio feels like a world apart. High ceilings with exposed beams give the space a rustic charm, and oversized skylights cast dappled light across the polished wood floors. Dust particles dance lazily in sunbeams that filter through the old glass.

She softly closes the door and clicks the lock – the sound triggering memories of the several nights they’ve spent together here, wrapped in nothing but one another.

It isn’t until she steps around the corner that Brandon comes into view. A wall of windows, only partially muted by gauzy curtains, casts Brandon in dark shadows for a moment before Callie’s eyes adjust.

Brandon looks up from the piano bench when she walks in, his face brightening instinctively. Another memory of their time together:

A floor littered with Brandon’s scrawled compositions, having been pushed off a nearby table to make way for Callie’s body. Her legs spread wide, Brandon’s lips against her inner thigh, traveling steadily upward.

The studio holds a thrifted velvet sofa with mismatched pillows – something Callie chose and insisted upon when they both woke up on the floor with sore backs.

“Hey,” the music abruptly stops. Then, he registers the fear in her features.

“Callie?” he goes toward her immediately.

She doesn’t speak. Not yet. She meets him in the middle of the room and lets her trembling body melt in his embrace.

He kisses her hair, mumbling against it, “Is everything okay?”

She doesn’t hesitate as she reaches into her purse and pulls out a folded piece of paper and the zip lock bag, she leaves the security of his arms to set them gently on the piano.

Brandon doesn’t look at them at first. He looks at her, confused and already unraveling.

Her eyes are glossy. Her lip quivers.

Then, finally, she says it. Soft, but clear.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words land like a dropped stone. Not sharp. But deep. Sinking.

Brandon meets her at the piano and looks down at what she’s placed atop it. One. Two. Three. His throat works hard to form words. “How… how far along?”

His fingers hover over them, hesitant, as if touching them might change everything. And when he does pick them up, his breath catches—audible and sharp.

“Callie…” His voice barely registers above a whisper. He looks up at her, as if needing confirmation from her face, not just the facts in his hand.

“Almost seven weeks.”

The math is instant. The night of the funeral. The study. Him.

His knees buckle slightly as he fumbles to sit back down on the piano bench.

“We’re having a baby?”

Callie nods. Her whole body feels electric. Not with joy, not entirely—but with a vibrating current of everything she’s tried to suppress for weeks. Her palms are slick, her knees unsteady. It feels impossible and inevitable all at once.

He hasn’t asked, but she wants to assure him, “I got the dates confirmed. It’s no one else. Jamie and I always use protection, but I haven’t…haven’t been with him in a while.”

Brandon’s hand covers his mouth. “A baby.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” she says quickly, tears finally breaking free. “I didn’t even know how to tell myself. I didn’t plan for this, Brandon. I didn’t mean for it to happen this way.”

“A baby,” he repeats, not with fear but with something quieter – something that sounds like awe. “Our baby.”

His voice breaks just slightly on the word “our.” And then he laughs, breathless and disbelieving. “I think part of me knew. I’ve been working on a new composition, but I just haven’t been able to get it right. Like it’s missing something. Maybe it’s been missing this.”

Callie smiles, a gentle laugh through her tears. Leave it to Brandon to find the silver lining.

Brandon stands and walks toward her — slowly, deliberately — like he’s afraid she’ll disappear. “Are you okay? You’re both safe…healthy?” He cups her cheek in his hand.

She nods. “I’ve been to the doctor. She said everything looks perfect.”

His hand finds hers. His warm, calloused grip acts as a lifeline.

“I’m scared,” she admits. “And I don’t know what this means. For us. For anything.”

Brandon brings her hand to his lips, kissing the back of it before pulling her towards the sofa and into his lap.

“I don’t know either,” he says. “But I’m here. I’m here, Callie. And we’ll figure it out. Whatever it takes.”

They kiss, and she feels his hands beginning to search her body – starting at her thighs, traveling up and beneath her shirt to rest on her abdomen.

Outside, the wind brushes past the tall windows, rustles the ivy on the staircase. Inside, time has folded in on itself—just the two of them, a heartbeat beneath Callie’s skin, and the faint melody still ringing from the piano’s last chord.

They stay like this, the two of them in the stillness of the studio, cradling the beginning of something fragile and real and entirely theirs.

They don’t discuss what they will tell Eliza and Jamie. They both realize that they won’t tell them anything. They will let them believe what they want to believe.

Jamie will believe the baby is his.

Eliza will believe it too – at least for a time.

[teaoverpatriarchy]

The Fallout: Little Quinn

[teaoverpatriarchy]

The Fallout: A Brallie Fanfic (pt. 1)

Part I: Chapter One

Jamie isn’t cruel. Never cruel, just…distant. Callie can’t remember the last time he’s been home for dinner. Not because she’s keeping score, but because his absence has slowly become the norm.

He texts reminders. Sends photos from the boardroom and from flight. He signs off on every milestone from a distance, eyes always trained on the next rung of the ladder he’s so determined to climb.

And Callie, for all her emotional intelligence, can admit now that a part of her once found that ambition attractive. It once had the shape of safety – someone with a plan, someone who wouldn’t unravel. Someone who could provide for a family.

And Jamie loves the idea of family, the idea of her, more than the daily work of both. But in some ways, she feels like she should have known this. Understood it about him from simply knowing his upbringing. Taught to believe that success is love, that working late and earning more meant devotion, not detachment. That being a provider excused being a stranger.

In some ways, Callie thought she was choosing a kind of calm – something different from the chaos she knew too well growing up. But there’s loneliness to being married to a man who lives like he’s always trying to prove something to the world, a man who only looks at you in full when you’re also standing next to an accomplishment.

She knows Jamie cares. He does. But the care feels transactional: tuition accounts for the best childcare, highchairs that assemble themselves, air purifiers in every room. He shows his love in logistics, in planning. Not in presence.

The perception of family holds more weight than the day-to-day tasks of bath time, laundry, meals, and peek-a-boo.

She looks over at Quinn’s rudimentary crayon drawings. Mostly wobbly lines, curving occasionally into almost shapes.

Jamie’s ambitions at the law firm come first. Everything else, everyone else waits in the quiet margins of his calendar.

He doesn’t show up for the mundane, unglamourous demands of parenting. And maybe, Callie thinks, there’s a part of all this that she isn’t willing to say aloud.

That she prefers it this way. That Jamie’s absence has created space. A quiet permission for another life to bloom in the margins.

