Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jackie POV

Jackie’s knuckles whitened on the strap of her designer tote bag as her father’s Range Rover pulled up to East Dormitory. She allowed herself three seconds to absorb the familiar Gothic spires against the brilliant September sky, then composed her features into what her mother called her “leadership expression”—confident but approachable.

“Daddy, could you grab the pink bins first? They have all my bedding.” Jackie pointed toward the organized stack in the SUV’s cargo area. She’d spent two days color-coding her belongings, each bin labeled with its contents in her precise handwriting.

Richard Taylor exhaled with good-natured theatricality. “Anything for my princess. Though I might need a chiropractor after this.”

“Richard, please. It’s not becoming to complain about carrying a few plastic containers.” Christine Taylor emerged from the passenger side, her gaze already sweeping the grounds with the critical quality she’d developed through years in state politics. Her Valentino sunglasses couldn’t hide her raised eyebrows as she surveyed the dormitory entrance. “They really haven’t updated the landscaping since last year? That topiary is practically begging for attention.”

Jackie saw her mother’s fingers twitch toward her phone. “Mom, please don’t call anyone about the plants. Not today.”

“I wasn’t—” Christine glanced down as her phone buzzed. “The governor’s office. I need to take this.”

Jackie exchanged a look with her father, who shrugged sympathetically. Christine stepped away, her voice immediately shifting into what Jackie privately called her “Senator Voice”—smooth, authoritative, with just enough warmth to seem human.

“Let the campaign begin,” Richard muttered, heaving the first of Jackie’s bins.

Jackie surveyed the unloading zone where other families were having similar move-in days—though none quite like hers. She recognized the Matthews’ driver organizing Lottie’s things while Lottie’s father conducted a business call from their Bentley. A few scholarship students carried their own belongings up the stairs, mothers hovering nervously in department store outfits that announced “special occasion purchase.”

Richard returned from his first trip, slightly winded. “Third floor again this year?”

“Fourth,” Jackie corrected. “Corner room. The best one.”

“Of course it is.” He smiled with pride. “Nothing but the best for the student body president.”

Christine rejoined them, sliding her phone into her Chanel bag with practiced efficiency. “Jackie, I need you to understand how crucial this year is. The Princeton admissions officer specifically mentioned our family connection, but they’re looking for leadership, not just legacy.”

“I know, Mom. Soccer captain, student government president—”

“And maintaining your GPA,” Christine added. “The competition is brutal. Senator Whitmore’s daughter had perfect scores and still ended up at Cornell.”

Jackie nodded automatically. She had heard variations of this speech all summer. Her mother’s ambitions for her Princeton future sometimes felt like wearing someone else’s perfectly tailored clothes; they looked right but never quite fit.

“Your application needs to be pristine,” Christine continued. “Especially with that diversity initiative they’ve implemented. It’s harder for girls like you now.”

“Christine,” Richard said quietly.

Jackie fought the impulse to check her phone again. Shauna had texted at 8:17 AM: On our way. Dad’s car is making a weird noise. Might be late. That was forty-five minutes ago.

“I’ve got everything under control,” Jackie assured her mother while mentally calculating how long it would take the Shipmans’ ancient Honda to reach campus if it broke down once—possibly twice.

Her father returned with another load. “Almost done, kiddo.”

Christine checked her watch. “We should meet this new headmistress. What’s her name? Porter?”

“Head Mistress Porter,” Jackie corrected. “She came from Westfield Academy.”

“Conservative.” Christine nodded with approval. “I should introduce myself. Make sure she knows who you are... who we are.”

Jackie maintained her smile while a scream built inside her. Her mother’s networking was both a blessing and a curse. It opened doors but made it impossible to have an identity separate from “Senator Taylor’s daughter.”

“That would be great, Mom.”

Richard placed the last bin at Jackie’s feet. “All set, princess.”

Jackie straightened her shoulders, standing with the perfect poise she had been taught since childhood. The accustomed pressure of her mother’s expectations settled across her shoulders like her favorite cashmere sweater—comforting in its constancy but sometimes suffocating.

“I should get unpacked before Shauna arrives,” she said, glancing down at her phone again. No new messages.

“Of course. We won’t hover.” Christine adjusted Jackie’s collar unnecessarily. “Remember what we discussed about your activities. Student government is excellent for your application, but make sure you’re documenting your community service hours properly.”

“I know, Mom.”

Christine’s eyes softened for a moment. “This is your year to shine, sweetheart.”

The endearment, rare from her mother’s lips, caught Jackie off guard. She let herself be pulled into a quick, perfumed embrace.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Richard wrapped his arms around both of them. “My girls.”

The moment was fleeting. Christine stepped back, already scanning the quad for the administrative building. “We’ll let you settle in. We have that dinner with the Brightons tonight anyway.”

“Give Shauna our love,” Richard added.

“Text me after you’ve met with your academic advisor,” Christine called over her shoulder, already walking purposefully toward Main Hall. “And we’ll discuss Princeton application strategies this weekend.”

Richard gave Jackie one last hug. “Don’t let her stress you out too much. You’re doing great, kiddo.”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

Jackie watched them leave—her father hurrying slightly to keep pace with her mother’s determined stride—then turned to face East Dormitory. Its massive oak doors stood open, welcoming returning students with their carved insignia and traditional atmosphere. Senior year. Her year.

She lifted her chin, feeling the eyes of the younger students watching her with the reverence reserved for those in senior status. Soccer captain. Student body president. Princeton destiny. She belonged here, at the top of Wiskayok’s carefully constructed social hierarchy.

So why did her stomach coil into a hard knot?

Jackie reached for her phone again, checking for messages before she could stop herself.

Nothing from Shauna.

The fourth-floor corner room was exactly as Jackie had hoped—spacious by dormitory standards, with two tall windows offering views of both the main campus and the distant forest edge. Jackie directed the panting sophomore who’d volunteered to help carry her things (building connections with underclassmen was part of leadership) to place the final bin beside her chosen desk.

“Thanks, Emma. You’re on JV soccer, right? Midfielder?”

The girl’s face radiated pleasure at being recognized. “Yeah! I’m hoping to make varsity this year.”

“Keep working on your left foot. Coach values versatility.” Jackie offered her most encouraging captain smile.

Once alone, Jackie surveyed the room, mentally arranging both sides before unpacking a single item. She claimed the right side—better morning light for makeup application—and left the other for Shauna. They had shared rooms since freshman year, and Jackie had the arrangement down to a science.

She unpacked methodically. First, the bedding—600-thread-count sheets in Princeton orange that her mother had deemed “visualization for success.” Next came her collection of framed photographs, carefully arranged to tell the story of Jackie and Shauna’s friendship from childhood through junior year.

Jackie picked up her favorite: the two of them at eight years old, gap-toothed grins with arms wrapped around each other at soccer camp. She placed it on the nightstand where she would see it first thing every morning.

Her phone buzzed. Jackie snatched it, disappointment flooding her when she saw Jeff’s name instead of Shauna’s.

Miss you already, babe. St. Joe’s isn’t the same without you nearby. Counting down to Saturday’s mixer.

Jeff. Her boyfriend. Handsome, appropriate Jeff from St. Joseph’s Boys Academy with his lacrosse scholarship and business school plans. Jackie stared at his text, trying to summon the flutter she knew she was supposed to feel.

Miss you too! Can’t wait for Saturday! The first week will be crazy busy, but I’ll call when I can. Xoxo

She added an acceptable number of heart emojis before sending, then returned to unpacking with mechanical efficiency. Desk supplies were arranged by color. Textbooks were aligned by size. Skincare products were ordered by application sequence. Everyone had their place.

Jackie checked her watch: 12:34. Shauna should be here by now.

She moved to Shauna’s side of the room, unable to resist organizing it according to their usual pattern. Shauna professed not to care about aesthetics, but Jackie knew better. Shauna needed guidance; she always had.

“This is where your books go,” Jackie murmured, designating the left side of the shared bookshelf. “And your soccer bag goes under the bed, not beside it, where everyone can see your dirty cleats.”

The room took shape under Jackie’s careful direction. She placed Shauna’s desk lamp exactly three inches from the edge, angled for optimal lighting. The empty spaces waited expectantly for Shauna’s belongings—fewer and less expensive than Jackie’s, but no less important to their shared domain.

Jackie’s phone remained inert.

She moved to the ornate full-length mirror—one of many “donations” her parents had made to ensure their daughter’s comfort—and checked her reflection. The casual white blouse and navy shorts she’d selected projected effortless sophistication, appropriate for move-in day without appearing to try too hard. Her strawberry blonde hair fell in perfect waves to her shoulders, the result of an early-morning blowout.

Jackie practiced her casual smile, the one she’d perfected for yearbook photos and campaign posters. “Hey, stranger,” she whispered to her reflection, imagining Shauna walking through the door. Too eager. She tried again, aiming for nonchalance. “Oh, you finally made it.” No, too passive-aggressive.

“I saved your favorite spot by the window.” Better. Casual but thoughtful.

Her reflection stared back, the smile perfect, but her eyes betraying an anxiety she wouldn’t admit to anyone. Not even Shauna. Especially not Shauna. Three months of separation had left an ache Jackie hadn’t anticipated. Summer at the Taylors’ Martha’s Vineyard home had been filled with the right people, the right activities, the right Instagram moments—and had felt completely hollow without Shauna’s quiet presence.

She’d texted Shauna daily, called weekly, sent ridiculous postcards of lighthouse scenes with inside jokes scrawled on the back. Shauna’s responses had been steady but brief, citing summer reads and family obligations. Each response had both soothed and aggravated Jackie’s unnamed longing.

“This year will be perfect,” Jackie told her reflection firmly. “Everything’s falling into place.”

Senior year had been mapped out in Jackie’s planner since freshman orientation. She and Shauna would dominate the soccer field, attend every social event, complete their college applications for Princeton, and graduate as they’d started—inseparable. Jackie had even sketched their future dorm room at Princeton, choosing the colors and calculating the optimal furniture arrangement.

The silence from her phone suddenly felt accusatory. Jackie checked it again—no new messages—then pulled up her thread with Shauna and scrolled up to their last exchange:

J: How far away are you guys now?

J: Do you need help carrying your stuff up?

J: I organized all my shower stuff so you have the left side of the caddy as usual

J: The room looks amazing. Can’t wait for you to see!

Four messages, no response. Jackie bit her lower lip, finger hovering over the keyboard, before she forced herself to put the phone down. Shauna hated when Jackie “text bombed” her. Patience was not Jackie’s strong suit, but she could perform it when necessary.

She straightened a frame on Shauna’s desk—the two of them after winning the junior varsity championship sophomore year, mud-splattered but triumphant, Jackie’s arm thrown possessively around Shauna’s shoulders. Perfect placement. Perfect angle. Perfect memory.

Jackie returned to the mirror, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and practicing her welcome once more. “I thought your dad’s car finally died! I was about to send a search party.” Spoken with a laugh, casual and warm. As if she hadn’t been counting the minutes. As if a band wasn’t constricting her chest with an emotion she couldn’t—wouldn’t—name.

Her phone remained silent, reflecting the pristine room in its dark screen. Outside the window, more families arrived with more belongings, more tearful goodbyes, and more beginnings. Jackie Taylor stood alone in the perfect room she’d created, waiting for the one person she couldn’t control and couldn’t let go.

***

Shauna POV

Shauna pressed her forehead against the taxi’s window, watching the Massachusetts countryside blur into a smear of green and gold. Her fingers drummed an anxious rhythm against her worn duffel bag; its fraying strap was a quiet history of this journey. The meter ticked upward—$78.50 already—and she mentally subtracted the amount from her monthly allowance. Another twenty minutes to Wiskayok meant a fare of at least one hundred dollars.

“First day back?” The driver caught her eye in the rearview mirror.

“Senior year.” Shauna tried to inject enthusiasm into her voice, but the words fell flat.

“Must be nice, fancy school like that.”

Shauna nodded, not bothering to explain that her presence at Wiskayok existed on the margins, a product of an academic scholarship, work-study, and the careful economizing that marked every decision she made. The car slowed as they approached the imposing wrought iron gates, and Shauna’s stomach twisted at the familiar sight of the school’s crest.

The taxi rolled to a stop along the curved driveway, already lined with gleaming SUVs and luxury sedans. A Mercedes door swung open, revealing a girl balancing a potted orchid on top of matching Louis Vuitton luggage.

“That’s ninety-four dollars, miss.”

Shauna counted out five twenties—nearly half of her spending money for the month—and added a five-dollar tip she couldn’t afford.

“Need help with these bags?” The driver popped the trunk.

“I’ve got it.” Shauna shouldered her backpack and grabbed her duffel, but hesitated at the third bag—a battered suitcase that held her winter clothes.

The driver lifted it anyway, setting it on the curb beside her. “Good luck this year.” He gestured toward the campus. “Looks like a whole different world in there.”

Shauna watched the taxi merge back onto the county road, which left her alone with her mismatched luggage amid the chaos of move-in day. She thought of her father’s face three hours earlier, the frustrated set of his mouth as steam billowed from the Subaru’s ancient radiator.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” he’d said, wiping his hands on a rag already black with grease. “I should have had it checked before the trip.”

“It’s fine, Dad.” She’d squeezed his arm, forcing a lightness into her voice. “I can grab a taxi from here. It’s not that far.”

“Your mother will kill me for letting you go alone.”

“I’m seventeen, not seven. I’ll text when I arrive.”

Now, standing at the gates of Wiskayok, Shauna pulled out her phone to fulfill that promise: Made it safe. Don’t worry about the car. Love you both. She added a heart emoji, knowing it would make her mother smile.

Shauna surveyed the scene before her. Parents hovered while uniformed staff unloaded cars. A father directed the placement of what appeared to be a custom mattress topper. Two mothers compared notes on interior designers they had hired to transform standard dorm rooms into Instagram-worthy spaces.

She hoisted her duffel higher on her shoulder and grabbed the handle of her suitcase, attempting to manage all her bags at once. The load immediately strained her arms, but hiring a porter wasn’t an option. Twenty feet ahead, a monogrammed suitcase sat unattended on the path. It probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.

The familiar path to East Dormitory stretched before her, shaded by ancient oaks just starting to hint at autumn colors. By the time she reached the steps, sweat dampened her t-shirt, and her fingers ached from gripping the suitcase handle.

“Daddy, you promised we’d go to Mykonos next summer,” a girl’s voice drifted from the stone bench near the entrance. “The Hamptons were so boring this year.”

Shauna paused, shifting her bags to give her arms a momentary rest.

“At least you went somewhere,” her friend replied. “We were stuck in Paris the entire time. Mom wouldn’t even consider the Riviera.”

Shauna bit her lip, thinking of her summer job shelving books at her mother’s library, of the extra shifts she had picked up to save for textbooks.

The marble staircase inside East Dormitory resounded with footsteps and voices as Shauna began her ascent. Her room with Jackie was on the fourth floor—the coveted senior level with the best views of campus. By the second-floor landing, Shauna’s arms burned. She set down her bags and took a moment to catch her breath.

The ornate mirror on the landing reflected a girl Shauna sometimes barely recognized—too serious, too watchful. Her dark hair had grown longer over the summer, now falling past her shoulders in waves she hadn’t bothered to tame that morning. Her features seemed sharper somehow, more defined, as if the summer had carved away some remaining softness from her face.

Would Jackie notice? Would she comment on these small changes the way she noticed everything about Shauna, cataloging differences with an intense focus that felt like both a spotlight and a trap?

Shauna reached into her backpack to check that her Brown University brochure remained hidden beneath her notebooks. The glossy viewbook had arrived in a plain envelope at the library, addressed to her at work rather than at home—a small act of rebellion, this research into a future that diverged from the one Jackie had mapped out for them both.

Princeton together. Just like we always planned.

Except that Shauna had never planned it. Jackie had, and Shauna had nodded along, letting Jackie’s certainty substitute for her own desires. The guilt from her secret application materials mingled with a forbidden thrill—the possibility of shaping her own path, of discovering who Shauna Shipman might be outside Jackie Taylor’s orbit.

Four flights completed, Shauna paused in the hallway. She took another breath before approaching their door. Room 417—their senior year haven. She pressed her palm against the polished wood, hesitating for a moment.

This summer, without Jackie’s constant presence, Shauna had started writing again—real writing, not just the essays that earned her academic acclaim. Short stories, fragments of poetry, observations that didn’t need to be filtered through Jackie’s expectations. Words that belonged solely to her.

Before Shauna could knock, the door swung open. Jackie stood there as if she had been watching through the peephole, waiting for this exact moment.

“Shauna!” Jackie launched herself forward, enveloping Shauna in a fierce embrace that nearly knocked her backward. “Finally!”

Jackie’s arms wrapped around Shauna’s neck, her familiar scent—expensive perfume with notes of jasmine—enveloping Shauna as completely as the hug. Before Shauna could respond, Jackie’s lips pressed against her cheek, then her temple, then dangerously close to the corner of her mouth—affectionate kisses that made Shauna’s heart stutter in her chest.

“I missed you so much,” Jackie murmured against Shauna’s skin, her breath warm.

Shauna’s body responded with contradictory impulses: the immediate relaxation of coming home, of fitting into the precise space that had been waiting for her, combined with a new resistance that made her spine rigid, maintaining the fractional distance she’d learned was necessary for her own protection.

“I missed you, too.” Shauna carefully extracted herself from Jackie’s embrace and gestured to her bags. “Let me just get these inside.”

“You should have texted when you arrived! I would’ve helped you carry everything.” Jackie grabbed the duffel and pulled it into their room. “Why are you so late? I’ve been waiting for hours.”

Shauna followed with her suitcase, taking in the familiar space now transformed by Jackie’s presence. The room looked smaller than she remembered, already filled with Jackie’s carefully arranged possessions.

“Dad’s car broke down about halfway here. Had to catch a taxi the rest of the way.”

“Oh my god, that’s awful!” Jackie’s eyes widened with genuine concern. “You should have called me. My dad would have sent our driver.”

Shauna shrugged. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Well, you’re here now.” Jackie squeezed her arm. “And look! I’ve already set up most of your side.”

Shauna surveyed “her” half of the room. Jackie had arranged Shauna’s desk supplies at perfect right angles, had made her bed with the sheets Shauna’s mother had carefully ironed, and had even placed Shauna’s alarm clock at the precise angle Jackie deemed correct. The organization was impeccable, thoughtful, and completely invasive—Jackie’s vision of how things “should” be.

“Thanks,” Shauna said, the word catching slightly in her throat.

“I left your clothes for you to arrange since you’re so particular about your system.” Jackie opened Shauna’s suitcase without asking permission. “Though I did hang up your uniform pieces so they wouldn’t wrinkle.”

Shauna knelt beside her duffel, carefully removing her books and arranging them on the shelf above her desk. She’d developed a specific organizational system over the summer—favorite poetry collections on the top shelf, literary fiction below, research materials for her Brown application hidden behind practical textbooks.

“Let me help you unpack.” Jackie lifted a green shirt from Shauna’s suitcase and tilted her head. “When did you get this? I don’t remember that shirt.”

“Just something I picked up at the thrift store this summer.” Shauna took it from Jackie’s hands and added it to her growing pile of clothes.

“It’s cute. Different from your usual stuff.” Jackie continued to examine Shauna’s wardrobe. “You got a lot of new things.”

“The library job paid better than expected.” Shauna moved to her desk, arranging her notebooks and pens, creating a barrier of routine around her secret plans. “I actually got some good writing done this summer, too.”

“Really? Like for class?”

“Some personal stuff. Short stories, mostly.”

Jackie’s interest sharpened. “About what? Can I read them?”

“They’re not finished.” Shauna carefully placed her newest journal in the desk drawer, beneath her school planner. “Just experiments.”

“You’ll have to let me read them when they’re done.” Jackie’s tone made it clear she expected compliance. She moved to Shauna’s newly made bed and sprawled across it as if it were her own. “So guess who’s visiting this weekend?”

Shauna didn’t need to guess. “Jeff?”

“His first break from St. Joseph’s. He’s been texting me like crazy.” Jackie patted the space beside her. “Come sit. I need to tell you everything about summer.”

Shauna perched on the edge of the bed, maintaining a small but deliberate distance. Jackie immediately closed the gap, reaching for Shauna’s hand and interlacing their fingers with practiced familiarity.

“So Jeff took me to this restaurant in Boston for our anniversary...” Jackie launched into a detailed account of her summer dates, her voice oddly detached despite the romantic scenarios she described. All the while, her thumb traced patterns on Shauna’s palm, a physical connection that felt both casual and deliberate. “...and then he gave me this bracelet, see?”

Jackie extended her wrist to display a delicate silver chain. Her knee pressed into Shauna’s as she leaned closer.

“It’s beautiful,” Shauna said automatically.

“I guess.” Jackie shrugged. “His mom helped pick it out, which is weird, right? Like, shouldn’t he know what I like by now?”

Shauna nodded, acutely aware of Jackie’s fingers still intertwined with hers. This physical language between them had developed over the years—touches that seemed friendly but carried an intensity Shauna couldn’t quite name or acknowledge.

“Anyway, I thought maybe we could all do something together when he visits. You haven’t seen him all summer either.”

“Sure.” Shauna tried to sound enthusiastic about being the third wheel to her best friend’s relationship.

“I should show you the new shoes I got for the fall formal.” Jackie reluctantly released Shauna’s hand and stood. “They’re perfect with that navy dress of mine.”

The moment Jackie disappeared into their shared closet, Shauna reached into her backpack for her private journal—the one filled with honest reflections about Jackie, about the confusing feelings that arose whenever Jackie touched her, about the hopes for Brown that would shatter Jackie’s expectations. She quickly slid it beneath her mattress, her heart thumping at the near discovery.

“Found them!” Jackie emerged triumphant, silver heels dangling from her fingers. Her gaze sharpened as she noticed Shauna’s awkward position. “What are you doing?”

“Just checking if my sheets are straight enough,” Shauna said, fighting the flush threatening to crawl up her neck. “You know how I hate it when they come loose.”

Jackie’s suspicious look lingered for a moment before dissolving into excitement. “Wait, I almost forgot the best part!” She disappeared again briefly before returning with two matching decorative pillows—plush velvet in deep forest green, embroidered with silver thread that caught the light.

“I got these for us.” Jackie tossed one onto Shauna’s bed. “Wiskayok colors, but fancy enough for senior year.” She moved to Shauna’s side and brushed a strand of hair from Shauna’s face with possessive familiarity. “This year is going to be perfect, Shauna. Everything we’ve worked for. Everything we’ve planned.”

Shauna smiled her practiced smile—the one that showed just enough teeth to appear genuine while concealing the widening gap between her external performance and internal reality. Jackie’s fingers lingered against her cheek, and Shauna fought the dual urges to lean into the touch and pull away completely.

“Perfect,” Shauna repeated, the word hollow in her mouth.

***

Van POV

Van stood before the mirror in their East Dormitory room, tugging uncomfortably at the regulation green-and-gray plaid skirt that hung exactly two inches below their knees. Every year, the same routine—the same discomfort. They adjusted the stiff white blouse collar, feeling the fabric constrict around their neck, a physical representation of the gender expectations they were forced to present.

“Fucking strangling myself for tradition,” Van muttered, sliding a finger between the collar and their skin to create some breathing room.

Their athletic build—shoulders broadened from years of diving across goal lines—made the feminine uniform feel especially wrong, like wearing someone else’s skin. Van caught themselves hunching slightly, a subconscious attempt to minimize their frame, then straightened defiantly before slouching again.

The small gesture of rebellion didn’t last. It never did.

Van glanced at their phone: 3:15 PM. Everyone was required to arrive by 3:00 and be in the Great Hall by 3:30 for Head Mistress Porter’s opening remarks. But Nat’s side of the room remained untouched: bed stripped, desk empty, closet door hanging open like a question without an answer.

“Where the hell are you?” Van asked the empty space, half-expecting Nat’s sardonic voice to answer from some hidden corner.

They picked up the forest green blazer with its embroidered Wiskayok crest, holding it at arm’s length before reluctantly sliding it on. The heft of the wool settled across their shoulders with familiar heaviness.

“Not a uniform. A costume.” Van squared their shoulders and turned sideways in the mirror, studying their profile with critical eyes. “Another year playing dress-up.”

The room felt uncomfortably quiet without Nat’s usual mix of profanity and dark humor. They’d been roommates since sophomore year, united in their mutual unease with the school’s femininity standards—Nat through her rebellion, Van through their quiet endurance.

Van ran their fingers through their reddish-brown curls, contemplating for the hundredth time what it would feel like to cut it all off instead of maintaining a required feminine hairstyle, which translated to her hair now hanging halfway down their back.

“One snip.” They gathered their hair in one hand, holding an imaginary pair of scissors with the other. “That’s all it would take.”

Van dropped their hands, the fantasy evaporating like morning fog on Hartwick Field. The consequences weren’t worth it. Not with their scholarship on the line and their mother’s sacrifices on their conscience. Not yet, anyway.

They turned to the small combination lockbox tucked under their bed, fingers spinning the familiar code. Inside lay a collection of forbidden comforts: a leather bracelet from Taissa, a dog-eared copy of Stone Butch Blues with its telltale cover hidden beneath a removable jacket for Pride and Prejudice , and a small envelope containing brochures from colleges that offered soccer scholarships.

Van checked their phone for messages from Taissa, finding none since their last text saying they had arrived. Still, they couldn’t help smiling at their lock screen—a discreet photo of their hands intertwined on a soccer ball, innocent enough to anyone else, meaningful only to them.

A year ago, they had been just teammates, Taissa’s intensity often clashing with Van’s steadier approach to the game. Van remembered their first real conversation, after a particularly brutal practice where they’d stopped seventeen of Taissa’s eighteen shots on goal.

“You’re too predictable when you look right before shooting left,” Van had said, tossing Taissa her water bottle.

Instead of the annoyance Van expected, Taissa had studied them with a new respect. “Show me.”

That moment had sparked something—friendship first, then more. By spring, everything had changed. Their first kiss had happened in the equipment shed after a rainstorm canceled practice, Taissa’s usually calculated confidence faltering as she reached for Van’s hand.

Van typed out a quick text to Nat: “Hey, you alive? Mandatory welcome dinner in an hour. Hope you’re ok. See you there?” Their thumb hovered over the send button, then added: “Stuff already feels weird. Miss your face.” They sent it with genuine concern, knowing Nat’s tendency to push boundaries sometimes invited a forceful push back.

Van grabbed their room key and student ID, stuffing both into the small pocket sewn inside their blazer. They took a deep breath, shoulders automatically squaring as if preparing for a goalkeeper stance, bracing themselves for the public performance of femininity that awaited them at the welcome ceremony.

The dormitory hallway bustled with activity—reunions, laughter, the occasional squeal as friends who had spent summers apart reconnected. Van observed other students effortlessly adjusting uniform elements—girls naturally comfortable in their assigned gender presentation, tugging skirts higher when no teachers looked, dabbing lip gloss that technically violated the “natural appearance” rule.

“Van! You’re back!” Elena Vasquez called from her doorway, her uniform already personalized with an extra button undone and contraband silver earrings barely visible beneath her dark hair.

“Hey, Elena.” Van nodded, keeping their stride steady. “Good summer?”

“Amazing. My cousin got married and—” Elena paused, looking past Van. “Where’s Nat? You two are usually joined at the hip.”

Van shrugged, the motion constrained by the stiff blazer. “No idea. Hoping she shows up before Porter takes attendance.”

“Well, when you see her, tell her Mari smuggled in those Chilean cookies her grandmother makes. We’re having a mini welcome-back thing tonight.”

Van nodded and continued down the hallway, feeling the invisible line that separated them from these easy social interactions. The casual way the other girls discussed hair products and complained about skirt lengths—not because the skirts were a fundamental mismatch to their identity, but because they wanted to show more leg—created a gulf wider than Lake Wiskayok itself.

“Vanessa! Excellent, you’re here.” Misty Quigley appeared at the stairwell, clipboard in hand, her glasses magnifying her watchful eyes. “I was just checking who from East Dormitory still needs to sign in for the semester.”

“It’s Van,” they corrected automatically, knowing it would make no difference.

“The official roster says Vanessa,” Misty replied with practiced sweetness, tapping her pen against the clipboard. “And your roommate? I haven’t seen Natalie yet.”

“I haven’t either.”

“Well, as your Resident Advisor, I should tell you that all students were required to arrive by 3:00 PM, and Headmistress Porter specifically asked me to note any absences for her personal follow-up.” Misty’s voice rose in importance as she took on her task.

Van suppressed an eye roll. “I’ll let you know if I hear from her.”

“Please do! I’m only trying to help, you know. First impressions with the new headmistress are so important.”

“Sure, Misty.”

“That’s Resident Advisor Quigley, technically.” Her smile grew strained. “Oh, and Vanessa? Your hair needs to be properly secured for the assembly. The handbook clearly states that hair neat and presentable at all times. Especially for formal occasions.”

Van reached back, realizing several curls had escaped their ponytail. “Right. Thanks.”

“Just doing my job!” Misty chirped, already moving down the hall to her next target.

The Great Hall buzzed with conversation as Van entered, the vaulted ceiling amplifying the collective noise of two hundred students reuniting after summer break. They scanned the crowd for familiar faces, particularly Taissa’s, while sidestepping to avoid Misty’s continued scrutiny from her post by the door.

Van spotted Jackie Taylor holding court, her perfectly styled hair and confident posture embodying everything Wiskayok valued. Beside her, Shauna Shipman sat with the slightly uncomfortable air of someone who would rather be anywhere else—a feeling Van understood perfectly.

There was no sign of Nat, though. The absence of their roommate’s sarcastic commentary left Van feeling oddly exposed, like missing armor.

Van slid into a seat next to Mari Ibarra, another soccer teammate who nodded in greeting.

“Hey, Palmer. Good summer?”

“Can’t complain,” Van replied, still scanning the room. “You?”

“Three jobs and summer practice. You know how it is.” Mari’s casual reference to their shared experience as scholarship students needed no elaboration. “Still no Nat?”

“Nothing. It’s not like her to miss a chance to piss off the administration.”

“No kidding. Remember last year’s welcome dinner when she—”

Their conversation was cut short as Headmistress Porter strode to the podium with practiced authority. Her perfectly tailored suit and traditional pearl necklace embodied the institutional femininity she enforced. The room fell silent with remarkable speed, a clear sign of the new headmistress’s reputation for zero tolerance.

“Young ladies of Wiskayok Academy,” Porter began, her voice carrying effortlessly through the hall without any apparent projection. “Welcome to what promises to be a year of renewed excellence and commitment to our founding principles.”

Van tried not to visibly react to the “young ladies” address, which never failed to create a disconnect between their inner and outer realities.

“As I begin my tenure as your headmistress,” Porter continued, “I want to assure you that I have spent the summer immersing myself in the rich traditions that have made this institution great for over a century. While some of my predecessors may have allowed certain... modernizations... I believe in the timeless value of our core mission: molding young women of character.”

Porter paused, her gaze sweeping across the hall with surgical precision.

“That said, I have observed what can only be described as a recent laxity in standards that we will address immediately. Wiskayok graduates are known for their poise, their intellectual rigor, and their proper feminine decorum. These are not outdated concepts but essential foundations for your future success.”

Van felt each word—”feminine,” “proper,” “decorum”—land like a personal indictment, their throat constricting in response.

“Effective immediately, we will be implementing stricter enforcement of dress code regulations,” Porter continued, her tone hardening. “Proper skirt length will be measured, not estimated. Appropriate hairstyles will be maintained. A modest presentation is non-negotiable.”

Porter’s gaze seemed to linger on certain students—including, Van felt with uncomfortable certainty, themselves.

“The student handbook contains specific guidelines that address every aspect of appropriate presentation. Resident Advisors will be conducting weekly formal inspections, and violations will be documented in your permanent records.”

A murmur rippled through the hall, but Porter’s raised eyebrow quickly silenced it.

“I understand that for some of you, particularly seniors who may have grown accustomed to certain... allowances... these changes may feel restrictive. However, I assure you that maintaining these standards prepares you for the realities beyond these walls, where first impressions and appropriate self-presentation open doors that might otherwise remain closed.”

Van shifted uncomfortably in their seat, tugging at their blazer sleeve. The scholarship that covered their tuition and board represented their mother’s relentless overtime shifts and Van’s perfect GPA. This golden chain bound them to this institution despite the growing disconnect between who they were and who the school demanded they be.

A flash of movement caught Van’s attention—Taissa, sitting across the hall with other student council members, making brief but meaningful eye contact. That single glance provided momentary relief, as Van let themselves briefly enjoy the sight of their girlfriend, her composed exterior hiding the fierce intelligence that had recognized Van’s truth before they had fully acknowledged it themselves.

“Tradition is not a burden but a gift,” Porter was saying, her voice taking on an almost evangelical quality. “The standards of excellence that have defined Wiskayok for generations will continue to shape your education.”

Van half-listened, mentally calculating how many more formal dinners they would have to endure before graduation. Two semesters. Ninety-two formal meals, if you included Sunday dinners. Each one a performance, each one a countdown.

“Your senior year represents the culmination of your Wiskayok journey,” Porter continued. “For those applying to college, remember that our reputation precedes you. Your conduct reflects not only on yourselves but on this institution and the generations of accomplished women who came before you.”

The vibration of Van’s phone provided a welcome distraction. They discreetly checked the screen: a text from Taissa.

Meet me in my room after dinner?

An involuntary smile formed despite the oppressive atmosphere; the simple message cut through Porter’s rhetoric like sun through fog.

“Let me be absolutely clear about the consequences for non-compliance,” Porter’s voice sharpened again. “While previous administrations might have favored warnings and second chances, I believe in accountability. Violations will result in demerits, campus restriction, and in cases of repeated defiance, a review of scholarship status.”

That last phrase landed like a goalkeeper taking a cleat to the ribs—direct, painful, and deliberately targeted. Van glanced up from their phone, catching Taissa watching them from across the hall. Even from a distance, they could see the muscles working in her jaw, the subtle narrowing of her eyes that meant she was calculating, planning, already three moves ahead.

Van responded with a knowing smirk. Their secret relationship was a small act of resistance against the institution’s rigid expectations. Tomorrow would bring the season’s first soccer practice, where their body’s strength and capabilities were valued over its conformity to feminine ideals.

They straightened their posture, finding momentary strength in the dual promises of Taissa’s company and tomorrow’s practice. In these two places, they could briefly exist without constant gender dysphoria, where what their body could do mattered more than how it was dressed or perceived.

For now, that would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

Nat POV

Nat’s fingers trembled against the cold glass of the Great Hall’s entrance door. She wiped her palm against her skirt and gripped the handle again, peering through the window at the sea of green blazers and perfectly pressed uniforms. Dinner was already in full swing, the sound of silverware clinking against plates muffled by the thick oak door.

“Fuck me,” she muttered, running a hand through her freshly-cut hair. She’d bleached it platinum again last night, but the dark roots already were showing through cause of the rushed job. The shaggy mullet felt right, felt like her—even if it had earned her mother’s tight-lipped disapproval this morning before she’d left. Not that her mother had been coherent enough to form actual sentences.

Nat tugged at her uniform, making a few final adjustments. Her tie hung loosely around her neck, her blazer purposefully unbuttoned, one shirt tail partially untucked. Small rebellions. Little fuck-yous to a system that wanted to crush every ounce of individuality from her body.

Through the door’s window, she spotted Misty Quigley patrolling between tables like a mall cop on a power trip. Beyond her, at the faculty table, Headmistress Porter sat with perfect posture, surveying her kingdom of good little girls with evident satisfaction.

“Small, small, make yourself small,” she whispered to herself, an old survival mantra. Didn’t matter if it was hiding from her father’s drunken rage or navigating Wiskayok’s suffocating rules—same skill set.

Her hands trembled more violently now. Nat glanced over her shoulder, confirming she was alone in the corridor, then reached into her inside jacket pocket. The cool metal of the silver flask pressed against her fingers like an old friend.

She unscrewed the cap with practiced efficiency and took a quick sip, grimacing as the cheap vodka burned a trail down her throat. The warmth spread outward from her center, dulling the jagged edges of her anxiety. It wasn’t enough to be drunk—just enough to breathe. Just enough to walk through those doors without screaming.

“Thanks, Dad,” she whispered bitterly, screwing the cap back on. “At least you taught me something useful.”

A distant door opened somewhere down the corridor. Nat quickly tucked the flask away, making sure it was secure in her inside pocket. She straightened her posture, squared her shoulders, and arranged her features into the mask she’d perfected over the years—bored disinterest with just a hint of contempt. The look that said: I don’t care what you think, and I especially don’t care if you know I don’t care.

She pushed through the heavy doors.

The ancient hinges betrayed her with a long, theatrical creak that cut through the dinner conversation like a knife. Heads turned—dozens of them—conversations halting mid-sentence as the student body registered the latest disruption.

Nat kept her sunglasses firmly in place, despite being indoors. The tinted lenses helped hide her bloodshot eyes, and more importantly, allowed her to observe without being observed. She caught the new Headmistress Porter’s disapproving stare immediately—the woman’s thin lips pressing into an even thinner line as she cataloged each violation: the hair, the sunglasses, the disheveled uniform, the combat boots that definitely weren’t regulation footwear.

From the corner of her eye, Nat spotted Misty’s frantic scribbling on her clipboard. The RA’s eyes gleamed behind her glasses, as if she were documenting evidence at a crime scene instead of petty dress code infractions.

“Keep writing, freak,” Nat muttered under her breath. “I’ll give you a novel by graduation.”

Her combat boots echoed against the hardwood floor as she navigated between tables. Each step was deliberate, unhurried. She refused to scurry, refused to show how much the stares and whispers affected her. She’d spent a lifetime being the topic of gossip—in trailer parks, in emergency rooms when her mother overdosed, in courtrooms when her father got arrested—these sheltered rich girls couldn’t touch her with their judgment.

Nat spotted the soccer team’s table midway across the hall. Despite herself, a tiny thread of tension released in her chest at the sight of Van’s familiar face. Her roommate was already looking up, expression brightening with recognition. Van immediately scooted over, making space on the bench with a genuine welcome.

As Nat approached, conversations faltered. Some teammates offered awkward hellos while others just stared. Jackie Taylor sat at the center of the table like she was holding court, her perfect strawberry blonde hair catching the light like some shampoo commercial. Beside her, as always, sat Shauna, quieter but watching everything with those observant eyes that never seemed to miss anything.