Because Brandon doesn’t operate on transactions. Because Brandon is there. Never needing to be prompted. He shows up. He notices. He folds seamlessly into the space the world expects Jamie to inhabit.

He knows Quinn’s schedule, her favorite lullabies, the way she toddles everywhere with a favorite blanket. He knows when Callie is tired, or when she hasn’t eaten.

Brandon knows Quinn’s teachers at childcare. Alternates drop off and pick up with Callie.

Parenting with him feels natural, like a rhythm they’ve always had. And if Callie is being honest – truly honest – she might admit that Brandon feels more like home than Jamie ever has. Not because he tries harder. But because he never has to try at all.

Maybe that’s what scares Callie the most. Maybe it’s what prompts the smallest parts of her to want Jamie to put in more effort.

It’s so easy to build a life with Brandon that she isn’t supposed to have. A life she gave up.

It all feels so real, even in secret.

She watches Brandon with Quinn now. He reads her favorite book over and over. He’s stretched along the length of the sofa, Quinn tucked into his arm and rested against the soft pillows.

From her position in the kitchen, Callie notices the empty space beside Brandon, so she abandons the dishes in favor of joining them.

With little preamble, she snuggles into the empty space along the length of his body.

Without missing a beat in Quinn’s story, Brandon smiles and wraps an arm around Callie so that her head lays on his chest.

Quinn turns the page with both hands — clumsy and decisive — pointing at the bright yellow duck she loves more than the plot itself. Her tiny voice echoes the word “quack” like a spell, and Brandon quacks right back, playful and unhurried.

Callie feels the vibration of his chest as he chuckles softly. His voice is calm, measured, rhythmic — the voice he only uses when reading to Quinn or talking to her in those sleepy in-between hours.

Callie closes her eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over her. It’s astonishing how right this feels. How safe.

Quinn shifts slightly, her head now resting on the top of Brandon’s stomach as she looks between the pages. “Again,” she says, small but clear.

Brandon pretends to groan, then flips back to the beginning. “One more time. Only because you're so cute,” he teases, brushing his hand through her soft, dark curls.

Then it happens — casually, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Dada,” Quinn says, pointing to the duck.

Callie freezes.

Brandon stills too, book halfway open. He looks at Callie first — a flicker of emotion in his eyes — before gently lowering the book to his lap.

“You talking to me, Bug?” he says softly, calling her by the affectionate nickname and not correcting her, just... checking.

Quinn nods, proud. “Dada quack,” she says, then leans back into him, content.

Callie’s heart stutters. She brushes her fingers against the little girl’s cheek. So full of love for her daughter that she thinks she might burst. The room narrows to just the three of them. Callie’s throat tightens, and for a second she doesn't know whether she’s about to cry or speak.

Brandon doesn’t move. Doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t panic. He just kisses the top of Quinn’s head, a simple, reverent motion, like a prayer.

Callie exhales and tucks herself closer against him, her hand resting over Quinn’s back and Brandon’s ribs.

No one says anything for a while.

Because there’s nothing to say — as everything has already been said.

___

“Hey, uh, Brandon?” Callie calls as she walks into the Adams-Foster living room, inadvertently interrupting his conversation with Eliza. She watches their conversation abruptly end. Their heads turn towards her. She doesn’t mean to interrupt, but the air between them tightens, cutting off their low, clipped voices. Eliza’s jaw is set; and Brandon’s expression shifts – guarded, and then soft as he looks at Callie.

Sunlight spills lazily through the gauzy curtains, casting long shadows over the hardwood. Brandon and Eliza are standing near a bookshelf, but even from meters away, Callie can tell that the exchange is not pleasant.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, feeling the tension in the room.

“No problem,” Brandon assures, taking a nearly imperceptible step in Callie’s direction. It’s instinctive; and Eliza notices. “Did you need something?”

Callie scratches at the back of her neck, a nervous habit, “I just wanted to see if you packed Quinn’s swimsuit. I can’t find it. I thought she might like to run through the sprinklers with Kam.”

“Yeah,” Brandon smiles at her. “It’s in the bag with out suits. Not her diaper bag.”

“Thank you,” Callie smiles back, holding his gaze for a moment too long before leaving the room.

“She could have texted,” Eliza mutters, arms folding tighter across her chest. Her tone isn’t loud, but it slices just the same.

Brandon is still watching the doorway Callie disappeared through, “She was just in the backyard. Why would she text? It’s not a big deal.”

“It never is. Until it is,” her voice would almost be sing-song if not for the sharp edges.

The words hang in the air like smoke – thin and suffocating.

Brandon doesn’t respond, not immediately. He crosses to the coffee table and begins absently straightening the blocks that Quinn and Kam were playing with before everyone decided to head into the backyard for lunch. He needs something, anything to keep his hands busy. It’s a weak distraction, but it gives his hands something to do. Somewhere to go that isn’t clenched into fists or reaching out to someone he isn’t supposed to touch in front of his wife.

Eliza sighs audibly and moves to stand next to him. She speaks with more care now, but it’s the kind of care that comes from caution, not tenderness, “Look, I’m not trying to be petty. I know you’re helping a lot with Quinn. That’s a good thing. She’s so sweet, and she loves you so much. You’re a good uncle, Brandon.”

The word lands like a slap he doesn’t flinch from – but only because he’s learned to absorb it. Uncle.

Not father.

Not partner.

Just close enough to raise suspicion, but not close enough to name it.

“I just…” Eliza hesitates, searching for familiar ground. “I feel like I barely see you anymore; and we never talk unless it’s about her. About drop offs and snacks and what blanket she won’t sleep without. We don’t talk about us. We don’t talk about anything,” Eliza continues.

She places a hand on Brandon’s shoulder. It’s meant to be comforting. A peace offering. A show of understanding.

But it only feels like an added weight to Brandon. Like something pressing him into a shape he doesn’t want to hold anymore.

He wants to tell Eliza that her words aren’t fair. That she’s the one who is gone all the time. That he spends his time with Callie and Quinn because otherwise he would be alone. That the silences and arguments began long before the little girl was even born.

But he doesn’t say any of this. It’s an argument they have circled for weeks, maybe months.

The argument never quite explodes. It simply festers with sharp glances and long silences.

Her hand lingers for a moment longer before slipping away.

When it becomes obvious to Eliza that Brandon isn’t going to speak, she adds softly, “We moved across the state to be closer to my mom after Dad died. Jamie too. You’d think we would all be more connected, but it feels like we’re just orbiting around each other now. Alone – except for you and Callie…and Quinn.”

She adds the last part as an unspoken suspicion. Something yet to be confirmed. Something she has felt every day since she found out that Brandon and Callie were once a couple. Once in love.

She doesn’t look at him when she says it. She doesn’t have to. It isn’t an accusation, not yet. But it’s there. And it’s growing.

Brandon sits heavily on the arm of the sofa, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Lize,” he sounds defeated. “I don’t know what you want from me. Most days I don’t even know what we’re arguing about. I just know we’re arguing. It feels like it’s everything. The move. The new house. The job. Parenting.”

Eliza’s eyes widen, and her gaze snaps toward him sharply, “You mean parenting Quinn?”

He pauses. Perhaps for too long.

“I mean everything,” Brandon reiterates. And this time, it sounds like the truth.

Part I: Chapter Two

Eliza doesn’t go straight home after the conversation (re: argument) with Brandon. Instead, she drives without thinking. Following muscle memory more than intention, until she’s pulling into the long, curved driveway of her childhood home.

It’s been three years since her father’s funeral. Three years of fine-tooth combing through her father’s will and estate. Sifting through memories, legal documents, emotional remnants of her father’s life.

Sometimes, it seems like there may be no end in sight. And she wonders if closure is just a word people use when they run out of tasks to complete.

Interestingly, this house, the house her parents had shared for almost thirty years. Built a family in. The house of her memories has become a safety net in her otherwise uncertain life.

A quiet and unspoken space, separate from the tensions that live in her own home. It’s a soft landing in the middle of her otherwise unraveling life. Here, at least, no one expects her to pretend everything is fine.

When she arrives, Jamie is already there. He’s alone in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, surrounded by stacks of condolence cards and financial paperwork that no one, it seems, has been eager to sort.

The lights are dim, casting long shadows over the papers that he’s spread across the island countertop.

He looks more like their father than he probably realizes.

They’ve found themselves in the same room like this more and more lately — not by design, but by resignation. By proximity and exhaustion that comes with sharing lives with people who no longer feel like partners.

Their respective spouses, they know, are together. Maybe still at the Adams-Foster house, more likely, though, in Callie and Jamie’s house. Putting Quinn to bed.

Jamie – Eliza knows – is never home before ten o’clock in the evening. She knows this because it is Brandon who leaves their own home every day at six-thirty so that he can give Quinn a bath and tuck her into bed.

All under the guise of supporting an exhausted sister as a new mother. But Eliza knows it’s something more than the small child that pulls Brandon to Callie.

Eliza physically shakes the thoughts from her mind. Her red hair tossing this way and that with the motion.

It’s easier…quieter in her childhood home. Easier to speak the things that can’t be said at home. Things like uncertainties. And truths. And how it feels to love someone who might no longer be yours.

Their mother has already gone to bed. The only sounds are the shuffle of papers and the hum of the refrigerator. Eliza interrupts both by opening cabinets to pull down two glasses and a bottle of wine.

She fills both glasses without asking and slides one across the kitchen island to her brother, not sure if he’ll drink it at all.

She takes a seat across from him and watches him loosen his tie. He doesn’t look up from the stack of papers he’s flipping through, but he asks, “Everything okay?”

“Not really,” she says honestly, wrapping her fingers around the glass and sloshing the wine from side to side before taking a sip.

Jamie looks up now. Lifting his eyes and scanning her face like he’s trying to decice how much truth he’s ready to hear, “Brandon again?”

Eliza nods, “Callie too. The whole…thing,” she isn’t sure how to articulate it any better than she is.

Jamie’s response is flat, neutral even, “That whole thing seems to be a permanent fixture now.”

Eliza’s hand trembles, making her knock the wine glass against her teeth as she goes to take another sip. There’s a soft clinking sound to it, “That’s what worries me.”

Jamie exhales through his nose. he takes a sip of his wine and sets it down with a little more force than necessary. It tastes bitter – cheap or just too honest. He can’t really decide.

He doesn’t want to have this conversation. Eliza knows this and she pushes forward anyway.

“Do you…do you ever feel like you’re the only one pretending everything is normal?” She asks in a thin voice.

“You know how I feel,” his voice is a bit flippant, alluding to a conversation they’ve had before. “I think she should have married him instead. Might have saved us all a lot of trouble.”

Eliza knows that it’s meant as a joke, or something close to it, but it lands like a bruise and she flinches.

“Don’t say that,” she admonishes, “You have a daughter.”

Jamie nods, “I know.”

His voice is so casual that it frustrates Eliza, so she says the only thing she can think of that might get a reaction from him.

“She called him Dada today,” her comment is fragile, desperate even as she tries not to drown. As she tries to get someone else to see what she sees. Reassurance that it isn’t all in her mind.

He finally looks up, meeting the intensity of Eliza’s blue eyes, “She what?”

“She called Brandon Dada,” she says again, voice steady now. Her turn to act flippant.

“And Callie didn’t correct her?” Eliza watches his knuckles go white around the stem of his wine glass. For a moment, she thinks it might snap.

“No. Brandon didn’t either. I don’t even think they noticed anyone else heard it. But I did.”

There’s a long silence as Jamie takes a sip of his wine. It’s bitter. His hand twitches once, then he stills, “She’s not even two yet. Kids repeat things.”

“It wasn’t just a word, Jamie,” Eliza insists. “It was…natural. Like she’s said it before. Why aren’t you ever home with her? Why is my husband playing father to your child?”

Silence falls again, but Eliza can see the anger on Jamie’s face. His features hard.

“It’s not just Quinn,” Eliza decides on another direction. “It’s them. The way they look at each other. Like the rest of us are scenery. The way they move around one another. Like a waltz that only they know the steps to. Like…” Eliza bites her lip, unsure if she should continue, but when she meets Jamie’s eyes, he’s waiting expectantly.

“Like they never broke up. Like they’ve been building something all along and we just couldn’t see it,” the admittance brings tears to her eyes.

“Or didn’t want to see it,” Jamie adds quietly.

Eliza’s breath catches. She bites her lip, trying to breath through the weight pressing into her chest, “I don’t know what hurts more. Losing my husband or the realization that I might have never really had him in the first place.”

“Wanna know the worst part?” Jamie asks rhetorically.