Nat slid onto the bench next to Van, flipping her mullet with practiced casualness before finally removing her sunglasses. She knew her eyeliner was smudged, knew the shadows under her eyes told stories she didn’t want anyone reading.

“Miss anything important?” she asked, her voice intentionally bored.

Van bumped shoulders with her, a simple gesture of friendship that made Nat’s throat tighten unexpectedly. “Porter’s on a power trip about dress code this year. Where’ve you been? I was getting worried.”

Nat reached for a bread roll, avoiding direct eye contact. “Family shit. Almost didn’t make it back.” She kept her tone casual despite the gravity of the unspoken situation—her mother’s latest relapse, the frantic calls to her aunt, the last-minute bus ticket that had depleted most of her summer earnings.

From across the table, Jackie gave her a critical once-over, pink-glossed lips pursed slightly. “Nice of you to join us, Scatorccio. Coach Scott was asking if you were definitely coming back this year.”

Nat felt her stomach clench. Soccer was her ticket out—her scholarship depended on it. She reached for a water glass, forcing her expression to remain neutral.

“Still need a right wing, don’t you?” she replied, aiming for casual indifference. Her fingers tightened around the glass, betraying the worry beneath her facade. Last year had been a miracle; Coach Scott had seen something in her that no one else had bothered looking for. The idea that he might have given up on her already sent panic shooting through her chest.

Van’s eyes dropped to Nat’s knuckles, which were scraped raw and beginning to bruise.

“You okay?” Van asked quietly, while around them the conversation shifted to team tryouts for freshmen.

Nat gave a sardonic half-smile. “Better now that I’m back in this prison.” But something in Van’s genuine concern made her expression soften slightly, the armor cracking just enough to let some truth show through.

Across the table, Shauna was watching their interaction. When Nat caught her eye, Shauna didn’t look away like most would. There was something in her gaze—not pity, not judgment, but something close to understanding. It made Nat uncomfortable, like Shauna could see right through her carefully constructed walls.

“Whatever,” Nat muttered, breaking eye contact first.

From further down the table, Taissa spoke up. “Practice starts at 7 AM tomorrow. Coach wants the full team there, no exceptions.” Her tone wasn’t friendly, but it wasn’t hostile either—just matter-of-fact in that typical Taissa way.

Nat nodded at her, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. She respected Taissa in a way she didn’t respect many people at Wiskayok. They were different in almost every way—Taissa with her perfect grades and leadership positions, Nat barely scraping by—but they both understood what it meant to fight for your place.

As the table’s conversation shifted to summer stories—Jackie’s voice rising above others as she detailed some country club adventure—Nat fell silent. She ate mechanically, not tasting the food, occasionally touching her pocket where the flask provided reassurance. The warm buzz from earlier was fading too quickly, leaving her raw again.

Van leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper. “We’ll talk when we get back to our room.”

The simple offer of connection, of being able to drop the act for a few hours, made Nat’s chest ache. She managed a small nod, not trusting her voice.

From the corner of her eye, Nat spotted Misty approaching their table, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield, eyes fixed on Nat’s many dress code violations. Fucking perfect.

“Psycho alert at six o’clock,” she muttered to Van, straightening slightly. Her shoulders squared despite her exhaustion as she calculated how much more trouble she could afford before her scholarship was jeopardized. Five strikes and she’d be on probation again… And two more probations, and she could kiss Wiskayok goodbye.

But just as Misty opened her mouth, a commotion at the entrance to the Great Hall drew everyone’s attention. The heavy doors swung open again, revealing Lottie Matthews and her father.

“Holy shit,” Nat whispered, temporarily forgetting her own problems.

Lottie stood frozen in the doorway, looking both exactly the same and completely different from last year. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, accentuating her delicate features and large eyes. She wore the school uniform with perfect precision, but there was something fragile about her posture, like she might shatter if someone spoke too loudly.

Behind her, Alexander Matthews placed a protective hand on his daughter’s shoulder, his expensive suit and commanding presence drawing every eye in the room. He looked like he’d stepped out of a Fortune 500 magazine cover, his silver-streaked dark hair perfectly styled, his expression a careful mask of paternal concern.

“Guessing that’s her dad?” Van whispered.

“Pharmaceutical big shot,” Nat confirmed, watching as Porter practically sprinted across the room to greet them. “Controls her meds, controls her life.”

Nat couldn’t tear her eyes away from Lottie, remembering the last time she’d seen her—during finals week last year, when Lottie had stopped taking the medications that kept her “stable” and had experienced what the school called an “episode.” Nat had found her in the east bathroom, sobbing about patterns and connections no one else could see.

Something twisted in Nat’s chest as she watched Lottie scan the room, her eyes wide and slightly unfocused. When their gazes met across the Great Hall, Lottie’s expression flickered with something like recognition before her father gently guided her toward Porter.

“She looks drugged,” Nat said, the words escaping before she could stop them.

Taissa leaned forward slightly. “I heard she spent the summer at some fancy Swiss clinic.”

Jackie tossed her hair over her shoulder. “My mom says she shouldn’t have been allowed back. It’s not like her family can’t afford private tutors.”

“Shut up, Jackie,” Nat snapped, surprising herself with the vehemence in her voice.

Jackie’s eyes widened in offended shock, but before she could respond, Shauna touched her arm, distracting her with a murmured comment. The brief intervention wasn’t lost on Nat, who caught Shauna’s quick glance in her direction.

Throughout the hall, whispers rippled as students processed Lottie’s return. Nat watched as Porter escorted Lottie and her father toward a side table, the headmistress’s hand hovering near Lottie’s elbow like she expected the girl to collapse at any moment.

“At least Misty’s found a new target,” Van muttered, nodding toward Misty, who had abruptly changed course and was now circling Lottie and her father with poorly disguised curiosity.

“Better her than us,” Nat replied automatically, but the words felt hollow.

***

Lottie POV

Particles of dust spun in the sunbeam, cutting through the administrative office window, forming shifting geometries only Lottie could see. They formed complex, interlocking patterns before dissolving back into nothing. Her father’s hand pressed firmly between her shoulder blades, steering her forward like a reluctant puppet. The pressure was both grounding and suffocating.

“Mr. Matthews, so good to see you again,” Ms. Henley said, her voice slicing through Lottie’s focus. “And Charlotte, welcome back.”

Lottie blinked slowly. The room came into sharper focus as her attention shifted to the three adults forming a triangle around her. Her uniform felt too tight across her shoulders and too loose around her waist. She’d lost weight. The green blazer hung awkwardly, and her fingers found their way to the embroidered crest, outlining the silver wolf with hypersensitive tips.

“The new medication regimen began six weeks ago,” her father’s voice resonated above her. “The doctors assure me it’s more stabilizing.”

Alexander Matthews spoke with the authority of someone who manufactured pharmaceuticals, not just consumed them. His voice held the same confidence when discussing his daughter as it did when evaluating quarterly profits. Lottie’s focus drifted back to the window, where a single leaf spiraled down, its descent seeming to last minutes.

“We’ve reviewed her file extensively,” Dr. Richards said, his practiced smile never reaching his eyes. “Your specialists sent comprehensive notes.”

Ms. Henley tapped through screens on her tablet. The sound— tap, tap, tap —was like water dripping in a cave, each drop separated by an ocean of silence.

“Six milligrams of risperidone in the morning, two at night,” Ms. Henley recited. “Three hundred milligrams of lithium twice daily, plus the lamotrigine and—”

“And the anxiolytic as needed,” her father finished. “Though I’d prefer scheduled doses. Consistency is crucial.”

Lottie’s tongue felt thick, pressed against the roof of her mouth. The medications flattened her internal orchestra into a single, monotonous note. Sometimes she missed the music, even its most discordant passages.

“And how has Charlotte been responding?” Dr. Richards asked, his eyes on her father, not her.

“Lottie,” she said. Her voice was thin, like a whisper through leaves.

The conversation halted. Three pairs of eyes swiveled toward her, surprised, as if a doll had suddenly spoken.

“Excuse me?” Dr. Richards asked, his professional composure momentarily cracked.

“My name. It’s Lottie.” She held his gaze for three seconds before looking down at her hands.

Her father cleared his throat, the small disruption clearly irritating him. “She’s been stable. The episodes have decreased significantly, though we’ve noticed a corresponding decrease in affect.”

“A common trade-off,” Ms. Henley nodded knowingly. “Finding the balance between symptom control and quality of life is a challenge.”

Lottie’s fingers continued to outline the silver threads of the crest, feeling each tiny ridge. The sensation was magnified, one of the few physical experiences that penetrated the medication’s haze.

“She’ll need daily check-ins,” Alexander continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “The episodes last spring were concerning enough that we considered not returning her.”

The adults exchanged significant looks over her head. Lottie knew they were remembering her collapse during the calculus final, the voices that had overwhelmed her, the way she’d sought refuge in the chapel, speaking with the saints in the stained glass. The rumors had spread like fire. Crazy Lottie Matthews finally cracked.

“We’ve established a comprehensive monitoring protocol,” Dr. Richards explained, flipping through a folder. “We’ll have Charlotte—excuse me, Lottie—check in each morning and evening at the health center.”

Lottie watched her father’s platinum Patek Philippe catch the light. The watch cost more than a semester’s tuition at Wiskayok. A casual display of wealth that opened doors and bent rules.

“If there are any concerns whatsoever, I expect to be notified immediately,” her father said. “And my company has several experimental compounds showing promise for treatment-resistant cases. Not commercially available, but I could arrange compassionate use protocols if necessary.”

Ms. Henley nodded, then turned to Lottie, holding out a small plastic pill organizer. “You’re responsible for the midday dose. The rest will be supervised.”

Lottie took the container, her movements deliberate and slow. The compartments rattled with multicolored capsules—her chemical cage, portable and pastel.

“I understand,” she said.

Her clarity seemed to surprise them. They expected vacant eyes, a slack jaw. A pharmaceutical zombie. Sometimes she gave them exactly that. It was easier. Today, something in her wanted them to see her, even through the haze.

Dr. Richards cleared his throat. “Let’s discuss socialization goals.”

“I’ve spoken with her college adviser,” her father interjected. “We’ll need adjustments to her course load, but nothing that will compromise her applications. The family legacy should provide some flexibility.”

Lottie’s gaze drifted to a framed photograph on the wall—last year’s soccer team. Her eyes found her own face in the second row, smiling. She remembered the feeling of her cleats digging into turf, the satisfaction of a perfectly placed pass before the medication slowed her reflexes and dulled her instincts.

“We should join the welcome dinner,” Ms. Henley said, checking her watch. “The other students are gathered.”

They walked through the hallways like a procession—Lottie flanked by three adults, a supervised re-entry. She felt the covert glances from students they passed, the quickly averted eyes, the whispered comments in their wake.

Look, it’s crazy, Lottie... heard she spent the summer in a padded room... her father’s so rich they let her come back.

At the entryway to the Great Hall, Lottie hesitated. Behind those doors waited the entire student body—all the whispers and stares concentrated in one space. Ms. Henley pushed the heavy door open, and for one terrible moment, Lottie stood illuminated as conversations faltered and heads turned.

Students moved aside as her father guided her through the room toward the faculty table where Headmistress Porter had risen, her expression a careful construction of concern.

“Mr. Matthews, we’re so pleased Charlotte has rejoined us,” Porter said, extending a hand. “I trust the arrangements are satisfactory?”

Whispers rippled outward:

“...complete breakdown during a final...”

“...found her talking to herself in the chapel...”

“...hospitalized all summer...”

“...daddy’s money bought her way back in...”

Lottie had perfected emotional blankness years ago, long before medication helped enforce it. She kept her face neutral, her eyes slightly unfocused—the expected look. People saw what they expected to see.

“Headmistress Porter,” her father’s voice carried a subtle inflection that reminded the woman of his goodwill. “The Matthews Foundation remains committed to supporting educational excellence at Wiskayok.”

Porter’s posture shifted, almost imperceptibly, from rigid authority to accommodating partner. “We value our relationship with the Foundation.”

“The health center arrangements are acceptable,” Alexander continued, “though I’d prefer dedicated staff.”

“Perhaps we could discuss increasing the Foundation’s health services endowment,” Porter suggested, her eyes calculating. “That might allow for specialized staffing.”

Lottie’s attention drifted. Her perception sometimes achieved an unusual clarity, as if dampening some senses heightened others. She surveyed the room, seeing past the surface.

Jackie Taylor, posture perfect, smile dazzling—but her fingers gripped her water glass so hard her knuckles were white.

Beside her, Shauna Shipman, quiet and watchful, her gaze returning to Jackie like a compass finding north—hunger and resentment mixing in those glances.

Taissa Turner controlled precision in every movement, her eyes occasionally flicking to Van Palmer with carefully contained longing.

Van, tugging at the uniform skirt with obvious discomfort, her performance of femininity a visible cost.

Then Lottie’s eyes found Natalie Scatorccio. Unlike the others, Nat’s gaze met hers directly—no morbid curiosity, no pity, just straightforward recognition. Something in that look anchored Lottie, a tether in the drifting haze.

Her father’s hand descended on her shoulder. “Your teammates are there,” he said, nodding toward the soccer table. “Go join them while I finish some paperwork.”

The pressure of his hand lifted. Suddenly, she was alone, crossing the vast stretch of polished floor toward her team. Conversation at the table halted, creating a bubble of awkward silence.

Jackie immediately stood, her captain’s smile switching on. “Lottie! We saved you a spot!” She gestured dramatically to an empty chair, her enthusiasm so forced it was almost sincere.

Lottie slid into the seat. Her teammates shifted—some leaning away as if madness were contagious, others staring. She placed her hands flat on the table, studying the whiteness of her knuckles against the dark wood.

“We were just discussing summer training,” Jackie launched into the topic with determined brightness. “Did you manage to keep up with the workout schedule Coach sent?”

The question hung in the air as Jackie’s expression faltered, realizing her mistake. Everyone at the table suddenly found their food fascinating.

“I mean, not that everyone needed to, obviously...” Jackie stammered, her cheeks flushing.

“I wasn’t allowed near anything I could use as a weapon, so no weights,” Lottie said, her voice soft but clear. “But they had a running track in the garden.”

Shocked expressions bloomed around the table. A fork clattered against a plate. Someone choked on their water. Only Nat reacted differently, her mouth curving into a half-smile of what looked like appreciation for the honesty.

Jackie recovered quickly. “Well, Coach Ben says we have a real shot at championships this year. The defense is solid with Van in goal, and Tai’s midfield control is exceptional.”

Lottie observed the dynamics. The way Shauna’s gaze lingered on Jackie’s animated hands, a mix of devotion and frustration in her eyes. How Van and Taissa communicated through glances that held entire conversations. The careful distance Nat maintained while still being more present than anyone.

“Lottie, you’ll join practices once you’re settled?” Taissa asked, her tone carefully neutral.

Lottie blinked, the question taking a moment to process.

“Yes,” she finally answered. “Father says physical activity promotes neurochemical balance.”

Another awkward silence.

“Well, we could use your passing skills,” Van offered, their voice genuine where others’ were forced. “Nobody threads through defenders like you.”

Lottie’s lips curved slightly. “Thank you. The medications slow my reaction time, though.”

“You’ll adjust,” Taissa said with the certainty of someone who believed any obstacle could be overcome by determination. “We’ll work with you.”

At the front of the room, Headmistress Porter tapped a glass for attention. “Students, check-in is at nine sharp. New students, follow your resident advisors. Returning students, evening activities are posted in your dormitories.”

Lottie felt her father’s gaze from the entryway. He watched her with an expression that mixed concern with clinical assessment—the same look he gave experimental compounds in his labs.

As students began to gather their things, Nat leaned toward Lottie, her voice low enough that only she could hear.

“The meds working okay?” she asked, without the uncomfortable pity others couldn’t hide.

Lottie met Nat’s eyes, focusing with an effort that momentarily cleared the haze.

“They make everything slower,” she said, studying the understanding in Nat’s expression. “But quieter too.”

Nat nodded once, a simple acknowledgment that felt like the first genuine human connection Lottie had experienced since arriving. No performance, no agenda—just two people recognizing something familiar in each other’s broken places.

***

Taissa POV

Taissa ran her fingers over the photo frame on her desk, adjusting it one centimeter to the left, then back to center. Her single room in East Dormitory—the prize for being student government VP—was meticulously arranged. Books sorted by subject and height. The desk organized with geometric precision. Bed made with hospital corners.

Perfect order presented the illusion of control. Control was everything.

She checked her phone again. Van had read her message twenty minutes ago but hadn’t responded. Typical. Van probably got sidetracked talking to someone or helping fix something. That generosity was part of why Taissa had fallen for her, but right now, it made the waiting excruciating.

Taissa moved to the window, parting the curtain just enough to scan the courtyard below. Lengthening shadows, and—she squinted—Misty Quigley with her clipboard, interrogating a freshman over a loose sock. Taissa’s jaw set.

The phone buzzed. She snatched it up.

“On my way,” Van had written, followed by the water droplet emoji—their code for I miss you.

Taissa calculated the variables: Misty’s position, the duration of her inspection rounds, and the likelihood of other students in the hallway. The numbers aligned favorably, but she still checked the door lock twice before moving to the mirror.

She smoothed her hair, adjusted her collar, and took a deep breath. The school year had barely begun, and the familiar pressure of performance was settling back on her shoulders. Student government VP. Soccer star. Perfect student. Secret girlfriend.

A distinctive pattern broke her thoughts—two quick taps, pause, three rapid ones. Taissa took one last steadying breath before opening the door with practiced nonchalance.

Van Palmer stood in the hallway, regulation uniform technically perfect but looking entirely wrong on her athletic frame. Their eyes met with an intensity that betrayed three months of separation.

“Hey, lady,” Van said simply, lips barely curved in a smile that only someone who knew her would recognize as profound.

“Hey, yourself,” Taissa replied, checking both directions before letting Van inside. “Anyone see you?”

“Just some freshmen who looked terrified of their own shadows.” Van slipped past, their bodies not quite touching, the gap between them a physical manifestation of their public act.

Taissa locked the door, testing the handle twice. When she turned, Van stood in the center of the room, just looking at her. The air between them was charged.

“Your hair’s longer,” Taissa noted, her eyes taking in the subtle summer changes—more freckles, broader shoulders, the slight discomfort as Van tucked her hair behind one ear.

“My mom’s been too busy to cut it… I hate it.” Van tugged at the ends self-consciously.

“I don’t… But I’d like anything on you.”

“You’ve got tan lines,” Van observed, gesturing to Taissa’s collar. “From all those fancy alumni events with your dad?”

“Yup. Yale summer alumni events are is just swimming pools and handshakes with old white men.”

They stood there, absorbing each other’s presence, the distance a physical ache. Three months of texts and late-night calls couldn’t replace this.

“Tai,” Van whispered, and that single syllable broke their restraint.

They came together in an urgent collision. Van’s hands found Taissa’s face, cupping it with a reverent intensity that made Taissa’s knees weak. Their lips met with desperate need, familiar and new all at once.

Taissa pushed Van toward the bed, hands already at the perfectly tied school necktie. “God, I missed you,” she breathed against Van’s mouth. “Every day.”

“Show me how much,” Van challenged, a gleam in her gray-green eyes that sent heat through Taissa’s body.

Their hands explored beneath regulation uniforms, unbuttoning blouses with an urgency that spoke of long-held patience finally breaking. Taissa’s fingers found the strong muscles of Van’s shoulders, then moved down the curve of her back.

“Let me,” Taissa whispered, revealing the compression sports bra beneath Van’s blouse. Van’s breathing quickened as Taissa ran her fingertips along the edge of the fabric.

“Sometimes I think I won’t survive another year of hiding,” Van confessed against Taissa’s neck, voice rough with desire and something heavier. “The uniform, the ’ladies’ speeches… It’s suffocating.”

The raw vulnerability made Taissa pull back just enough to meet Van’s eyes. “I know, baby. We’ll make it through. Just like last year.”

“You always have a plan, don’t you, Turner?”

“For everything except you,” Taissa admitted, a rare confession that made Van’s expression soften. “You’re the one variable I can’t control.”

“Good.” Van’s smile turned wicked. “Someone needs to keep the great Taissa Turner on her toes.”

Their lips met again. Van’s hands found the buttons of Taissa’s blouse, and each brush of fingertips against skin sent electricity through her.

“We have to make the moments count,” Taissa murmured, her voice thick.

“Eloquent as always,” Van laughed softly.

“You make it hard to think straight.”

“Nothing straight about this,” Van teased, and Taissa swallowed the laugh with another kiss.

She pushed Van back onto the bed, straddling her hips in a fluid movement of athletic grace and intimate familiarity. Van’s hands settled on her waist, steady and grounding.

“I thought about this every single night,” Taissa confessed, leaning down. “You… Us… This room.”

“Just thinking?” Van challenged, arching an eyebrow.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Taissa’s smile was playful, reserved only for these moments.

Van caught her hand, bringing it to the waistband of the regulation skirt. “Show me.”

Taissa’s fingers hooked under the elastic, dipping below to find the boxer briefs she knew Van wore beneath the uniform—a small, private rebellion. The contact made Van’s breath hitch.

“Still like that?” Taissa asked, her voice dropping lower.

“Always,” Van breathed.

Just as Taissa’s hand slipped inside Van’s boxers, the sharp sound of a clipboard tapping against a wall in the hallway shattered their private world. They froze, eyes locking.

“Shit… Misty,” Taissa hissed, rolling off Van with practiced speed. “She’s not supposed to do rounds for another hour.”

“Since when does Misty follow a schedule?” Van’s voice was tight with frustration as she rebuttoned her blouse.

Taissa moved to the door, pressing her ear against it. The methodical knock-pause-scratch of the clipboard was unmistakable. And getting closer.

“She’s working her way down this side,” Taissa reported in a whisper, tucking her blouse back in. “Fix your tie.”

Van fumbled with the necktie. “She’s been watching me since I got here today.”

“Of course she is,” Taissa muttered, quickly checking her appearance before helping Van with the tie. Their fingers brushed, and for a second, the urgency was forgotten.

“I think she suspects something,” Van said quietly.

“Misty suspects everyone of something. It’s how she justifies her existence.” Taissa’s tone was dismissive, but her mind was already running calculations.

The knock-clipboard pattern stopped two doors down.

“We need a better meeting place,” Taissa whispered, smoothing Van’s collar. “The equipment shed, maybe. I’ll check if it’s still empty.”

“Risky,” Van countered. “After what happened with those seniors—”

“I’ll figure something out. We survived junior year. We’ll survive this one.” Taissa glanced at the door. “You should go before she gets here. If she stops you, say you were reviewing the new playbook with me.”

“I just got here.”

“And I want you to stay more than anything. But we have to be smart.”

Van nodded, but before turning to leave, pulled Taissa in for one more urgent kiss, brief but electric.

“Text me when you’re back in your room,” Taissa whispered.

The clipboard sound resumed, closer now. Van sighed, squeezing Taissa’s hand once before moving to the door.

“Tomorrow?” they asked, hand on the doorknob.

Taissa nodded, already missing her warmth. “I’ll find us somewhere. I promise.”

As Van slipped out, Taissa heard Misty’s artificially bright voice: “Vanessa Palmer! What were you doing in Taissa Turner’s room after dinner hours?”

“Just reviewing the new playbook,” Van replied, her voice casual. “Coach Scott gave it to Taissa. I wanted to get a head start.”

“How... proactive,” Misty’s voice dripped with suspicious sweetness. “Head back to your room. I’m checking your hallway next.”

“Aye, aye, R.A.,” Van’s voice faded.

Taissa leaned against her closed door, heart still racing. She heard Misty’s approach, a slight pause outside her room, then—mercifully—the sound moving on.

She released a breath and moved to her desk, pulling out a notebook. Her hand was steady as she began mapping potential meeting locations, security considerations, and schedule analyses. The student planner with her public life sat open beside a blank page that would hold the architecture of her private one.

They had an entire year of this dance ahead. But if anyone could strategize their way through it, it was Taissa Turner.

***

Shauna POV

Shauna shifted against her headboard, Jane Eyre a flimsy shield on her knees. Evening shadows bled across the floorboards. The book was supposed to be a barrier against Jackie’s boundless energy, but Shauna’s eyes kept finding her anyway, caught in the window’s reflection as Jackie danced.

Her pink silk pajamas caught the last golden light, making her movements almost magical. Damp hair curled around her shoulders, spraying droplets with each enthusiastic spin. Shauna found her gaze drawn to the graceful lines of Jackie’s body, the way her pajama top lifted with each turn.

Just read your book. Focus on Jane and Rochester, not the water droplet sliding down Jackie’s neck.

“You’re not even paying attention,” Jackie pouted, catching Shauna’s reflection.

Shauna quickly lowered her eyes to her book, turning a page she hadn’t read. “I’m trying to finish this chapter.”

“It’s the first day back!” Jackie executed another dramatic spin and landed across Shauna’s bed with practiced timing. “Nobody does homework on the first night.”

“It’s not homework, it’s—”

“You’ve read that book four times,” Jackie interrupted, rolling onto her back to gaze up at Shauna. “I’ve seen you crying over it every summer since sophomore year.”

Shauna dog-eared the page, giving up. “Maybe I just like it.”

“Maybe you’re a secret romantic.” Jackie’s eyes held something unreadable before she flipped over and settled her head into Shauna’s lap.

The book tumbled aside as Shauna’s hands automatically moved to accommodate her.

“Play with my hair like you used to?” Jackie’s voice softened, a flicker of vulnerability in her usual confidence. “I missed this.”

Shauna’s fingers found their way into Jackie’s damp hair, muscle memory taking over. The intimacy was so familiar it almost hurt—the pressure of Jackie’s head in her lap, the scent of her expensive shampoo, the way her body relaxed under Shauna’s touch.

Jackie hummed contentedly. “Mmm, perfect. You have the best hands.”

Heat crawled up Shauna’s neck as Jackie nuzzled closer. Shauna’s fingers worked methodically, untangling knots while her mind raced.

“Did you see Nat’s entrance tonight?” Jackie asked, eyes closed. “Maximum dramatic effect.”

“She looked rough,” Shauna said quietly.

“She looked hungover,” Jackie corrected. “Someone should really talk to her. How does she expect to be taken seriously with that haircut?”

Shauna’s fingers continued their gentle work. “Maybe she likes it.”

“Maybe,” Jackie conceded, her tone suggesting otherwise. “Coach is going to flip. Remember how he lost it when Mari gave Melissa that undercut last year?”

“That was during the season.”

Jackie opened one eye. “Are you defending Nat Scatorccio?”

“I’m not defending anyone. Just saying there’s probably more going on than her hair.”

“Obviously,” Jackie replied, settling back into Shauna’s lap. “Something definitely happened with her mom again. She had that look.”

Shauna did know. She’d learned to read the subtle indicators in her teammates that betrayed the troubles they tried to hide.

“And Lottie?” Jackie continued, her voice shifting into what Shauna privately called her “captain tone”—performing concern while calculating impact. “Completely zoned out. Those meds are way too strong.”

“She seemed... distant,” Shauna offered.

“We’ll need to watch out for her, make sure she feels supported,” Jackie said, though her next words revealed her genuine concern. “We can’t afford to lose her on the field. The team morale would tank if she has another episode.”

Shauna nodded, though Jackie couldn’t see. She remembered the haunted look in Lottie’s eyes before she was whisked away. Jackie’s analysis, as usual, centered on appearances and team dynamics.

“Maybe we could invite her to study with us,” Shauna suggested. “Low pressure.”

“That’s why you’re the best.” Jackie smiled up at her. “Always thinking of the quiet solutions. We make such a good team—you see what people need, and I make sure they get it.”

Shauna’s fingers caught on a small tangle. Jackie was rewriting reality again, framing Shauna’s idea as her own implementation. It was a familiar pattern.

“I’m thinking of organizing a team breakfast this weekend,” Jackie continued, punctuating her words with a slight yawn. “To kickstart the season’s energy.”

“That sounds nice,” Shauna said, wondering if she could use the breakfast to slip away and work on her Brown application.

“I’ll make sure Coach knows it was your idea too,” Jackie murmured, her speech slowing. “Everyone should appreciate how much you contribute.”

Shauna’s hands stilled. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Jackie insisted, her words growing languid. “You never take enough credit.”

Or perhaps you never give it, Shauna thought.

Jackie’s eyelids grew heavier. The conversation lulled.

Without warning, Jackie shifted, tugging at Shauna’s arm. “Lie down with me,” she mumbled, maneuvering Shauna beside her.

Shauna found herself being pulled down, Jackie’s hands arranging their bodies with casual entitlement. Before she could protest, they were face to face on her narrow twin bed, Jackie’s expression soft with contentment.

“Much better,” Jackie whispered.

Their faces were inches apart. Shauna could count the freckles across Jackie’s nose. Her breath was warm against Shauna’s cheek, smelling of spearmint.

“Jeff asked if he could visit this weekend,” Jackie said, her voice now very low.

A familiar knot formed in Shauna’s stomach. “That’s fast. We just got here.”

“He misses me,” Jackie said, though something in her tone suggested the feeling wasn’t mutual. “I told him maybe next weekend. I want this first one to be just us.”

“Us and the team breakfast,” Shauna reminded her.

“That’s different.” Jackie’s hand found Shauna’s, fingers intertwining. “That’s an hour. The rest of the weekend is ours.”

Shauna swallowed hard, acutely aware of the small space between them, of how natural this felt despite every warning bell in her mind. “I should probably get some reading done. And laundry.”

“All that can wait,” Jackie mumbled, eyes drifting closed. “I’ve been waiting all summer for this.”

Before Shauna could ask what “this” meant, Jackie leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. Then another, closer to her jaw. A third landed dangerously near the corner of Shauna’s mouth, lingering there. “I missed this,” Jackie whispered.

Shauna’s breath caught, every nerve alert. Jackie’s lips were warm and impossibly soft, hovering in that territory between friendship and something far more complicated. The slightest turn of her head would close the distance—a movement so small it could be dismissed as an accident.

The thought paralyzed her.

Jackie pulled back slightly, her eyes searching Shauna’s face in the dim light. A question flickered there, one that Shauna wasn’t ready to answer. But before any words could form, Jackie’s features relaxed, sleep claiming her.

“Night, Ship,” she murmured, nestling closer.

“Goodnight, Jax,” Shauna whispered, watching as Jackie’s breathing evened into a deep rhythm.

Jackie’s arm draped across Shauna’s waist, her face burrowed into the crook of Shauna’s neck. The familiar pressure should have been comforting, but instead, Shauna felt pinned—not just physically, but by all the unspoken complications that lay beneath.

She lay awake in the dark, listening to Jackie’s steady breathing and counting the places where their bodies touched: hip against hip, legs tangled, Jackie’s hand resting on the small of her back. Each point of contact seemed to burn with a meaning Shauna couldn’t afford to examine.

The dorm room felt too small, the twin bed impossibly narrow. Jackie slept peacefully, untroubled by the turmoil she created. At the same time, Shauna stared at the ceiling and wondered how much longer she could walk this line between being Jackie Taylor’s best friend and whatever else was lurking just beneath the surface.

Chapter Text

Taissa POV

Taissa scanned Hartwick Field, deserted except for her at 6:30 a.m. Fog clung to the grass, the familiar space appearing otherworldly in the pre-dawn quiet. She inhaled deeply, the smell of cut turf and morning dew grounding her. The precise thirty-minute head start she’d given herself before practice wasn’t an accident. Nothing in Taissa’s life was.

She laid her clipboard on the turf, pages of meticulously organized player analyses and potential recruits neatly secured. Each name had its own section detailing strengths, weaknesses, and specific areas for improvement. Taissa had even color-coded their positions to visualize formations.

Her cleats pressed into the soft field as she carried the first set of training cones from the equipment shed. The pull of the mesh bag in her hands felt right, a familiar strain that meant soccer season was back. This was her final year at Wiskayok, her last chance to make everything count—for soccer, for college applications, for Van.

“Standard passing drills first,” she muttered, setting cones in a perfect zigzag pattern. “Then we’ll see what the new JV players can handle.”

The methodical activity soothed her pre-season jitters. Each cone was placed exactly five yards apart, and each drill was mentally timed to maximize their two-hour window. This was where Taissa thrived, breaking down complex problems into manageable systems.

Footsteps crunched across the field. She looked up to see Coach Ben approaching, equipment bags slung over his shoulders. His eyebrows rose when he spotted her.

“Should have known you’d beat me here, Turner,” he said, dropping the bags at midfield. “I was planning to set up, but you’re way ahead of me.”

Taissa straightened, brushing her hands on her practice shorts. “Just wanted to get a head start. I had some ideas for the first day.”

“Let’s see them,” Coach Ben said with an appreciative nod.

They worked with an efficient rhythm established over three seasons. Taissa organized pinnies by color and size while Coach Ben inflated several balls that had gone flat over the summer.

“Senior year,” he said, checking a pressure gauge. “Means college scouts at most games. Big opportunity.”

Taissa’s heart rate picked up, but she kept her expression neutral. “Yale’s assistant coach emailed me. Said they’d be at our second home game.”

“Good. They’d be lucky to have you.” He glanced at her clipboard. “What’s all that?”

Taissa handed him the player assessments. “Just some thoughts. I watched every JV game last season. Marked the players with varsity potential.”

Coach Ben flipped through the pages, his eyebrows rising higher. “This is... comprehensive.”

She pointed to a section highlighted in yellow. “Mari Ibarra could be our missing link at center mid. She has vision. Created seventeen scoring opportunities in the last three JV games. Her ball control under pressure is exceptional.”

“You tracked assist opportunities for JV players?” He looked both impressed and slightly concerned.

“Just the promising ones.” Taissa shrugged as if the analysis was normal.

Coach Ben continued studying her notes. “This is why you’re captain material, Turner.” He offered a half-smile. “Don’t tell Jackie I said that.”

A private surge of satisfaction rose in her chest, but her expression remained professionally placid. Instead of acknowledging the compliment, she pointed to her schedule draft. “I think we should focus on defensive transitions. Our counter-attack was slow in the final matches last season.”

“Always three steps ahead,” he said, handing back the clipboard. “I agree. What about the tournament schedule? Any conflicts?”

“Already mapped it against AP exam dates. The Princeton showcase is the same day as my Physics exam, but I’ve spoken with Mrs. Calloway about taking it early.” Taissa flipped to another page. “The recruitment clinic in October is during midterms, so we might need to consider who can afford to miss study time.”

The coach sighed, lowering his voice. “Speaking of recruitment, I’m concerned about our right side. Between Lottie’s situation and whatever’s going on with Nat, we’re vulnerable.”

Taissa nodded, mind already spinning through solutions. “Melissa Bennett could transition from left wing. Her cross-field accuracy improved, and she’s ambidextrous.”

“Bennett’s on my radar. Strong fundamentals,” Coach Ben agreed. “Formation?”

“4-3-3 gives us flexibility, but we could shift to 4-4-2 depending on who develops.” Taissa flipped to her diagrams. “With Van in goal, our defensive line can push higher. Palmer’s save percentage improved by twelve percent last season. Best in the division.” She felt a flush of pride but kept her voice level. Part of her had analyzed Van’s stats because she loved her game, and another part because she loved her, period.

“Palmer’s solid,” Coach Ben nodded. “Though still prone to taking risks coming off the line.”

“We’ve been working on that,” Taissa said, then caught herself. “During summer pickup games.”

He gave her a curious look but was distracted by the arrival of the first players. The field gradually filled with uniforms and morning chatter. Taissa’s posture straightened as she shifted from assistant coach to fellow player.

Mari Ibarra and Gen Parker, two JV midfielders Taissa had highlighted, hovered at the edge of the field, radiating nerves. Taissa usually let Jackie handle the welcoming committee, but these two were key to her vision.

She approached them with purpose. “Mari, right? Saw your highlights last season. Good footwork.”

Mari’s eyes widened. “You watched our games?”

“Of course. You created three assists against Millbrook with that outside-foot pass. We could use that at the varsity level.” She turned to include the other girl. “Gen, your defensive recovery speed is impressive. You outran that Phillips forward who’d beaten our entire backline.”

Both girls visibly relaxed, recognized for skills rather than given generic platitudes.

“Warm up along the sideline,” Taissa instructed, already moving toward the equipment bags.

Melissa Bennett jogged over, already in perfect practice uniform. Without prompting, she began distributing jerseys, following Taissa’s system without needing instruction.

“Thanks, Bennett,” Taissa said. Melissa simply nodded.

Movement at the field entrance caught Taissa’s eye. Van. Goalkeeper gloves were already strapped on, hair pulled back. Taissa’s expression remained neutral despite the rush of awareness that flooded her. Their eyes met across the field, and Van gave an almost imperceptible nod that carried more meaning than any grand gesture.

Later , that nod promised. We’ll find time .

Taissa forced herself to look away, back to the equipment. Lingering glances were dangerous, especially with Headmistress Porter’s new conservative agenda.

Jackie’s voice suddenly carried across the field. “Looking strong, Abigail! Those summer drills paid off!”

Jackie Taylor made even her arrival a performance, Taissa noted. Calling out encouragements, high-fiving returners, projecting captain energy. Where Taissa led through systems, Jackie led through charisma. It was undeniably effective, if exhausting to witness.

Van moved toward the goalkeeper equipment, her path taking her unnecessarily close to where Taissa stood arranging pinnies. Their shoulders brushed—a touch that looked accidental. As Van reached for the neon green keeper jersey, her fingers found Taissa’s beneath the pile of fabric. A current went through her, sharp and sudden.

“Morning, Turner,” Van said, voice casual while her touch lingered for a fraction of a second.

“Palmer,” she responded evenly, though her heart beat a complex rhythm against her ribs. “Early.”

“Some of us care about a proper warm-up,” Van replied, the corner of her mouth quirking before she moved away.

Taissa took a measured breath. This was the challenge of senior year: balancing the intensity of their relationship with the practicalities of their environment. One careless moment could jeopardize everything.

Nat arrived last, sauntering onto the field with her jersey untucked but looking surprisingly alert. She gave Taissa a brief nod, navigating the edge of the field to avoid Coach Ben’s evaluating gaze.

“Cutting it close, Scatorccio,” Taissa commented.

“But not late,” Nat countered, a hint of defiance not quite masking the shadows under her eyes.

Taissa noticed Coach Ben watching and added, “Timing drills first. Your acceleration could give us an edge.”

Nat’s expression softened fractionally. “Whatever you say, Turner.”

Shauna arrived in Jackie’s wake, her presence overshadowed by Jackie’s theatrical spirit. But Taissa caught her observant eyes tracking the brief contact between Van and herself. Shauna missed nothing, a quality that made her a valuable midfielder and a potential liability. Taissa gave her a respectful nod and received one in return. They were the team’s less flashy, more strategic players, though Taissa sensed Shauna held back, both on the field and off.

At the field’s edge, Lottie appeared, her movements slightly delayed, likely due to the effects of the medication her father had discussed so intently with the staff. She hovered at the boundary until Coach Ben waved her over.

“Matthews! Join warm-ups,” he called with a deliberate normalcy that Taissa appreciated. Special treatment would only make things worse.

Coach Ben blew his whistle, the sharp sound cutting through the chatter. “Circle up!”

Twenty-eight players jogged to midfield. Jackie positioned herself prominently beside the coach, adding encouraging nods. Taissa took a spot within the circle where she could observe everyone. She noted the dynamics with practiced precision: newcomers clustered nervously, returning players eyeing the competition, the subtle body language revealing future fault lines.

“For those new to varsity tryouts, we’ll be evaluating over three days,” Coach Ben explained. “Today is skills, tomorrow is tactical awareness, and Thursday is scrimmages.”

“Don’t stress about mistakes,” Jackie added with her practiced captain’s voice. “Show us your effort!”

He nodded. “We’re looking to fill three starting positions and four bench spots. Previous experience doesn’t guarantee anything.”

Taissa watched Mari and Gen exchange nervous glances. Good. A little pressure would show their true potential.

“Current varsity members, you’re being evaluated too,” Coach continued. “No coasting.”

During the instruction, Van maneuvered through the circle to stand near Taissa, her presence a grounding force. As everyone reached for their water bottles, their fingers brushed against each other again. It looked accidental, but it sent warmth spreading through her.

“You’re evil,” Taissa whispered, barely moving her lips.

Van’s expression remained passive, but her eyes sparkled. “Just staying hydrated, Turner.”

Coach Ben cleared his throat. “Final thing. At Wiskayok, we emphasize character alongside skill. Talent gets you on the field. Character keeps you there.” His eyes moved meaningfully between players, lingering on Nat before sweeping past Lottie. Taissa understood the message: this team had challenges beyond formations.

“Turner, Taylor, help me demonstrate the first drill,” he called. “Everyone else, partner up and spread out.”

As the group dispersed, Taissa’s mind worked on two tracks. She calculated optimal player pairings—Mari with Shauna would test the junior’s creativity; Jackie against Gen would reveal who had the better resilience. Simultaneously, she planned when she and Van might slip away later. 

The morning sun finally burned through the fog, revealing the vibrant green turf. Despite the pressures of senior year, her secret relationship, and leadership, Taissa felt a rare moment of freedom. On the field, at least, the world was reduced to the beautiful simplicity of ball, space, and movement. Her eyes met Van’s across the field, their shared secret an invisible line of energy connecting them.

“Ready position, Turner,” Coach Ben called.

Taissa planted her feet, ready.

***

Shauna POV

Shauna wiped sweat from her forehead as she settled onto the left wing. The early September sun beat down, turning Hartwick Field into a terrain of long shadows and blinding light. She tracked the defenders as they gravitated toward Jackie in the center forward position. Predictable.

Van positioned herself for a goal kick, scanning the field. Shauna spotted the gap immediately—a corridor of empty space begging to be exploited. Her muscles contracted as she made her break, accelerating into the opening.

“Here! Open!” Shauna called, her voice steady.

“Van! To me!” Jackie’s voice cut across the field, louder and more commanding, despite being boxed in by three defenders.

Without hesitation, Van’s kick soared toward Jackie. Shauna’s arm dropped. She watched the ball’s arc carry it not to her open lane, but to the crowded center where Jackie demanded it. Same as always.

The defenders collapsed on Jackie, the ball lost in a tangle of legs. Opportunity squandered. Shauna bit her lower lip, forcing down a familiar bitterness.

A prickling sensation made her turn. From midfield, Melissa Bennett was watching her. The junior’s amber eyes narrowed slightly as they made contact. A slight head tilt, a raised eyebrow—a gesture that conveyed complete understanding of what had just happened. Shauna looked away, uncomfortable with being so easily read. Melissa had only moved up to varsity mid-season last year, but she already saw things others missed.

“Reset!” Coach Ben called. “Defense, tighten up that right side! You’re leaving gaps big enough for a truck.”

Shauna jogged back into position, suddenly conscious of Coach Ben’s focus on her, a pressure different from Jackie’s shadow. She wasn’t used to being noticed.

The scrimmage resumed. Taissa intercepted a pass and looked to distribute. Shauna didn’t wait. She burst forward again, timing her run perfectly to stay onside, exploiting the same defensive weakness.

“Tai!” Jackie called, waving dramatically near the penalty box.

But Taissa passed to Melissa instead. Shauna kept running, finding herself completely unmarked with a clear path to the goal. The sensation was so unusual that for a split second, she thought she’d wandered offside.

Melissa looked up, her gaze flicking between Jackie—now waving frantically—and Shauna, standing alone with acres of space. In a heartbeat, Melissa made her decision.

The ball rolled forward, a perfectly weighted pass that led Shauna just enough to maintain her momentum. She heard Jackie’s indignant “I was open!” fade as her focus narrowed.

The first touch came instinctively, a soft control with the inside of her foot. Time seemed to slow. This was it: scoring position, no immediate pressure. Just her, the ball, and the goal.

The keeper advanced, cutting down the angle. Shauna saw the slight lean to the near post—a telegraphed move. Without conscious thought, she cut inside, setting up her right foot. The motion was fluid, natural, her body remembering what her mind had suppressed through years of deferring to Jackie.

The ball left her foot with a satisfying thud—not crude power, but pure precision. It was a curling shot that arced toward the upper corner, away from the keeper’s desperate reach.

For a fraction of a second, absolute quiet fell over the field. Then the ball hit the net with a whispered swish .

“HOLY SHIT, SHIPMAN!” Van’s whoop carried from the opposite goal.

A cascade of cheers followed. Shauna stood frozen, her brain struggling to process being the center of this attention.

“Goal of the day!” Coach Ben’s voice cut through the noise, his usual reserve gone. “That’s how it’s done!”

Taissa reached her first, dark eyes holding a look Shauna rarely saw directed at her—undisguised respect. She offered a high-five that Shauna returned awkwardly.

“Where have you been hiding that shot, Shipman?” Taissa asked, a grin spreading across her face.

“I…” Shauna started, but words failed her as her eyes automatically sought Jackie.

Her best friend stood apart from the celebrating cluster, a congratulatory smile fixed in place, the one she used for yearbook photos. It didn’t reach her eyes. For the first time, Jackie Taylor looked uncertain.

Melissa jogged over, her approach more contained. She bumped Shauna’s shoulder lightly, an understated smile playing at her lips.

“Nice finish,” she said simply. “About time someone saw you were open.”

Heat crept up Shauna’s neck. Melissa’s direct gaze held no judgment, just a simple acknowledgment that made Shauna feel both exposed and seen.

The moment broke as Jackie approached, the captain’s enthusiasm perfected. She wrapped Shauna in a hug that felt noticeably stiff.

“Way to finish, Shauna,” Jackie said, her voice pitched a little too high. “Great awareness.”

The words were right, but everything else was wrong. The distance in Jackie’s eyes, the rigid set of her shoulders. A cold knot formed in Shauna’s stomach.

Coach Ben pushed through the group. “That’s what happens when we use all our options!” he announced, looking pointedly at certain players. “Perfect field vision from Bennett, clinical finishing from Shipman. This is what we’ve been working on.”

The praise landed awkwardly on Shauna’s shoulders. Her eyes found Jackie’s again, a seventeen-year habit. Jackie’s smile was now carefully guarded, pride warring with an unfamiliar insecurity.

“Ladies, this is why we don’t force everything through the center,” Coach continued. “Look at the space Shipman found. That’s the tactical awareness that wins championships.”

Taissa nodded appreciatively, her gaze shifting between Shauna and Melissa. Van gave a subtle thumbs-up from her goal.

As the circle broke up, Jackie lingered. She squeezed Shauna’s arm, her fingers digging in just a fraction too much. “Don’t get used to being the star, Shipman,” she said, her bright tone at odds with the look in her eyes.

Shauna’s mouth went dry. “It was just one goal, Jackie.”

“A beautiful one,” Jackie replied, releasing her arm. “I’m proud of you.” The words should have felt good, but the edge in her voice made them something more complicated.

As Jackie turned away, Shauna saw Melissa watching the interaction, her expression thoughtful. When their eyes met, Shauna saw recognition not just of the goal, but of the loaded exchange with Jackie.

Shauna looked away first, her heart hammering with a bizarre mix of pride and dread.

“Shipman,” Coach Ben called. “Same run next play. They haven’t figured out how to cover it yet.”

Shauna nodded, a movement that felt strangely like rebellion. As the whistle blew, she glanced toward midfield. Melissa offered the smallest of smiles—not pitying, not judging, just acknowledging.

For reasons Shauna couldn’t articulate, that simple recognition felt more significant than the goal itself.

***

Nat POV

Nat positioned herself on the right wing, her head throbbing from last night’s cheap vodka. Her body, however, remembered what to do. The field became a grid in her mind: escape routes, danger zones, opportunities. Survival instincts from home served her well here.

Coach Ben stood with his clipboard, watching. Not like the other adults, who expected her to fail. He had that annoying look that suggested he thought she could do better. Fuck that.

Nat pivoted, creating space. When Jackie controlled the ball, Nat timed her run perfectly, overlapping Shauna and drawing the defense’s attention with an economical precision she’d perfected in parks back home.

“Over here!” she called, voice stronger than she felt.

Coach Ben made a note. “Good movement off the ball, Scatorccio!”

Something in his approval made her want to roll her eyes and run harder. She chose the latter.

Her focus shifted to Lottie Matthews in central midfield. Even from twenty yards away, Nat recognized the vacancy in her eyes—that medicated distance that turned the world to slow motion. Nat had seen that look in her mother’s eyes too many times.

Lottie’s movements were delayed, her feet following instructions her brain had issued seconds before. She swayed, trying to track the ball as it pinged between players. Taissa, ever the strategist, misread Lottie’s readiness and fired a pass her way.

Nat’s body reacted before thought. She’d already abandoned her position, moving toward the ball’s trajectory and the space where Lottie stood frozen.

The ball hit Lottie’s feet and bounced away. Panic flashed across her face—that moment of public failure, Nat knew intimately.

Three quick steps and Nat intercepted the loose ball, controlling it with the outside of her right foot and transitioning forward as if it had been the plan all along.

“Nice recovery, Nat!” Van called from the goal.

Nat glanced at Lottie. Their eyes connected. Nat nodded slightly. I got you. Relief replaced panic in Lottie’s face.

Coach Ben scribbled on his clipboard. “Good read, Scatorccio. Keep that awareness.”

Nat pushed forward, drawing two defenders. The movement created space behind her for Lottie to recover. Nat shielded the ball, her small frame suddenly immovable.

“Pressure! Pressure!” Jackie shouted.

Nat held possession, eyes tracking the field until she spotted Lottie making a hesitant run into open space. The pass she delivered was softer than her usual strikes. The ball was floated perfectly, arriving slow enough for someone whose reactions were delayed.

Lottie trapped it successfully, a small smile of accomplishment flickering across her face. She completed a simple pass to Taissa.

“Good connection!” Coach Ben called. “Adapting to your teammates’ strengths!”

Nat returned to her position, ignoring the surprised looks. Let them think what they wanted. She knew what it was like to need someone to cover your weak spots.

The scrimmage continued. Coach Ben blew his whistle for a water break. Players clustered around the sideline. Lottie stood slightly apart. Nat grabbed two water bottles and casually positioned herself next to her, a buffer against the curious stares.

She handed Lottie a bottle. “Meds fucking with your reaction time?”

Lottie looked startled, but something in Nat’s non-judgmental tone registered. “Everything’s delayed,” she admitted, her voice soft but clear. “Like I’m watching myself from outside.”

Nat nodded, taking a long drink. “Been there. Different reasons, same feeling.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’ll level out. Till then, take the extra second. Better late and right than rushed and fucked.”

Lottie’s eyes widened at the profanity, but her shoulders relaxed. “My dad doubled my dosage. Says I can’t afford another ’incident.’” The last word hung in the air.

“Fathers are so fucking helpful,” Nat said dryly. “Mine’s favorite advice was ’stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.’”

A small laugh escaped Lottie. “Different problems, same solutions.”

Coach Ben’s whistle cut through their conversation. “Back to positions!”

Nat gave Lottie a casual shoulder bump. “Just keep moving. I’ll find you.” She winked before jogging away.

As play resumed, Nat felt Coach Ben’s appraising gaze. For once, she didn’t mind. Let him see what she could do when she wasn’t maintaining her ’fuck-up’ persona. Van distributed the ball. Nat created width on the right, stretching the defense while keeping Lottie in her peripheral vision. When the ball came her way, she controlled it with one touch, drew defenders, then found Lottie in space with another carefully aimed pass.

This time, Lottie was ready. She received it cleanly and made a simple, effective pass to Jackie.

Coach Ben nodded. “That’s it, Matthews! Simple and efficient!”

The relief in Lottie’s eyes made something twist in Nat’s chest. She gave her a quick thumbs-up.

During a transition, Coach Ben jogged alongside her. “Where was this player last season, Scatorccio?”

Nat shrugged without breaking stride. “Same place. Nobody was looking.”

His eyebrows rose. “I’m looking now. Keep showing me this version of you.”

“No promises,” she muttered, accelerating away.

The scrimmage ended. Nat deliberately stood beside Lottie in the final circle.

“Good first session,” Coach said. “Some interesting partnerships developing.” His gaze lingered on Nat and Lottie. “Work to do on defensive transitions, but the attacking connections were promising.”

Jackie stepped forward. “We should run extra passing drills tomorrow. Some touches were sloppy.” Her eyes didn’t look at Lottie, but the implication hung there. Lottie tensed.

“Different idea,” Nat spoke up, surprising herself. “Maybe some folks could use reaction drills. Quick touches. Better for everyone.”

The quiet that followed was immediate. Shit , Nat thought, regretting she’d broken her don’t-give-a-shit protocol.

Coach Ben’s nod saved her. “Good suggestion, Scatorccio. We’ll incorporate that. Everyone, hydrate and rest up.”

As the team dispersed, Lottie turned to Nat. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Do what?” Nat feigned ignorance, bending to retie her cleat.

“Stand up for me. Nobody else did.”

Nat straightened. “Look, I get it when your brain chemistry’s fucked with. My mom’s bipolar. Unmedicated, overmedicated. People treat her like she’s contagious.”

Lottie’s focus sharpened, her gaze cutting through the medication’s fog. “You’re not what they say you are.”

“Neither are you,” Nat countered, suddenly uncomfortable. “Anyway, I’m starving. Cafeteria probably has those shitty hash brown squares.”

“Rectangular cardboard with ketchup,” Lottie agreed with a small smile. “Mind if I walk with you?”

Nat shrugged, a casual gesture that belied the warmth in her chest. “Free country. But fair warning—people will talk. Got a reputation to maintain.”

“So do I, apparently. Might as well give them something new to obsess over.”

They fell into step, an unexpected alliance. As they crossed the field, Nat saw Coach Ben watching with an expression she couldn’t read—something between satisfaction and concern.

She gave him her standard middle-finger salute, but with less hostility than usual. His chuckle followed them.

“Does that get you in trouble?” Lottie asked.

“Constantly,” Nat admitted. “But at least it’s trouble on my terms.”

Lottie considered this. “I think I understand that.”

Nat glanced at her new companion. Two different kinds of chaos, finding common ground.

***

Shauna POV

Shauna sat on the cold wooden bench in the locker room, methodically running a rough terry cloth towel through her damp hair. Her mind replayed the goal: the feel of the ball against her left foot, the split-second certainty before contact, the keeper’s fingertips brushing air as the shot curled past.

The locker room pulsed with post-practice chaos. Showers hissed. Lockers clanged. Freshmen darted uncertain glances, trying to decode the invisible social map. Through the steam, Shauna caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror by the exit. A small, satisfied smile had formed on her lips without permission.

She quickly schooled her expression, but the feeling lingered. That goal wasn’t luck. It was hers.

“...and then Sullivan completely overcommitted,” Jackie’s voice carried from beside the shower entrance. She was wrapped in a pristine white towel, her hair already falling in perfect waves. “Good instinct, but young players need to learn patience. Don’t you think, Riker?”

The freshman goalkeeper nodded eagerly. “Totally. I could see she was going to be out of position.”

“Exactly,” Jackie beamed, touching the girl’s shoulder. “You’ve got great instincts. We’ll work on your distribution.”

Shauna recognized the pattern: criticism wrapped in encouragement, strategic attention paid. The team’s social architecture, constructed brick by brick.

Melissa Bennett emerged from the showers. Unlike Jackie, who clutched her towel with strategic modesty, Melissa moved with practical efficiency, heading to her locker several spaces down from Shauna’s. Water droplets slid down her shoulders, collecting for a moment in the hollow of her collarbone.

Shauna pretended to dig through her bag, stealing glances at the junior. Melissa had a quiet confidence that never felt like a performance. She seemed unconcerned with who might be watching.

When Shauna looked up, Melissa was looking directly at her with a small, knowing smile. Caught, Shauna dropped her eyes, heat crawling up her neck as she yanked her blouse from her bag. The buttons suddenly required intense concentration. She’d almost regained her composure when the bench shifted beside her.

“You have incredible field vision,” Melissa said, her voice just loud enough for their space. “You see things before they happen.”

Shauna’s fingers froze mid-button. Being seen felt like standing in unexpected sunlight.

“Your positioning was perfect,” Melissa continued, her analysis precise. “You knew where the gap would open before the defenders did.”

Shauna swallowed. “Thanks,” she managed. “Just got lucky.”

“That wasn’t luck,” Melissa said with quiet certainty. She leaned slightly closer, her damp hair releasing a faint scent of mint shampoo. “You should make that run more often. You’ve got the instinct. Just need to demand the ball.”

The suggestion made Shauna instinctively glance toward Jackie, who was now demonstrating ball control to a cluster of underclassmen. The habit was so automatic, she didn’t realize she’d done it until she saw Melissa’s perceptive gaze track the movement.

“You don’t need permission to be good, Shipman,” Melissa said, her gentle directness slicing through years of constructed patterns.

Shauna met Melissa’s eyes. They were amber with flecks of gold, steady and clear. Something shifted in her chest, a small realignment.

“It’s not that simple,” Shauna said, surprised by her own honesty.

“It can be,” Melissa replied.

“What are you two conspiring about?”

Jackie’s voice shattered the moment. Her arm slid around Shauna’s shoulders, affectionate and unmistakably possessive as she evaluated Melissa.

Melissa stood without hurry. “Just discussing that beautiful left-footed finish. Textbook.”

“My Shauna’s full of surprises,” Jackie said, her smile fixed as her arm constricted almost imperceptibly around Shauna’s shoulders. “Been trying to get her to show off those skills for years.”

My Shauna. The possessive landed with its familiar heft. Shauna felt herself shrinking back into her role as loyal sidekick.

Melissa held Jackie’s gaze, respectful but unintimidated. “Well, she certainly showed them today. Looking forward to seeing more.”

The air between them grew thick with a current Shauna couldn’t name. She felt the pressure of Jackie’s arm and the pull of Melissa’s directness, caught in an invisible crossfire.

Jackie tugged Shauna up. “We should go. Student council prep, remember?”

As Shauna gathered her things, Jackie maintained constant contact—a hand on her lower back, fingers brushing her arm—visibly reestablishing their connection. The touches were so familiar that Shauna had trained herself not to notice.

“Don’t forget your cleats,” Jackie said, tucking them into Shauna’s bag. “You left them on the field twice last season.”

“Thanks,” Shauna mumbled.

As they moved toward the exit, Melissa called quietly, “Good eye for the far post, Shipman. Trust that instinct.”

The comment was about soccer, but something in Melissa’s tone suggested more. Shauna felt it land somewhere beneath her ribs.

“That Bennett girl is intense,” Jackie said the moment they were in the hallway. “Smart player, though. Did you see how she tracked back? That’s the hustle we need from the juniors.”

Shauna made noises of agreement as Jackie’s chatter filled the space. Just before turning the corner, Shauna glanced back. Melissa was watching their departure with thoughtful assessment. Their eyes met, and the junior gave a slight nod.

Jackie’s fingers interlaced with hers, tugging her forward. But Melissa’s presence lingered in Shauna’s awareness like the afterimage of a bright light.

Chapter Text

Van POV

Van pushed through the heavy oak door of the East Dormitory common room. The air inside felt thick with forced formality, a severe contrast to the soccer field’s freedom just an hour before. Automatically, their fingers went to the waistband of the regulation plaid skirt, tugging it down a fraction. They were trying to find a position that didn’t feel like wearing a cage. The stiff wool abraded their legs. It always did.

They scanned the room: plush armchairs arranged in conversation pits, a large, unlit fireplace dominating one wall, portraits of stern-looking alumnae staring down from above. They headed for a less conspicuous armchair in a back corner, sinking into the worn velvet. For a moment, just being off their feet was a release.

Misty Quigley stood poised at the front, near a small lectern someone had dragged in. Clipboard pressed firmly against the forest green of her RA vest, she radiated an almost painful perkiness. Her eyes darted around the room, cataloging arrivals. Van watched students trickle in. A magnetic unit, Jackie Taylor and Shauna Shipman entered together, claiming two central chairs as if holding court. Jackie smoothed her skirt and flashed a practiced smile at someone across the room, while Shauna sat beside her, quiet and observant.

Taissa arrived moments later, alone, her movements efficient. She didn’t slide into the nearest seat but deliberately chose one near the whiteboard, positioned for visibility and access. Strategic, always. Melissa Bennett slipped in with Gen Parker and Mari Ibarra; the three juniors found seats together, murmuring quietly. Lottie Matthews drifted in, looking small and detached, settling near a tall window to gaze out at the darkening campus grounds, seemingly miles away.

Finally, Nat Scatorccio shouldered her way through the door, her uniform managing to look rumpled despite the mandated crispness. She caught Van’s eye, offered a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, then slumped against the back wall near Van’s corner.

Nat leaned her head back against the wood paneling. The whisper was low and husky, meant only for Van. “Let the bullshit begin.”

It was perfectly timed. Misty cleared her throat with a sound like a bird choking on a rulebook. Her voice, when it came, was pitched higher, brighter, drenched in the artificial authority she’d adopted since trading her student uniform for the RA vest. Van shifted, the velvet scratching.

“Welcome, ladies, welcome back! And a special welcome to our new residents joining the prestigious East Dormitory family!”

Misty beamed, her smile so wide it looked strained. It didn’t reach her eyes, which were busy sweeping the room, assessing. Van saw them flicker over Nat’s slouching form, narrow slightly, then move on.

“I trust you all had restful summers and are ready to embrace the opportunities and responsibilities of the academic year ahead. This promises to be East Dormitory’s most successful year yet!”

Van snorted quietly. Successful by whose standards? Misty’s? Headmistress Porter’s? It was still bizarre seeing Misty like this. She wasn’t much older than them, barely nineteen. As a student, she had been an oddball—overly eager, desperate for validation, collecting details about everyone. Now, she wielded actual power, enforcing the rules she used to obsessively follow. It felt wrong, like a hall monitor promoted to warden overnight.

Misty launched into her spiel, consulting her clipboard frequently. “As returning students know, East Dormitory prides itself on maintaining the highest standards of conduct and community living, guided by Wiskayok’s core principles of Lumen et Veritas —Light and Truth.”

She paused for effect, gesturing with a pen. “To create a harmonious environment conducive to academic excellence and personal growth, we must adhere strictly to the dormitory guidelines.” Her voice took on a rhythmic cadence as she detailed quiet hours, mandatory room tidiness checks, and guest policies. Each point was punctuated by sharp little nods or overly dramatic hand movements. Van tuned out the specifics, focusing instead on the constricting knot in their stomach.

“...and of course,” Misty continued, her tone shifting to become more pointed, “we must always maintain appropriate physical boundaries between students.” Her gaze swept the room, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on Van’s corner. Nat still leaned against the wall, now examining her chipped black nail polish with intense focus. Van felt a prickle of heat rise on their neck and forced themself to sit straighter, pulling their shoulders back defensively. Across the room, Jackie Taylor sat with impeccable posture, head tilted as if absorbing every word, while her thumbs moved stealthily beneath the lip of the mahogany coffee table, no doubt firing off texts to Jeff. Beside her, Shauna looked studiously at Misty, but Van caught the slight crease between her brows, the almost imperceptible set of her jaw. Performance. Everyone here was performing.

Except maybe Taissa. Tai raised her hand in a clean, decisive motion.

Misty’s focus snapped to her. “Yes, Taissa?”

“Thank you, Misty.” Taissa’s voice was calm and respectful, betraying none of the underlying strategy Van knew was there. “Regarding the updated policy on overnight sign-outs for family emergencies—could you clarify the required documentation timeline? Section 4b seems slightly ambiguous compared to last year’s handbook.”

Van almost smiled. Classic Tai. Frame the challenge as a request for clarification. Bury the objective—protecting potential late-night study sessions or, more importantly, stolen moments together—within bureaucratic detail. Create wiggle room. Van felt a surge of warmth, of gratitude for Tai’s quiet, calculated resistance. In the only language the administration understood, Tai was fighting for them, for their space.

Misty blinked, momentarily thrown off script. She flipped through her notes. “An excellent point, Taissa. Accuracy is key. Let me double-check the exact wording from Headmistress Porter’s memo regarding verification protocols...”

While Misty fumbled, Van watched her pull out a stack of brightly colored papers. “Now, moving on to room inspections!” Her enthusiasm returned full force. “This year, we’re implementing a new, streamlined system.” She began distributing schedules, color-coded by floor. “Green for Floor 1, Yellow for Floor 2, Blue for Floor 3, and,” she paused dramatically, holding up a pink sheet, “Pink for Floor 4, our esteemed seniors!”

She beamed, handing out the papers as if bestowing precious gifts. “Checks will occur twice weekly within designated time blocks. This provides appropriate supervision while respecting personal privacy and study needs.”

Nat accepted her pink schedule with an exaggeratedly formal nod. “So very thoughtful, Misty. Truly innovative.” The politeness was so heavy it became sarcasm. Van pressed their lips together, fighting a smirk, and quickly looked down at their own schedule to avoid any eye contact that might draw Misty’s fire. Random checks between 8 and 10 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fantastic. More hoops to jump through.

Misty clapped her hands together, regaining attention. “And finally, let’s discuss adherence to Wiskayok’s code of appearance.” Van’s stomach plummeted. Here it comes. Their fingers instinctively found the collar of their blouse, fiddling with the top button. “As Headmistress Porter emphasized, our presentation reflects our character. This year, there will be zero tolerance for uniform violations.”

Misty’s voice hardened, losing some of its artificial sweetness. “Skirts must be worn at the regulation length. Blouses properly buttoned. Approved footwear only. Hair neat and of natural color.” Her gaze swept the room again, slower this time. It passed over Jackie’s perfectly compliant attire, lingered on Nat’s rebellious haircut and slightly askew tie, then settled, uncomfortably, on Van. Van felt pinned, hyper-aware of the stiff plaid skirt that felt both too long and too short, too feminine, too… wrong. Their heart hammered against their ribs.

“Proper presentation reflects proper character development,” Misty declared, her eyes fixed on Van for a beat longer than necessary before moving on. The message was clear.

Take a deep breath. Just ask. Van’s hand rose, tentative at first, then firmer. The motion felt huge, pulling the focus of the room toward them. Eyes shifted. Misty turned, her expression changing from authoritative pronouncer to overly helpful RA as a mask slid into place. Her smile was wide, almost predatory.

“Yes, Vanessa?”

Van forced their voice to remain steady, deliberately neutral, swallowing the tremor of anxiety. “I was wondering about reasonable accommodations for athletic purposes.” Keep it vague. Keep it practical. “Specifically regarding transitioning to and from practices. Sometimes quick changes aren’t feasible with the field locations.” The question hung in the air, feeling like a raw nerve exposed. They risked a glance at Taissa, who gave a small, encouraging nod. Hold steady.

Misty’s smile thinned at the corners. “An excellent question, Vanessa! Practical considerations are important.” The condescending brightness was back. “Headmistress Porter has been extremely thorough, addressing athletic uniforms in the new guidelines.” She tapped her clipboard meaningfully. “Standard procedure applies. P.E. uniforms and team apparel are restricted to athletic facilities and designated travel times. No modifications or exceptions to the daily academic uniform are permitted without formal medical documentation submitted through the Health Center and approved by administration.”

Dismissed. Just like that. A brick wall couched in helpful language. The air went out of Van, the denial a subtle pressure settling in their chest. The regulation skirt suddenly felt even more constricting, more abrasive.

Before Van could process the rejection, Taissa’s voice cut through the silence, smooth and pragmatic. “Thank you for that clarification, Misty. To follow up on Van’s point—Coach Ben mentioned potential uniform accommodations for away games or team photos. Should those requests route through the Athletic Department first, or directly to the administration?”

Bless Taissa. A wave of gratitude washed over Van. She wasn’t letting it go. She was creating a bureaucratic tangle, forcing Misty to navigate overlapping jurisdictions. A potential loophole, however small.

Misty hesitated, her programmed responses momentarily jammed. “Well... typically... athletic-specific requests should originate with the coach, but final approval for any uniform deviation rests with the Dean of Students, following Headmistress Porter’s directive…”

The meeting droned on. Inspection schedules, consequences for violations, the importance of signing in and out—each rule felt like another bar clicking into place. Van barely listened, their mind racing, cataloging the obstacles. Stricter uniform enforcement. Limited privacy. The dismissal of practical needs disguised as policy. How were they supposed to breathe in this place? How were they supposed to just be ? Surviving junior year had been like navigating a minefield. Senior year, under Porter and Misty, felt like the mines had multiplied, the safe paths narrowing to almost nothing. Staring down at the pink schedule, its cheerful color mocked the rising panic in their chest. This year was going to be long.

***

Taissa POV

Taissa pulled on her pajama bottoms, the soft cotton a sharp contrast to the stiff formality of the Wiskayok uniform she’d shed minutes before. The familiar routine of preparing for bed settled over her—face washed, teeth brushed, books stacked neatly on the bedside table. After evening study hall, East Dormitory quieted; the only sounds were an occasional muffled footstep in the corridor or the old building sighing as it settled. She picked up the worn copy of Between the World and Me from her desk, ready to lose herself for an hour before lights out.

A soft, hesitant knock sounded on the heavy oak door. Not the confident rap of Jackie or the chaotic tumble of Nat. This knock was tentative, almost apologetic. Taissa frowned, placing the book face down. It was late, well past acceptable hours for casual visiting.

Padding silently across the polished floorboards, her bare feet made no sound. She peeked through the peephole and saw Van standing there, shoulders slumped, face constricted with a stress that went beyond simple exhaustion. Van’s eyes darted nervously down the empty hallway.

Taissa unlocked the door and pulled it open just wide enough for Van to slip inside. One look at the raw distress on Van’s face, the way her jaw was set, the almost imperceptible trembling in her hands, sent a spike of protective urgency through her. She shut the door swiftly, the latch clicking with a soft finality. Van stood frozen in the middle of the small room, breathing shallowly, her eyes wide and unfocused.

Without a word, Taissa grabbed the heavy wooden desk chair. Its legs scraped faintly against the floor as she wedged it firmly under the doorknob—an old trick, learned from necessity in a place where privacy was a privilege, not a right. Only then did she turn fully to Van, taking in the frantic energy radiating from her.

Van started pacing, like an animal in a trap within the cramped confines of the single room. Back and forth, from the window overlooking the darkened quad to the foot of Taissa’s narrow bed. Three steps, turn, three steps, turn. Her hands moved restlessly, first running through the tousled mass of reddish-brown curls, then balling into fists, then unballing. The forest green blazer, usually worn with a grudging acceptance, looked like a straitjacket. She tugged unconsciously at the crisp white collar of the blouse beneath it, as if it were choking her.

Taissa stayed near the door, leaning her back against the solid wood to give Van space. She watched the frantic rhythm of her movements, the unyielding line of her shoulders, the way her gaze flickered around the room without settling. This wasn’t just frustration with Misty’s latest pronouncements. This was something deeper, a pressure building to a breaking point.

“Hey,” Taissa kept her voice low, calm. “What happened?”

Van didn’t stop pacing. Her voice, when it came, was rough and strained. “Everything. This place. These clothes. The looks. Porter droning on about ’young ladies’ and ’appropriate appearance’.”

Van gestured wildly, encompassing the room, the school beyond the walls. “It’s like the air is getting thinner. Every year they make the rules stricter. Mandatory this, regulation that. How are we supposed to breathe?”

The pacing continued, fueled by a restless desperation Taissa hadn’t seen in her before. Van usually met the world with a wry resilience, a shield of humor. Tonight, the shield was gone.

“Misty…” Van spat the name like something foul. “She cornered me after the meeting. That fake smile. ’Watching you, Miss Palmer. Always pushing boundaries.’ As if not wanting to feel suffocated is some act of rebellion.”

Taissa pushed off the door, taking a cautious step closer. “Misty’s an idiot playing warden. Don’t let her get to you.”

Van stopped abruptly, planting her feet in the center of the room. She looked down at herself—at the crisp pleats of the regulation gray skirt, the fitted blazer, the black leather shoes polished to a dull sheen. A look of profound revulsion twisted her features.

“I hate this.” The words were quiet but charged with an intensity that vibrated in the small space. “Every single morning, Tai, I put this… this costume on. And I feel like I’m crawling into someone else’s skin. It feels wrong. Itchy. Like it doesn’t fit, but not just the size. It doesn’t fit me .”

Taissa closed the remaining distance between them, stopping just short of touching. Van’s breathing hitched, her eyes fixed on the hated uniform. Taissa kept her own gaze steady, focused entirely on Van.

“Tell me what it feels like,” Taissa invited softly, holding their gaze. “Help me understand.”

Van looked up, her eyes—those usually bright, grey-green pools—clouded with a pain that seemed years deep. The words spilled out then, tumbling over each other in a rush of long-suppressed frustration, a dam finally breaking.

“It’s like… my body doesn’t belong to me when I’m wearing this stuff. It feels alien. The shape of it,” Van gestured vaguely down her front, “the way it hangs, the way it forces me into this… mold . This girl-shape. It isn’t right. It never feels right.”

She took a ragged breath, hands returning to fidget with the blazer’s lapels. “Sometimes I catch my reflection in a window, and it takes me a second to recognize myself. There’s this disconnect. Like my brain knows it’s my body moving, but it doesn’t feel like mine. It’s like I’m piloting something from a distance.”

Taissa listened, absolutely still, absorbing every word. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer solutions, just gave Van the rare, simple gift of her complete, steady attention. She saw the flicker of remembered discomfort, the years of trying to ignore the persistent wrongness, the daily effort of performing a self that felt increasingly fabricated.

“I look in the mirror,” Van continued, their voice dropping to become raw, vulnerable, “and the person staring back isn’t me. Not really. Or maybe it is me, but trapped. In a costume I never chose, that everyone else insists is real.”

Taissa reached out then, slowly, carefully, resting her hands gently on Van’s arms. The blazer’s fabric felt stiff and impersonal under her palms. Van flinched almost imperceptibly but didn’t pull away. Taissa felt the tremors running through her, the coiled energy just beneath the surface. She applied the slightest pressure, a grounding touch.

“You’re not what they see,” Taissa said, her voice quiet but firm. “You’re not the uniform. You’re who you know yourself to be. Right here.” She tapped gently over Van’s heart, her fingers brushing the school crest embroidered on the blazer.

Van’s eyes searched Taissa’s, a storm of confusion, fear, and a desperate yearning for understanding. “But who is that, Tai? Because ’she’... ’her’... it feels like reading lines from a script I didn’t write. It jars. Every time someone says ’Miss Palmer,’ or talks about the ’girls’ on the team… It’s like a nail scraping down a chalkboard inside my head. ’They’... feels closer. Quieter. More… solid.”

A shaky breath. “You didn’t look surprised. When I said that earlier.” It wasn’t an accusation, more a bewildered question.

A soft smile touched Taissa’s lips. She gently increased her grip on Van’s arms. “Because I see you , Van. Not the uniform, not the labels, not who Wiskayok expects you to be. I’ve always seen you. The fierce loyalty. The way you dive for a save like nothing else matters. The way your eyes light up when you figure out how to fix something. The quick wit. That has nothing to do with a skirt or a pronoun.”

Van leaned into Taissa’s touch, just slightly, but it was enough. The rigid posture softened, the sharp angles easing. A long, shuddering sigh escaped them. “I feel most like myself on the field. In goal. Or… here. With you. Only with you.” Their gaze held Taissa’s, vulnerable, trusting. “Everywhere else, I’m just… performing. Trying to hit the marks.”

Taissa lifted one hand, cupping Van’s cheek. Their skin was cool, the faint dusting of freckles pronounced against the pallor of their distress. Van’s eyelashes fluttered closed for a moment, leaning into the warmth.

“You’re whatever you want to be with me,” Taissa murmured, her thumb stroking the sharp line of their jaw. Her eyes held Van’s, a silent promise of acceptance, a pocket of safety carved out within Wiskayok’s suffocating walls. “You don’t have to perform here.”

Van’s eyes opened, searching Taissa’s face. Hesitation flickered there, then a spark of fragile hope. “Could you… Could you try it? Using ’they’? For me? Just… when we’re alone?” The request hung in the air, heavy with vulnerability.

Taissa didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” she answered immediately, her voice resonating with conviction. She met Van’s gaze directly, letting the gravity of the words sink in. “I love them.” She paused, letting the pronoun settle between them. “I see them. They are exactly who they’re meant to be.”

The impact was immediate, visceral. Van’s breath hitched. Color flooded their cheeks. Their eyes glistened as the dam finally broke—not with frustration this time, but with relief. The simple affirmation, the quiet recognition in Taissa’s voice, sliced through years of carefully constructed defenses.