Eliza’s eyes are red now with unshed tears as she waits for her brother to continue.

“I think Callie’s happy with him. Like…actually happy.”

And it’s this, he decides, that justifies his retreat from parenthood and partnership. Callie’s emotional attachment to Brandon has, in its own way, shaped his decision to pursue his career.

He always wanted a family. A wife and children. But that he never thought that the family may not want, or need, him.

Eliza doesn’t speak as she watches her brother. The internal turmoil painted across his face. The way his jaw tightens and his brows knit together.

Slowly, he continues, “It’s not just that she’s happy with him. It’s that…I think she was always going to be. No matter what I did. She told me – she was honest about it from the very beginning. She told me Brandon is her best friend,” Jamie sighs, “I just didn’t realize that no matter how hard I tried to give her something stable, something loving, it wouldn’t be what she wanted. Or needed maybe?”

“You tried,” Eliza rounds the island to come closer to Jamie. She pulls him towards her in a hug.

“I tried to give her the version of life she said she wanted. The kind where no one raises an eyebrow. No one questions it. You, know? The kind of life with a mortgage, and Christmas cards, and a daughter we’d raise with logic and structure.”

“And she chose him instead,” Eliza realizes.

“I think I knew that the second he started showing up at our house more than I did. At first, coming home late from work sort of happened. I didn’t plan it, and I didn’t expect it to become a habit. But you know why I work late now? Why I stay at the office when I don’t really need to?”

“It’s easier than going home,” Eliza whispered. All too familiar with the feeling.

“When I come home, Callie always does the right thing. Kisses me. Asks me about work. Tells Quinn to say hi to Daddy. But it’s like she’s not really there. And I feel like a placeholder. Like I’m a space she fills between the life she actually wants and the life she’s allowed to have.”

Jamie looks up at Eliza from his place in her embrace. He isn’t angry. Just tired in the way people are when they’ve known the truth for too long.

“And if I’m honest, Eliza,” he continues, “sometimes I let Brandon have those moments with Quinn. The bedtime stories, and childcare drop-offs, and trips to the park because I don’t think Callie looks at me the way she looks at him when he’s doing them.”

Eliza draws in a slow breath, her hand resting between Jamie’s shoulder blades.

“It’s not your fault,” she assures. “You wanted to believe you were building something real.”

“Maybe not,” Jamie agrees. “But I let it happen.”

Eliza steps back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. “You letting him have those moments... it doesn’t just affect you, Jamie.”

He blinks, eyebrows pulling together.

“I’m his wife,” she says, voice low but steady. “I’m supposed to be part of those moments too. But every time Brandon disappears into that world with Callie and Quinn — every time you stay late at work or don’t show up — it’s like the two of them get to build something sacred.”

Jamie exhales, shoulders slumping beneath the weight of her words.

“I can’t compete with that kind of intimacy,” Eliza continues. “It’s not just history. They co-exist like they’ve been doing it forever. Like we’re the interruptions.”

Jamie opens his mouth, but she cuts in gently.

“And I know you’ve seen it. How he changes around her. How she softens around him. How they talk in half-sentences like the rest of us should just keep up or get out of the way.”

Eliza’s voice breaks slightly, but she regains her footing.

“You say you let him have those moments with Quinn. But in those moments, it means that I have to watch him have all of her. All of Callie. The emotional parts, the secret smiles, the version of her I never got to know. All the pieces he was once in love with. Maybe is still in love with.”

Jamie nods slowly, the silence heavy but shared now.

“I wanted to be his home,” Eliza admits, tears finally slipping down her cheeks. “But I think I’ve just been his cover.”

They sit with that — no interruptions, no defenses — just the ache of two people finally saying out loud what they’ve each feared in quiet.

Bottom of Form

Part I: Chapter Three

The house has settled into that soft, late-night quiet that only comes after a toddler’s bedtime. The kind of quiet that invites closeness, intimacy. Quiet that makes secrets feel like promises.

Callie returns from Quinn’s room, barefoot, her feet padding gently across the floorboards. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she enters the living room, her eyes immediately finding Brandon on the sofa.

“She called you Dada today,” Callie says. There’s a smile tugging at her lips. Not wide, but real. Full of something like wonder.

Brandon looks up, and for a moment, he forgets to breathe. The soft lamplight curls around Callie’s face, halo-like. And she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He’s loved Callie for fourteen years. Nearly half of his life. Loved her in ways that have grown and twisted and endured through so many versions of themselves. But falling in love with her as a mother — seeing her with Quinn — is something else entirely. Something that feels like coming home. It’s more than he could have ever expected. More than he could have ever dared wish for.

“Yeah,” Brandon says. The singular word thick with something he doesn’t try to hide.

He reaches for her hand without thinking, pulling her gently into the space beside him. Callie doesn’t resist. She never does.

She maneuvers so that she can settle into his lap, legs draping across the sofa. Her body curling into the warmth of his.

He brushes a hand through her hair, fingertips grazing the nape of her neck before pressing a kiss there – light and reverent.

“She said it like she’s been saying it in secret,” Callie murmurs as Brandon continues to pepper her exposed skin with kisses. “Like it wasn’t new. Just finally out loud,” she sighs, leaning more into him, craning her neck to give him better access.

Brandon holds her a little tighter. “She’s been waiting for permission.”

Callie nods, “Just like us.”

For a while, they don’t speak. Their roaming hands, willing bodies saying everything that needs to be said.

“I wish I could give this to you in the open,” Brandon says quietly as he removes Callie’s shirt. “I wish I could take you out to dinner. Pick Quinn up from childcare as her dad, not her uncle. Wake up next to you.”

“You do wake up next to me,” she whispers.

He smiles, sad and grateful. “But not like that. I want every morning.”

Callie closes her eyes. Brandon’s hands remove her bra and find her breasts. The pleasure disrupts her thoughts. Sensory overload making her forget what she was going to say.

“It’s not fair,” she finally says, breathily. Almost a moan.

“I know,” his hands map out every soft curve of her exposed body. They’ve both changed so much since they were seventeen, when he first felt her bare skin against his own.

“But I’d do it all again. Every minute of it. Just to be here with you. Just to have her,” Callie admits as her fingers fumble with Brandon’s belt buckle.

And she means it. Every moment. She would endure it all again if it meant having Brandon and Quinn.