Van surged forward, crushing their mouth against Taissa’s. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It began with the raw taste of unshed tears and desperate gratitude, then it deepened, ignited by months of forced separation and the sheer, burning need for authentic connection. It was a reclaiming, a grounding.

Taissa met their urgency, kissing them back with equal intensity as her hands slid around Van’s waist, pulling them closer until no space remained. She backed them up slowly, step by deliberate step, until Van’s back hit the cool plaster of the wall. The contact jolted them both, a sharp awareness of their confined space.

Taissa’s hands were already moving, seeking the person beneath the institutional layers. Fingers fumbled with the buttons of the stiff blazer, pushing it off Van’s shoulders until it pooled on the floor. Then the blouse, its constricting fabric yielding under Taissa’s determined exploration. Van’s hands mirrored hers, finding the hem of Taissa’s pajama top, sliding underneath to map the familiar lines of her back, her skin warm against their cool fingers. Touches grew bolder, more urgent, rediscovering remembered landscapes.

“We need to be quiet,” Taissa whispered against the sensitive skin of Van’s neck, the directive both practical and provocative. Misty’s rounds weren’t officially over. The risk hung in the air, a sharp counterpoint to the rising heat between them.

Van nodded against her shoulder, a choked sound escaping their throat. They bit down on their lower lip, eyes squeezed shut as Taissa’s hands moved lower, unfastening the gray skirt and letting it drop. Van shivered, not from cold, but from the raw exposure and the intensity of Taissa’s gaze on their body, now free from the hated costume.

With cautious, coordinated movements honed by months of navigating their secret relationship, they moved towards the narrow twin bed. Taissa guided Van, her hand firm on their lower back, carefully stepping over the third floorboard from the door—the one that always groaned. Their bodies knew this dance of stealth as well as they knew each other’s contours. Passion tempered by necessity, desire sharpened by the threat of discovery.

They tumbled onto the narrow mattress, a tangle of limbs and urgent kisses. Bodies remembered, finding their rhythm almost instantly. Taissa shifted, making space, their skin cool against hers before the friction ignited its own warmth. The narrow bed forced them close, hip against hip. Taissa looked into Van’s eyes, seeing the lingering shadows of distress now overlaid with the fierce light of desire, of being truly seen.

Taissa pulled Van closer, pressing soft kisses along their collarbone. She listened to their hitched breathing, felt the vibration of anticipation beneath their skin. Van’s hands clutched at her shoulders as Taissa shifted to hover above them.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Taissa whispered. “Every part of you.”

She followed the freckles scattered across Van’s chest with careful fingertips, mapping constellations she had memorized. Van arched beneath her touch. Taissa smiled, leaning down to capture their lips again, letting her body settle partially against them, skin to skin.

“Tell me what you need,” she murmured, brushing her thumb over Van’s cheek. “Tell me how to touch them.”

Van’s eyes flew open, pupils wide and dark. The pronoun sent a visible shudder through their body, more powerful than any physical caress. Their lips parted, breath coming faster.

“Just—touch me. Please,” Van whispered, voice breaking. “Make me feel real.”

Taissa needed no further invitation. Her fingers drifted down Van’s throat, feeling their pulse jump. Her hand moved lower, over the contours of their chest, the subtle definition of muscles built from years of diving across goal boxes. Goosebumps rose in the wake of her touch.

“You are so beautiful,” Taissa murmured. She bent to press her lips to the center of Van’s chest. “And so strong. Look what they’ve built.” Her hands followed the muscles of Van’s abdomen, the powerful thighs. “This is them. This body. This strength.”

Van’s breathing hitched, their hands twisting in the sheets as Taissa moved lower, lips following where her fingers had been. When her mouth reached Van’s hip bone, she glanced up.

“Is this okay?” she asked, her breath warm against sensitive skin.

Van nodded frantically, one hand moving to tangle in Taissa’s curls. “Yes—god, please, Tai.”

Taissa smiled against their skin before continuing. When her mouth finally reached between Van’s thighs, their back arched sharply, a strangled sound escaping. They both froze, listening for any response from the hallway. Silence. She placed a steadying hand on Van’s stomach.

“Quiet,” she reminded them with a small smile. “They need to be quiet.”

Van nodded, biting their lower lip. They reached for a pillow, pressing it against their mouth as Taissa resumed, her tongue moving in practiced patterns she knew they responded to. She watched them, the way their jaw worked with the effort to remain silent, the flush spreading across their chest.

When Van’s hips began to move more urgently, Taissa slid her hand up to their chest, her palm flat against their sternum, feeling their heart hammer. The connection grounded them both; Van’s free hand immediately covered hers, pressing it harder as if the contact anchored them to reality.

Van’s breathing grew ragged, their movements more desperate. Taissa increased her pace, curling her fingers inside them while her tongue continued its insistent rhythm. She felt the exact moment Van broke, their body tensing then shuddering, their face buried in the pillow to muffle the sounds. Taissa didn’t stop, working them through the waves of pleasure until Van tugged weakly at her hair, oversensitive and spent.

She moved up their body, gathering them close as aftershocks still trembled through their frame. Van’s face pressed against her neck, breath coming in hot, uneven gasps. Taissa stroked their back, murmuring soft reassurances.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “They’re safe here. They’re perfect.”

Van’s arms wrapped around her, a shuddering sigh escaping against her throat. Then they were moving, apparently recovered, pushing Taissa onto her back with surprising strength. Their eyes were bright with determination as they settled between her thighs.

“My turn,” they whispered, voice husky. “I want to taste you.”

Taissa nodded, unable to form words. It didn’t take long—months of separation, and the intensity of watching Van come apart had left her already on the edge. Van’s hands held her hips firmly as their tongue worked, deliberate and focused. Taissa’s hand flew to her own mouth, stifling the sounds that threatened to escape.

It crashed over her suddenly, her back arching as she bit down on her knuckles. Van stayed with her, easing her through the aftershocks until Taissa’s hand fell limply to the mattress. Only then did they move up, settling beside her with a satisfied smile.

Taissa turned to face them, unable to stop her own grin. “Show-off,” she murmured affectionately.

They lay tangled on the narrow bed, skin sticking slightly where they touched. Van’s head rested on Taissa’s chest, ear pressed directly over her heart. Taissa ran her fingers through Van’s tousled curls, occasionally working through a small tangle. The quiet that settled between them was comfortable, intimate.

Taissa’s thoughts drifted. She thought about Van’s confession, about the courage it had taken to voice those feelings. She thought about the other students—how many might be struggling with similar feelings of isolation, of performing versions of themselves that felt fundamentally wrong?

“I’ve been thinking,” she said finally, her voice soft in the quiet room. Van made a small sound of acknowledgment. Taissa’s fingers continued their gentle path through Van’s hair. “We can’t be the only ones. There have to be other students here who are queer. Who are questioning things. Who feel alone.”

Van tilted their head slightly, glancing up with curious eyes.

“I think we should start something,” Taissa continued. “Not officially. This place would never sanction it. But underground. A support group.”

Van pushed up onto their elbow, interest clearly piqued. “Like...secret meetings?” they asked, cautious but intrigued.

Taissa nodded, sitting up slightly. “Exactly. We find a secure location, spread the word discreetly, and create a space where people can be themselves. No uniforms, no performance.”

Van’s eyes brightened. “There’s strength in numbers,” they said thoughtfully. “Safety, too.”

“Exactly.” Taissa reached for Van’s hand, squeezing it. “You shouldn’t have to feel so alone. None of us should. We could create something that might actually help people survive this place.”

Van was quiet for a moment, considering. “It would be risky. If Misty or Porter found out—”

“We’d be careful,” Taissa insisted. “We’re already hiding so much. And think about what it could mean to other students who feel exactly how you described—trapped.”

Van’s expression softened. “It would have meant everything to me,” they admitted quietly. “To know I wasn’t the only one.”

Taissa nodded, reaching out to touch Van’s cheek. “That’s why we need to do this.”

Van leaned into her touch. “Where would we even—”

A sharp noise in the hallway cut through their conversation. Both froze. Footsteps approached, accompanied by the distinctive tap-tap-tap of Misty’s clipboard. They held their breath as the footsteps paused outside, a shadow visible in the thin strip of light beneath the door.

After an eternity, the footsteps continued down the hall. They both exhaled simultaneously.

Van sat up, reluctance on their features. “I should go. Nat will cover for me, but if Misty decides to do a second sweep…” They didn’t need to finish.

Taissa nodded, watching Van slide from the bed and gather their scattered uniform pieces. It felt profoundly unfair, watching Van reassemble their costume: the hated skirt, the blouse that felt wrong, the blazer that forced their shoulders into a silhouette that wasn’t theirs.

Van dressed with practiced efficiency. Taissa rose from the bed and helped straighten Van’s collar, a strangely domestic gesture in their secret circumstances. When Van was dressed, Taissa gently took their face between her hands.

“We’ll figure this out,” she promised, her voice low but fierce. “We’ll find somewhere safer. I won’t let them make you invisible. Not you, not us, not anyone else.”

Van’s eyes, clouded earlier, now shone with something like hope. They leaned forward, pressing their forehead briefly against Taissa’s.

“Thank you,” they whispered. “For seeing me. For using my pronouns. For…” They gestured vaguely, encompassing the night.

Taissa pulled them down for one last kiss, pouring all her protective ferocity into it. When they parted, she smiled. “Get some rest. Tomorrow after practice, we’ll check out the grounds.”

Van nodded, returning her smile before moving to the door. They carefully shifted the chair, paused to listen, then cracked the door open. After peering out, they glanced back.

“Goodnight,” they whispered. “I love you.”

“I love them too,” Taissa replied softly, deliberately. “More than they know.”

A radiant smile broke across Van’s face before they slipped out, the door clicking shut.

Taissa stood for a long moment, staring at the closed door, her mind already racing. They needed a location. Secure, private, safe. They needed a code system, a way to spread information without detection. They needed to identify allies.

She returned to her bed, the sheets still warm and carrying Van’s scent. Lying back, Taissa felt a new purpose crystallize. This wasn’t just about protecting her relationship anymore. This was about creating something larger—a refuge from the suffocating pressures of Wiskayok.

Tomorrow, they would begin.

***

Shauna POV

The digital clock on Shauna’s desk flipped to 12:24, its red numbers the only light in their dormitory room. Shauna lay still, counting Jackie’s breaths until they fell into the deep, steady rhythm of true sleep. She had learned the difference between Jackie’s performative sighs and genuine slumber years ago.

One. Two. Three. Shauna slid from beneath her covers with practiced precision, her wool socks muffling any sound against the worn hardwood. The ancient boards threatened to creak, so she stepped carefully along the path she’d mentally mapped—three steps to the edge of her bed, then knelt.

Jackie shifted, murmuring something unintelligible. Shauna froze, her body rigid, until her roommate’s breathing deepened again.

She reached beneath her mattress, fingers finding the crisp edge of the manila folder. The cardstock felt substantial, full of possibility. Beside it lay her smaller, more worn notebook. She extracted both with a surgeon’s care.

Shauna glanced over her shoulder. Jackie had rolled onto her side, one arm wrapped around Shauna’s abandoned pillow, her face peaceful in the dimness. Something constricted in Shauna’s chest at the sight—the unconscious vulnerability Jackie never allowed herself while awake.

At her desk, Shauna angled the small reading lamp away from Jackie’s bed before switching it on. The pool of light fell precisely where she needed it. She opened the folder with reverent hands.

BROWN UNIVERSITY, the letterhead declared in a confident serif font. Early Decision Application. The pages detailed admissions requirements, financial aid, and specifics for the Creative Writing program. Shauna’s fingers followed the embossed university crest, feeling each raised ridge as though memorizing it by touch.

From her notebook fell a photograph she’d printed in the library—the English department building at Brown, all ivy-covered brick and promise. She tucked it quickly between the pages, beneath notes on faculty members and course offerings.

She pulled out her partially completed essay, its working title boldly underlined: “Institutional Structures and Authentic Identity.” The words stared back, both academic shield and naked confession.

Her laptop powered on with a soft whir that sounded thunderous in the quiet. She dimmed the screen and disabled the keyboard sounds before opening her hidden document folder: “AP English Supplementals.”

“Pick up where you left off, Shipman,” she whispered, a childhood habit. The cursor blinked.

Within institutional frameworks, particularly those designed with specific gender expectations, developing an authentic identity becomes a revolutionary act...

Her fingers moved, the words forming faster than she could type. This paragraph had been building in her mind all day, ever since Headmistress Porter’s speech about “proper young ladies” had made Van visibly shrink.

The performance of appropriate femininity—its gestures, speech patterns, and social hierarchies—becomes not merely external compliance but internalized constraint. Those who navigate these spaces while harboring divergent identities must develop a dual consciousness: the institutionally acceptable self and the authentic self held in reserve.

Shauna paused, glancing again at Jackie’s sleeping form. The next section would be more difficult to articulate without revealing too much.

Friendship within such environments can become both shelter and confinement. The social alliances protecting us from institutional scrutiny may simultaneously enforce their own limits on self-expression. The hierarchy within even supportive relationships can mirror larger power structures, particularly when—

“Mmm... Shauna?” Jackie’s voice was thick with sleep.

Shauna’s fingers froze. She held her breath, heart hammering against her ribs.

Jackie rolled over, her arm reaching across the empty mattress. After a moment, her breathing settled back into its steady rhythm. Shauna exhaled slowly, the rush of blood in her ears gradually subsiding.

She checked the time—1:47 AM. Early practice tomorrow meant she couldn’t afford to be bleary-eyed. Jackie would notice. Jackie always noticed.

Scrolling back through her work, Shauna allowed herself a small smile at an incisive paragraph about identity formation under surveillance. Professor Linden from Brown’s English department had written an entire book on similar themes—Shauna had devoured it in two days over the summer, sitting between library stacks while her mother worked reference desk shifts.

Her essay explored the theory with personal insight, describing their relationship with scholarly distance:

The most complex negotiation occurs when one’s primary relationship provides both emotional support and enforced conformity. When that relationship precedes the institutional environment, it may preserve pre-institutional authenticity or accelerate adaptation to institutional norms. This preservation-versus-acceleration dynamic creates cognitive dissonance that must be continually managed.

“That’s you,” Shauna breathed, her eyes flicking toward Jackie’s bed. “That’s us.”

The truth of it sat heavy in her chest. Jackie both protected and confined her. Their friendship had shaped her so completely that imagining a life without it felt like contemplating amputation.

Shauna saved the document, triple-checking the folder. She closed the laptop with exaggerated care, gathered the materials, and knelt beside her bed. The folder slid back into its hiding place, her fingers lingering briefly on its edge.

Back at her desk, she opened her AP English anthology to the Wordsworth poem they’d been assigned, positioning it as if she’d been studying all along. The familiar text blurred as fatigue caught up with her.

Just five minutes. That’s all she needed.

“Shauna, hey.”

Gentle fingers brushed hair from her forehead. Shauna startled awake, disoriented by the crick in her neck and the textbook page stuck to her cheek.

“Come to bed,” Jackie murmured, her voice soft.

Panic flashed through Shauna’s foggy brain. The application—did I put everything away? Her eyes darted to the desk, finding only her English textbook. Relief washed through her, followed immediately by guilt.

“What time is it?” Her voice was raspy.

“Almost four.” Jackie’s fingers continued stroking her hair. “You work too hard. It’s only the first week.”

Shauna allowed Jackie to help her up, her legs unsteady. The genuine concern in Jackie’s touch made the knot of guilt constrict. She wasn’t fully pretending her exhaustion as Jackie guided her toward the narrow twin bed, her arms supportive around Shauna’s waist.

The give of her mattress beneath them both felt like sinking into the past—countless sleepovers, bodies growing, but the proximity constant. Jackie didn’t return to her own bed, instead sliding in beside Shauna with practiced ease. They fit together like puzzle pieces, Jackie’s arm snaking around Shauna’s waist, her face nestling against the nape of Shauna’s neck. Her breath was warm, slightly sweet from her nightly mint tea.

“You smell like books,” Jackie whispered, the words vibrating against Shauna’s skin.

Shauna kept her eyes closed, feigning a swift return to sleep. Her body recognized this choreography—how Jackie’s breathing would gradually shift, her touch changing from casual to deliberate in the safety of darkness.

Sure enough, Jackie’s hand began to move. Her fingers drifted along the cotton of Shauna’s sleep shirt, following the curve of her ribs with increasing intention. Shauna maintained her steady breathing even as goosebumps rose on her skin.

Jackie’s hand slid higher, her palm warm as it cupped Shauna’s breast through the shirt. This familiar transgression—touch that went beyond friendship but remained carefully unacknowledged—had become more frequent since last spring. Jackie’s thumb grazed across sensitive skin, and Shauna fought to keep her breathing even.

“I miss you, even when you’re right here,” Jackie whispered, her lips brushing the shell of Shauna’s ear.

The words carried a layered meaning that twisted in Shauna’s chest. Had Jackie sensed her pulling away? The application beneath them suddenly felt like a physical presence, a betrayal they were lying on.

Jackie’s explorations grew bolder, her hand sliding down to follow the line of Shauna’s thigh, fingers playing with the hem of her sleep shorts. Each touch left heat in its wake; Shauna’s body responded even as her mind raced. This was not friendship. It had never been just friendship. But neither of them had words for what it was.

Soft lips pressed against Shauna’s shoulder, then the sensitive junction where shoulder met neck. Each kiss lingered longer than the last, Jackie’s breath coming faster against Shauna’s skin.

“Promise me nothing will change,” Jackie whispered, her hand spanning Shauna’s hip, fingers splayed wide. “Promise we’ll always be us.”

The request cut through Shauna like a blade. Here was their unspoken fear: change, separation, loss. Jackie’s fingers gripped her, as if she could physically prevent the future from pulling them apart.

Shauna kept her eyes closed, her body caught between desire and doubt. The hidden Brown application represented everything she wanted for herself and everything she feared losing. Jackie’s touch both anchored and constrained her, the physical embodiment of their complicated relationship.

Jackie’s breathing gradually slowed, her hand stilling but remaining draped across Shauna’s waist. Even in sleep, she maintained her claim.

Shauna lay awake, eyes following the familiar water stains on their ceiling. Jackie’s arm felt like both protection and restraint. Its warmth and pressure had defined safety for most of her life. Now, it also represented a boundary she was preparing to cross.

“I can’t promise,” Shauna whispered, the words barely audible even to herself. The admission hung in the darkness above them, honest in a way she could never be in daylight.

Chapter Text

Jackie POV

Jackie rested her forehead against the cool glass of the bus, taking inventory of the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. The usual pre-game jitters had multiplied since Coach Ben pulled her aside after yesterday’s practice.

“Taylor, hold up a second.” His voice had been casual, but his expression held a quiet severity. “Just wanted to give you a heads-up. Princeton’s sending some people to watch the game tomorrow.”

“People?” The word caught in her throat.

“Coach Cadwell, specifically.”

The name hung in the air. Meredith Cadwell, the formidable coach of Princeton women’s soccer, was a legend renowned for her exacting standards and rigorous player evaluations. She had forged the Tigers into an unstoppable force.

Now, as the bus rumbled toward St. Margaret’s Prep, Jackie’s thumb scrolled through Princeton game footage. She watched the orange-and-black uniforms execute flawless formations, mentally inserting herself into their plays. Every few seconds, she glanced up, her backpack guarding Shauna’s empty seat from any potential intruders.

The bus lurched around a corner. Jackie instinctively steadied her phone, her eyes lingering on one sequence—a forward making a brilliant run into space, receiving a perfectly delivered pass. That could be her. Next year, that had to be her. Her entire future was balanced on the razor’s edge of today’s performance.

A shadow fell across the screen. Jackie looked up to find Shauna in the aisle, one hand braced on the seat in front of her.

“Finally.” Jackie snatched her backpack. “What took you so long?”

Shauna slid in, their thighs pressing together in the narrow space. Jackie immediately angled her body toward her best friend, the floral scent of Shauna’s shampoo a momentary distraction from the game footage.

“You have to see this.” Jackie tilted the screen. “I’ve been studying their formations all morning. Princeton’s offense is built on these incredible give-and-go patterns.”

Shauna nodded, her gaze flicking from the phone to the front of the bus and back.

“Coach Ben told me yesterday that Princeton scouts will be at the game,” Jackie whispered, leaning closer. “Including Coach Cadwell.”

“Seriously?” Shauna’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s huge, Jackie.”

“I know.” Jackie gripped Shauna’s wrist. “This is what we’ve been working toward. But here’s the thing—they look for chemistry between offensive players. Creative passing, unexpected combinations.”

She pulled up diagrams she’d sketched in her notes app. “I mapped some patterns for us. If we focus on our give-and-go sequences, we can show how we anticipate each other.” Her finger followed a path on the screen. “Like that play against Lakeside last season? Where you faked the run inside, then cut out? We should absolutely use that.”

Shauna’s attention seemed to drift. Her gaze settled on the back of the bus, where Van and Taissa sat with their heads bent together.

“Shauna?” Jackie’s fingers tightened on her arm. “Are you listening? This is important.”

“Sorry.” Shauna straightened. “I was just thinking about something.”

“Something more important than Princeton watching us play?” Jackie tried to keep the irritation from her voice.

“I’m worried about Van.” Shauna’s voice dropped. “Remember what those St. Margaret’s players said to her last year?”

Jackie’s diagrams suddenly felt trivial. Last season’s game had metastasized into something ugly after a few St. Margaret’s players cornered Van.

“Those girls were horrible,” Jackie acknowledged. “But we handled it.”

“What if it’s worse this year?” Shauna’s eyes remained fixed on Van. “Everyone knows about her and Tai. Word gets around.”

Jackie arranged her features into a mask of concern, though her thoughts raced back to the scouts. “We’ll protect our teammates, obviously.” She emphasized the word a little too much. “But Van can handle some stupid comments.”

“It’s not just comments. Remember how physical they got with her after that collision? That wasn’t normal.”

Jackie reached for Shauna’s hand, squeezing it with practiced sincerity. “We won’t let anything happen. I promise. But we can’t let it distract us from playing our best.” She lowered her voice. “This is Princeton, Shauna. Our future.”

Shauna slipped her hand away to adjust her headband. “ Your future, you mean.”

The distinction hung between them. Jackie’s heart sped up, that familiar discomfort rising whenever Shauna asserted these little bits of independence. Time for a strategic redirect.

“Speaking of futures.” Jackie casually pulled out her phone. She angled the screen so Shauna could see Jeff’s text: Good luck today, gorgeous! Can’t wait to celebrate your win this weekend 😘❤️ Got some special plans for just us...unless Shauna wants to come too? Ryan’s been asking about her.

Shauna’s nose wrinkled. “He’s still trying to set me up with Ryan?”

“Ryan’s cute!” Jackie scrolled to a photo of Jeff’s lacrosse teammate. “And he actually reads. You two would have stuff to talk about.”

“He asked me if I’d read ’Catcher in the Rye’ like it was some obscure novel.”

“At least he’s read a book.” Jackie nudged her. “Come on, it could be fun. A double date this weekend? Jeff’s planning something.”

Shauna shifted, her gaze moving toward the front where several teammates reviewed plays with Coach Ben.

“I actually promised Taissa I’d help her with that history assignment.” She gathered her water bottle. “The one about institutional power structures? I should probably talk to her about it.”

“Now? We’re twenty minutes from the school.” Jackie’s fingers constricted around her phone.

“It’s a tough assignment.” Shauna was already standing. “Sorry. We can talk plays during warm-up?”

Before Jackie could respond, Shauna was gone, sliding into the seat beside Taissa. Van looked momentarily surprised before moving to sit with Nat. The four of them rearranged themselves, a small, self-contained unit, without a single glance back.

Jackie stared after them, her smile frozen as she sat alone. The ease with which they formed a circle that excluded her sparked a familiar panic. She quickly adopted a pose of intense concentration on her phone, as if she’d chosen this solitude for strategic preparation.

Jeff’s text glared up at her, the heart emojis suddenly childish. Typing and deleting several responses, she finally settled on a distant: Thanks, good luck to you too.

The enthusiasm she’d performed for Shauna rang false even to herself. The thought of their weekend plans left her cold compared to the burning anxiety about Cadwell watching her play. Jeff could wait. Princeton couldn’t.

She returned to the game footage, forcing her mind back to formations. If Shauna wouldn’t review strategies with her, she would rehearse them alone. Coach Cadwell was known for identifying leaders. Today, Jackie would have to be that player, with or without Shauna’s cooperation. The nervousness in her stomach hardened into something cold and focused. Princeton was watching. Nothing else mattered.

***

Van POV

Van’s gloved fingers flexed and relaxed, surveying the pristine field of St. Margaret’s Prep. Everything here felt pressed and polished—from the expertly manicured grass to the gleaming white goalposts that looked untouched by dirt. Hostile territory.

The St. Margaret’s players jogged onto the field in crisp white uniforms, ponytails swinging in perfect unison. A knot formed in Van’s stomach. Those uniforms reminded them of the blouses worn by girls who whispered behind their back, the ones who called Van’s unkempt hair and loose clothes “unladylike.”

“You good?” Taissa appeared at their side, close enough for their shoulders to almost touch, but not quite. Always careful.

“Yeah. Just taking in all this…” Van gestured at the immaculate surroundings, “perfection.”

Taissa scanned the sidelines where adults with clipboards stood. “Jackie’s been reminding everyone about the Princeton scout for an hour. She might spontaneously combust if she doesn’t get noticed.”

Van snorted. “She’ll get noticed if she keeps pacing like that.”

They watched Jackie stalk the sideline, checking her phone. Coach Ben approached, and whatever he said made Jackie straighten and nod vigorously.

“Goalies, five minutes!” the referee’s voice cut through.

Taissa gave Van’s arm a quick squeeze. “Show them what you’ve got.”

Van pulled their goalkeeper gloves snug and headed toward the goal, passing Jackie as she gathered the team.

“Clean passing sequences are key!” Jackie’s voice was sharp with an urgency that hadn’t been there in practice. “Princeton is looking for creativity! Tai, connect with me on the left whenever possible.”

Shauna stood slightly apart, her brow creased in thought. When Jackie described a formation they hadn’t practiced, Shauna’s eyes flickered with confusion.

“But we’ve been working on—” Shauna began.

“Trust me on this,” Jackie cut her off with a strained smile. “I know what they’re looking for.”

As the team broke, Van saw Shauna exchange a look with Melissa, the junior recently moved to varsity. Something unspoken passed between them. Shauna’s shoulders seemed to relax.

The whistle blew.

Van settled into the goal, the rush of adrenaline drowning out everything but the field. This was the one place where nothing else mattered—not gender, not whispers. Just the ball.

Eight minutes in, a St. Margaret’s forward broke through the defense. Van’s world narrowed to the player, the ball, the space between. They read the forward’s lean—a telegraph of her intention—and launched across the goal as the kick came. Fingers connected with the ball at full extension, sending it flying over the crossbar.

“Holy shit,” Nat’s voice carried from midfield. “Fucking beautiful, Palmer!”

Van permitted a small smile. The next fifteen minutes passed in a blur of calls and saves as Jackie’s commands from the forward position grew more frantic.

“Shauna! I was open!” Jackie’s frustration was audible after Shauna passed to Melissa, who had made a clean run while Jackie was tightly marked.

From the goal, Van could see the whole field like a chessboard. Jackie kept trying to force plays that weren’t developing, directing teammates into positions that left their defense vulnerable. Shauna repeatedly sent questioning looks toward Jackie before making safer choices.

After another diving save, Van rolled the ball out to Taissa. As they straightened, a player in white jogged past, deliberately driving a shoulder into Van’s.

“Fucking dyke,” she muttered, her perfect ponytail swinging as she trotted away.

The words hit like a physical shock. Van’s body went rigid, a familiar burn of shame and anger flooding their system.

Twenty yards away, Taissa froze, her body pivoting toward them with protective fury. Van saw the recognition in her eyes—she’d heard it too. Taissa took two steps in their direction before catching herself, hands balling into fists.

Before either of them could react, Nat materialized. What happened next was so fast that most people missed it: Nat executed a slide tackle that took out two opposing players, the aggression barely masked as a legitimate play. The referee’s whistle blew.

“Clean tackle!” Nat protested, rising with exaggerated innocence. Van saw the cold calculation in her eyes as she stared down the ponytailed player, now sprawled on the grass.

The ref issued Nat a warning. Van forced themself to focus, pushing the incident into the mental box where all the other slurs lived.

When the whistle blew for halftime, the score was 0-0, largely thanks to Van. As the team gathered, Jackie launched into a critique. “We need to showcase our coordination! Princeton is looking for—”

“We’re playing solid defense,” Taissa interrupted. “And Van’s keeping us in this game.”

Jackie’s smile became fixed. “Of course, Van’s playing great. I’m just saying offensively—”

“Maybe we should stick to what we’ve practiced,” Shauna suggested quietly.

“I know what I’m doing, Shauna.” Jackie’s voice held a warning.

Van tuned her out and grabbed a water bottle, drifting to the edge of the group. Nat appeared beside them, eyes still tracking the St. Margaret’s player.

“That was some tackle,” Van said.

Nat shrugged. “Some people need to learn consequences.” She met Van’s gaze. “Fuck her and her country club bullshit. Can’t say that crap and just walk away.”

A presence on their other side made Van turn. Shauna had broken away from Jackie. She touched Van’s shoulder.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice full of genuine concern.

Van nodded, surprised by the direct interaction.

“I heard what she said,” Shauna continued, her voice low. “What Nat did was… proportionate.”

The corner of Nat’s mouth twitched. “High praise from Shipman.”

“They’re not worth it,” Shauna said. “But if anyone says anything else, tell me. We’ve got your back.”

Van blinked, struck by this unexpected alliance. There was a new steadiness in Shauna that wasn’t usually present when Jackie was near.

“Thanks,” Van managed. “I’m used to it, but…”

“You shouldn’t have to be,” Shauna finished.

The moment broke. Jackie’s voice cut across the field, edged with frustration and something that sounded like jealousy as she watched Shauna with them. “Let’s go, people! Second half! Shauna, I need you focused on connecting with me!”

Nat rolled her eyes. “Her highness calls.”

Shauna looked torn.

“Go,” Van said with a small smile. “Before she has a coronary.”

As Shauna jogged back, Van caught Taissa watching them. When their eyes met, Taissa gave a subtle nod that carried volumes: I saw. I’ve got you. We’ll talk later.

Van pulled their gloves back on. The slur was still there, but it was joined by other voices—Nat’s defense, Shauna’s support, Taissa’s fury. For the first time, the allies were louder than the insults. The referee raised his whistle. Van took their position, ready for whatever came next.

***

Nat POV

Nat wiped sweat from her forehead, scanning the field as she jogged back. St. Margaret’s defense had stiffened, closing the gaps. Her lungs burned. Proving points to rich girls in pressed uniforms was satisfying work.

The sidelines had filled up. Parents with expensive cameras, boys from St. Joseph’s, and—

Nat stumbled, her cleats catching on nothing.

A man stood at the edge of the crowd. Graying stubble. Denim jacket, collar up. The specific slant of shoulders she had memorized from watching doorways.

No fucking way.

Her father was in county lockup. Third DUI. He couldn’t be here. But the resemblance—the way he stood, weight on one hip, the practiced casualness that always came before violence—sent a bolt of panic through her.

The referee’s whistle sounded distant. Nat realized she’d stopped moving, frozen while the game surged around her.

“Scatorccio! Wake up!” Coach Ben’s voice barely broke through the cotton stuffing her ears.

Her chest constricted. The field tilted. Nat dragged her gaze from the man, focusing on the grass. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. Just some random dad.

The familiar pressure built behind her sternum, the prelude to nights she’d drink until the walls stopped closing in. Her hand patted her hip for a flask that wasn’t there.

Focus. Just fucking focus.

The ball streaked past. Someone yelled her name. She forced her legs to move, her body a disconnected puppet. She risked another glance. The man was lighting a cigarette, cupping his hands. The gesture was so familiar it made bile rise in her throat.

Not him. Not real.

A rushing sound filled her ears as her vision narrowed, the world darkening at the edges. Somewhere in that tunnel, Coach Ben called a timeout. Players clustered at the sideline.

Nat moved toward them on autopilot, her hands trembling. She clasped them behind her back, digging fingernails into her palms.

Through the shrinking aperture of her vision, she saw Jackie’s unyielding posture as Coach Ben sketched a play. “Their right defender is favoring her left leg,” he said, his voice arriving in fragments. “We can exploit that.”

Jackie hardly seemed to register his words, her attention fixed on a different man in the stands—one in a navy Princeton windbreaker, taking notes.

“Jackie, are you with us?” Coach Ben tapped his clipboard.

“Yes, Coach.” Her voice was brittle. “Exploit the right side. Got it.”

Ben sighed. “That’s not what I said.”

Nat watched Jackie’s fingers twist the hem of her jersey, an uncharacteristic break in her composure. Under other circumstances, Nat might have found it interesting. But her vision kept shrinking. Her breathing came in short, sharp gasps.

A gentle pressure on her elbow made her flinch. She turned, ready to strike, but it was Lottie, her face a soft island in the chaos.

Without a word, Lottie guided her away from the huddle. No one noticed.

“Breathe with me,” Lottie whispered, taking Nat’s hand.

Nat tried to pull away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Lottie’s voice held no judgment, only quiet certainty. She placed Nat’s palm against her own chest. “Feel this. Match me.”

Through the thin jersey, Nat felt Lottie’s heartbeat, steady and strong. Lottie inhaled, her chest expanding.

“In,” Lottie murmured. “One, two, three, four.”

Nat’s own shaky gasp followed the rhythm.

“Hold. Two, three.”

The rushing in her ears began to subside. The darkness retreated.

“Out. Two, three, four, five, six.”

Her own exhale matched Lottie’s.

“Again,” Lottie instructed.

They repeated the cycle, Lottie’s eyes a fixed point in the storm. With each breath, the world returned—the green field, the blue sky, the concerned line between Lottie’s brows.

“You saw something,” Lottie said. It wasn’t a question.

Nat swallowed. “Thought I saw someone.”

“Not real?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” She risked another look. The man was now partly obscured. Not her father. The relief was so profound that her knees felt weak.

“The colors changed around you,” Lottie said simply. “Got all dark and red. I could see it.”

Any other time, Nat would have dismissed it. Now, she just nodded. “Yeah.”

“Keep breathing. The colors are fixing themselves.”

Nat realized her hand was still on Lottie’s chest, the contact an anchor. “My dad,” she heard herself say. “Thought I saw my dad. Which is stupid because he’s—”

“In jail,” Lottie finished. “You told me last year.”

Had she? The fact that Lottie remembered struck her.

“Ghosts don’t need to be dead to haunt you,” Lottie said, her gaze distant for a moment. “My grandmother says that.”

The whistle blew.

“One more breath,” Lottie said, her grip on Nat’s wrist a small, firm pressure.

They inhaled, held, and released. When Nat pulled her hand away, the absence of contact was jarring.

“Thanks,” she said, the word feeling small and useless.

Lottie nodded. “Anytime.”

As Nat jogged back onto the field, she felt Lottie’s eyes on her—not pitying, but watchful. Protective. The sensation was a strange warmth, a counter to the chill that had seized her. The panic had receded, leaving the familiar hollow in her chest. But for once, she didn’t crave the burn of alcohol to fill it. She remembered the steady rhythm of Lottie’s breathing—a different kind of remedy entirely.

***

Shauna POV

Three minutes left, score tied. Shauna found herself in an eerily familiar position. Just like in tryouts, the St. Margaret’s defenders swarmed Jackie, leaving an unexpected opening for her. Her mind calculated angles, the field unfolding before her like a strategic problem to be solved.

Across the field, she caught Melissa’s eye. No words were needed. Melissa saw the defender’s posture, the brief passing lane that was about to disappear.

Jackie waved frantically near the penalty area, perfectly positioned for the shot they had diagrammed for the scout. “Here! I’m open!” her voice commanded.

For a split second, Shauna hesitated. Princeton. Coach Cadwell. The childhood promises she and Jackie had made. But then Melissa launched the ball in a perfect arc that bypassed Jackie entirely.

Time slowed. Shauna’s body was already pivoting as she tracked its flight. The connection was flawless. Her foot met the ball, sending it sailing past the goalkeeper’s outstretched fingers into the upper corner of the net. A satisfying thwack, followed by the referee’s whistle.

They’d won.

The realization washed over her: first, the pure sensation of a perfect strike, then the adrenaline, and finally, a complicated tangle of pride, exhilaration, and guilt as her eyes found Jackie’s frozen form.

Melissa collided with her, arms wrapping around her in a fierce hug that lifted her from the ground. “Holy shit, Ship! Just like we worked on!” Melissa’s voice was pure warmth, her amber eyes alight with uncomplicated joy.

The team swarmed them. Taissa offered a rare smile and a fist bump. Van lifted her in another celebratory hug. Nat flashed a crooked grin and a quiet, “Nice one, Shipman.”

Through the tangle of congratulations, Shauna found Jackie’s face. She was standing slightly apart, clapping, a smile fixed in place that didn’t reach her eyes. When their gazes met, Jackie’s expression shifted from forced celebration to naked hurt before the captain’s mask slipped back on.

The flash of betrayal hit Shauna with physical force. Jackie joined the hug a beat too late.

“Incredible shot, Shipman,” she said, the nickname feeling suddenly formal. “Exactly like we practiced.”

The lie hung between them. Shauna opened her mouth, but no words would make it better.

Coach Ben approached, a rare full grin on his face. “Exceptional field vision again, Shipman,” he said. “And that assist, Bennett—you two are making a great team.”

Beside her, Shauna felt Jackie stiffen, her smile growing more rigid. Jackie’s fingers dug into Shauna’s shoulder, a physical claim.

“We all played well,” Shauna offered weakly.

“Our whole forward line was clicking,” Jackie added, her voice taking on the cadence she used with her mother’s political allies. “I’m glad we could demonstrate our strategies.”

Before she could continue, a woman in a Princeton windbreaker approached. Meredith Caldwell.

“Girls, this is Meredith Caldwell from Princeton,” Coach Ben said. “Meredith, our captain Jackie Taylor, and our goal-scoring duo, Shauna Shipman and Melissa Bennett.”

Jackie extended a hand with practiced poise, but Caldwell’s attention had already shifted to Shauna.

“That was some beautiful play between you two,” Caldwell said, glancing from Shauna to Melissa. “Excellent timing. Do you often work that well together?”

“We’ve been developing our connection since preseason,” Melissa jumped in, her shoulder brushing Shauna’s. “Ship has this incredible ability to see opportunities nobody else notices.”

Caldwell nodded, making a note. “Are either of you considering playing at the college level?”

Panic flared in Shauna. She could feel Jackie vibrating with stored energy beside her. This was Jackie’s moment.

“I think Jackie has been interested in Princeton’s program for years,” Shauna said quickly. “She’s been following your team since freshman year.”

Jackie’s smile was a fixed point, her eyes darting to Shauna with a mixture of gratitude and humiliation. “Yes,” she said, stepping forward. “I particularly admired the tactical adjustments you made in last year’s quarterfinal.”

Caldwell offered a polite nod. “Good observation.” She turned back to Shauna. “And you, Shipman? Where might you play next year?”

Trapped between loyalty and honesty, Shauna felt the words stick. “I’m still weighing my options. Academics come first.”

“Smart,” Caldwell said, handing her a business card. “If you’re interested, give me a call. We value players who think one step ahead.” She handed another to Melissa. “You too, Bennett. Excellent decision-making.”

Finally, she turned to Jackie, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Good leadership out there, Taylor. The team seems well-organized.”

The faint praise landed like an insult.

“Thank you,” Jackie said, her voice a fraction too high. “I’ve worked hard to build a cohesive unit.”

As Caldwell walked away with Coach Ben, the silence between the three girls grew heavy. “Wow,” Melissa said, reading the card. “This is major, Ship.”

“I guess,” Shauna mumbled.

“You guess?” Melissa laughed. “You should be celebrating!”

Jackie cleared her throat, a sound like a knife. “We should head to the locker room.” She turned and walked away, her posture perfect, her steps too measured.

Melissa raised an eyebrow. “What’s her problem? We just won.”

How could Shauna explain the years of expectations, the future that had just begun to fracture? “It’s complicated,” she said.

“Doesn’t seem complicated,” Melissa replied, her gaze soft. “You played amazingly. You deserve this.” She hesitated. “Some people want the spotlight all to themselves.”

“It’s not like that,” Shauna said automatically, the defense of Jackie a reflex.

“So have you,” Melissa countered quietly, her hand briefly touching Shauna’s arm. “Anyway, I’m hitting the showers. Coming?”

“In a minute,” Shauna said, watching Jackie’s retreating form.

She was caught between Melissa’s proud grin and Jackie’s rigid back. The victory felt suddenly hollow, complicated. She looked at the business card. Princeton’s orange insignia seemed to burn against the white. She should have been thrilled. Instead, all she felt was Jackie’s disappointment, a crushing quiet that stole the air from her own achievement.

She slipped the card into her sports bra. The sharp corner pressed against her skin as she jogged after her teammates, unsure whether to approach Jackie or give her space. Ahead, Jackie pushed through the locker room door without looking back, leaving Shauna at the threshold, caught between the path they’d always walked together and an unexpected one that might lead somewhere else entirely.

Chapter Text

Jackie POV

From the doorway, Jackie surveyed the abandoned third-floor study lounge, her mind a checklist of opportunity and risk. This room, unused since budget cuts eliminated evening tutoring, was perfect for tonight. The dusty overheads stayed off as she arranged candles around the space—just enough glow to see, just dim enough to feel illicit.

She adjusted the makeshift bar on an old study table: five bottles of premium liquor Jeff had smuggled in, plastic cups in perfect rows, and mixers she’d been collecting for weeks.

"Hand me that bag," she instructed Shauna, who hovered nervously by the door.

Shauna passed over the monogrammed tote, her fingers drumming against the worn strap. "I still think we should have waited until the weekend curfew is later. Misty's been doing random night checks all week."

Jackie pulled out fairy lights, draping them across the dusty bookshelves. "Don't worry about Misty. I took care of her."

"What does that mean?" Shauna's voice tightened.

Jackie turned. A flicker of satisfaction went through her at the worry creasing Shauna’s brow. Finally. Her full attention.

"Remember at dinner, when she was going on about her cold? I might have suggested those extra-strength nighttime pills in my drawer would help." Jackie smiled, arranging throw pillows she'd brought from home into a circle. "Double dose. She'll be out until morning."

"Jackie! You can't just drug people."

"I didn't 'drug' her," Jackie corrected, making air quotes. "I suggested medication. She happened to take more than necessary. There's a difference." She winked, noting how Shauna's disapproval never reached the point of actual rebellion.

Shauna sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "If we get caught—"

"We won't." Jackie crossed to Shauna, her hands closing on her shoulders. "This is what senior year is supposed to be. The team needs this. After our win. After what those St. Margaret's bitches said to Van." She squeezed Shauna's shoulders. "Besides, Coach Caldwell may not have been impressed by me, but I'm still the captain. And captains celebrate their team's victories."

Something flickered across Shauna's face—guilt. Good , Jackie thought. She should feel guilty.

"It wasn't your fault," Shauna said quietly. "What happened with the scout."

"Of course not." Jackie moved back to the cups, arranging them with precise angles. "The whole team played well. You especially. That's why we're celebrating."

The words tasted like ash. Jackie had replayed the game's final minutes a hundred times—Melissa passing to Shauna, not her; Shauna’s perfect goal; the scout’s obvious interest in their “chemistry.” The memory burned, a hot coal in her chest, even as she arranged the room to reassert who ran this team's world.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.

"That's probably Taissa and Van." Jackie straightened, smoothing her cashmere sweater. "Ready your smile, Shipman. The team needs to see us united."

Shauna nodded, moving to the door, while Jackie checked her reflection in a compact mirror. Whatever happened on the field, this room was her territory. By morning, everyone would remember that.

Two hours later, Jackie held court from the center of the pillow circle. The fairy lights cast everyone in a soft, flattering glow. The party had unfolded exactly as she'd orchestrated: celebratory toasts where she praised individuals while remaining the focus, then a playlist that shifted smoothly from energetic to intimate.

She tracked everyone's positions while maintaining an animated conversation with Akilah about winter formal. Taissa and Van occupied the window seat, legs tangled in the comfortable way of established couples. Nat sat nearby, drinking straight from a bottle as Lottie watched her with that unsettling intensity she’d developed since returning. Mari was teaching Gen a complicated TikTok dance, both giggling as they fumbled through it.

And Shauna—Jackie’s eyes narrowed—was tucked into the far corner with Melissa. Their heads were bent close, Melissa's hand occasionally touching Shauna's arm. Jackie clocked each touch, each shared laugh, while keeping a perfect smile plastered on her face.

When Melissa tucked a strand of hair behind Shauna's ear—a gesture so familiar it made Jackie’s stomach clench—she set her cup down with deliberate control.

"We should play truth or dare," she announced, her voice pitched to cut through the chatter.

The room pivoted toward her. That’s more like it.

"Truth or dare? What are we, fourteen?" Nat drawled, though her posture shifted with interest.

"What's wrong with fourteen? Good times." Jackie rose gracefully and crossed to where Shauna sat. "Before college pressure and scouts and—" She pulled Shauna up by the hand. "Come sit by me. I need my best friend for this."

Shauna allowed herself to be led back to the circle. Jackie positioned herself between Shauna and where Melissa now sat, their fingers still loosely linked.

"I'll get the bottle," Taissa offered, ever practical.

"No need," Jackie smiled, surveying the group. "I'll start. Nat, truth or dare?"

Nat took a swig. "Dare. Obviously."

"I dare you to demonstrate your worst pickup line on…" Jackie paused for effect. "Lottie."

The room erupted in laughter. Nat groaned but turned dutifully to a surprised Lottie.

"If I could rearrange the alphabet, I'd put 'U' and 'I' together," Nat delivered deadpan, then broke with a snort. "God, that was painful."

Lottie blinked, then a rare, transformative smile bloomed on her face. "That was terrible."

"That's the point," Nat shrugged, their eyes holding a beat too long.

Perfect opening energy. Jackie mentally ticked the box and leaned against Shauna, resting her head on her shoulder. From this angle, she could see Melissa watching them, her expression a blank mask.

The game progressed: Taissa admitted to stealing calculus answers, Van chugged a disgusting mix, and Mari demonstrated an embarrassing childhood dance. Jackie orchestrated each turn, nudging the energy higher, maintaining control.

When Melissa's turn came, Jackie's muscles tensed.

"Truth," Melissa chose when Lottie asked.

"Boring," Jackie whispered, loud enough to be heard.

"Okay," Lottie tilted her head. "What quality do you find most attractive in a person?"

Melissa considered, her eyes flicking to Shauna. "Authenticity. When someone knows who they are, even when others want them to be something else."

The words landed, precise and deliberate. Jackie felt Shauna shift beside her.

"That's what I admire about Shauna on the field," Melissa continued. "She plays her game, not anyone else's."

Jackie's fingernails dug into her palm. The reference was a blade, aimed right at her.

"Shauna's authentic off the field, too," Jackie countered, wrapping an arm around Shauna's shoulders. "You just don't know her like I do. Eleven years count for something."

An awkward quiet fell, broken only when Gen, ever the social peacemaker, jumped in.

"My turn! Jackie, truth or dare?"

Jackie forced a smile. "Dare. Always."

Gen giggled, her words slurring slightly. "I dare you to show us your best kissing technique. You can use a pillow."

Perfect. Jackie pretended to consider the pillow, then made her move with sudden clarity. She turned to Shauna, whose eyes widened.

"Why use a pillow when I have my best friend right here?"

Before Shauna could react, Jackie slid a hand behind her neck, pulled her forward, and pressed their lips together.

The plan was for it to be quick—a flash of possession disguised as a game. But when their mouths connected, the plan evaporated. The initial stiffness in Shauna’s body melted against hers, her lips softening, responding. Instead of pulling away, Jackie deepened the kiss, her fingers threading into Shauna's hair.

One second stretched into three, then five. Someone whistled, a distant sound, as if from underwater. All Jackie could process was the warmth of Shauna's mouth, the faint taste of cherry vodka, and the overwhelming rightness of it.

When she finally pulled back, the room was utterly silent. Shauna's face was flushed, her eyes wide and dazed. Jackie could feel them all staring, waiting for her to frame what they’d just seen.

She forced a laugh and tossed her hair. "And that's how it's done, ladies!" She winked at the circle, her hand lingering possessively on Shauna's thigh.

The tension broke. People laughed, though Jackie caught the knowing look Taissa and Van exchanged. She didn’t care. She’d made her point to Melissa, whose expression had darkened. More importantly, she’d reminded Shauna of their bond—something deeper than a good pass.

"My turn to ask," Jackie said smoothly. "Shauna, truth or—"

The door creaked open. Every head turned.

Misty Quigley swayed in the doorway, her robe crooked over flannel pajamas, her eyes unfocused. Her ponytail had come half-undone, giving her a deranged look that wasn't remotely funny.

"What's all this then?" Misty slurred. "I heard… noises. Party noises."

Jackie froze. Impossible . Yet there was their RA, looking like she’d been tranquilized but was somehow still standing.

"Shit," Nat whispered, hiding her bottle.

Misty squinted. "Is this… am I seeing things? There are rules… about gatherings. And spirits. Alcoholic spirits, not ghost spirits. Though those are also probably against the rules."

Before Jackie could speak, Taissa rose smoothly.

"Misty," she said, her voice calm and authoritative. "You're dreaming right now."

Misty blinked. "Dreaming?"

"Yes. You took cold medicine, remember? This is a cold medicine dream." Taissa approached her carefully. "Let me help you back to your room so you can sleep."

"A dream," Misty repeated, looking around. "But it looks so real. And I can smell…"

"Dreams can be very vivid," Taissa said, gently taking Misty's elbow. "Especially fever dreams. You have a fever. That's why you took the medicine."

"I do feel warm," Misty agreed, suddenly docile.

"Let's get you back to bed," Taissa guided her out. "No need to mention this dream to anyone."

The door closed. Tense silence, then an explosion of nervous laughter.

"Holy shit," Nat whispered. "That was close."

"Taissa is a fucking genius," Van added, her voice full of pride.

Jackie felt Shauna pull away, creating a small gap between them on the cushions. The power of the kiss had shattered.

"We should probably pack up," Shauna suggested quietly. "If Misty's up, others might be."

Jackie wanted to argue, to reclaim the moment, but the logic was undeniable. Her perfect party was over.

"You're right," she conceded, standing to take command. "Everyone, take something. Gen, bottles. Mari, cups. Van, lights. Leave no evidence."

As the team moved, Jackie saw Melissa watching Shauna with open interest. The satisfaction of the kiss curdled. Her display had only confirmed Melissa’s suspicions. She’d meant to mark her territory, but instead, she'd revealed her hand.

"I've got this," Jackie said, intercepting Shauna. "You head back. I'll do a final check."

Shauna hesitated. "You sure?"

"Positive." Jackie squeezed her arm, trying to read her expression. "We'll talk later, okay?"

Shauna nodded, her eyes unreadable, and followed the others. At the threshold, she looked back at Jackie, alone in the now-empty room.

"For what it's worth," Shauna said softly, "that was a good party, Jax. Thanks for doing it for the team."

The door clicked shut. Jackie stood motionless under the harsh overhead light, the memory of Shauna's mouth lingering like a brand. She’d won the battle, but as Jackie gathered the last of the evidence, a cold knot tightened in her stomach. Something fundamental had shifted. For the first time all night, she wasn’t sure she was the one in control.

***

Nat POV

The vodka burned pleasantly in Nat's throat as she climbed the maintenance stairwell, past the faded "No Access" sign. Her head buzzed just enough to blur the edges. The narrow metal steps clanged softly under her careful feet.

She needed air. Space. Distance from whatever the hell Jackie and Shauna’s kiss was. Jackie’s eyes. That look lingered, making Nat’s skin crawl. She’d seen it before, on people who believed they owned everyone around them.

The heavy metal door at the top groaned as she pushed it open. Cool night air rushed in, filled with the scent of pine and distant wood smoke. Nat froze. A silhouette already occupied her escape route.

Lottie Matthews sat cross-legged near the edge of the roof, her face tilted toward the scattered stars. She didn't flinch at the sound of the door.

"Didn't think anyone else knew about this spot," Nat said, her hand already calculating a retreat. This roof was her sanctuary.

Lottie finally turned, moonlight catching the angles of her face. "Found it during finals week last year. Before…" The unspoken breakdown hung between them.

Her eyes. They were clear. Present. Not foggy from whatever cocktail her father had her on. The difference was jarring, like a photograph suddenly snapping into focus.

Nat moved closer, settling an arm's length away at the roof's edge. Her legs dangled over the three-story drop as she pulled out her flask. She extended it toward Lottie before catching herself.

"Probably shouldn't mix with whatever they've got you on."

Lottie shook her head. A hint of a smile touched her mouth. "Skipped tonight's dose. Wanted to actually feel something for a change." Her voice was steady—not the medicated monotone or the nervous pitch Nat was used to.

Nat took a sip. "Bold move."

"Sometimes the side effects are worse." Lottie pulled her knees to her chest. "My thoughts get locked inside, screaming. At least without the meds, I can hear them."

They sat in a silence that didn’t feel heavy like the waiting in the principal’s office, or dangerous like the pause before her father’s fist hit the wall. It just… was. It asked for nothing.

"Quite a scene downstairs," Lottie eventually said, her voice low. "Jackie marking her territory."

Nat snorted, a genuine sound that surprised her. "Subtle as a brick through a window. Poor Shauna looked like she'd been hit by lightning."

"So did Melissa."

"Yeah, well." Nat took another sip. "That's what happens when you wander into Jackie's kingdom. The girl might as well piss in a circle around Shauna."

Lottie turned, studying her. The intensity of her gaze should have felt invasive. It didn't. "You notice a lot more than you let on."

"Survival skill," Nat responded, the words honest. Something about the dark made it easier. "Watch before you get watched."

"Learned young?"

Nat's jaw tightened. "Early enough."

Lottie just nodded. "Me too. Different reasons."

A beam of light swept across the quad below. Both instinctively flattened themselves against the roof. Nat's heart hammered, adrenaline flooding her system. Paul, the night guard. Right on schedule.

The beam passed. Nat exhaled, realizing she’d been holding her breath. Lottie remained perfectly still.

"Paul's getting lazy," Nat whispered. "Used to sweep the whole building."

"Budget cuts," Lottie replied. "My father's on the board. He complains."

When the campus was dark again, Lottie turned to her. "What happened with your dad this summer?" she asked quietly. "I saw your reaction during the game."

Nat’s body went rigid, her fingers tightening on the cold metal of her flask. "Nothing worth talking about." The words were flat. A wall.

Lottie shrugged. "Fair enough. We all have our things."

Nat braced for the follow-up questions, the concerned head tilt, the "how does that make you feel?" Bullshit. But Lottie just nodded. The simple acceptance was so unexpected that it almost knocked her off balance. Five minutes passed, marked by a distant owl and the swig of Nat's flask.

"He showed up drunk again," Nat said, her own voice breaking the quiet. "Things got bad. Cops came. He's… away for a while."

Her hand unconsciously drifted to the faint red scar on her chin, still new enough to be tender. Lottie's eyes flicked to the movement but didn't linger on the mark.

"I'm sorry," Lottie said.

Just that. No pity. The words had weight.

"Yeah, well." Nat shrugged. "Quieter at my mom's place now."

"Is she okay? Your mom?"

Nat rolled the question around. "Define okay. She's alive. Functioning. More or less."

Lottie nodded, a flash of understanding in her eyes. "Sometimes that's all you get."

A cool breeze swept across the roof. Goosebumps rose on Nat’s arms. Beside her, Lottie shivered in her thin sweater.

Nat hesitated, then scooted closer, their shoulders almost touching. A beat, then she lifted her arm, offering the space beside her.

"Body heat," she said, the word a flimsy excuse. "Basic survival." Nat didn't touch people. Ever.

Lottie accepted without comment, leaning slightly against Nat's side. The point of contact felt warm, solid. Grounding.

"What's it like?" Lottie asked, her voice vibrating against Nat's side. "When you need a drink but can't have one."

The question was so direct that it was refreshing. "Like drowning in fire," she answered, the words raw in her own ears. "Everything burns, but you can’t breathe." She turned it back on her, curious. "What about you? The anxiety. When it gets bad."

Lottie was quiet for a moment. "Like drowning on dry land. My lungs work, but there’s no air. My heart beats so fast I think it'll crack my ribs."

The words hung between them, a bridge built of shared horror. Nat felt herself lean more fully into Lottie’s side.

"You helped me," Nat said quietly, not needing to name the game, the panic. "How did you know what to do?"

"Recognized it," Lottie’s voice was free of judgment. "Had enough of my own. The breathing thing works sometimes."

Nat nodded, tracing the smooth metal of her flask. "Nobody's ever… noticed before. Or they just looked away."

"People see what they want to see," Lottie said. "Especially here."

"Fucking Wiskayok," Nat muttered. "Pretending to care while teaching us to ignore each other's damage."

"My father pays extra for that particular lesson," Lottie said with a dry humor that surprised a small laugh out of Nat.

They fell silent again, watching thin clouds drift across the stars.

"We should head back," Nat eventually said, reluctant to break the spell.

Lottie nodded but didn’t move. "My dad doubled my dosage starting tomorrow. I probably won't be this clear-headed again for a while." The admission was heavy with a quiet grief.

"That's fucked up," Nat said.

"Can't have the Matthews girl embarrassing the family again. Easier to keep me sedated."

Nat knew that kind of adult logic down to her bones. "I'll still see you," she said, and the words felt solid, real. "Even through the meds."

They finally stood, legs stiff. Nat offered Lottie a hand up. It felt like a small, significant act. Lottie’s fingers were cold, but her grip was strong.

"Same time tomorrow?" Lottie asked, letting go as they reached the door.

Nat hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Yeah. Same time."

Chapter Text

Shauna POV

Shauna’s eyes snapped open to pale morning light filtering through the curtains. Her head pulsed with a dull ache—the price of the contraband vodka Jackie had produced for last night’s celebration. Memories of the party surfaced, bringing the moment that had unsettled her sleep: Jackie’s mouth on hers, the collective gasp of their audience, the firm pressure of Jackie’s fingers against her neck.

She rolled over, bracing for the awkward morning-after conversation, only to find Jackie’s bed empty. The covers were already arranged with crisp hospital corners, and while the pillow retained the faint impression of a head, no other trace of Jackie remained.

“Of course,” Shauna muttered, sitting up to rake her fingers through her tangled hair.

Jackie’s uniform was laid out on the desk chair, a model of meticulous preparation. Shauna glanced at her phone: 6:47 AM. Too early for breakfast, too early for Jackie’s usual weekend routine.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her feet met the cold floor. Her reflection in the dresser mirror was a portrait of her feelings—confused, hungover, and deeply troubled. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her lips seemed swollen, though that might have been imagination.

Shauna opened their door and peered down the silent hall. Most of their floor was still asleep, taking advantage of the quiet Saturday morning. She grabbed her shower caddy and towel, grateful for the rare chance to use the bathroom without the usual crowd. As she walked the quiet corridor, potential conversations rehearsed themselves in her mind.

About last night… No, too direct.

That was some dare, huh? Too dismissive.

Perhaps silence was best. Let Jackie bring it up. But the thought of waiting, of letting this sharp uncertainty fester, made her stomach twist.

The bathroom door squeaked open. The sound of running water registered immediately, and Shauna set her caddy on the counter, assuming someone else had the same idea. She caught movement in her peripheral vision—steam pluming from one of the shower stalls, the curtain drawn partway back.

Shauna turned, an apology for the intrusion already forming on her lips, but the words caught in her chest.

Jackie stood under the spray, water sluicing down her naked body. Her head was tilted back as she rinsed shampoo from her hair. The gap in the curtain revealed her in profile: the gentle curve of her breast, the flat plane of her stomach, the strawberry birthmark on her hip. It was a detail Shauna had seen a thousand times, yet now it seemed newly, intensely private.

Shauna stood motionless, unable to look away or announce her presence. She should turn around. She should cough. She should do anything but stand there, watching droplets trace paths down Jackie’s skin.

In the steamy mirror, Jackie’s eyes opened and met hers. She didn’t startle or cover herself. Instead, a small smile touched the corners of her mouth as she continued to rinse her hair with deliberate slowness, arching her back just so.

“Morning, Ship,” she said, her voice echoing off the tile. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Shauna’s throat felt tight. “Sorry, I—I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”

“Just me.” Jackie twisted her hair, wringing out the excess water. “Still haven’t fixed the hot water in the other two. This is the only one working.”

“Oh.” Shauna clutched her towel tighter. “I’ll come back later, then.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jackie turned fully toward her, making no move to close the curtain. Water beaded on her collarbone and trickled down between her breasts. “You can join me. We used to shower together at swim camp, remember?”

The invitation hung between them, heavy with the weight of the previous night’s kiss. Yet Jackie’s tone was casual, as if last night were just another thread in their tangled history, not the fundamental shift Shauna felt it to be.

Her pulse drummed in her ears. This was familiar territory made suddenly foreign. Their bodies had occupied the same spaces for years, from locker rooms to cramped tents at soccer camp. But something had been altered—or perhaps, finally acknowledged—and every interaction now carried a charge she couldn’t ignore.

“I—” Shauna took an involuntary step back. “I forgot my shampoo. I should go get it.”

Jackie tilted her head, water running down her neck. “You can use mine. It’s the expensive stuff my mom sent from Paris.” Her gaze was steady, a silent challenge. “Unless there’s some other reason you don’t want to?”

The question was a trap. Admitting discomfort would mean acknowledging the change between them. Pretending everything was normal would mean stepping naked into the shower beside Jackie, crossing another line in their increasingly blurred relationship.

“I just—” Shauna gestured vaguely toward the door. “I have some reading to finish before breakfast.”

“Reading?” Jackie’s eyebrows rose. “On a Saturday morning?” She laughed, the sound bouncing off the tile. “God, you’re such a nerd sometimes, Ship.”

The familiar teasing should have been a comfort. Instead, it highlighted the chasm between Jackie’s apparent ease and Shauna’s internal chaos.

“Yeah, well.” Shauna took another step back. “AP Lit waits for no one.”

Jackie watched her retreat, an unreadable expression on her face. “Sure, you’re okay? You seem weird this morning.”

Shauna’s stomach clenched. Here was the opening. But Jackie’s casual nudity, her nonchalance, suggested she either failed to register the kiss’s significance or was deliberately ignoring it.

“I’m fine.” Shauna forced herself to maintain eye contact, refusing to let her gaze drift downward. “Just tired. And a little hungover.”

“Lightweight.” Jackie reached for her conditioner, the movement sending water cascading down her back. “You barely had two drinks.”

“Three,” Shauna corrected automatically, then regretted it.

“Three whole drinks,” Jackie mocked gently. “Wild woman.” She paused, studying Shauna’s face. “Is this about the dare? Because that was just—”

“No,” Shauna cut in, not ready to hear Jackie dismiss it as meaningless. “It’s not about anything. I’m just tired.”

Jackie stared at her for a long moment. “If you say so.” She shrugged, the motion drawing Shauna’s attention to her shoulders, to the delicate line of her clavicle. “But the offer stands. Plenty of room in here.”

A flush spread from Shauna’s chest to her cheeks. “I’ll catch you at breakfast,” she managed, then turned and walked out, abandoning her shower caddy in her haste to escape.

In the hallway, Shauna pressed her back against the cool wall and breathed hard. Her legs trembled, and a strange heat had settled low in her gut. The image of Jackie’s body—a body she’d seen countless times—now had new dimensions in her mind, tangled with the memory of Jackie’s lips on hers.

What terrified her most wasn’t Jackie’s casual invitation or her own reaction to it. It was the realization that, despite all her efforts to create distance—the secret Brown application, the new friendship with Melissa, the attempt to build an identity separate from Jackie—part of her had wanted to accept. To step into that shower. To cross a boundary that couldn’t be uncrossed.

Shauna pushed away from the wall and headed back to their room, leaving her things behind. She would get them later, when she was certain Jackie would be gone.

As she walked, she tried to make sense of Jackie’s behavior. The kiss had been performative, designed for an audience—a power play. But this morning’s interaction had no witnesses, no strategic advantage to gain unless Jackie had seen the truth in Shauna’s eyes last night. Unless she had recognized the genuine response to that calculated kiss. Unless this was another form of control—acknowledging the tension while acting as if it meant nothing.

Shauna reached their door and hesitated, her hand on the knob. The room beyond held all the evidence of their entanglement: years of photographs, matching pillowcases from home, the narrow space between their beds where they’d whispered secrets in the dark.

She leaned her forehead against the cool wood, trying to collect herself. Whatever game Jackie was playing, she couldn’t afford to lose focus. Brown’s early decision deadline was approaching. Her future, separate from Jackie’s orbit, seemed tantalizingly possible.

Yet her body still hummed with the image of water trailing down Jackie’s skin, with years of intimacy that threatened to transform into something they couldn’t take back.

Shauna straightened, squared her shoulders, and pushed the door open. She would get dressed, go to the library, and work on her essay. Put physical distance between them until she could rebuild her defenses.

The fact that her hands still trembled as she reached for her clothes would be her secret to keep.

***

Van POV

Van followed Taissa down the dimly lit corridor behind the gymnasium, their own heart rate picking up with each turn deeper into the school’s forgotten spaces. Afternoon light barely touched this part of the building, making the hallway feel entirely separate from Wiskayok’s polished exterior.

“How did you even find this?” Van whispered, watching Taissa navigate with an easy confidence.

“Student government has its perks.” Taissa glanced back, a small smile playing on her lips. “I volunteered to inventory old athletic equipment for budget proposals. Nobody questions why the VP needs building access.”

They stopped at a nondescript door marked ’Maintenance - Authorized Personnel Only.’ Taissa produced a key from her pocket, the metal catching what little light filtered through a dusty nearby window.

“You have a key?” Van’s voice was full of disbelief.

“Borrowed it from the custodian’s office during my free period. Made an impression in soap, then returned the original before anyone noticed.” Taissa’s matter-of-fact tone made it sound routine. “Had a copy made in town last weekend.”

The lock clicked open. Taissa pushed the door inward, and Van held still, half-expecting an alarm or a faculty member to materialize from the shadows.

Inside, the equipment room was much larger than Van had anticipated. Metal shelving units lined the walls, stacked high with deflated balls, rolled nets, and boxes of miscellaneous gear. In a corner sat a small desk and chair, both covered in a fine layer of dust.

“Nobody comes here anymore,” Taissa explained, closing the door behind them. “They built the new storage facility by the field last year. This is mostly backup equipment.”

Van walked to the center of the room, turning slowly. Despite the dust and the faint smell of rubber, the space felt peaceful—a pocket of stillness in Wiskayok’s constantly monitored world.

“Best part?” Taissa gestured to a small section partially hidden by a shelf. “There’s an old equipment manager’s office through there. Has a couch.”

“A couch?” Van’s eyebrows shot up. “Like, an actual piece of furniture where we could sit together without looking over our shoulders?”

“The luxury is overwhelming, I know.” Taissa’s smile widened. “But the main selling point is that it’s not on Misty’s patrol route. No surprise inspections.”

Van’s shoulders relaxed. The constant need to avoid Misty’s prying eyes was exhausting. Every moment with Taissa came with the background hum of potential discovery.

“Let me see this mythical couch,” Van said, following Taissa toward the back.

The small office was barely bigger than a closet, but it held a worn leather couch that had seen better days. A single desk lamp sat on a side table.

“Electricity works,” Taissa said, flicking on the lamp. It cast a warm, amber light across the office. “And the best part—” She pointed to a small window high on the wall, covered by blinds. “Natural light, but it faces the old tennis courts. Nobody can see in.”

Van ran their fingers along the couch’s arm. Something unfamiliar expanded in their chest. “We could actually talk here. Without whispering.”

“That’s the idea.” Taissa moved closer, her hand finding Van’s. “Nobody would hear us.”

Van sank onto the couch. The springs creaked, but it felt like salvation.

“What did you think about last night?” Van asked, the party still on their mind. “That kiss was…”

“Intense,” Taissa finished, sitting beside them. “Jackie’s playing with fire.”

“I’ve never seen Shauna look so stunned. Like her brain short-circuited.”

Taissa laughed. “Wouldn’t you, if your supposedly straight best friend who’s dating a guy kissed you in front of everyone?”

“It wasn’t just a kiss, though,” Van insisted. “It was a statement. Jackie might as well have pissed in a circle around Shauna.”

“Crude, but accurate.”

Van leaned back. “Someone should talk to Shauna. Push her to consider other options.”

“Options?”

“People who aren’t Jackie. Maybe even people who are actually out. Like Melissa.”

Taissa’s expression shifted. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? Melissa’s interested, and she seems stable.”

“Because it would be disastrous.” Taissa’s voice took on the precise tone she used in debates. “Think about it. Jackie and Shauna are so deep in the closet they might as well be in Narnia. Neither of them has acknowledged what’s happening.”

“But—”

“And pushing Shauna toward Melissa would just create a messy triangle that would blow up the team,” Taissa said firmly. “The last thing Shauna needs is to become a battleground.”

Van sighed. Taissa was probably right. “It’s just frustrating watching them. The hot-and-cold, the jealousy, the denial. At least we’re honest about what we are to each other.”

“Are we?” Taissa’s question carried an unexpected weight.

Van turned to face her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we know we’re together. But we’ve never really talked about what happens after graduation. Where we’re applying, if we’re at different schools…”

The sudden shift caught Van off guard. The future had always been a hazy abstraction.

“I thought we’d figure that out when we got closer,” Van said carefully.

“Jackie and Shauna had their futures mapped out since freshman year. Princeton together, apartments together—”

“And look how that’s working out for them,” Van interrupted. “All that planning just created pressure.”

Taissa’s fingers intertwined with Van’s. “I’m not saying we need a ten-year plan. I just… I want to know we’re thinking about the same things.”

The vulnerability in Taissa’s voice made Van’s chest tighten. “I’m applying to UConn, NYU, and Michigan,” Van said quietly. “Athletic scholarships are my only shot. You?”

“Harvard, Yale, Georgetown.” Taissa named the schools like reciting a grocery list. “Places with strong pre-law programs.”

Van nodded. “That’s a lot of distance.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Taissa shifted closer. “NYU and Yale aren’t that far apart. We could visit.”

Van allowed a small smile. “You’ve been thinking about this.”

“Of course I have.” Taissa’s hand moved to Van’s cheek. “You’re not just some high school thing for me, Van.”

A knot of tension Van hadn’t realized they were carrying came loose. They leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

“You’re not just some high school thing for me either,” Van whispered.

The kiss that followed was gentle, an affirmation. Van’s hands found Taissa’s waist as Taissa’s fingers tangled in Van’s hair. The novelty of being able to touch without vigilance made every sensation more intense.

“We have thirty minutes before practice,” Taissa murmured against Van’s mouth.

“Enough time to properly christen this couch?” Van grinned, already working at the buttons of Taissa’s blouse.

“More than enough.”

Taissa pulled Van down with her as she reclined, her skirt riding up her thighs. Van’s hands found warm skin, tracing patterns memorized over the past year. Here, with relative safety, they could take their time. Van reveled in slowly unbuttoning Taissa’s blouse, revealing the smooth skin beneath. Taissa’s breathing quickened as Van lowered their head, pressing kisses along her collarbone.

“I missed this,” Taissa breathed, tugging Van’s shirt free. “Touching you without counting seconds.”

Van hummed in agreement, so absorbed that the sound of voices in the outer room didn’t register at first.

“—appreciate the enthusiasm, Miss Quigley, but I’ve got a full schedule.”

Coach Ben’s voice sliced through the air. Van and Taissa froze, half-undressed and tangled on the couch.

“But the girls really need extra guidance on defensive formations,” Misty’s eager voice replied, unnervingly close. “I’ve been observing practice, and I think—”

“That’s what assistant coaches are for.”

Their footsteps echoed, growing louder. Van’s heart hammered as they locked eyes with Taissa. There was nowhere to hide.

Taissa silently pointed to the door, which hadn’t fully closed. With trembling fingers, she began rebuttoning her blouse. Van straightened their uniform, hands shaking.

“I have extensive experience with team dynamics,” Misty persisted. “And I’ve memorized all the NCAA regulations.”

Coach Ben sighed audibly. “Your dedication is noted, but Resident Advisors have enough responsibilities. Besides, you’re not faculty.”

The voices were right outside the office now.

“Perhaps we could discuss this over coffee sometime?” Misty’s voice took on a hopeful lilt.

There was a painful pause. “That’s not appropriate, Miss Quigley. Our relationship needs to remain professional. Now, I just need to check if we have any spare practice pinnies in here.”

Footsteps approached. Van’s body went rigid. Taissa’s hand found theirs in a tight grip.

“Actually,” Coach Ben’s voice suddenly changed direction, “I think the new ones are in the field house. Let’s check there instead.”

“But while we’re here—” Misty began.

“I have a meeting with Headmistress Porter in twenty minutes,” Coach Ben interrupted firmly. “We really should get going.”

The footsteps receded. The outer door closed with a click, plunging the room into silence.

Van released a breath their lungs had been burning for. “Holy shit.”

Taissa sagged against the couch, her face pale. “That was too close.”

“Did Coach Ben know we were in here?” Van whispered.

Taissa shook her head. “I don’t think so. Just lucky.”

They sat in silence, adrenaline still coursing through them. The reality of what could have happened—discovery, expulsion—crashed over them.

“We can’t use this place anymore,” Van finally said.

“Not if Misty knows about it,” Taissa agreed, still rattled.

The disappointment was sharp. Van had already imagined the freedom this space represented—a place to exist without performance.

“So we’re back to square one,” Van said, frustration in their voice.

Taissa’s hands tangled in Van’s hair, pulling just enough to send a shiver through them. “I promise,” she whispered, kissing them again. “I’ll find us somewhere safer. Somewhere you can be yourself completely.”

The words sent a different kind of tremor through Van—the possibility of a space where they could shed not just the uniform, but all of it. Somewhere, their body wouldn’t feel like a costume.

“I want that,” Van breathed against Taissa’s mouth. “I want that so much.”

***

Jackie POV

Jackie sat cross-legged on her bed, chemistry textbook open but ignored. She highlighted random sentences, maintaining the appearance of productivity. She checked her phone for the fifth time in three minutes. Nothing from Shauna. The library study session with Melissa was supposed to last an hour. That was two hours ago.

Her phone lit up with Jeff’s name and his St. Joseph’s lacrosse photo—the one she’d insisted he use. Jackie hesitated, then painted on a smile before answering.

“Hey, you,” she said, her voice lifting into the brighter register she reserved for him.

“There’s my girl,” Jeff’s voice came through, full of eagerness. “How’s the Princeton prospect?”

Jackie swallowed, the scout’s lukewarm response from the last game still a fresh wound. “Just studying. You know how it is.”

“Well, I have news that might distract you.” The excitement in his voice was unmistakable. “Matt’s going home this weekend. Which means…”

Jackie’s stomach tightened. “Which means what?”

“My room to ourselves. All weekend.” He paused. When she didn’t respond, he added, “No interruptions. Just us.”

Her pulse quickened with anxiety, not anticipation. “That’s… great.”

“You don’t sound excited,” Jeff said, disappointment in his voice. “I thought this was what we planned. You said this summer that fall would be better timing, remember?”

The memory surfaced—her swimsuit still damp, Jeff’s eager hands, and the relief that flooded her when his parents returned early. The excuse had been so easy.

“I remember,” she said, forcing enthusiasm. “Of course I’m excited. It’s just—I have this huge chem test Monday and Coach Ben scheduled extra practices and—”

“Jackie,” Jeff cut her off, his voice harder. “We’ve been dating for over a year. Every time we get close, you pump the brakes.”

“That’s not true,” she protested automatically.

“Summer was too busy. The lake house was too risky. My parents’ basement was too weird.” He ticked off each excuse. “Now it’s chemistry and soccer? I’m starting to think…”

“Think what?” Her voice was sharp.

Jeff sighed. “Nothing. I just miss you.”

Guilt washed over her. This was Jeff—sweet, patient Jeff, who fit perfectly into the future her parents had mapped out.

“I do miss you,” she lied, the words practiced. “And this weekend sounds amazing. I’ll talk to Shauna about covering for me.”

“Really?” The hope in his voice made her flinch.

“Really. I can come Friday after dinner and stay until Sunday.” The words felt foreign in her mouth. “We’ll have plenty of time for… everything.”