As their clothes are shed, Callie remembers the first time she and Brandon had sex. Despite the inevitable fallout, it is still one of the most beautiful experiences of her life.

After the trauma with Liam, being intimate with Brandon is exactly how it is supposed to feel. She feels exactly how she’s supposed to feel.

Safe. Tender. Beautiful. Loved.

It was passionate. She had never wanted anyone the way she wanted Brandon. But it was also slow and pleasurable. And he took his time making sure she felt good.

He does that now. His fingers travel the length of her inner thigh. Heat and desire spreading throughout her body as two fingers slip between her wet folds and into her body.

They aren’t careful. Having sex out in the open in the house Callie shares with Jamie.

But they know he won’t be home for hours. By the time he arrives, Callie will be showered and tucked into bed. Brandon gone back to Eliza.

Brandon kisses her and then bites her lower lip teasingly, working her body into a frenzied desire.

“I want you to fuck me,” she tells him, her own hand finding his arousal. Squeezing. Pumping. Making him feel as good as she does.

She wraps a leg around his waist, bringing his body flush against her own.

Brandon leans forward, kissing her. He moans softly into her mouth, his breath catching as her hand strokes him — familiar and intentional. He rests his forehead against hers, their noses brushing, eyes fluttering closed in the shared space of wanting and remembering.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he murmurs.

Callie smiles against his lips, and it’s the kind of smile that only comes when you’re seen fully — when you’re loved because of who you are, not in spite of it.

“Mmm is that so?” she flirts.

When their eyes meet, there’s a quiet reverence between them, even in the urgency. Brandon trails kisses along her jaw, down her throat, then back up to her lips — like he’s trying to memorize her again. As if he could ever forgot.

They move together in sync, in rhythm. Callie wraps her arms around his shoulders, legs parting to guide him in. When he slides into her, it’s not hurried. It’s slow. Purposeful. Like he’s filling something that’s been empty for far too long — not just her body, but the spaces they’ve kept guarded for years.

Callie gasps softly, forehead falling against his. “You feel so good. Like home.”

Brandon stills, overwhelmed for a moment. His hand finds hers and laces their fingers together as he begins to move again — steady, deep, like a prayer spoken with his whole body.

“So do you,” he whispers.

The tension between them builds, slow and consuming. Not just sexual tension, but the ache of two people who have always loved each other in silence — and now, finally, have room to breathe inside that love, if only for a night.

Callie cups his cheek. “Do you remember the first time?”

Brandon presses his lips to her shoulder. “Idyllwild.”

She nods. “It was the first time I felt safe…in a long time. The first time I felt beautiful, wanted...loved.”

“I never wanted to stop touching you,” he breathes. “I still don’t.”

They move together with more urgency now, breaths mingling, bodies chasing the edge of something inevitable. When she comes, it’s with a cry muffled against his neck, and he follows soon after — collapsing into her arms like he’s found the only place that ever made sense.

For a long while, they just lie there, tangled up in each other. Sweaty, breathless, quiet. Brandon kisses her shoulder. Her forehead. The line of her collarbone. Down her chest.

Callie tilts her head back, fingers brushing through his hair.

“Do you ever think about that night in the study?” she asks. “The way it changed everything?”

“All the time,” he says.

And in that moment, the memory comes alive — unbidden, but welcome. The study. The firelight. Her in that black dress. The memories that cracked something open in both of them.

Brandon’s throat tightens. He pulls her closer, like she might slip away if he lets go, “That night changed everything. We’re not pretending,” he says. “Not here. It’s real.”

“I know,” she says. And then, softer: “I think that’s what scares me the most.”

He shifts to look at her, cupping her face in his hands. “We’ve always found our way back to each other.”

Callie nods, pressing her lips to his bicep.

There’s something electric and fragile in the air now. The edge of their shared memory taking shape around them. Her hand drifts up to his chest, fingers resting over Bradon’s heart.

“I’ve loved you since I met you. But forever started that night, didn’t it?” she asks. “The night after the funeral. The study.”

Brandon closes his eyes, and just like that, he’s back there, in the amber light of the old study, in the moment he let himself kiss her like he had always wanted.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “It started there.”

Part I: Chapter Four

The house is still. Dim. A few overhead sconces cast a low amber glow, illuminating dust in the air and the polished wood of old furniture. The remnants of the day have begun to wilt. Empty wine glasses and floral arrangements haunting every corner. Like ghosts.

The study is tucked in the back of the house. Away from chatter and prying eyes. The only private space because the Hunters – Diane, Jamie, Eliza – are too afraid to enter the space Jim used to inhabit.

Brandon thinks the space reeks of old money. Scents of leather, cedar, and grief mingling together.

The shelves are lined with books. Classics that look like they haven’t been touched in years, and a desk cluttered with legal briefs from before Jim was admitted to the hospital.

Brandon sighs as he sits down in an old armchair. The last six months have been agonizing. Jim’s debilitating illness. Hospital visits and intensive treatments. All to end up here. Now.

Brandon loosens his tie and drapes his suit jacket over the back of the chair.

He extends his hand to the nearby table, letting his fingers wrap around the glass of scotch he can’t bring himself to drink.

The fire in the hearth has burned low, casting orange flickers across the room.

The door creaks open and Callie enters, her black dress clinging softly to her frame. Her hair loose. Her expression tired, but unreadable until it lands on him.

She’s startled at first, but then her expression visibly melts into the soft expression Brandon has always loved.

She walks over to the empty chair adjacent to him, sitting cautiously, “Didn’t think anyone else was still awake.”

“I didn’t think anyone would be looking,” he retorts.

Her gaze meets his. Slow and deliberate, “I couldn’t sleep. This house feels…weird. Heavy?” the last word sounds like a question.

“Can you imagine growing up here?” Brandon asks, a lilt of teasing around the edges of the words.

“Absolutely not,” Callie lets herself fully smile before they sit quietly. Companionably.

“How’s Eliza?” Callie’s breath hitches on the question.

“Closed off,” Brandon tilts his head towards Callie. “Polite. Avoiding any word longer than three syllables.”

“Jamie’s the same. He hasn’t looked at me since the funeral service this morning. I think he thinks grief and grieving should be silent. Like mourning quietly earns you points with the universe or something.”

Brandon chuckles, and it’s the first time she’s heard him laugh in a while. It pulls a faint smile from her.

“You know,” he begins, “you always say the exact thing I’m thinking before I know I’m thinking it.”