“God, I can’t wait,” Jeff breathed, his voice dropping. “The things I want to do to you, Jackie—”

“Jeff,” she interrupted, panic rising. “Someone’s coming. I should go.”

“Oh, okay. Call me later?”

“Definitely. Can’t wait for this weekend.” The brightness in her voice sounded manic. “Bye!”

She ended the call and dropped the phone as if it had burned her.

The room’s silence pressed in. No one had been coming. Shauna was still with Melissa, their shoulders probably touching as they discussed Russian literature.

Jackie’s chest constricted. What was wrong with her? Jeff was perfect. The ideal boyfriend. Her mother adored him. Her future was set.

So why did the thought of his hands on her body make her stomach clench with dread?

She pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to steady her racing heart. The panic attack was building, a familiar terror. She needed—

Without deciding to move, Jackie was at Shauna’s dresser, pulling open the middle drawer. She grabbed the faded blue Princeton sweatshirt—the one she’d given Shauna last Christmas, an unspoken promise of their shared future. Shauna wore it to bed sometimes, transforming it into something soft and lived-in.

She pulled it over her head. The scent enveloped her—lavender detergent and the subtle vanilla that clung to Shauna’s skin. The frantic pace of her heart slowed. Jackie closed her eyes, hugging herself in the sweatshirt, its sleeves falling past her wrists.

Safe. She felt safe.

The panic receded, replaced by a different, deeper ache. Her mind drifted to that morning. Shauna was in the bathroom doorway, eyes wide and dark, fixed on Jackie’s naked body. The way Shauna’s lips had parted, her cheeks flushing. The sudden, overwhelming desire Jackie had felt to pull her into the water, to press their bodies together without the barriers of fabric or friendship.

You can join me.

The words had slipped out, an invitation hanging heavy between them. Shauna had fled, but Jackie hadn’t missed the heat in her eyes.

Jackie lay back on her bed, Shauna’s sweatshirt a comforting weight as her hand drifted down her body. She closed her eyes, the memory expanding.

Not Shauna fleeing, but Shauna stepping forward. She shed her nightshirt, revealing the soft curves Jackie knew so well. Stepping into the shower, water sluicing between them as their bodies pressed close.

Jackie’s fingers slipped beneath her leggings, finding the heat between her thighs. In the fantasy, her fingers became Shauna’s—tentative, then bolder. Shauna’s breath against her neck, whispering her name. The pleasure built with a breathless intensity. Jackie bit her lip, silencing the sound as the fantasy sharpened—Shauna’s lips replacing her fingers, her tongue exploring. The image of Shauna looking up at her from between her thighs, dark hair plastered to her face, sent a shockwave through her. Her back arched, a strangled gasp caught in her throat.

As the sensation ebbed, reality returned. Jackie lay still, breathing hard, one hand still between her legs, the other clutching Shauna’s sweatshirt.

“Oh God,” she whispered to the empty room, horror dawning. This wasn’t the first time she’d thought of Shauna, but it was the first time she’d let herself fully acknowledge it.

She’d never once fantasized about Jeff. Not once.

“No, no, no,” Jackie muttered, pulling her hand away as if burned. “I’m not—I can’t be—”

Gay.

The word threatened everything she’d built. Everything she was supposed to be. Student body president. Soccer captain. Princeton legacy. Not… that. Not someone who fantasized about her female best friend while wearing her clothes.

“It’s just because we’re close,” she told herself firmly, pulling off the sweatshirt and folding it with meticulous precision. “It’s just misplaced intimacy.”

She returned the sweatshirt to Shauna’s drawer, her hands shaking slightly.

“I’m going to visit Jeff this weekend,” she declared to the empty room, as if saying it aloud could make her want it. “We’re going to have sex, and it’s going to be perfect, and everything will make sense again.”

The lie settled heavily in her gut. She couldn’t be gay. It didn’t fit the picture-perfect life she was raised to achieve.

But what if I am?

The thought slipped through her defenses, bringing images of Shauna’s smile, her laugh, the way her body felt pressed against hers at night.

Jackie shook her head violently. “I’m not,” she insisted. “I’m just confused.”

She grabbed her chemistry textbook, staring blindly at the formulas. If she focused enough on Princeton and Jeff, maybe she could ignore the chemistry that flared whenever Shauna entered a room.

The door handle turned. Jackie’s heart leaped. She arranged her features into casual indifference as Shauna entered, her arms full of books, a small smile still lingering on her lips.

“Hey,” Shauna said, dropping her books on her desk. “Sorry, I’m late. Melissa and I got caught up in this analysis of—”

“Jeff invited me to stay over this weekend,” Jackie blurted out, the words a shield. “His roommate’s going away, so we’ll have the room to ourselves.”

Shauna paused, her back to Jackie. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Jackie continued, forcing brightness into her tone. “He’s been wanting to take things to the next level, so…”

Shauna turned slowly, her expression carefully neutral. “Are you… ready for that?”

The question hung between them. Jackie felt exposed under Shauna’s perceptive gaze, as if her friend could see the confused tangle of desires she was desperately trying to suppress.

“Of course,” Jackie lied, her smile brittle. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

***

Nat POV

The metal of the maintenance door was cool under Nat’s palm. She pushed it open and scanned the rooftop, her eyes adjusting to the dark. Lottie was already there, a silhouette perched on the edge of the flat section behind the southern dormer. She turned at the sound of Nat’s boots on the copper surface. Moonlight caught in her dark hair, silvering the edges.

“You came back,” Lottie said, her voice soft with surprise.

Nat shrugged, crossing the distance. “Said I would, didn’t I?”

She settled beside Lottie, close enough to feel the warmth from her body. Below, the campus spread out, its windows glowing.

“Porter cornered me after English,” Nat said, leaning back on her palms. “Lectured me about my ’inappropriate hair length’ for fifteen minutes.”

Lottie smiled, a quick flash of teeth. “Better than what she said to Coach Ben. I overheard her telling him the soccer shorts were ’unnecessarily revealing.’”

“Fuck that. Those shorts are the only decent part of this uniform.” Nat stretched her legs out. “Ben shut her down?”

“Said something about ’athletic performance standards’ and walked away.”

Nat snorted. “Man deserves a medal.”

They fell into a comfortable silence.

“Jackie’s losing it,” Lottie said suddenly. “Did you see her face when Melissa helped Shauna with her calculus homework at dinner?”

“Hard to miss. Thought she might stab Melissa with her fork.”

“She touched Shauna’s wrist seventeen times during that meal.” Lottie’s fingers twitched. “I counted.”

Nat turned to look at her. “You notice that kind of thing a lot?”

“Can’t help it.” Lottie drew her knees to her chest. “Patterns. Repetitions. The way people move.”

“Like Van,” Nat said. “You picked up on that, too.”

Lottie nodded. “Van practically vibrates every time Misty says ’ladies.’ And the way they tug at her uniform…”

“Van hates that fucking skirt,” Nat said, unconsciously mirroring Lottie’s posture. “She said wearing it feels like being in a costume she never agreed to wear.”

“What would you wear?” Lottie asked, tilting her head. “If there were no uniforms?”

The question caught Nat off guard. “Black jeans. Ripped. Band t-shirts. Leather jacket.” She gestured at her feet. “These boots.”

“I can see that on you,” Lottie said warmly. “It fits.”

“What about you?” Nat asked.

Lottie was quiet for a moment. “Flowing things. Long skirts in deep colors. Velvets and silks.” She touched her neck. “My grandmother’s jewelry. Silver with dark stones.”

The image formed in Nat’s mind: Lottie in midnight blue, silver at her throat.

“My father would never allow it,” Lottie continued, her voice hardening. “He thinks anything that draws attention is inappropriate.”

“Fuck what he thinks,” Nat said, the words escaping before she could stop them.

Lottie’s eyes widened, then a surprised laugh bubbled from her throat. The sound was a physical touch.

“What would Van wear?” Lottie asked.

“Button-ups. Soft flannel. Actual pants with pockets.” Nat smiled. “Tai would lose her mind.”

“And Jackie?”

“Nothing would change. Still auditioning for a country club membership.”

They both laughed. Below them, dorm lights began to wink out.

“I think Shauna would surprise everyone,” Lottie said softly. “There’s more to her than Jackie allows.”

Nat nodded. “She’s got this vintage leather-bound notebook she writes in when she thinks no one’s looking.” She paused. “Not that I’ve been watching.”

Lottie’s knowing smile made Nat’s cheeks heat. She reached into her jacket.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked, pulling out a crushed pack of cigarettes.

Lottie eyed the pack. “Only if you share.”

The request from perfectly composed Lottie Matthews made Nat’s pulse quicken. She tapped out a cigarette and lit it, cupping a hand around the flame. She took a deep drag before passing it to Lottie. Their fingers brushed.

Lottie held the cigarette awkwardly and inhaled too quickly, dissolving into a coughing fit.

“Easy,” Nat said, fighting a smile as she patted Lottie’s back. “Small pulls. Like this.”

She took the cigarette back, demonstrating a slow, controlled drag. Lottie watched, one hand pressed to her chest.

“Here,” Nat said, shifting closer until their knees touched. “Watch.”

She took another drag, tilted her head back, and let the smoke flow from her mouth, inhaling it through her nose in a smooth French inhale. Lottie’s eyes were fixed on her mouth.

“Your turn,” Nat said, her voice lower than she intended.

She handed the cigarette back, their fingers lingering. Lottie brought it to her lips, her eyes never leaving Nat’s. This time, she inhaled correctly, a triumphant smile lighting her face.

“Better?” Nat asked, aware of how close they were.

“Show me the French thing again,” Lottie whispered.

Nat took the cigarette, her eyes locked with Lottie’s. She leaned in, and as she released the smoke, it curled in the narrow space between them. The moment stretched.

Lottie’s hand came up to rest lightly on Nat’s knee. She closed the distance, her lips meeting Nat’s in a hesitant touch. The taste of smoke mingled with something sweeter. Nat froze for a second before responding, one hand coming up to cup Lottie’s jaw as the kiss deepened, transforming from tentative exploration into something hungrier.

When they finally separated, both breathing harder, Nat tossed the cigarette aside.

“That was…” Lottie touched her fingers to her lips.

“Yeah,” Nat agreed, a smile tugging at her mouth.

Lottie shifted. “I haven’t done much of that before.”

“Couldn’t tell.”

“Have you? With girls, I mean.”

The question hung there. The truth felt dangerous, but lying to Lottie felt worse.

“A few times.” She pulled at a thread on her jacket. “Not just girls, though.”

Lottie’s expression was curious, not judgmental. “Tell me?”

Nat hesitated. “There was this guy, Travis, last year. He was… quiet. Had his own demons. We understood each other.”

“What happened?”

“His family moved.” Nat shrugged, a familiar ache in her chest. “Before him, there was Laura. Summer program.”

“Was it different? A girl versus a guy?”

Nat lit another cigarette. “Yes and no. Physically, sure. But the rest… Laura taught me it wasn’t about labels. She never made a big deal about it. Just people.”

She passed the cigarette to Lottie.

“I don’t really think about gender,” Nat continued. “It’s more about… seeing me. Really seeing me.”

Lottie exhaled. “What does that mean? Being seen?”

The question hit something deep in Nat. “Most people look at me and see the troublemaker. The addict’s daughter.” She swallowed. “Travis saw past that. Laura too. They noticed when I was quiet because I was thinking, not just when I was loud because I was angry.”

Lottie’s hand found hers. “Is that rare? Finding people who see you?”

“In my experience? Yeah.” Nat turned her palm up, their fingers intertwining. “What about you? Any skeletons in the Matthews’ closet?”

Lottie’s laugh was bitter. “My father controls everything. Who I talk to, what I wear, and my medications.” She squeezed Nat’s hand. “I’ve never even been on a real date.”

“Sounds like hell.”

“It is.” Lottie studied Nat’s face. “So this thing with Travis and Laura… just physical?”

Nat shook her head. “With Travis, it was quiet. With Laura… she liked to push boundaries. Taught me things.”

“What kind of things?” Lottie whispered.

“How to touch someone. How to be touched.” Heat rose in Nat’s cheeks. “How different people need different things.”

“And what do you need?”

Nat looked at their joined hands, then at Lottie’s face—open, curious, unguarded.

“Depends on the day,” Nat answered honestly. “Sometimes I need someone who lets me be angry. Sometimes I need quiet. But mostly… I need someone who isn’t afraid of the mess.”

Lottie nodded slowly. She leaned in again, her free hand tracing Nat’s jawline. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“Rich girl like you? Probably hang out with a different crowd,” Nat joked, but it came out bitter.

“That’s not what I meant,” Lottie said, her fingers stilling on Nat’s cheek. “I meant someone who says what they think. Who doesn’t pretend.”

“Not much good at pretending,” Nat admitted.

“My whole life is pretending,” Lottie said, her voice hollow. “Pretending the medications don’t fog my brain. Pretending I don’t see things others miss.”

“Like what? What do you see?”

Lottie was quiet. “Connections. Between people, events. Sometimes I know things before they happen.” She pulled back. “That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

“Not to me.” Nat caught Lottie’s hand. “When my mom’s having an episode, she can predict when the phone’s going to ring.”

Hope flickered across Lottie’s face. “You believe in that?”

“I believe there’s shit we don’t understand,” Nat shrugged. “Who am I to say what’s possible?”

A slow smile spread across Lottie’s face. “Most people just think I’m unstable.”

“Maybe you are. Maybe we all are.” Nat gestured at the school below. “You think anyone down there has their shit together? Jackie’s obsessed with Shauna but is dating Jeff. Shauna’s in love with Jackie but can’t admit it. Van’s trapped in a gender that feels like a prison.”

“And you?” Lottie asked softly. “What’s your instability?”

Nat laughed, the sound sharp. “Take your pick. Alcoholic father. Mentally ill mother. My own collection of substances to numb the noise.” She tapped her temple. “Trust me, I’m as fucked up as they come.”

Instead of pulling away, Lottie leaned closer. “That doesn’t scare me.”

“Maybe it should.”

“I’m tired of being scared,” Lottie whispered, her breath warm against Nat’s lips.

This time, when they kissed, there was no hesitation. Nat’s hand tangled in Lottie’s hair, pulling her closer. The taste of smoke and something uniquely Lottie filled Nat’s senses, drowning out the constant noise in her head.

When they pulled apart, Lottie asked, “Is this what it was like? With Laura and Travis?”

Nat shook her head, surprised by the truth of her answer. “No. This is different.”

“Because I’m a sheltered rich girl who doesn’t know what she’s doing?”

“Because you’re you,” Nat said simply.

Lottie’s smile in response felt like sunlight breaking through clouds, warming places long left cold.

Chapter Text

Shauna POV

Shauna silently counted the red ink marks on the essay in front of her. Each one was a moment when Ms. Burns thought something worked. There were seventeen. Seventeen moments when her words had landed exactly as she’d intended. The feeling was unfamiliar—to have her intentions so perfectly understood.

Ms. Burns moved through the classroom, returning the final short stories with characteristic efficiency. Three weeks of writing, rewriting, and nervous waiting were reduced to this quiet revelation as papers landed face down on each desk.

“Remember,” Ms. Burns said, her voice carrying the same thoughtful precision as her feedback, “your final portfolios are due at the end of the semester. These stories could form the foundation of that work, should you choose to expand them.”

Shauna traced her finger along the margin where Ms. Burns had written: Extraordinary insight. Consider submitting to Harbinger Literary. This deserves an audience beyond our classroom. The note felt like it belonged on someone else’s paper, accidentally finding its way onto hers.

The bell rang, startling her. Students gathered their belongings in a synchronized rustle of paper and backpacks.

“Miss Shipman, could you stay a moment?” Ms. Burns called as Shauna slid the essay into her folder.

The request sent a coil of unease through her. Had there been some mistake? Perhaps Ms. Burns had mixed up her paper with someone who actually deserved an A+.

“I’ll catch up,” she murmured to Jackie, who hovered by her desk with practiced patience.

“Don’t be too long.” Jackie’s reminder carried the subtle weight of a command, her fingers brushing Shauna’s arm before she left.

The classroom emptied, leaving Shauna standing beside her desk, clutching the folder to her chest like armor.

“Your story,” Ms. Burns began, perching on the edge of her desk rather than retreating behind it, “is exceptional.”

Shauna swallowed. “Thank you.”

“No, Shauna. I mean genuinely exceptional. Not just for a high school student.”

Ms. Burns removed her reading glasses, letting them hang from the silver chain around her neck. Without the glass between them, her gaze was even more direct.

“You have a distinctive voice—one that manages to be both unflinchingly honest and beautifully controlled. That’s rare at any age.”

Shauna shifted her weight, uncomfortable with praise that felt too substantial to deflect.

“Your protagonist’s inner conflict about expectations versus authentic desire—it’s remarkably nuanced.” Ms. Burns leaned forward slightly. “How much of yourself is in this piece?”

The question landed, sending tremors through the careful compartments of her identity.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “Maybe more than I realized when I was writing it.”

Ms. Burns nodded as if this confirmed something. “That’s often the way with our best work. We discover what we really think in the process of writing it down.” She paused, studying Shauna with the same careful attention she gave literary analysis. “Have you given any thought to continuing your writing after graduation?”

“Sometimes,” Shauna admitted. The word felt like a small rebellion against the future already mapped out for her.

“Where are you applying to college?”

The moment stretched between them—a crossroads disguised as a casual question.

“Princeton,” Shauna answered automatically, then caught herself. “And Brown… I’m also applying to Brown.”

The second school felt like a confession, the name still foreign on her tongue after months of keeping it secret.

“Brown,” Ms. Burns repeated, a smile forming. “Excellent creative writing program. One of the best in the country, actually.” She stood, moving to her desk where she opened a drawer. “Which brings me to why I asked you to stay.”

She withdrew a folder, worn at the edges from handling. “Are you familiar with the Eleanor Wilkins Fellowship at Brown?”

Shauna shook her head.

“It’s a scholarship opportunity for emerging female writers. Full tuition plus a stipend.” Ms. Burns handed her a printout. “The application requires a portfolio of original work and recommendations.”

Shauna stared at the paper, the words blurring as possibility collided with practicality.

“I’ve written recommendations for three recipients in my twenty years of teaching. All three are published authors now.” Ms. Burns leaned against her desk again. “I’d very much like to write one for you.”

The offer hung in the quiet air between them.

“The deadline is in February. Your story would need significant expansion, and you’d have to include at least two additional pieces to demonstrate range.” She glanced at the clock. “I could meet with you after school twice a week to help prepare the materials.”

“Why?” The question escaped before Shauna could stop it.

“Why what?”

“Why would you do that for me?”

Ms. Burns considered her for a moment. “Because talent without opportunity is a tragedy, Shauna. And because I recognize something in your writing that reminds me of myself at your age—a desire to say things that feel impossible to speak aloud.”

Shauna felt a rush of something between terror and exhilaration. Being seen so clearly was both validating and frightening.

“I don’t know if I can—”

“You can,” Ms. Burns interrupted gently. “The question is whether you will allow yourself to try.”

Shauna looked down at the fellowship information, her mind racing. This was more than a scholarship; it was a declaration of intent, a step toward a future she had only permitted herself to imagine in fragments.

“Jackie and I were planning to go to Princeton together,” she said quietly. The words were heavy with unspoken complications.

Ms. Burns nodded without judgment. “And that may still be your path. But you deserve the chance to choose it, not just accept it by default.”

The distinction resonated somewhere deep inside her. Choice versus acceptance. Her own story versus someone else’s.

“Think about it,” Ms. Burns continued. “Fellowship aside, I would still like to help you develop your portfolio. Your work deserves that attention regardless of where you attend college.”

Shauna nodded, carefully folding the sheet and sliding it between the pages of her notebook. “Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

“We could start Thursday after school, if that works. Just to discuss possibilities.”

“Thursday would be good,” Shauna agreed, surprising herself with the certainty in her voice.

“Excellent.” Ms. Burns smiled, her professional reserve softening. “And Shauna? Whatever you decide about the fellowship, please submit this piece to Harbinger . Your words deserve readers.”

Shauna gathered her belongings, a strange lightness expanding in her chest despite the new secret. “I will. Thank you, Ms. Burns.”

She stepped into the hallway, her mind already racing with possibilities—new scenes to write, characters to develop, worlds to create that existed independently of expectations.

The bubble of potential burst the moment she saw Jackie leaning against the opposite wall, phone in hand, but obviously waiting for her.

“Finally.” Jackie straightened, slipping the phone into her pocket. “What did Burns want? You’re not in trouble, are you?”

Her tone was casual, but her eyes were sharp, scanning Shauna’s face for any tell.

Shauna swallowed. The fellowship information suddenly felt hot inside her notebook. “No, nothing like that.”

Jackie fell into step beside her as they headed toward the dining hall. “So? What then?”

The lie formed on her tongue with surprising ease. “She thinks I should enter a high school writing competition. Wanted to talk about which piece to submit.”

“A competition?” Jackie’s face brightened. “That’s amazing! Is it prestigious? Will it help with college applications?”

Each question tightened the knot in Shauna’s stomach. “I don’t know yet. It’s just a state thing, probably nothing major.”

“Nothing major? Shauna, your writing is incredible. Remember that poem you wrote for my sixteenth birthday? My mom literally cried.” Jackie looped her arm through Shauna’s. “You’re going to win whatever this is.”

The confidence in Jackie’s voice was absolute, the same she used when discussing their Princeton dorm decorations.

“Maybe,” Shauna murmured. “It’s not really about winning.”

Jackie laughed, the sound both affectionate and dismissive. “Sure, but winning would be better than not winning, right? And having it on your Princeton application would be perfect.”

Shauna nodded automatically as the conversation settled into its familiar pattern: Jackie’s certainty flowing over Shauna’s hesitation like water around stone.

They entered the dining hall, the noise and movement a welcome distraction. Jackie guided them toward the soccer table where Van, Taissa, Nat, and Lottie were already eating.

“Everyone, my best friend is a certified genius!” Jackie announced, her arm sliding around Shauna’s shoulders in a gesture both protective and possessive. “Ms. Burns wants her to enter some big writing competition.”

The weight of Jackie’s arm felt heavier than usual. Her praise was simultaneously warming and suffocating. Shauna slid onto the bench, careful not to dislodge Jackie’s touch while creating enough space to breathe.

“What’s the competition?” Taissa asked, her practicality cutting through Jackie’s enthusiasm.

“Just a state thing,” Shauna answered before Jackie could elaborate. “Probably not a big deal.”

“Burns doesn’t waste time on things that aren’t a big deal,” Nat commented, twirling pasta on her fork without looking up. “If she singled you out, it means something.”

The observation was unexpectedly perceptive, a reminder that Nat noticed far more than she let on.

“What’s your story about?” Lottie asked, her gaze so direct that Shauna felt transparent.

“It’s a period piece about a girl who discovers her love for astronomy but has to pretend she’s a boy to study it,” Shauna explained, simplifying the layered metaphor that Ms. Burns had praised.

Van nodded. “Sounds cool. Like how women astronomers in history had to publish through their husbands or brothers.”

“Exactly,” Shauna confirmed, surprised by the connection.

“That’s my Ship, always with the feminist themes,” Jackie laughed, squeezing Shauna’s shoulders. “So intellectual.”

The praise felt genuine but diminishing, reducing her work to a personality trait.

Shauna glanced up and saw Melissa Bennett looking at her from three tables away. Unlike the admiration in Jackie’s expression, Melissa’s held something more specific—understanding, maybe. Recognition.

Melissa offered a small smile before returning to her conversation. The brief exchange left Shauna feeling seen and uncomfortably exposed, as if Melissa had read the fellowship information right through her notebook.

“Earth to Shauna,” Jackie waved a hand in front of Shauna’s face. “You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?”

“Sorry,” Shauna refocused. “I was thinking about the story.”

Jackie’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly. “I was saying we should celebrate. You, me, and Jeff this weekend. He mentioned a party at St. Joseph’s on Saturday.”

The invitation came with the usual unspoken expectation: Shauna would be the third wheel, watching Jackie and Jeff perform their relationship.

“I might need to work on the submission this weekend,” Shauna offered tentatively. “The deadline’s pretty soon.”

Before Jackie could respond, the bell signaled the end of lunch. The table was dispersed in a chaos of trays and backpacks, giving Shauna a moment’s reprieve.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Jackie said, kissing Shauna’s cheek before hurrying off. “Don’t forget practice after school!”

Shauna gathered her things slowly, creating distance. She had a free period next—a rare hour without Jackie’s gravitational pull.

Once the dining hall emptied, she walked to the central quad. The formal garden with its stone benches and careful geometry offered a place to be both present and alone. She settled on a bench beneath an old elm and opened her notebook, finding the fellowship application where she’d hidden it.

The paper felt substantial, not just for what it offered, but for what it represented: a future shaped by her own choices.

Shauna took out her journal—the leather-bound book Jackie had given her for Christmas, but never asked to read. The irony was not lost on her. She wrote quickly, without her usual careful editing:

Ms. Burns thinks I could win the Eleanor Wilkins Fellowship at Brown. Full tuition. A chance to be a writer—a real one.

If I apply, everything changes. If I win, there’s no going back to being Jackie’s shadow, her safety net. No more pretending Princeton is my dream, too.

But if I don’t try, I’ll always wonder.

Her pen hovered over the page before she added a final, startling thought: Maybe it’s time I wrote my own story, not just a part in hers.

She traced the words twice, pressing harder, as if to embed them on the page. The sentence was both terrifying and liberating.

Shauna closed the journal and slipped it back into her bag. The weight of her secrets felt real, but for the first time, it came with a strange possibility—as if by acknowledging what she wanted, she had made a space for it to exist.

The second bell rang, calling her back to the rigid schedule. As she walked toward the English building, Shauna felt a quiet resolve take root.

She would meet with Ms. Burns on Thursday. She would work on her portfolio. She would apply for the fellowship.

And then, whatever happened, the story would be her own.

***

Lottie POV

Colors danced across Lottie’s canvas, refusing to stay in their designated lines. The medication fog that usually dulled her world today refracted the afternoon, revealing layers invisible to others. Her brush moved with strange confidence, dragging crimson across shadow, turquoise bleeding into stone.

Behind her eyes, Wiskayok revealed its true nature. Not the picturesque Gothic beauty of the recruitment brochures, but a suffocating reality—angles that trapped, windows like vigilant eyes, and paths that promised freedom while leading nowhere.

Mr. Wolfe circled the studio, his steps distinct against the quiet scratch of charcoal and swish of brushes. Lottie didn’t need to turn when he paused behind her; the shift in the air announced his presence.

“The interplay of shadow and light here is remarkable, Lottie.” His voice carried genuine appreciation, not the cautious encouragement he gave other students. “You’ve captured something essential about this place.”

Lottie stepped back. The main building rose on her canvas, its spires like grasping fingers, its windows reflecting nothing while watching everything. Pathways curved invitingly before circling back on themselves, beautiful traps disguised as choices.

“I just paint what I see,” she murmured.

Mr. Wolfe leaned closer, studying the tiny figures she had worked into the architecture. “These are fascinating. Are they students?”

They were her teammates, each rendered as an essence. Jackie blazed as a bright flame at the center, casting impressive shadows. Shauna existed half-illuminated by Jackie’s light, half-emerging from her shadow. Nat appeared as sharp, decisive angles cutting through institutional boundaries.

“People I know,” Lottie answered, unwilling to expose the depth of her observation.

“Your technique has evolved since last spring.” Mr. Wolfe’s careful phrasing acknowledged her absence without naming it. “This perspective—it reminds me of work I saw in NYU’s studio program. Have you considered applying?”

NYU. Another institution. Her father would never allow it—too far from his control.

“My father has plans for me.” The words tasted bitter.

Mr. Wolfe nodded, understanding the unspoken constraints. “Well, talent like yours deserves development. Think about it.”

The bell’s harsh ring fractured the studio’s creative air. As students packed away supplies, Lottie lingered before her canvas, memorizing the clarity before the medication shifted again, before her father’s plans reasserted themselves over her vision.

The clarity from the art studio evaporated in Calculus. Numbers rearranged themselves on the whiteboard, equations morphing like living things. Lottie stared at her worksheet, pencil hovering as figures blurred.

6x² + 3x - 2 = 0

She blinked hard, trying to force the numbers to behave. For a fleeting moment, they aligned, the quadratic formula emerging like a constellation—negative b plus-or-minus the square root of...

Then the fog descended again. She pressed her pencil to the paper until the lead snapped, hoping the physical pressure might anchor the concept.

A different worksheet slid beside hers, neat calculations tracking each step. Lottie glanced sideways. It was Nat’s handwriting, essential steps highlighted with subtle underlines.

“Add these values first,” Nat whispered, leaning close enough that her breath stirred the hair at Lottie’s ear. “Then apply the formula. It’s just mechanical.”

Nat passed her a pencil, their fingers brushing. The small contact sent a current of clarity through Lottie’s fog—brief but profound. She focused on the pressure of Nat’s pencil, using the sensation to ground her attention.

When Ms. Rivera called for solutions, Lottie had completed three problems. Not understanding, perhaps, but accomplishing. A different kind of victory.

After class, as students streamed out, Lottie returned Nat’s pencil. Their fingers connected again.

“Thank you,” she said, the words carrying more weight than the simple act. “When the numbers start swimming, I can’t—”

“No big deal,” Nat shrugged, though her expression held something other than dismissal. “Sometimes we all need someone to show us the path when things get foggy.”

The metaphor was not lost on Lottie. Before she could respond, a familiar voice shattered the moment.

“What an interesting study arrangement.”

Misty Quigley materialized beside them, a clipboard clutched to her chest. Her oversized glasses magnified eyes that darted between them with a cool assessment.

“I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been spending significant time together.” The emphasis vibrated with implication. “As your Resident Advisor, I feel I should mention that certain special friendships might distract from academic success.”

Heat prickled across Lottie’s skin. Misty’s gaze drifted upward.

“Especially those conducted in unauthorized areas after curfew.”

The roof. Their private sanctuary. Exposed.

Lottie’s throat tightened. How many nights had Misty watched them? What had she seen? The shared cigarettes, the whispered confidences, the hesitant kiss that tasted of smoke and possibility?

“I’m helping Lottie with math,” Nat countered, her voice level, though a muscle tightened in her jaw. “Peer tutoring is encouraged.”

Misty’s smile stretched thin. “Of course! I’m all for appropriate student support. I just want to remind you both that I have a responsibility to report concerning behavior.”

Each word landed like a small, hard stone. Misty nodded primly and walked away, her shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

The corridor suddenly seemed too narrow. Lottie’s chest constricted as anxiety spiraled from her core. Her fingers trembled, finding the pill case in her pocket—the emergency medication her father insisted she carry.

“Don’t,” Nat said quietly, her hand covering Lottie’s. “They’re already messing with your head enough.”

“But if I start panicking—”

“Misty’s testing boundaries. That’s what she does.” Nat’s fingers remained warm over Lottie’s. “You don’t need to drug yourself every time someone makes you uncomfortable. It’s your body and your mind. Not theirs.”

Not theirs. The concept felt revolutionary.

Lottie hesitated, then returned the case to her pocket. The anxiety remained, but something else flickered alongside it—defiance. Ownership.

“You okay?” Nat asked, studying her face.

“Not really,” Lottie admitted. The honesty was progress. “But maybe that’s okay.”

The dining hall buzzed with afternoon activity. Lottie followed Nat through the food line, their trays sliding along metal rails.

The pill case was a weight in Lottie’s pocket. It was time for her dinner medication—the heaviest dose, the one that ensured dreamless sleep and dulled her perceptions until morning. The one her father insisted was non-negotiable.

A tangle of overlapping voices surrounded them. Nat pointed toward an empty corner table.

“Look, space over there.”

As they moved between tables, Lottie made her decision. She slipped the blue and white capsule from its compartment. When Nat paused to greet Van, creating a momentary shield, Lottie’s hand moved with purpose.

The pill dropped into a trash can, disappearing among discarded napkins. Gone.

Her hand was steady—steadier than it had been all day. The small rebellion carried enormous significance. It was a choice about her own mind.

They settled at the corner table. Nat talked about soccer practice while Lottie experienced the novel sensation of choice. Not rebellion for its own sake, but discernment—deciding which constraints served her and which served others’ control.

“I need to see clearly,” she said softly, more to herself than to Nat. “Even if it’s just for a little while.”

Beneath the table, she reached for Nat’s hand, giving it a small squeeze. Nat’s fingers interlaced with hers, returning the pressure.

For the first time since returning to Wiskayok, Lottie felt truly present—in this moment, in her body, in her own mind. Whatever came next, she would face it on her terms.

***

Jackie POV

Jackie positioned her laptop with precision—centered on her desk, aligned with the edge. The Princeton crest gleamed on her screen. She placed her phone beside it at a perfect right angle as her mother’s name lit up the display.

She touched her hair, checked her posture, and took a breath before answering.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Jacqueline.” Her mother’s voice was as efficient as it was in committee hearings. “I’ve been trying to reach you for twenty minutes.”

“Sorry, I was at soccer practice.” Jackie swiveled in her chair, her eyes flicking to the untouched Princeton application on her desk.

“Well, I’m glad I caught you. You’ll never guess who I ran into at the Women’s Leadership luncheon.”

Jackie straightened. “Who?”

“Meredith Caldwell. The Princeton soccer coach.”

Something cold settled in Jackie’s stomach. “Oh?”

“Frankly, Jacqueline, I was surprised she spent most of our conversation discussing Shauna Shipman and that Bennett girl’s performance, not yours.”

The words landed like individual blows. Jackie’s fingers tightened on her phone.

“She was probably just being polite,” she managed. “Since you were asking about the team.”

“I wasn’t asking about the team. I was asking about you.” Her mother’s voice sharpened. “Do you understand what is at stake here? Despite our family legacy, your admission isn’t guaranteed.”

Jackie swallowed. “I know, Mom.”

“Your father’s contributions only open the door—you have to prove you deserve to walk through it.”

Her mother shifted into what Jackie privately called her “Senate floor cadence”—measured, authoritative, with strategic pauses.

“Your academic performance is merely adequate. Your leadership positions are important, but Princeton gets applications from class presidents across the country. What makes you stand out?”

Jackie stared at her application, its blank sections mocking her. “I’m working on my personal statement.”

“Good. And I hope you’re keeping your grades up. Professor Harmon mentioned your last literature paper wasn’t up to your usual standard.”

Of course. Her mother’s college roommate had reported back on the A-minus.

“It was still an A-minus,” Jackie said, immediately regretting her defensive tone.

“Princeton doesn’t settle for ’minus’ anything.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Have you styled your hair differently?” her mother continued. “It looked a little scraggly in that team photo the school posted. You should book an appointment.”

Jackie’s hand went to her strawberry blonde hair. “That picture was after practice, Mom.”

“Well, remember that appearances matter. Speaking of which, how are things with Jeff?”

The pivot was so abrupt that Jackie needed a moment. “Fine.”

“Just fine? Barbara mentioned he’s planning something this weekend.”

Great. Jeff’s mother was reporting to hers.

“We’re just hanging out at St. Joseph’s,” Jackie said carefully.

“You should wear the blue dress we bought in Boston. It photographs well.”

Jackie closed her eyes. “It’s a casual thing, Mom.”

“There is no such thing as ’just casual’ when building your personal brand, Jacqueline. Dating someone appropriate is part of the package.”

The way she said “appropriate” made Jackie’s skin crawl.

“I need to go. I have a student council meeting.”

“Of course. Your father sends his love. We’re both very proud of how you’re representing the Taylor name.”

The practiced line felt heavy. Jackie knew exactly what made them proud—and what did not.

“Thanks, Mom. Love you too.”

“Princeton by spring, Jackie. Eyes on the prize.”

“Always.”

After ending the call, Jackie sat motionless, staring at the application. Her chest tightened. She tried to count her breaths, but the walls of her perfectly decorated room seemed to press inward.

She needed air. Space.

Without conscious thought, Jackie climbed the maintenance stairs hidden behind a third-floor storage closet. Three flights up, past the “Authorized Personnel Only” sign, and through the service door with its broken lock. Then—open sky.

The copper roof spread before her, patinated green in the afternoon sun. She moved carefully across the gentle slope toward a secluded alcove between two dormers, a place where she could see the campus without being seen.

As she rounded the corner, she stopped.

Nat Scatorccio sat perched on the edge, legs dangling over empty space, a cigarette balanced between her fingers. Her bleached hair caught the light, creating an absurd halo for Wiskayok’s resident troublemaker.

Jackie froze. This was her sanctuary, and Natalie Scatorccio—the antithesis of everything Jackie was—had found her in a moment of weakness.

Nat turned, one eyebrow raised. “Well, if it isn’t Wiskayok royalty.”

“I didn’t know anyone was up here,” Jackie said, her captain’s voice asserting itself by reflex.

“Clearly.” Nat took a long drag from her cigarette. “Figured you’d be too busy polishing your Princeton application.”

Jackie bristled. “I was just getting some air.”

“Mmm.” Nat studied her with an uncomfortable intensity. “Why do you look like you’re about to shatter into a thousand perfect pieces?”

The question was so unexpected and so accurate that something inside Jackie cracked. The defenses she had maintained through years of her mother’s scrutiny and her father’s conditional approval—they were suddenly too heavy.

“My mother ran into the Princeton soccer coach,” Jackie said, the words spilling out. “Apparently, all she could talk about was Shauna and Melissa.”

She stepped closer to the edge, staring out at the campus that felt more like a prison than a kingdom.

“God, I sound pathetic. Poor little rich girl upset that someone else got complimented.”

Nat shrugged. “Doesn’t sound pathetic. Sounds human.”

“My whole life is supposed to lead to Princeton. My father went there. My grandfather went there.”

“And if you don’t go?”

Jackie laughed without humor. “Not an option.”

“There are always options,” Nat said, offering the cigarette.

Jackie hesitated, then took it. She rarely smoked—bad for conditioning, bad for appearances—but right now, she didn’t care. She inhaled awkwardly, fighting the urge to cough.

“Easy there, Princess.” Nat’s smirk held a trace of amusement. “You’ll survive one cigarette.”

“Will I survive not being perfect?” Jackie hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Nat’s expression shifted, her usual cynicism giving way to something more thoughtful.

“You know, all these places—Wiskayok, Princeton—they’re just different versions of the same cage.”

“At least my prison comes with a trust fund,” Jackie attempted a joke.

“True,” Nat nodded. “But a cage is still a cage, right?”