Callie shrugs, half teasing, half shy, “It’s our thing.”

They sit in silence again. Looking at one another for a long while. The fire crackles and outside wind stirs the trees.

Callie tucks her legs beneath herself, snuggling into the armchair and holding her hand out towards Brandon.

She doesn’t need to say anything for him to know she’s waiting for him to hand her the nearby throw blanket.

He does, letting his fingers brush against hers in the process.

“Do you remember Thanksgiving?” he asks. “That cabin Moms rented when we were nineteen?”

Callie wraps the blanket around herself, “Oh I remember. You played Jeff Buckley on that awful travel guitar all night.”

“And you cried,” he tells her pointedly.

She bites her lip, hiding a smile, “I told you I had allergies.”

They both smile, laughing quietly. And it’s the first thing that has felt real all day. The lightness, happiness tapers off into something warmer, slower.

Brandon looks at her. Allows himself to really look at her. Her dark hair, cut to a bob just above her shoulders, framing her face prettily.

He gazes at the line of jaw, the bridge of her nose. The soft, fullness of her lips.

Callie turns to look at him, and when her eyes meet his, he hears her audibly inhale.

The look in his eyes catching her off guard, but not unwelcome.

“When you look at me like that,” she says bravely, “it reminds me that you’re the only person I’ve ever felt…known by. Not loved, or admired. Known.”

The admittance is shy, vulnerable. And she feels her pulse racing, like she needs to put her hand over her heart to keep it from leaping out of her chest.

“You think I don’t love you?” it’s a genuine question.

“I know you love me. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

A beat passes between them.

“We’re married.”

“But not to each other.”

Time and space blurs, and they aren’t sure who stands first, but they meet in the middle.

His fingers brush her hip. Hesitating only for a moment before brushing his fingers up her arm, then to her cheek. She leans into it.

“Callie,” the singular word sounds like a coo. A plea.

“I should have come to your hotel room the night before your wedding. Like when you came to mine at Idyllwild. I regret it every moment of every day, Brandon.”

He watches her lip tremble with emotion, and that breaks something in him. He pulls her into his arms and kisses her. Slow, and searching, and full of years – of what was unsaid, undone, untried.

Their movements are slow, determined. This isn’t lust. This is recognition.

They melt into each other as the fire continues to burn low.

Brandon finds the zipper at Callie’s back and slides it slowly down its track. The dress puddles at her feet.

Callie’s nimble fingers find Brandon’s tie, slipping the knot out of place.

They both sink to their knees in unison, landing together on a soft rug. The weight of Brandon’s body atop Callie’s is a welcome reprieve for each of them.

Callie exhales as his weight settles above her, their breath mingling in the space between them. Her hands splay across his back, anchoring herself to something — someone — who has never once made her feel like too much. Or not enough.

His forehead rests against hers. They’re still partially clothed, but it already feels like they've crossed the line they can never uncross.

“I need you to know something,” Brandon whispers. “This isn’t grief. Or loneliness. Or misplaced comfort.”

“I know that,” Callie replies, breath hitching. Her hands move to cup his face. “It’s us. It’s always been us.”

Brandon searches her eyes, wanting to be sure — needing her to be just as sure.

“If you say no,” he says, “I’ll stop. I’ll hold you all night and never touch you like this again. But if you say yes…”

“I’m saying yes,” Callie tells him. “Yes is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to say to you.”

That undoes him.

He kisses her again, pouring every ounce of love he’s kept hidden for ten years into it. His hands explore her body with practiced tenderness, unclasping her bra, hands brushing across the swell of her breasts as he pulls the fabric away from her body. Each touch is deliberate. Memorized.

Callie undoes the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. Not from fear or guilt. From anticipation, need.

When she finishes, she spreads her hands over his chest, palms flat against skin, grounding herself in the warmth of him. He kisses the hollow beneath her throat, then moves lower, worshipping her with his mouth and hands like he’s learning her all over again.

There’s no rush. No fumbling. No hiding.

When they shed the last of their clothing, it’s not in a flurry but in a rhythm — a shared understanding that this is sacred. That this is what it means to choose one another, fully, despite everything. Despite the inevitable fallout.

He enters her slowly, carefully. And Callie gasps — not from surprise, but from the way it still feels like coming home. Like her body was always meant to hold this kind of love.

They move together on the rug, the soft scratch of wool beneath Callie’s back, the muted glow of firelight dancing across their skin. Brandon’s hands cradle her face as he thrusts gently, eyes locked with hers.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.

“You make me feel that way,” she replies, voice thick.

Her hands slide down his back, nails pressing into his skin as he moves faster now, chasing something deeper. Not release, but belonging. Her hips rise to meet his, and together they find a rhythm that feels like remembering.

The room fades. All that’s left is this. Two people who have spent their lives orbiting each other, finally collapsing into the gravity of what they’ve always known.

They come undone in each other’s arms, soft cries muffled in kisses, in whispered names.

In the quiet afterglow, Brandon doesn’t move away, doesn’t pull out of Callie. Not yet. Instead, he gathers her into his arms, sitting up with her straddling his lap.

He reaches for the nearby throw blanket, wrapping it around them both. Shielding, protecting this moment from the rest of the world.

Callie burrows into his chest, her fingers tracing invisible shapes against his skin.

“I can’t go back after this,” she whispers.

“We won’t,” he promises.

They hold each other for a long time, tangled and quiet, the fire casting slow-moving shadows on the walls. They exchange kisses and caresses, and later they make love again.

___

Callie wakes first, hazy winter fog distorting the sun coming through the windows.

For the briefest moment, she forgets where she is, but the warmth around her, Brandon’s steady breathing, the delicious ache between her legs reminds her.

Scents of cedar and woodsmoke from the very last embers of the fire curl around their sleeping forms.

It’s the best sleep she’s had in years. The best sex too.

She turns her head slowly and finds Brandon softly snoring, arms folded around her. He kisses his chest. Then, she takes this time to study him unbridled. He has stubble on his cheeks, his chin. Her fingertips brush gently against it, enjoying the feel.

The morning light makes the lines they’ve crossed sharper. But she can’t make herself regret it. Not even a little.

Maybe she’s used up all her guilt and regret.

Her body is covered with the evidence of their lovemaking. She still feels the echo of his body inside hers; and she knows that she will never be able to go back to the version of life there was before this.