The simple observation unlocked something. Jackie found herself talking about the weight of it all—her mother’s constant criticism disguised as support, the exhausting performance of “Jackie Taylor, Future Princeton Tiger.”

“It’s like I’m this product they’ve been designing since I was born,” she confessed. “And now they’re worried I’m not measuring up.”

Nat listened with surprising attention. “At least you know your script. Some of us have to make it up as we go.”

“Is that better?” Jackie asked, genuinely curious.

“Freedom’s overrated when you’re mostly free to fuck up,” Nat said. After a moment, she added, “But at least my mistakes are mine.”

It struck Jackie that they were both performers, trapped by different expectations.

“So what’s with you and Jeff?” Nat asked abruptly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the way you look when he touches you versus when Shauna does.”

Jackie’s heart hammered against her ribs. “I don’t—”

“Relax, Taylor. I’m not the morality police.” Nat flicked her cigarette butt into the distance. “Just an observation.”

The words tumbled out. “I feel nothing when he touches me.”

The confession hung between them, terrifying in its honesty. Jackie immediately tried to backtrack.

“I mean, he’s great. Obviously. Really nice. Good family. It’s probably just stress or—”

“Or maybe you’re just not into him,” Nat said with a shrug. “Not a felony.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It never is.” Nat stretched out her legs. “Sometimes we’re so busy being who everyone needs us to be, we forget to figure out who we are.”

“And who are you?” Jackie asked, curiosity overriding her caution.

Nat’s smile was crooked, revealing a vulnerability Jackie had never seen. “Still figuring that out. But I know who I’m not. That’s a start.”

As twilight painted the campus buildings in soft gold, Jackie realized they had been talking for nearly two hours. Something had shifted between them. Not friendship, but recognition.

Before they parted, Jackie asked, “How do you do it? Be so unapologetically yourself?”

Nat’s laugh was genuine but tinged with sadness. “Who says I am? Maybe I’m just better at faking it than you.”

As she climbed down the stairs, Jackie felt lighter, despite the application waiting on her desk. For the first time, she allowed herself to wonder not just about her Princeton path, but about who she might be without the Taylor name scripting her every move.

Behind her pristine exterior, questions bloomed that she had never permitted herself to ask.

***

Shauna POV

Shauna nestled deeper into the worn leather chair behind the last row of Medieval Literature stacks. The corner was perfect—hidden from the main study tables, bathed in the golden light of a brass reading lamp. She ran her fingers over the Brown University application prompts, the paper soft from countless readings.

Her phone vibrated again. The fifth text from Jackie in thirty minutes. Shauna glanced at it, then turned it face down on the polished oak. The quiet enveloped her like a shield.

The words flowed tonight, an essay exploring institutional expectations versus personal authenticity. She paused to reread a paragraph, wondering how much of herself she was revealing:

“We construct identities like architectural fronts, presenting only what others expect to see. The true self exists in the hidden corridors, in spaces where expectation falls away...”

Footsteps echoed on the library’s marble floor, growing closer. Shauna froze. She quickly slid the Brown application beneath her open English textbook, her heart hammering.

Melissa Bennett appeared between the stacks, a pile of film theory books on her hip. Her backward baseball cap cast a shadow over her face, making her amber eyes seem darker. Those eyes landed on Shauna’s textbook—and on the corner of glossy brown paper peeking out from beneath it.

Shauna held her breath, her fingers tightening on her pen.

Melissa said nothing about the logo. Instead, she gestured to the empty chair. “Mind if I join you? The lighting’s better here.” Her voice held no judgment.

“Sure.” Shauna’s voice came out softer than intended.

Melissa settled across from her. “This corner is Wiskayok’s best-kept secret. Everyone fights over the main tables, but this spot has the best lamp.”

The brass lamp cast a warm circle of light around them, creating a pocket of intimacy in the vast library.

“I didn’t think anyone else knew about it,” Shauna admitted, relaxing slightly.

“Found it freshman year. Needed to escape my roommate’s constant facetiming with her boyfriend.” Melissa shrugged, opening a notebook filled with meticulous annotations. “Been coming here ever since.”

They worked in companionable silence. Shauna found herself stealing glances at Melissa’s concentrated expression, the way she occasionally mouthed words as she read. She seemed completely comfortable in her own skin—something Shauna hadn’t felt since she was a child.

“Kurosawa’s use of negative space,” Melissa murmured, almost to herself, “tells you more than what’s in the frame.”

Shauna looked up. “That’s true in writing, too. What’s left unsaid often matters more.”

Melissa met her eyes with new interest. “You’re into narrative theory?”

“Not formally. I just read a lot.”

“And write?” Melissa’s gaze flickered to Shauna’s notebook.

Normally, Shauna would deflect. Instead, she nodded. “Yeah. I write.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Essays, mostly. Some short fiction.” Shauna shifted. “Nothing special.”

“I doubt that.” Melissa leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Ms. Cromwell mentioned your work in Comp Lit last week. Said you have a ’distinctive voice.’ She doesn’t throw around compliments.”

Heat crept up Shauna’s neck. “She’s just being nice.”

“Ms. Cromwell? Nice?” Melissa laughed softly. “She once told me my analysis of Rear Window had ’moments of adequacy.’”

Shauna smiled.

“So...” Melissa closed her book, giving Shauna her full attention. “College applications?”

The directness startled Shauna. Her eyes darted to her hidden papers.

“It’s cool,” Melissa added quickly. “I’m already researching for next year. NYU’s film program.”

“NYU?” Shauna relaxed. “That’s impressive.”

“My parents are pushing for something ’practical’ at a state school,” Melissa said, her fingers sketching air quotes. “But sometimes you have to choose your own path, even when it disappoints people.”

The statement settled between them, heavy with a meaning Shauna couldn’t misunderstand.

“What about you?” Melissa asked. “Where are you applying?”

“Princeton,” the expected answer came automatically. “And... other places.”

“Like Brown?” Melissa’s voice held only gentle curiosity.

Shauna hesitated, then slowly pulled the application from beneath her textbook. “Their writing program is amazing.”

“Does Jackie know?”

The question hit like a physical blow. Shauna’s silence was the only answer needed.

“Sorry,” Melissa backtracked. “None of my business.”

“No, it’s just...” Shauna struggled to articulate the web of loyalty, dependence, and expectation that defined her relationship with Jackie. “We’ve always had this plan. Princeton together.”

“And what do you want?”

No one had ever asked her that so directly. The question unlocked something in Shauna’s chest.

“I want to write,” she said, the words tumbling out. “Really write. Brown has this fellowship for women writers. They pair you with published authors.”

Melissa nodded, genuinely interested. “What kind of writing?”

Another question no one ever asked. Jackie bragged about her grades but never about the content.

“Mainly short stories and essays,” Shauna explained. “I’m working on a piece about how we perform versions of ourselves.”

“That sounds fascinating.” Melissa leaned forward. “Would you... Let me read something?”

The request was so unexpected that Shauna found herself nodding. She had never shown her personal writing to anyone. Yet here she was, sliding her notebook across the table to a girl she barely knew.

Melissa read silently, her expression changing—eyebrows lifting, lips parting in what seemed to be genuine appreciation.

“This is...” Melissa looked up, her eyes bright. “You’re incredible. The way you construct these parallel narratives—the external performance versus the internal reality. It’s so precise.”

Something warm bloomed in Shauna’s chest. This wasn’t praise for being “Jackie’s smart friend.” This was recognition of her voice.

“I especially like this section.” Melissa pointed to a paragraph. “The metaphor about institutional architecture reflecting psychological constraints—that’s brilliant.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Have you considered publishing any of this?”

Shauna laughed nervously. “No one would want to read my stuff.”

“I strongly disagree.” Melissa passed the notebook back. “Oh, I meant to tell you—there’s a professor from Brown coming next month for a writing workshop. I’m helping organize it.”

“From Brown?” Shauna couldn’t mask her interest.

“Professor Helen Moreno. She specializes in memoir and short stories.” Melissa smiled. “You should come. I think she’d be really impressed.”

“Yeah... I’d like that,” Shauna said, enthusiasm surprising her.

“Great.” Melissa’s smile widened. “We could go together.”

The suggestion of plans without Jackie felt both terrifying and exhilarating. Shauna nodded as Melissa slid her phone over.

“Here. Put your number in.”

As Shauna took the phone, their fingers brushed. An unexpected current went up her arm. She glanced up to find Melissa watching her, the amber in her eyes catching the lamplight. The air between them thickened.

Shauna typed her number with trembling fingers. When she finished, the world around them—the towering bookshelves, the distant whispers, Jackie’s unanswered texts—seemed to recede.

A brief quiet fell. Shauna’s gaze drifted from Melissa’s eyes to her lips. She had a sudden, powerful urge to lean across the table and kiss her. The thought surprised her with its fierce clarity. It felt inevitable.

Shauna began to lean forward; the table was no longer a barrier, but a bridge. The lamplight gilded Melissa’s face, highlighting the slight parting of her lips as she mirrored the movement. For a suspended moment, Shauna forgot everything—Jackie, Princeton, the carefully constructed boundaries of her life.

“Shipman!” Jackie’s voice cut through the library’s hushed atmosphere like a blade. “There you are.”

Shauna jerked back, nearly knocking over her chair. Heat flooded her face. Jackie strode between the bookshelves, her confident posture seeming out of place in the intimate space.

“I’ve been texting you for an hour.” Jackie’s voice carried that familiar blend of concern and accusation. She stopped when she noticed Melissa, her smile tightening. “Oh. Bennett. Didn’t see you there.”

“Taylor.” Melissa nodded, her expression neutral as she leaned back. “We were just discussing the Literary Society workshop.”

Jackie’s gaze flicked between them. “Literary workshop? You didn’t mention that to me, Ship.”

“I just found out,” Shauna managed, her voice strange. She could still feel the ghost of the interrupted kiss in the air.

“Professor Moreno from Brown is running it,” Melissa explained, her calm a contrast to the tension vibrating through Shauna. “I thought Shauna might be interested.”

“Brown?” Jackie’s eyebrow rose. “Why would Shauna care about a professor from Brown?”

Shauna’s heart hammered. She scrambled for a response. “It’s not about the school. Just the workshop. She’s supposed to be really good.”

Jackie’s eyes narrowed slightly before her expression reset into a controlled smile. “Well, that’s great. Shauna deserves recognition.” She placed a hand on Shauna’s shoulder, the touch both possessive and affectionate. “Though we probably need to check our calendar. Jeff mentioned a formal at St. Joseph’s around then.”

The weight of expectation settled back onto Shauna’s shoulders.

“The workshop is on the 15th,” Melissa said, gathering her books. “For planning purposes.”

“Great,” Jackie replied with artificial brightness. “We’ll check.” She turned to Shauna. “Ready for dinner? The team’s waiting.”

Shauna nodded, tucking the Brown application into her textbook. As she stood, she caught Melissa’s eye—a look that conveyed understanding without pity. Something passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of what almost happened.

“Thanks for the info,” Shauna said, trying to infuse the words with deeper meaning. “I’ll text you.”

Melissa nodded, a slight smile at the corners of her mouth. “Looking forward to it.”

Jackie’s hand slid to Shauna’s lower back, guiding her toward the exit. As they moved between the stacks, Jackie leaned close.

“Since when are you and Bennett such good friends?” she whispered, her tone light but with an undercurrent Shauna knew all too well.

“We’re not. She just had information about the workshop.” The lie tasted bitter.

Jackie hummed noncommittally. “Well, it was nice of her to think of you. A little strange, don’t you think? An eleventh grader is suddenly so interested in your writing?”

Before Shauna could respond, they emerged into the main hallway. The moment to explain vanished as Jackie seamlessly transitioned into her captain persona.

As they walked to the dining hall, Shauna felt the ghost of what almost happened—Melissa’s amber eyes, the warmth, the expansive feeling in her chest—and tucked it away with her Brown application. Another secret to carry. Another version of herself is hidden from view.

She glanced back once, catching a glimpse of Melissa through the library doors as she repositioned the lamp, reclaiming the corner for herself. For a brief moment, their eyes met across the distance, and Shauna again felt that peculiar sensation of being truly seen.

Then Jackie’s arm slipped through hers, pulling her forward, away from possibilities that had no place in their planned future.

Chapter Text

Van POV

Van’s fingers pushed Taissa’s handwritten map deeper into their blazer pocket. They glanced over their shoulder before veering off the main path. The fading October light slanted through the trees, stretching shadows across the uneven ground. The way the branches swayed overhead made the forest feel both protective and watchful.

“Three hundred paces past the east maintenance shed, turn left at the split oak,” Van muttered. They had the instructions memorized, but their own voice was a small comfort in the growing darkness.

Ahead, the oak with its Y-shaped trunk stood out against the dimming sky. Van turned, counting steps again, scanning for the landmarks Tai had described: the fallen log, the cluster of white birches, the hollow where an old well had been.

Every snapped twig, every rustle of leaves, sent a jolt through them. Their heart hammered. If Misty caught them, it meant more than detention. It meant her knowing smirk, the crisp notation on her clipboard, a “casual” mention to the administration about “concerning patterns.”

God, they’d had too many close calls.

The equipment closet by the gym had seemed safe until Coach Ben started using it for extra storage. The unused language lab worked for a week, but then the AV club decided to repurpose it. Even the hidden library stacks became a risk after Misty implemented “random literary wellness checks” that always seemed to coincide with their meetings in the French poetry section.

The basement disaster was the most recent. Five minutes into what promised to be their first real privacy in weeks, Misty’s voice had echoed down the stairs. Her flashlight beam cut through the dark on a “routine infrastructure assessment.” They’d barely escaped through the laundry chute—Taissa’s quick thinking saved them from certain documentation.

Van stepped over a fallen branch and ducked under low pine boughs. According to the map, they were close. The tightness in their chest eased slightly at the thought of seeing Taissa without the strained performance of casual friendship.

The trees thinned, revealing a small clearing where a stone building nestled against a hillside. In the dusk, it looked like something from a storybook—weathered gray stones, small windows of wavy glass, a slate roof coated in brown pine needles.

Van approached cautiously, noting how concealed it was. From any other angle, the cottage blended into the forest. Even knowing it was there, a person would struggle to spot it from twenty yards away.

The heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing a flickering golden light inside.

“Tai?” they called softly, stepping into unexpected warmth.

Taissa stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the glow of battery-powered lanterns. She had transformed the abandoned space. The floors were swept, the windows were clean, a stack of blankets sat in one corner, and a small table with two chairs stood waiting—she must have carried them from somewhere on campus.

“Welcome to our new headquarters,” Taissa said. Her normally serious face broke into a rare, unguarded smile. “Found it three mornings ago on my run. It doesn’t appear on any campus map dated after 1990.”

Van turned slowly, taking in the stone fireplace, the old woodstove, the shelves built into the wall. “What is this place?”

“Old groundskeeper’s cottage, I’m guessing. Far enough from any patrol route to be off Misty’s radar, but close enough to reach in fifteen minutes.” Taissa’s voice held the precise, strategic tone she used for soccer plays. “Structurally sound, totally forgotten, and—” she paused for effect, “—completely unmonitored.”

Van let their fingers trail over the rough stone wall, feeling its coolness. “How did you even find it?”

“I’ve been mapping the property line for weeks, looking for blind spots in their surveillance.” Taissa shrugged as if this level of calculated planning was normal. “It sits in a hollow that can’t be seen from any campus building, and the trees shield it from aerial view.”

“This is...” Van struggled for a word big enough for the gift Taissa had given them.

“Defensible,” Taissa finished, crossing the room to take Van’s hands. “A perfect headquarters. And perfect for the support group we talked about starting.”

The mention of the group made Van’s pulse quicken. “You really think we could pull that off?”

“I’ve been working on getting the word out.” Taissa released Van’s hands, retrieving a notebook from her backpack. “We need to be strategic. Start with people we trust. Use coded language.”

Van nodded, impressed but not surprised. “Nat would help. And I think Shauna would be an ally.” They hesitated. “Melissa, too, maybe.”

“I’ve been thinking about communications.” Taissa flipped the notebook open, revealing pages analyzing information flow on campus. “Notes in specific library books. Symbols in certain bathroom stalls. References to ’study groups’ with locations coded by literary works.”

Van realized this plan had been in motion for weeks, long before the cottage was found. The detailed contingencies spoke of long hours of thought.

“I have something else for you,” Taissa said suddenly, setting the notebook aside. Her expression softened, becoming almost vulnerable. She reached behind the table and produced a shopping bag from a store in town.

“What’s this?”

“Picked it up last weekend.” Taissa handed them the bag, her face displaying an uncharacteristic nervousness. “You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to.”

Van peered into the bag, then drew out its contents with trembling hands. Dark, straight-cut jeans. A blue button-down shirt. A simple gray sweater. Plain black sneakers. Clothes that weren’t explicitly masculine, but were an entire world away from the feminine attire required by Wiskayok’s dress code.

“These are...” Emotion closed their throat. They had never said exactly what clothes they wished they could wear, but somehow Taissa knew.

“I notice how you look at the clothes in the boys’ section,” Taissa said quietly. “And you’re always in the baggiest uniform pieces you can find.”

Van clutched the clothes to their chest. “I can try them on?”

“That’s the point of this place,” Taissa said, gesturing to the small bedroom. “No one to tell you what to wear. Who to be.”

The bedroom was even smaller than the main room, but another lantern inside cast a warm light across the walls. A cracked mirror—salvaged, Van guessed—hung on one wall.

They changed quickly. The unfamiliar fabrics felt strange. The jeans sat differently on their hips than the uniform skirt, and the button-down shirt draped from their shoulders without pinching at the chest, unlike the school blouses.

When they finally faced the mirror, Van froze.

The person looking back was both a stranger and the most familiar face they had ever seen. Without the uniform’s deliberate femininity, their body told a different story—one that felt true in a way they’d never been able to name.

“Can I come in?” Taissa called softly.

“Yeah,” Van answered, their voice faint.

Taissa stepped into the doorway. Her expression shifted from curiosity to recognition.

“There you are,” she said simply.

Two tears slipped down Van’s cheeks. Three words that held everything—acknowledgment of what had been hidden, and celebration of what was finally visible.

Taissa crossed to them, reaching up to gently pull the elastic from Van’s ponytail. Their reddish-brown curls fell around their shoulders.

“May I?” she asked, running her fingers through Van’s hair.

Van nodded, watching in the mirror as Taissa gathered their hair, smoothing it back and twisting it into a tight, low bun at the base of their neck.

The effect was startling. With their hair pulled back, the illusion of a shorter cut transformed their faces, emphasizing their angles and strength.

“It’s like seeing myself for the first time,” Van whispered, turning to see their profile.

Taissa’s hands settled on their shoulders, her reflection appearing behind them in the mirror. “Is it what you imagined?”

“I didn’t know what to imagine,” Van swallowed. “I just knew what felt wrong.”

They stood together, studying the reflection. Van realized this was the first time they had looked in a mirror at Wiskayok without that immediate sense of wrongness.

“Come sit,” Taissa said finally, leading them back to the main room. She wrapped a blanket around them as they settled on the floor, leaning against the wall.

“When did you know?” Taissa asked after a few minutes of quiet, her head resting on Van’s shoulder.

Van considered it, tracing patterns on Taissa’s palm. “Not one moment. More like a thousand little ones where things just didn’t fit.” They paused. “Remember when we were fifteen, Ms. Sanders had us write ’I am’ statements for that poetry assignment?”

Taissa nodded.

“I stared at the paper for the whole period. Couldn’t write a line. Everyone else filled pages, but I couldn’t make myself write ’I am a girl’ or ’I am a daughter.’ I ended up writing about being a goalkeeper. Ms. Sanders said I’d ’missed the point.’”

A smile touched Taissa’s face. “But you hadn’t.”

“No. I think that was the first time I consciously avoided defining myself in a way that felt wrong.” Van took a deep breath. “But it wasn’t until I said the words out loud to you a few weeks ago that I really let myself accept it.”

That night, whispering “I don’t feel like a ’Miss’ anything,” had created a boundary in their life: before and after.

“And now?” Taissa prompted gently. “How are you feeling about it?”

Van leaned their head against the stone wall. “It’s like finding a word for something you’ve felt your whole life. But it’s also terrifying.” Their voice dropped. “To be trans at Wiskayok... I can’t even picture it.”

“You’re not alone,” Taissa said firmly. “That’s why we’re making this group. There have to be others feeling the same way.”

“What if there aren’t? What if I’m the only—”

“You’re not.” Taissa’s certainty was absolute. “Statistically impossible. And besides, I’ve been watching. There are signs, if you know what to look for.”

Van raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“The way Melissa Bennett always wears the ’male staff permitted’ dress shoes. Or how Mari’s roommate Elena has started asking to be called E.” Taissa’s voice carried total conviction. “People find ways to be themselves, even here.”

The thought that others might be fighting similar battles sent a wave of hope and fear through Van.

“So we create a network,” Taissa continued, her mind mapping possibilities. “People who support each other. Share resources. Warn about administrative surveillance. Maybe eventually, we push for real policy changes.”

“You really think that’s possible?”

“Not right away. We start small. We build alliances, document issues, and find faculty supporters.” Taissa spoke with such confidence that Van almost believed it was inevitable. “Coach Ben wouldn’t report us. Ms. Burns in Creative Writing has a rainbow pin on her desk—I’ve seen it. There are allies.”

Van turned, studying the determined set of Taissa’s jaw. “You’ve really thought all this through.”

“Of course.” Taissa’s voice softened. “This matters. You matter.”

The simple declaration hung in the air. For the first time, Van felt a fragile warmth unfurl in their chest—hope, maybe. Or the beginnings of belonging.

“I’m still scared,” Van admitted. “What if someone finds out? What if my mother can’t accept it? What if—” They broke off, the biggest fear unspoken. What if you decide it’s too complicated to love me?

Taissa seemed to hear it anyway. She faced Van, taking both their hands. “Look at me. Whatever happens, we face it together. That’s non-negotiable.”

Van searched Taissa’s face and found no doubt. Just the determination that had first drawn them to her on the soccer field—Taissa Turner, who saw obstacles as problems to solve.

“Okay,” Van said, squeezing her hands. “A secret LGBTQ+ support group in an abandoned cottage that doesn’t officially exist, at a school that still has rules against ’inappropriate same-sex fraternization,’ with a resident advisor who treats rules like a religion.”

A slow smile spread across Taissa’s face. “Exactly. How hard could it be?”

The absurdity hit Van, and a genuine, unrestrained laugh escaped them. Taissa joined in, her serious expression dissolving into mirth.

When their laughter quieted, Van wiped tears from their eyes and looked around the cottage again. It was more than a hiding place. It was a beginning. A space where truth could exist.

“So,” Van said, gesturing to their new clothes. “What do you think? Really?”

Taissa took her time, her gaze traveling from Van’s face to their shoes and back again, not with assessment, but with a kind of wonder.

“I think,” she said, “that I’m watching you become more yourself every day. And it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Van’s face grew warm at the uncharacteristically poetic statement. “Even with the complications?”

“Especially with them.” Taissa’s mouth quirked. “Living authentically at Wiskayok is practically an act of revolution.”

Van sobered. “You know I couldn’t wear these on campus.”

“Not yet,” Taissa agreed. “But having a place where you can be yourself, even for a few hours—that matters. It’s a start.”

Van looked down at their hands, intertwined with Taissa’s. “Yeah. It’s a start.”

A surge of contentment settled over them. The rigid lines of the Academy were banished beyond the cottage walls. Twilight filtered through the windows, wrapping them in a miraculous privacy.

“You know,” Taissa said, a slight hesitation in her voice, “I have one more surprise.”

Van raised their eyebrows as Taissa reached for her backpack. “Another one? You’ll spoil me.”

“That’s the plan,” Taissa replied, a hint of nerves beneath her confidence.

She withdrew a smaller, plain black bag. Her anxiety was unusual; Van had rarely seen her girlfriend anything but self-assured.

“What is it?” Van asked.

Taissa took a breath. “Something we’ve talked about, but never had the chance to... try.”

Van’s breath caught as Taissa pulled out a harness—black nylon straps and a removable ring—and a dildo in a deep blue. The objects lay in her hands, both ordinary and extraordinary, in the lantern light.

“Is that—?” Van’s throat went dry.

“Yeah,” Taissa nodded, her composure returning as she read Van’s reaction. “Ordered it online last month. Had to bribe Derek at the package depot with cigarettes and cover his weekend shift. Told him it was art supplies.”

Van’s laugh was breathless. “He believed that?”

“No,” Taissa smiled. “But he believed the fifty bucks I slipped him. Some things are worth the investment.”

Van reached out, fingers tracing the edge of the harness. The material was substantial, yet flexible. Taissa had clearly put thought into this.

“I know we talked about using toys,” Taissa continued softly. “I thought maybe we could... christen the cottage with it.” Her eyes met Van’s. “Only if you want to.”

A mix of nerves, excitement, and something profoundly affirming swirled through Van. The thought of wearing it sent a thrill of recognition through their body, connecting with something that had always been there.

“Can I...” Van hesitated, “Would you be okay if I wore it? First, I mean?”

The smile that spread across Taissa’s face was pure desire. “I’m more than okay with that,” she said, her voice dropping lower. “I’ve been fantasizing about it.”

“You have?” Warmth spread through Van’s chest.

Taissa moved closer, her leg pressing against theirs. “Ever since you first mentioned it. The way your eyes lit up... I couldn’t stop thinking about how you’d look.” She placed the harness in Van’s hands. “How you’d feel, being exactly who you want to be with me.”

Van’s fingers closed around the straps, their heart racing. The anxiety that had been a constant companion—the feeling of being neither a girl nor a boy, but something in between—loosened its grip, making room for the exhilarating tension of desire.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” Van admitted.

“Neither do I,” Taissa said with a quiet laugh. “We’ll figure it out together. Like everything else.”

Van leaned forward and closed the distance. The kiss began gently, a question, but deepened as Taissa responded with enthusiasm. Van’s free hand found Taissa’s waist, pulling her closer, the harness clutched in their other hand like a promise.

Taissa’s fingers tangled in Van’s hair, loosening the bun until curls fell around their face. The sensation of Taissa’s body pressing against theirs felt different in these clothes—the flat front of the pants, the straight cut of the shirt creating new points of contact, new sensations that made Van’s breath catch.

“Bedroom?” Taissa murmured.

Van nodded, not trusting their voice. They moved in a slow, stumbling dance toward the alcove. Taissa’s hands slid under Van’s button-down, her fingers tracing the curve of their spine, sending shivers across their skin.

In the bedroom, a single lantern cast shadows on the walls. An old futon mattress covered in clean sheets waited for them. Van set the harness and dildo beside it, then turned back to Taissa.

“Are you sure?” Van asked, needing one final confirmation.

Taissa answered by reaching for the buttons of Van’s shirt. “Completely sure,” she said, pushing the fabric from their shoulders. “I want to see all of you, exactly as you are.”

Van’s breath stuttered. Usually, undressing brought a wave of disconnection. But tonight, with Taissa’s gaze on them and the harness waiting, it was different. Their body wasn’t wrong; it was simply theirs.

They reached for the hem of Taissa’s sweater. “Then I want to see you too.”

Clothes fell to the floor. When they both stood nearly naked, Taissa reached for the harness. “Let me help,” she said, her voice low and intimate.

Van nodded as Taissa knelt before them. She guided them to step into it, her fingers brushing their skin with each adjustment. Taissa’s touch, her tender focus, made them shiver.

“Lift a little,” she instructed softly, helping position the harness. It settled securely against their hips, a foreign but right-feeling extension of themselves.

Taissa fitted the dildo into the ring, her movements confident. When she finished, she sat back on her heels, her eyes traveling slowly up Van’s body. An expression of desire and profound appreciation made Van feel seen in a way they never had before.

“God, you look handsome,” Taissa whispered.

Handsome. Not beautiful, not pretty. The word settled into Van’s chest and found a home.

A wide, unguarded smile spread across Van’s face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Taissa confirmed, rising to her feet. She placed her hands on Van’s shoulders. “So handsome, it’s driving me crazy.”

Warmth coursed through Van. They pulled Taissa close, their lips meeting with renewed urgency. The harness altered the way their bodies pressed against each other, creating new sensations.

They moved toward the mattress, Taissa guiding them down until Van lay on their back, Taissa straddling their hips. The sight of her above them, skin glowing, was almost overwhelming.

“Tell me what you want,” Taissa whispered against their lips. “How do you want this to feel?”

The question wasn’t just about physical pleasure. It was about identity. Van reached up, touching her face.

“I want to feel like myself,” they answered honestly. “With you.”

Understanding flashed in Taissa’s eyes. She nodded, kissing them before shifting to lie beside them.

“Show me,” she said, a trust in her voice that made Van’s chest tighten.

Van moved over her, their bodies finding new alignments. The harness created unfamiliar pressures, but as they began to move, the sensations integrated into the experience. Taissa’s hands explored Van’s body with familiar reverence, her touch leaving trails of heat.

“You feel amazing,” Taissa breathed, arching into their touch. “So right.”

Right. Yes, that was it. For the first time, their body didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt right—a vessel capable of pleasure, of expressing who they truly were.

As they moved together, the world beyond the cottage ceased to exist. Van watched Taissa’s expressions, learning how this new dynamic affected her. There was joy in the discovery, in finding what made Taissa gasp, what made her clutch their shoulders.

“Is this okay?” Van asked, hesitating.

Taissa’s answer was a low moan. “More than okay,” she managed. “Don’t stop.”

A powerful certainty filled Van. Their body moved with growing confidence, guided by instinct and Taissa’s responses. The disconnect they usually felt was gone, replaced by a profound sense of presence.

“Look at me,” Van whispered.

Taissa’s gaze met theirs, dark with desire but clear with recognition. “I see you,” she said.

Those three words broke something open in Van. I see you. Not the performance, not the compromise, but their true self.

They found a rhythm together, breath and movement synchronized. It was a space where identity was fluid and shared.

Taissa’s breathing quickened. Van watched in wonder as she came apart, calling their name in a broken whisper. A profound connection settled over them, more than physical.

In the quiet that followed, they held each other. Taissa’s head rested on Van’s chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on their skin. The harness pressed against their hip, but they were reluctant to remove it, wanting to preserve this feeling of rightness.

“That was...” Van trailed off, without words for the experience.

“I know,” Taissa agreed. She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at them. “You were incredible.”

A blush heated Van’s cheeks. “It felt different,” they admitted. “Like I was finally in sync with myself.”

Taissa nodded, her hand over Van’s heart. “I could tell. There was a confidence in you I haven’t seen before.” She smiled, pressing a soft kiss to their lips. “It was beautiful to watch.”

The word “beautiful” didn’t trigger its usual discomfort—not as a gendered description, but as a recognition of something essential.

Van’s fingers traced Taissa’s spine. “Thank you,” they said quietly. “For... seeing possibilities I couldn’t see for myself.”

“That’s what love is, isn’t it?” Taissa replied. “Helping each other become who we’re meant to be.”

Love. The word was familiar, but new in this context—expanded to include not just attraction, but affirmation. Van pulled Taissa closer, overwhelmed. They were loved, and they were, finally, becoming themselves.

Outside, Wiskayok Academy continued its traditions. But here, in this forgotten space, Van had found something revolutionary. A place where their body wasn’t wrong, but simply theirs.

The harness, the new clothes, Taissa’s weight across their chest—these were affirmations. Small rebellions. Proof that even here, an authentic life was possible.

Van ran their fingers through Taissa’s hair, watching shadows dance on the ceiling. The future seemed less like a threat and more like a promise. Not because the world was easier, but because they were learning to navigate it as their true self.

* * *

Nat POV

Nat’s phone vibrated against her thigh. She was sprawled across her bed, thumbing through a dog-eared Kerouac that Coach Ben had slipped her. The text jolted her upright.

Lottie: Please come. Help. Room 312. can’t breathe.

Nat was on her feet before the last word registered. She shoved the book in her back pocket and bolted from the room, not bothering with shoes. The wooden floor was cold as she sprinted down the corridor, taking the stairs two at a time. East Dormitory was quiet—most girls were in the library or common rooms.

No witnesses.

She reached Lottie’s door and knocked once, softly. No response. She tried the handle. Unlocked.

“Lottie?” Nat pushed the door open and slipped inside.

The room was dim, lit only by a desk lamp. Lottie sat on the floor between her bed and the window, knees pulled to her chest. Her breathing was short, desperate gasps. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. Her hands shook against her shins.

Nat dropped to her knees in front of her. “Hey. Look at me.”

Lottie’s gaze darted past her, seeing something else.

“The colors are too—” Lottie gasped. “They’re too loud. Can’t—can’t—”

Nat recognized the spiral. It was the same one she’d felt at the soccer match when she thought she saw her father. She grasped Lottie’s hand and pressed it firmly against her own chest.

“Feel that? Focus on my breathing.” Nat deliberately slowed her breath, deep and pronounced. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. With me.”

Lottie’s fingers curled into Nat’s t-shirt.

“That’s it.” Nat maintained a steady rhythm. “Four counts in. Hold for two. Six counts out.”

She watched Lottie’s eyes gradually find focus, latching onto Nat’s face like an anchor. The panicked gasps began to sync with Nat’s exaggerated pattern.

“Good. You’re doing great.” Nat kept her voice low and even. No sarcasm, no defensive edge. “Keep going. I’m right here.”

They sat like that for several minutes, breathing together in the half-light. As color returned to Lottie’s face, the shaking subsided to tremors.

“Better?” Nat asked.

Lottie nodded, her forehead dropping to their joined hands. “Thank you.” The words were faint. “Same trick I used on you.”

“Learned from the best.” Nat didn’t move, letting Lottie set the pace. “What happened?”

Lottie’s body tensed. “My father called.”

Nat waited. The silence between them was comfortable.

“The school sent him my latest evaluation,” Lottie said, her voice stronger. “He could tell from my ’cognitive patterns’ that I’ve been skipping doses.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means my essay answers were too associative. Too creative.” A new bitterness entered her tone. “If I’m thinking clearly, I’m apparently doing it wrong.”

Nat’s jaw tightened. “That’s fucking twisted.”

Lottie finally looked up. “He threatened to send me back to Riverdale if I don’t ’demonstrate medication compliance.’” Her fingers made air quotes.

“Riverdale?”

“The treatment facility I was in last spring,” Lottie said, shifting her back against the bed. “After my episode during finals.”

Nat moved to sit beside her, their shoulders brushing against each other. “What was it like?”

The question hung in the air. Nat worried she’d pushed too far, but then Lottie’s hand found hers on the carpet.

“Like drowning in slow motion.” Lottie’s gaze was distant. “They keep you sedated until you’re ’stabilized.’ That’s what they call it when you’re too foggy to feel anything.”

Nat turned her hand palm-up, and Lottie’s fingers laced with hers.

“The worst part was how they’d talk about me like I wasn’t there. Doctors, nurses, my father—all these conversations about my brain chemistry, my prognosis.” Lottie’s voice caught. “Never just... me.”

Nat understood that hell. How many times had she sat in the principal’s office while adults discussed her behavior, her attitude?

“After the first week, they reduce your meds so you can do group therapy,” Lottie continued, “but you can’t think clearly. It’s a balance—just enough fog to keep you compliant, not so much that you can’t parrot back what they want to hear.”

“How long were you there?”

“Six weeks. Missed the end of junior year.” Lottie’s grip tightened. “I’m not going back. I can’t.” A wobble in her voice betrayed rising emotion. “I know I need medication—I’m not delusional. But I should have some say in how much, what kind. How it affects me.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. “Is it so wrong to want to feel something real? To not have every thought filtered through this chemical haze?”

Something protective swelled in Nat’s chest. Fierce and unfamiliar. Her usual response to pain was distance. But nothing about her reactions to Lottie was usual.

“No,” Nat said simply. “It’s not wrong.”

Lottie turned, their faces inches apart. The vulnerability in her expression made Nat’s breath catch. Just raw, honest need.

“What if he’s right, though?” Lottie whispered. “What if I can’t trust my own mind?”

The question struck at something fundamental. Nat knew that doubt—the fear that you couldn’t trust your own perceptions. Her mother’s illness had taught her that early.

“Maybe it’s not about trusting your mind all the time,” Nat said carefully. “Maybe it’s about having people around who see you—the real you—even when you can’t.”

Lottie’s gaze dropped to Nat’s mouth, then back to her eyes. “Do you see me?”

“Yeah,” Nat swallowed. “I do.”

The moment stretched between them. Then Lottie leaned forward, closing the distance. Their lips met—not with the hesitancy of their first kiss, but with recognition.

Nat raised her hand to Lottie’s cheek, brushing away the wetness with her thumb. The kiss deepened. When they pulled apart, Lottie’s eyes remained closed.

“I want to feel something,” she whispered. “Something I’m choosing.”

Heat spread through Nat’s body, but she hesitated. Lottie’s vulnerability was a responsibility.

“You sure?” Nat’s voice came out rougher than she intended.

Lottie’s answer was another kiss, her hands moving to the hem of Nat’s t-shirt. “Please. Help me remember I’m still in here.”

Nat stood, pulling Lottie gently to her feet. She guided them to the bed. Lottie sat on the edge, her expression a mix of uncertainty and determination.

“We stop whenever you want,” Nat said, needing her to understand. “Any reason.”

Lottie nodded, reaching for Nat’s hand. “I know.”

Nat leaned down, their kiss slower this time, exploratory. Her hands framed Lottie’s face, her thumbs tracing her cheekbones. She lowered herself to her knees between Lottie’s legs, her hands moving down her arms to the sensitive skin of her wrists. Lottie shivered.

“Cold?” Nat murmured.

“No,” Lottie’s voice was breathy. “Everything feels more intense when I skip doses.”

Nat pulled back to study her. “Good intense or bad intense?”

“Good,” Lottie’s smile was shy but genuine. “Definitely good.”

Emboldened, Nat let her hands wander higher, skimming to the top button of Lottie’s sleep shirt. She paused, seeking permission with her eyes.

Lottie nodded, then reached for the hem of Nat’s shirt. “You too?”

A real smile touched Nat’s lips. She pulled her t-shirt over her head, then helped Lottie with her buttons. Each inch of newly revealed skin received its own attention—gentle kisses pressed to collarbones, shoulders, the hollow of her throat.

With their shirts discarded, Nat guided Lottie onto the bed, bracing herself on her elbows. Lottie’s hands explored the notches of Nat’s spine, a reverence in her touch that made Nat’s breath catch.