She presses a kiss to his bare chest again and closes her eyes for a moment longer. She knows they need to get up. Get dressed. Leave this room and go back to their respective spouses.

Brandon stirs beside Callie just as her breathing evens into sleep against his chest.

He’s not sure what time it is. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to wake her. Preserving this moment into an impossible stretch of time where everything makes sense is the only thing he wants to do.

His arms are wrapped around her, legs tangled together with hers.

For the first time in years, he feels real. Like himself. Not the edited version of Brandon Foster that everyone thinks he should be. Curated husband, son, brother.

Callie is the only one who has ever made him feel like himself.

Last night wasn’t a mistake. He knows this for certain. Not grief, or weakness, or loneliness. Not even desire. It was truth.

And that truth is Callie.

He caresses her arm, committing the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her spine, to memory. Not because he’ll forget, but because he’s afraid he will have to pretend it never happened.

He will go back to Eliza. Callie will go back to Jamie. That’s the stipulation they have not said aloud.

They don’t need to. They know each other well enough to know that this, what they are creating together, will exist parallel to their other lives.

Last night was a choice. And now, they will live in the aftermath of it.

[burst-of-iridescent]

the way i know mai/ko was never intended to be canon when it was first introduced is because if the writers actually wanted zuko to have an endgame relationship with someone who was compatible with him, and whose character arc would’ve made sense for their relationship, all they had to do was pair him with ty lee. 

ty lee, who in the beach episode demonstrated greater consideration and care for zuko’s feelings than his own girlfriend. ty lee, whose bubbly and optimistic attitude would’ve balanced out zuko’s more serious personality. ty lee, whose character arc would’ve actually earned the “i love zuko more than i fear you” line, rather than having it come out of nowhere. ty lee, who would never have shut zuko down when he was going back to face his trauma, who would’ve never brought up the worst day of his life so glibly, who would’ve always been there for him because, as she said herself, she knows him. 

and ty lee, who always struggled with being part of a matched set, becoming fire lady? a position that’s literally the only one of its kind, that would’ve set her apart from the rest for good? ty lee, the only one of the fire nation girls who actually spent time with commoners, who wasn’t surrounded by people catering to her every whim, whose kindness and cheeriness would be the perfect balm after a century of war? instead of a fire lady who ordered around those from lower social classes for fun and whose defining characteristic was apathy and boredom? 

if zuko had actually been intended for a childhood friends to lovers romance, the perfect choice for the writers would’ve been ty lee, not mai. but zuko reuniting with his childhood crush in the fire nation was never supposed to be good or lasting, but another thing that proved why going back home was the worst mistake he ever made. mai/ko’s only purpose was to highlight how much zuko had changed, how the things he’d once wanted were hollow and meaningless now that he actually had them. forcing them to get together at the end did a disservice to both their character arcs, and ran completely contrary to the narrative purpose of their relationship in the first place.

anyways we all know the real reason mai/ko is such a dumpster fire is because zuko was always supposed to be with someone else *ahem*

[cordeliacuthbert]

I cannot tell you how annoying it was to edit the background; basically every picture had a different background 😂 but I finally managed to edit a Diana/Gilbert kiss au and I’m quite happy about the turnout! It was a bit tricky to find a fitting picture of Diana though…
What do you guys think?:)
https://www.instagram.com/p/CAQxLzfJ9WI/?igshid=1ahryphlw7gsm

[teaoverpatriarchy]

I cannot be the only person in the world who thinks they would be sweet together...

[rightsinexile]

Palestinian refugees and the right of return in international law

The following short piece was written by Loureen Sayej on 14 May 2018 via the Oxford Human Rights Hub. Reprinted here with permission, the original article is available here.

On this 70th commemoration of the Nakba (catastrophe), Palestinian refugees and their descendants still constitute one of the largest and longest-standing unresolved refugee crises in the world, with 7.54 million refugees in addition to 720,000 internally displaced persons.  Nearly  5.3 million refugees are registered with the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees (UNRWA) and 1.5 million subsist in 58-refugee camps across Lebanon, Jordan, Syria, and the occupied Palestinian territory (Gaza, West Bank, and East Jerusalem). Palestinian refugees, who were forcibly displaced as a result of 1948 and 1967 wars, are stripped of their UN-mandated Right of Return and face substantial challenges to the full enjoyment of their rights.

The Right of Return is a universally recognized right in international refugee law, human rights law, the law of nationality, and the law of state responsibility. It is also provided for in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (Article 13),  in major treaties protecting the rights of refugees in times of armed conflicts under humanitarian laws, in core human rights conventions governing states’ obligations and duties, and consistently referred to in UN resolutions. The Right of Return achieved customary status in 1948 when the UN General Assembly passed Resolution 194(III) affirming the rights of Palestinian refugees to return to their homes and to obtain restitution and compensation. Like never before in the history of the UN, Resolution 194’s consistency with international laws and instruments was reaffirmed by the UN more than 135 times. In the same vein, Resolution 2535 recognized “that the problem of Palestine Arab refugees has arisen from the denial of their inalienable rights under the Charter of the United Nations and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.” Other seminal UN resolutions include 393, 2452, and 3236, which further strengthen the Right of Return as “indispensable for the solution of the question of Palestine.” In fact, Israel’s admission as a member to the UN was made conditional on its implementation of resolution 194, which it has disregarded on the basis that, according to the Israeli government, compliance would undermine the Jewish character of Israel. As Israel acceded to conventions, its legal obligations towards Palestinian refugees under international law grew stronger. While, the International Convention on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR) affirms that “no one shall be arbitrarily deprived of their right to enter his own country” (Article 12), the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discriminations (CERD) requires State parties to “to prohibit and to eliminate racial discrimination…and guarantee the rights of everyone…in particular [to] the right to leave any country, including one’s own and to return to one’s country ” (Article 5).  Furthermore, Article 1D of the Refugee Convention applies solely to Palestinian refugees and designates special protection and assistance from two separate international agencies: United Nations Conciliation Commission on Palestine (UNCCP) and UNRWA, with an agreed-upon durable solution embodied in Resolution 194. It is illegal as a matter of international law to deny refugees of a particular race, color, national or ethnic origin the right to return to their homes. Yet,  subsequent Israeli laws barred Palestinian refugees from returning to their homes in what is now Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories (Law of Return), sanctioned mass denationalization laws targeting Palestinian refugees (Nationality Law), and confiscated Palestinian private property and land-holdings (Absentee Property Law and Land Acquisition Law).  While the Right of Return remains the primary remedy, Palestinian refugees are entitled to reparations of their homes and properties based on the UN Principles and Guidelines, ICCPR Article 2, and other instruments. Reparations entail  restitution (including right to return), compensation, rehabilitation, satisfaction of victims, and guarantee of non-repetition. Despite the continuing inaction of the international community, the Right of Return remains an inalienable and binding universal right, which applies equally to the Palestinian people, and should not be contingent on politics. It is an individual and a collective right intrinsically linked to the exercise of the right to self-determination of all 13 million Palestinians worldwide, and it is one which is currently not being respected. Until it is, the Palestinian people must be protected from further displacement and expulsion.

[whatever-is-pxre]

When I was 13 years old and curious about sex and love, I asked my mom if she had had sex before marrying my father (of whom she is still married to, and has been since before I was born). She said that that wasn’t really a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question. I said ‘sure it is, you’ve either had sex before him, or you haven’t’. She brought me onto the couch and sat me down and told me about the boy she liked when she was young and how one night she snuck into his house while his parents were gone and they were kissing and he said they should have sex and she said that she wanted to save sex for marriage and he laughed and basically took all her clothes off and he raped her and as my mom was telling the story she cried and this was the second time I had ever seen my mom cry. She was 12 when it happened.

In grade 8 I got a call from my friend in the middle of the night and she was drunk in the park crying and told me that she went out that night with some other friends and they drank a little and her guy “friend” starting flirting and yes she laughed at first but then he tried to pull her shirt over her head and she pulled away and he ripped her shirt and it was her favourite shirt and then he pushed her to her knees and HIS BEST FRIEND HELD HER JAW OPEN WHILE HE FACE FUCKED HER. And so I went to the park and picked her up and took her home and slept in her bed with her except we didn’t sleep because she just cried and her mouth bled and this was four years ago but I still have to be the one to bring her items to the till it the cashier is a man, and she still has anxiety attacks and she’ll get a rash all over her body and I just want to kill those boys but instead they are still walking around. And I’m in the bathroom with her, dabbing at her skin with a warm cloth until it returns to its regular colour.

And in grade 9 one of my closest friends was kinda seeing this boy and so they hung out one night and then she said that she really had to be getting back home and he said that she wasn’t going anywhere until she gave him what he wanted and he parked the car and took off her clothes and she said no and he ignored her and so she laid in the backseat totally limp and just cried and it wasn’t even sex, he just masterbated by using her body instead of his hand and she came to school the next day with vodka in her water bottle and she drank all day and I had to fight her to get the alcohol away from her and she just cried and threw up and I skipped class while I held her hair back and that same boy texted me a month later, asking if I ever wanted to hangout sometime.

And in that same year my very best friend who has never even kissed a boy, confessed to me that when she was 9 years old, her 12 year old cousin made her give him a hand job and he told her that was what cousins do and he gave her a chocolate bar afterwards and she told me that he probably doesn’t even remember it but that it’s something that she’ll never have the luxury of forgetting.

And in grade 10 I knew a girl who invited her best friend over to watch Disney movies and then he started to put his hands down her pants and she said no but she is 130lbs and he is 220lbs and he called her a tease while she tried to fight him but he used one hand to hold her down, and the other to put inside of her and i was the one to push her inside of a classroom and stand in front of her while calling the police when he showed up at our school looking for her and she was so damn scared.

And a few months later I skipped class and was in the car with a guy who i had had unprotected sex with in the past while under the influence of cocaine but this time I was sober and I insisted we use a condom but he told me he couldn’t feel anything while the condom was on so he ripped it off and I said I refused to have unprotected sex again and so he just grabbed me and forced himself into my mouth and I was crying and he pulled me onto him and I just came saying “stop” over and over like a broken record but he must’ve heard something different because he went until he came and I just sat naked in the backseat while he drove me back to the school and said “we should do this again sometime”. And I had five showers that night and I scratched at my skin so hard to try and rip his fingerprints off of me, I still have the scars.

And I found out soon afterwards that that same guy had raped a classmate of mine, 5 months earlier and she told me about how he brought her McDonald’s first, and how he said they could take things slow and she told me about how he didn’t listen to her either. And he goes to our school and so after she told me about her incident and I told her about mine, we decided to report it to the police and the trial is currently still going on and he told people about it, except in his version we are just “asking for attention” and all his friends talk about how bad they feel for him. As if HE is the one that still wakes up screaming. As if HE felt like his skin no longer was beautiful, no longer belonged to him. And I held her in my arms as she bawled after giving the police her statement. And she did the same for me.

And I met a woman a year ago in a paint store and she had a service dog and I asked what the dog was for and it turns out that she had been so brutally raped and abused in her life, that the dog is literally trained to keep men away from her.

And I’m so FUCKING SICK AND TIRED OF THIS WORLD WE ARE LIVING IN. How many rape victims eyes have I already looked into? How many more will I? And how many more friends will I hold while they shake? Because I don’t know how many more I can take. And who the fuck still has the nerve to make rape jokes? And… Something just has to change. Please, someone just start being that change.

-16 year old girl

[lesnians-deactivated20210730]

Did I reblog this already I dont care

[teaoverpatriarchy]

SIX BLACK WOMEN SCIENTISTS YOU SHOULD KNOW

[teaoverpatriarchy]

[teaoverpatriarchy]

[teaoverpatriarchy]

.

brown girl /brau̇n ɡərl/ noun melanin-blessed female with pride in and knowledge of her cultural heritage. Possesses a self-sovereign ability to express, study and succeed. Interests include: artistic practices, personal spirituality, social issues and expressing a range of feelings through strong eyebrow game

http://two-browngirls.com/

[apoemaday]

What They Did Yesterday Afternoon

by Warsan Shire

they set my aunts house on fire i cried the way women on tv do folding at the middle like a five pound note. i called the boy who use to love me tried to ‘okay’ my voice i said hello he said warsan, what’s wrong, what’s happened? i’ve been praying, and these are what my prayers look like; dear god i come from two countries one is thirsty the other is on fire both need water. later that night i held an atlas in my lap ran my fingers across the whole world and whispered where does it hurt? it answered everywhere everywhere everywhere.

[wordsnquotes]

I am a lover without a lover. I am lovely and lonely and I belong deeply to myself.

Warsan Shire (via wordsnquotes)