“Is this okay?” Nat asked, her lips brushing below Lottie’s ear.

“More than okay,” Lottie arched slightly. “It’s like... everything has texture again.”

Nat understood. This was clarity without destruction. She took her time, mapping Lottie’s body. Each response was cataloged—the catch in Lottie’s breath when Nat’s teeth grazed her earlobe, the tiny sound she made when fingers skimmed the underside of her breast.

“Tell me what you like,” Nat whispered.

“I don’t—I haven’t—” Lottie’s blush spread down her neck.

Nat raised her head, understanding. “We don’t have to—”

“No, I want to.” Lottie’s hands framed Nat’s face, pulling her into a kiss that left no doubt. “I’ve just never... felt enough to know what I like.”

The admission was a physical blow. The thought that Lottie had been so medicated she couldn’t identify pleasure kindled something tender and protective in Nat.

“Then we’ll figure it out together.” Nat kissed her again, pouring everything she couldn’t say into the contact. “Just tell me if anything doesn’t feel right.”

What followed was a slow exploration. When her hand skimmed beneath the waistband of Lottie’s pajama bottoms, the sharp intake of breath was enough encouragement. Lottie’s fingers threaded through Nat’s hair, alternately gentle and urgent. Her eyes stayed open, locked on Nat’s face.

“Stay with me,” the words fell from Nat’s lips.

“I’m here,” Lottie’s voice was breathless but certain. “I’m right here.”

As Lottie’s breathing quickened, Nat maintained a steady rhythm. She watched Lottie’s unguarded expressions shift with emotion. Beautiful in their honesty.

When Lottie finally came undone, it was with a quiet intensity that seemed to surprise her. Her body tensed, then released with a soft exhalation that might have been Nat’s name.

Afterward, Nat gathered her close. Lottie’s breath was warm against her collarbone, her hand over Nat’s heart.

“Thank you,” Lottie murmured.

Nat pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “For what?”

“For seeing me.” Lottie’s voice was sleepy. “The real me.”

Something unfamiliar expanded in Nat’s chest—a feeling too big and fragile to name. This was dangerous in an entirely new way.

“I see you,” Nat whispered against Lottie’s hair, uncertain if she was still awake. “I’ll keep seeing you.”

The promise felt both impossible and necessary. With Lottie’s breathing evening into sleep, Nat acknowledged that something fundamental had shifted. This wasn’t just desire or impulse.

This was something she had no defense against.

* * *

Shauna POV

The amber glow of the desk lamp created an island of light in the corner of Founder’s Library. Shauna hunched over her laptop, its blue light on her face as she stared at the blank space under “Personal Statement.” The Brown University application had been open for an hour. The words refused to flow.

Across from her, Melissa Bennett sat cross-legged in her chair, a pink backwards baseball cap on her head, thumbing through a copy of Joan Didion’s essays. The library had closed at ten, but Ms. Winters, the night librarian, had let them stay until midnight. Only the quiet hum of the heating system broke the silence.

Shauna glanced up, catching Melissa’s profile in the warm light. Unlike Jackie, who would have filled any silence with chatter about Princeton or Jeff, Melissa seemed content with quiet companionship.

“I can’t believe I never read Didion before you,” Shauna said, closing her laptop. “That passage you showed me? Self-respect? I’ve read it fifteen times.”

Melissa looked up, a smile touching her mouth. “Right? The line about self-respect having ’nothing to do with the approval of others’ got me through freshman year.”

“God, what I wouldn’t give to write like that,” Shauna said, stretching. “Direct but not cruel. Honest without being pretentious.”

“You already do,” Melissa said, closing her book. “That piece you showed me on institutional frameworks? You didn’t use twenty-dollar words to sound smart. You just... were smart.”

Shauna felt heat rise to her cheeks. Jackie’s compliments always felt like an extension of herself—”my brilliant best friend,” as if Shauna’s talents were her property. Melissa’s praise was different. Specific. Earned.

“Speaking of brilliant writing,” Melissa said, reaching into her backpack, “I brought you something.” She slid a worn paperback across the table. “Octavia Butler. ’Parable of the Sower.’ I think you’ll appreciate how she builds worlds that comment on our own.”

Shauna ran her fingers over the cover, touched. “Thanks. I’ll start it tonight.” She paused. “Jackie only reads books for class. No time for ’recreational reading.’”

“Her loss,” Melissa said simply. “What about movies? Please tell me you don’t just watch whatever’s trending.”

Shauna laughed. “I have some taste, thank you. ’Before Sunrise’ is the last movie that really stayed with me.”

“Linklater? Perfect walking-and-talking dialogue.” Melissa’s eyes lit up. “What did you think of the ending?”

“That’s what I loved—it’s unresolved. Whether they’ll actually meet again.” Shauna leaned forward, animated. “It’s so much more interesting than seeing it all work out.”

“Exactly! It’s about that specific moment, not some fairy tale.” Melissa leaned in too, their faces closer. “Have you seen the sequels?”

“There are sequels?”

“Oh my god, we have to watch them. ’Before Sunset’ is nine years later in Paris.” Melissa’s hands moved as she spoke. “The way it examines how time changes people, but some connections remain...”

Their conversation flowed effortlessly, a stark contrast to the careful navigation Shauna performed with Jackie. With Jackie, some topics were off-limits—anything that might make her feel intellectually inferior, anything that didn’t fit her Princeton-bound image. With Melissa, Shauna offered opinions without calculating their reception and disagreed without fear.

“Okay, but what about guilty pleasures?” Melissa asked, her eyes twinkling. “What do you secretly love that would ruin your serious literary reputation?”

Shauna groaned, covering her face. “If I tell you, you have to take it to your grave.”

“Scout’s honor,” Melissa said, holding up three fingers.

“Fine.” Shauna lowered her voice. “I’ve read every single Baby-Sitters Club book. Multiple times.”

Melissa’s laugh was genuine, without mockery. “Kristy or Mary Anne?”

“Mary Anne, obviously,” Shauna replied, then caught herself. “Wait, how did you know to ask?”

“Please. I was a Claudia girl. All those amazing outfits and junk food?” Melissa grinned. “We contain multitudes, Shipman.”

There was liberation in this quiet corner, trading references without the constant awareness of social hierarchies. With Jackie, Shauna knew her place: one step behind, a supporting role. With Melissa, the dynamic shifted constantly. Neither of them kept score.

As their laughter subsided, Shauna noticed the pink cap again. Without thinking, she reached across the table and plucked it from Melissa’s head.

“I’ve been meaning to ask about this,” Shauna said, turning it in her hands before placing it on her own head. “Not exactly regulation attire.”

Melissa’s eyes widened slightly at the boldness. A smile played on her lips. “How does it look?”

“Surprisingly good,” Melissa answered, her gaze lingering. “You should break the dress code more often.”

Shauna adjusted the cap, positioning it backward. Wearing it felt thrilling—a small rebellion, a piece of Melissa’s identity borrowed. “So what’s the story? A secret protest against Wiskayok green?”

Melissa leaned back. “Kind of. But more.” She hesitated, then decided. “It’s sort of a signal.”

“A signal?”

“At home in New York, I’m out. Fully out.” Melissa’s voice dropped. “My parents know I’m gay, my friends know. It’s just who I am.”

Shauna’s pulse quickened at the casual admission and what it meant that Melissa was sharing this with her. “And here?”

“Here...” Melissa gestured at their surroundings. “Well, you’ve heard Headmistress Porter’s speeches on ’appropriate relationships’ and ’decorum.’”

Shauna nodded. The school’s policies didn’t explicitly prohibit same-sex relationships, but the atmosphere made it clear they weren’t encouraged. Girls who were “too close” were reassigned to opposite ends of campus.

“So the hat is...”

“My little act of defiance,” Melissa confirmed. “Pink’s not in the school colors, but it isn’t prohibited during ’casual dress.’ And maybe... it signals to others who might be looking.” Her eyes met Shauna’s. “Others who might... like girls.”

The air between them was charged with electricity. Shauna was aware of her heartbeat, the weight of the hat, and the way Melissa’s amber eyes looked almost gold in the lamplight.

“Does it work?” Shauna asked, her voice a whisper. “This signal?”

Melissa’s lips curved into a shy, confident smile. “I don’t know yet. I’m hoping it might help me get noticed by the right people.” Her gaze held Shauna’s. “Especially hot senior girls with chocolate-brown eyes who know how to score.”

The invitation hung in the air, simple and clear. With Jackie, everything was subtext and denial. With Melissa, the cards were on the table.

Shauna didn’t think. Thinking meant remembering Jackie, their shared plans, the suffocating rules of Wiskayok. Instead, she leaned across the table, one hand still holding the pink cap on her head, and pressed her lips to Melissa’s.

A jolt went through her. This was nothing like the confused, furtive moments with Jackie. Melissa responded immediately, her hand cradling Shauna’s jaw as she returned the kiss with equal intensity. Shauna deepened it, leading in a way she never had before. Melissa tasted of mint lip balm and possibility.

A book falling in the stacks jolted them apart. They stared at each other, breathing harder. The reality of where they crashed back.

“I...” Shauna began.

Melissa reached across the table and took her hand. “Too much?”

“No,” Shauna said, surprised by her own certainty. “Not enough, actually.”

Melissa glanced around the library. “We should probably finish studying somewhere else.” She added with deliberate casualness, “I have a single. Rare for juniors, but they had an odd number in our class.”

“A single room,” Shauna repeated, imagining a space without Jackie’s watchfulness, without the constant performance.

“We could watch ’Before Sunset,’” Melissa suggested, a playful glint in her eye. “I have it downloaded.”

Shauna smiled, feeling a strange new confidence. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

Melissa laughed, gathering her books. “Well, I do have the movie. But watching it is... optional.”

As they packed up, moving with the heightened awareness of bodies newly awakened, Shauna realized she had never felt like this before—like she was choosing something for herself, not just responding to someone else’s script.

She handed the pink cap back to Melissa. “I think your signal works perfectly.”

Chapter Text

Jackie POV

Jackie stood at the front of Mrs. Calloway’s European History class, a frantic pulse beating against her throat. Her spine was straight, her shoulders back—a perfect imitation of poise. Behind her, the timeline of the French Revolution glowed on the screen, a PowerPoint she’d spent fourteen hours designing.

“The Directory period represents a critical transition between revolutionary chaos and Napoleonic order,” she began, her voice projecting with practiced confidence while her stomach coiled tight. “Following Robespierre’s execution, France struggled to establish governance that balanced republican ideals with practical stability.”

Mrs. Calloway sat at her desk, glasses perched on her nose, her pen hovering over the rubric that held forty percent of Jackie’s semester grade. The woman’s expression gave away nothing—not approval, not disapproval, just a clinical watchfulness that made Jackie’s palms grow slick against her note cards.

“The Constitution of Year III attempted to address these challenges through a bicameral legislature and a five-member executive branch,” Jackie continued, clicking to the next slide. The animation she’d programmed—five silhouetted figures materializing one by one—did not appear. Her rhythm broke. She clicked again, harder, her presentation stumbling over a simple technological failure.

“As I was saying,” Jackie recovered, “the five-member Directory was designed to prevent the concentration of power that had led to the Terror, but ultimately created its own problems of...” Her mind went completely, terrifyingly blank. The analysis she had memorized vanished, leaving her staring at her own slide with no idea what came next.

She glanced down at her note cards, hands trembling as she shuffled through them. The words on them blurred, familiar phrases now incomprehensible. Her gaze darted to the clock. Seven minutes remained. An eternity.

“The Directory’s challenges included...” Jackie swallowed, her mother’s voice echoing in her head. Princeton doesn’t accept mediocrity, Jacqueline. “...financial instability and ongoing conflicts with...” The word slipped away just as she reached for it.

Mrs. Calloway’s pen tapped her desk, the slight sound loud in the silent room. “You mentioned financial instability, Ms. Taylor. Could you elaborate on how this manifested in relation to the assignat crisis?”

The question landed, and the air left her lungs. Jackie had read three books on the period. She had practiced answering questions with her father. But the assignat crisis? She’d glossed over it, unprepared for a deep dive.

“The assignats were, of course, the paper currency issued during the Revolution,” Jackie began, stalling as her mind raced. “Their relationship to the Directory period was...” Her eyes scanned the room for a lifeline.

In the third row, Shauna sat with her notebook open. Her focus was absolute, her gaze locked on Jackie with that quiet intensity she always had. As their eyes met, Shauna’s hand shifted, revealing two words written in large letters.

Hyperinflation. Land seizures.

The keywords sparked in her memory, pulling the fractured connections back together. “The Directory inherited a situation where hyperinflation had rendered the assignats nearly worthless,” she said, her voice finding its strength. “This was directly connected to earlier land seizures from the Church and nobility, which had initially backed the currency but proved insufficient as more notes were printed.”

Mrs. Calloway’s expression was still neutral, but her pen moved across the rubric. Not a good sign. Impressed teachers stopped writing to listen.

“The Directory’s attempts to stabilize the currency ultimately failed,” Jackie pressed on, building from Shauna’s prompt. “This contributed to the political instability that created an opening for Napoleon’s rise to power.”

She finished the presentation with forced enthusiasm, the smile she offered not reaching her eyes. The conclusion felt hollow, tainted by her stumble and the certainty that Mrs. Calloway had taken note of it all.

“Thank you, Ms. Taylor,” Mrs. Calloway said. “A generally comprehensive overview, though I would have appreciated more specific economic analysis, particularly regarding the mandat territorial that replaced the assignat. Something to consider for your final paper.”

Jackie nodded, her hands still unsteady as she gathered her note cards. “Thank you for the feedback.”

She returned to her seat beside Shauna, who offered a small, encouraging smile. “That was really good,” Shauna whispered. “Seriously. You recovered perfectly.”

“It was a disaster,” Jackie murmured, her voice tight. “I blanked.”

“For like ten seconds. No one noticed except me.”

Jackie didn’t answer. The rest of class was a haze of her own thoughts, calculating the damage to her GPA, to her Princeton application, to her mother’s opinion of her.

When the bell rang, she gathered her things with mechanical precision, her social smile locked in place.

“Want to grab lunch?” Shauna asked, waiting by her desk.

“I need to ask Mrs. Calloway something,” Jackie replied, her tone indicating she wanted to go alone. “I’ll find you later.”

Shauna hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll save you a seat.”

As the room emptied, Jackie approached the desk. “Mrs. Calloway, I wanted to apologize for that gap in my presentation. I assure you, I prepared thoroughly. I’d be happy to submit additional research on the economic aspects.”

The teacher looked up over her glasses. “That won’t be necessary, Ms. Taylor. Your presentation was well-structured. We all have momentary lapses.”

“But my grade—”

“Will reflect the entirety of your work, not ten seconds of hesitation.” Mrs. Calloway’s voice softened. “Perfection isn’t the goal here, Jackie. Learning is.”

The words, meant to be kind, only tightened the knot in her chest. Learning wasn’t enough. Excellence was the minimum.

“Thank you,” Jackie managed, her captain’s smile firm. “I appreciate your understanding.”

She walked from the classroom, her pace quickening until she was almost running down the empty hall. She ignored the greetings from classmates, her focus narrowed to the desperate need for privacy.

The dorm room was empty when she burst through the door. Jackie dropped her bag with a careless thud. Pacing the narrow space between their beds, she pressed her palms to her eyes, fighting for breath as the pressure in her chest built. One mistake. It felt catastrophic, a fracture in her composure that would bring everything down.

The door opened. Jackie spun around as Shauna entered, concern on her face.

“Hey,” Shauna said softly, closing the door. “I thought you might come here instead of lunch.”

“I’m fine,” Jackie insisted, her voice brittle. “Just needed to grab something.”

Shauna set her books on her desk, her quiet perception seeing right through the lie. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Jax. It’s just us.”

The simple words cracked something open in Jackie’s chest. Before she could think, she crossed the room and pushed Shauna against the door, her kiss desperate.

Shauna froze for a second, startled, before her hands came up to Jackie’s shoulders—not pulling her closer, but not pushing her away. Jackie deepened the kiss, needing to lose herself in something she could control.

When they broke apart, breathless, Jackie didn’t step back. She took Shauna’s hand and pulled her toward the bed. Shauna followed, confused, as Jackie guided her down onto the mattress.

“Jackie, what are you—”

“I need this,” Jackie interrupted, climbing onto the bed to straddle Shauna’s hips. She pinned Shauna’s wrists above her head, the position a balm to her frayed nerves. “I need you.”

Shauna looked up, her eyes wide. “What is going on? This isn’t like you.”

“Tell me I’m still the best at something,” Jackie demanded, her voice catching. She pressed her body against Shauna’s, seeking familiar comfort. “Tell me I matter.”

“Of course you matter,” Shauna replied, her tone bewildered. “Jackie, you’re my best friend.”

“Not good enough,” Jackie whispered, grinding her hips down. The friction sent heat through her, momentarily drowning out the panic. “Tell me I’m still important. That I’m not losing you, too.”

Her mouth found Shauna’s neck, pressing urgent kisses into the sensitive skin. “Tell me,” she repeated, the words muffled.

Beneath her, Shauna’s body arched instinctively, but then her hands pressed firmly against Jackie’s shoulders.

“Stop,” Shauna said, her voice gentle but firm. “Jackie, stop. This isn’t right.”

The rejection was a physical shock. Jackie sat back. “What do you mean, not right? We’ve done this before.”

“Not like this,” Shauna countered, propping herself on her elbows. “Not with you... using me to feel better.”

“Using you?” Jackie recoiled. “Is that what you think this is?”

“I think you’re upset, and instead of talking, you’re trying to distract yourself.” Shauna’s gaze was steady. “And I think if you want this kind of... validation, you should ask Jeff.”

The mention of Jeff sent a wave of guilt and frustration through her. “Jeff? Are you serious?”

“He is your boyfriend,” Shauna pointed out, her voice carefully neutral.

Jackie slid off Shauna’s lap, the distance between them suddenly immense. “So that’s it? You’re setting boundaries now? After all these years?”

“Maybe I should have a long time ago.” Shauna sat up, smoothing her shirt. “Jackie, what are we doing? Really?”

“Don’t,” Jackie cut her off, another wave of panic rising. “Don’t analyze it.”

“Then what is it?” Shauna challenged, a new boldness in her tone. “Because it feels like you want the benefits of a relationship without any of the acknowledgment.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Shauna stood, creating more distance. “You kiss me when you’re upset, then pretend it never happened. You have Jeff. You want me available for your needs, but you keep me in this... limbo.”

The words struck with painful accuracy. Jackie felt exposed. Anger rose to shield her.

“Wow,” she said, her voice hardening. “One creative writing scholarship and suddenly you’re too good for me?”

Shauna’s expression tightened with hurt. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.” Jackie crossed her arms. “Or is it Melissa? Your new study buddy?”

“Leave Melissa out of this.”

“Why? You brought Jeff into it.”

“Because he’s relevant!” Shauna’s voice rose. “You can’t have it both ways, Jackie. You can’t have Jeff for public appearances and me for... whatever this is.”

The truth of it left Jackie without a defense.

“I thought you were different,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. “I thought you were the one person who understood.”

“I’ve always had expectations,” Shauna replied softly. “I was just afraid of losing you.”

The honesty hung between them. Tears threatened, and Jackie blinked them back furiously. She would not cry. Crying was a weakness.

“Well, don’t worry about that anymore,” she said, the words sharper than she intended. “I won’t burden you with my neediness again.”

She grabbed her bag, her movements jerky. “I have a student council. Don’t wait up.”

“Jackie, wait—”

But she was already out the door, away from Shauna’s perceptive gaze. In the empty hallway, Jackie leaned against the wall, the tightness in her lungs constricting her breath.

You’re fine. You’re Jackie Taylor. You don’t fail.

The mantra repeated in her head, a chorus of expectations she couldn’t meet. For the first time, a question slivered through the panic: if she wasn’t the perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect captain... who was she? Had she been playing a part for so long, she’d forgotten what was real underneath?

The thought offered no comfort as she slid down the wall to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest, and finally let the tears fall where no one could see.

* * *

Nat POV

Nat stared at the physics midterm, half-convinced the universe was playing a joke on her. The equations that had been indecipherable in class now arranged themselves into perfect, logical patterns. She flipped to the second problem and found her pencil moving almost automatically, the solution unfolding with surprising clarity.

What the hell?

She glanced around the room. Everyone else was hunched over their papers, faces tight with concentration. Alyssa Chen was chewing on her pencil; even Taissa, three seats ahead, wrote with rare intensity, erasing and recalculating.

Nat returned to her exam, a suspicion growing. She hadn’t really studied, just skimmed her notes in a sober moment last night while Lottie was asleep against her shoulder. Something about the way Dr. Pierce wrote the formula for centripetal acceleration had clicked, revealing connections she’d missed in his lectures.

The third problem was calculating a projectile’s trajectory. Nat sketched the force diagram, breaking down the vectors with a precision that surprised her. The numbers fell into place.

“Twenty minutes remaining,” Dr. Pierce announced.

Nat glanced at the clock, then at her paper. She’d done fourteen of fifteen problems. The last one looked straightforward. The realization was unsettling. She wasn’t supposed to be good at this. She was Nat Scatorccio, underachiever, problem child, the girl with a flask and an attitude that kept expectations at rock bottom. Yet here she was, seeing patterns with an intuitive clarity that usually only came on the soccer field.

Maybe I’m still high, she thought, though she knew she wasn’t. Her mind felt sharp, present in a way that was almost uncomfortable.

She finished the last problem with ten minutes to spare, double-checked her work, and found nothing to correct. Dr. Pierce’s eyebrows shot up as she approached his desk.

“Finished already, Miss Scatorccio?” he asked, his eyes scanning the first page with skepticism.

“Physics isn’t rocket science,” Nat replied, then smirked. “Wait, I guess some of it is.”

Dr. Pierce’s expression changed as he flipped through her solutions. “These are... quite thorough,” he admitted, pausing at her analysis. “Your approach here is unusual.”

Nat shrugged. “Can I go?”

“Of course.” He set her exam aside. “Perhaps you might consider the advanced placement track next semester. Your natural aptitude for—”

“Yeah, maybe,” Nat cut him off, already backing away. The praise felt like an itch under her skin. “We’ll see.”

She escaped into the silent hall. Her chest felt tight, a mix of accomplishment and anxiety. The confidence from the exam evaporated, leaving her feeling exposed. Natural aptitude. The words were an accusation. If she had potential, she was wasting it. Wasting it meant expectations.

She checked her phone: forty minutes until her next class. Enough time. Her fingers found the joint tucked inside her jacket pocket.

She pushed through a side exit, checked for patrolling teachers, and headed for the athletic fields. The bleachers were always deserted this time of day. Perfect. She ducked underneath the stands, finding the nook where rust had eaten away a part of the frame, creating a sheltered seat. The metal was cold through her skirt.

She cupped her hands against the breeze to light the joint. The first inhale burned, a familiar comfort. She leaned back, watching the empty field through the gaps in the metal above. Three hits in, the tension in her shoulders began to ease. The unfamiliar pride from the exam dulled to a comfortable numbness. This made sense. This was familiar.

“Somehow, I’m not surprised to find you here, Scatorccio.”

Nat choked on an inhale. Coach Scott stood a few yards away, arms crossed, his expression more resigned than angry.

“Fuck,” she muttered, stubbing the joint out. Her eyes watered as she suppressed a cough. “I was just—”

“Celebrating your physics midterm?” he finished, raising an eyebrow. “Dr. Pierce mentioned you finished early. With flying colors, apparently.”

The knowledge that teachers talked about her made her skin crawl. She shoved the dead joint in her pocket. Denial was pointless; the smell of weed hung in the air.

“So what now?” she asked, her tone deliberately flat. “Suspension? Call my mom?” She almost laughed.

Coach Scott ducked under the bleacher to join her. He didn’t look angry, just tired.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said.

“If you’re going to lecture me—”

“I’m not.” He held up a hand. “But this conversation shouldn’t happen here.”

Nat considered running, but he’d been a college midfielder. He’d catch her. Better to get it over with.

“Fine,” she muttered, shoving her hands in her pockets. She fell into step beside him as they walked toward the empty practice fields, her heart pounding.

They stopped near the treeline. “I should turn you in,” he said. “School policy is clear.”

“So do it.” Nat lifted her chin, defiance masking the fear twisting in her stomach. One more offense meant expulsion. Expulsion meant going home.

Coach sighed and reached into his pocket. Nat tensed. He withdrew a small metal disc and held it flat in his palm.

“Five years,” he said simply.

Nat stared at the sobriety chip. “Five years what?”

“Sober.” He turned the chip over and over in his fingers. “Before that, I was where you are. Maybe worse.”

The admission stunned her. Coach Scott—with his pressed shirts and steady presence—was the last person she’d picture as an addict.

“You?”

“Me.” He pocketed the chip. “Started with painkillers after a sports injury in college. Graduated to whatever I could get. Almost lost everything.”

Nat shifted, unsure what to say. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I recognize the pattern,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Using to numb out when things get too intense—stress, failure, or even success.”

His accuracy sent a cold prickle across her skin. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know more than you think,” he replied, his gaze steady. “I know you have a 3.8 GPA despite barely showing up. I know you’re maintaining a scholarship that requires academic and athletic excellence, even while trying to convince everyone you don’t care.”

“You’ve been monitoring me?” The violation felt personal.

“It’s my job to keep track of my players,” he said calmly. “Especially the ones with the most potential.”

Nat laughed, a bitter sound. “Right. Potential. That’s why the faculty whispers when I walk by.”

“They whisper because they’re confused. Your test scores are in the top percentile, but your effort is minimal. It’s like watching someone with Olympic potential choose to compete in the local fun run.”

His frustration sounded real, which made her more uncomfortable. She could handle disappointment or anger, but this belief in her was something else.

“What do you want from me?” she demanded.

“Nothing you don’t want for yourself. But I think we both know you’re capable of more than this.”

“This being what? Showing up high to classes I could pass in my sleep?”

“This being throwing away options before you even know what they are.” He pulled a folded brochure from his jacket. “NYU’s physics department has one of the best undergraduate research programs in the country.”

Nat stared at it. “And what? You think I’m NYU material?” The question came out more vulnerable than she intended.

“I think you’re brilliant,” Coach said. “And I think you’re scared of what that means.”

The words hit too close. She snatched the brochure and shoved it in her pocket. “So this is your intervention? Convince the resident screwup she could be someone else?”

“No.” He met her gaze. “This is me telling you I’ve been where you are. I know the road you’re on, Nat. It doesn’t lead anywhere good.”

The use of her first name surprised her.

“I also know I can help, if you want it,” he continued. “I have connections at NYU. A former teammate runs their undergraduate recruiting. She’s interested in students with nontraditional backgrounds.”

Nat shook her head, an unwelcome flicker of hope mixing with her disbelief. “Why would you do that for me?”

“You could be your own success story,” he said. “And the department chair owes me a favor.”

The casual mention of connections—of possibility—cracked her cynicism. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No, you need someone who sees you clearly,” he said. “Someone who knows what addiction looks like from the inside and can help you get sober.”

The word “sober” landed like a stone. She opened her mouth to deliver a cutting retort, but her phone vibrated. Then again, and again. She pulled it out.

Three texts from Van:

Lottie having breakdown in class. Pills not working.

East wing, second floor. Modern Lit.

Dr. Jacobs wants to call Porter. Need your help NOW.

The urgency cut through everything. Nat’s focus narrowed, her body already turning.

“I have to go,” she said, all pretense gone. “It’s Lottie.”

Coach Scott’s expression changed. “Matthews? An episode?”

“Yeah. Dr. Jacobs is gonna call Porter on her.” Nat was already backing away. “I have to—”

“You’re not going alone.” He nodded, no hesitation. “Come on. We’ll both go.”

* * *

Lottie POV

Words scattered across the page like insects, refusing to hold their shapes. Lottie Matthews blinked hard, trying to force the Modern Literature midterm into focus. Her hand trembled as she gripped the pen, hoping the pressure might anchor her.

Analyze how the author uses symbolism to reflect the protagonist’s internal conflict...

The question blurred. Three days without sleep had turned the world liquid and unstable. Seventy-two hours of consciousness stretched thin, marked only by the pills her father prescribed—white for anxiety, blue for mood, yellow for focus. A chemical rainbow forcing her into compliance.

Something was wrong. Her father had adjusted her dosages after their last call, insisting she needed “additional support” for midterms. But the new pills made everything worse.

The fluorescent lights pulsed with a sickening rhythm. Each flash sent a spike of pain behind her eyes. The scratch of pencils became a high-pitched screaming that clawed at her ears. Dr. Jacobs’s footsteps were heavy thuds that vibrated through Lottie’s bones. The clock on the wall stretched time, seconds expanding into eternity before snapping back.

Focus. Answer the question. Function.

Her father’s voice. She stared at the three sentences she’d managed to write. The words looked foreign.

Her heart hammered, the tempo accelerating beyond what seemed possible. She knew this feeling—the start of what her doctors called “an episode” and what her grandmother had called “seeing through the veil.”

Sweat beaded on her hairline. Her breath came in shallow pulls of air. The pen slipped from her fingers, its clatter a detonating bomb in the quiet room.

Across the room, Van Palmer looked up, their eyes finding hers with immediate concern. Lottie saw them exchange a silent, loaded glance with Taissa.

The edges of her vision tunneled. She had to move. Her legs decided for her, shoving her chair backward with a crash that shattered the silence.

Twenty-three heads turned. Twenty-three faces stared, each gaze a physical weight.

“Colors shifting,” the words tumbled out, fragments of the chaos in her head. “The margins won’t hold. Too loud. Everything is speaking at once.”

She gripped her desk, knuckles white, as the room tilted.

Dr. Jacobs approached. “Charlotte, do you need to be excused?”

The question was a collection of sounds without meaning. Lottie saw the doctor’s mouth move, but the words didn’t connect.

“The weight of expectation creates structural deformity,” Lottie answered, responding to a voice only she could hear.

Van and Taissa moved at the same time, converging on her. “Hey, focus on me,” Van said, their voice a gentle murmur that cut through the noise. “Just breathe.”

Taissa turned to the teacher. “She hasn’t slept in days. The new medication her father put her on is causing a reaction.”

“I’ll call the health center,” Dr. Jacobs said.

“No hospitals,” Lottie managed, panic rising. Not again. Hospitals meant losing herself completely.

“Just the health center,” Van assured her, a light hand on her elbow. “We’re right here.”

The door opened. Misty Quigley stood there, clipboard clutched like armor. “I’ll take Charlotte to Headmistress Porter,” she announced, her voice artificially sweet.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Taissa began, but Dr. Jacobs cut her off.

“Thank you, Miss Quigley. You two,” she said to Van and Taissa, “return to your exams.”

Lottie watched them retreat, her lifelines severed. Misty’s hand closed on her upper arm, the grip professional but unyielding. “Let’s get you somewhere quiet, Charlotte.”

The hallway seemed to breathe, the walls expanding and contracting. “I need to call your father immediately,” Misty was saying, her voice seeming to come from both far away and inside Lottie’s head. “Headmistress Porter will want to discuss your residential arrangement—”

“Matthews!”

The voice was a familiar, gruff comfort. Coach Scott appeared at the hall’s intersection, Nat Scatorccio beside him. Lottie’s vision narrowed, focusing only on Nat’s face—the one clear, sharp thing in a fractured world.

Coach Scott stepped between them. “What’s happening?”

“Charlotte experienced some difficulty,” Misty explained, a hint of satisfaction in her tone. “I’m escorting her to Headmistress Porter.”

“The health center sounds right,” he said, his stance subtly protective. “But Porter’s in a board meeting until four. I just came from her office.”

Lottie felt Nat’s steady gaze on her. Nat made a slight movement with her head—a question only Lottie could read.

“Headmistress Porter specifically asked to be notified,” Misty insisted, her fingers tightening on Lottie’s arm.

“Actually, Misty,” Coach said, using her first name deliberately, “I need to talk to you about the equipment inventory for next semester. Porter mentioned you’re coordinating the residential supply budget.”

Misty’s posture straightened. Her grip on Lottie loosened. “That’s correct. I’ve developed a comprehensive spreadsheet.”

“Would you mind showing me?” Coach asked, pulling out his phone. “My meeting with the athletic director is in twenty minutes, and your insights would help.”

The moment Misty’s attention fully shifted, Nat moved. Her hand replaced Misty’s on Lottie’s arm, her touch gentle but certain.

“Where do you want to go?” Nat asked, her voice low.

A genuine question, not a command. Agency, when everyone else offered control.

“The art studio,” Lottie answered without hesitation.

Nat nodded once. As Coach Scott engaged Misty in budget talk, they moved down the adjacent hallway. Nat’s arm around Lottie’s waist was a shield, anchoring her as the world rippled and bent around them.

The familiar smell of the studio—linseed oil, turpentine, clay—enveloped her before they even reached the door. Her breathing evened out as they entered the large, north-facing room. It was empty. Nat guided her to a stool near the windows, then stepped back, giving her space but not abandoning her.

“Better?” Nat asked.

Lottie nodded, drawing a full breath. The scent of art supplies grounded her in a way medication never could.

“The colors are settling,” she said, knowing Nat wouldn’t dismiss it as delusion. “Still too bright, but not screaming.”

Nat’s mouth quirked. “Good. That’s good.”

Lottie’s gaze landed on a canvas in the corner, covered by a paint-splattered cloth. Her midterm project. The one thing here that was truly hers.

“I want to show you something,” she said, rising with a new steadiness.

She moved to the canvas, Nat a step behind. Her hands were still trembling, but the worst of the episode had passed, leaving the strange clarity that sometimes came after. She pulled the cloth away.

The canvas was an abstract composition. Deep blues and purples swirled inward toward a central figure made of sharp angles and warm amber light.

Nat stood transfixed. Recognition slowly dawned on her face. The abstract figure—composed of decisive lines and protective curves—was her.

“It’s how I see you,” Lottie explained softly. “Not shape or form. Essence.”

On the canvas, Nat existed as intersecting planes of light and shadow. The colors around her were the chaotic world Lottie experienced, while the Nat-figure was a point of clarity in the disorder.

Nat stared, unable to find words. Her hand lifted toward the canvas but stopped short of touching it.

“No one’s ever seen me like this,” she finally said, her voice rough with an emotion she rarely showed.

“I do,” Lottie replied. “Even when the medications try to blur everything, I see you.”

Nat turned from the canvas to face her, her eyes wide with a vulnerability that cut through her armor. In that moment, Lottie’s fragmented perception crystallized.

She moved forward and framed Nat’s face with her hands, pressing their lips together in a kiss that held all the intensity she couldn’t say. The contact sent electricity through her, but it wasn’t something to fear. It was something to embrace.

Nat froze for a heartbeat before her arms wrapped around Lottie with equal fervor. The kiss deepened. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Lottie kept her hands on Nat’s face.

“I don’t want to go back to the fog,” she whispered, her words about more than just this moment. “I want to feel this clearly.”

Nat’s dark pupils dilated. “I need you,” Lottie whispered, her usual hesitation gone. “Now.”

She backed Nat against the nearest wall, pinning her with a forceful kiss that left no room for questions. Lottie’s hands moved with surprising confidence, threading through Nat’s hair, tilting her head back.

“Here?” Nat managed between kisses.

Lottie pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, steady and certain. “Yes. Here.” She crossed to the door and turned the old-fashioned key. The heavy click echoed through the studio, sealing them inside.

When Lottie turned back, she found Nat watching her with an intensity that no longer intimidated her. She approached with deliberate steps.

“I’ve spent my life dulled by other people’s expectations,” Lottie said, her voice low but unwavering. “I don’t want that anymore. I want to feel everything.”

Nat’s throat worked as she swallowed. “I’m right here.”

Lottie pressed her against the wall again, her kiss deeper, more demanding. Her tongue traced the seam of Nat’s lips before pushing inside. Nat yielded, her hands finding Lottie’s waist beneath her uniform blouse. The sensation of skin on skin sent sparks along Lottie’s nerves. She broke the kiss to trail her lips along Nat’s jaw, down her throat, biting gently where neck met shoulder.

Nat’s sharp intake of breath was a reward. Lottie’s fingers made quick work of Nat’s uniform buttons, pushing the fabric of her bra aside to capture one nipple, sucking hard enough to draw a gasp.

“Fuck, Lottie,” Nat breathed, her head falling back against the wall.

Lottie smiled against her skin. “Is this okay?” she asked, her fingertips tracing the soft skin of Nat’s inner thigh.

“More than okay,” Nat managed, her voice strained. “Don’t stop.”

She had no intention of stopping. Not when she could feel Nat’s pulse racing, not when every touch dissolved another layer of the long fog. Lottie pushed Nat’s skirt up, bunching it at her waist as she dropped to her knees.

She looked up. Nat’s sharp edges had softened, replaced by an open vulnerability that made Lottie’s heart race.

“You don’t have to—” Nat began.

“I know.” Lottie hooked her fingers into the waistband of Nat’s underwear. “I want to.”

She pulled the fabric down, then settled on her knees. The intimacy felt not nervous, but certain. “You’re so beautiful,” Lottie murmured.

A flush spread across Nat’s cheeks. Lottie leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the inside of Nat’s thigh before moving higher. The first taste drew twin moans—Nat’s from the sensation, Lottie’s from the power of causing it.

She explored with deliberate patience, learning the rhythms that made Nat’s hips surge. She used her tongue, alternating between gentle teases and focused attention, until she felt Nat’s thighs begin to tremble.

“Lottie, I’m close,” Nat warned, her hand tangling in Lottie’s hair.

Lottie slid two fingers inside while maintaining the rhythm with her tongue. She felt Nat tighten around her, a rush of heat flooding her own body. She looked up, wanting to witness the moment. Nat’s head was thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted. The armor was gone, leaving only raw emotion. As Nat’s body tensed and shuddered, Lottie felt an answering pulse between her own legs.

She wasn’t finished. Before Nat could recover, Lottie was standing, capturing her mouth in a fierce kiss, letting Nat taste herself on her lips.

“I need more,” Lottie whispered. “I need to feel everything.”

Nat nodded, seemingly beyond words as Lottie led her to the teacher’s desk. With a sweep of her arm, she cleared the surface and pushed Nat down onto it, climbing up to straddle her.

“My turn,” Lottie said.

She removed her blouse, then her bra. The cool air on her bare skin heightened every sensation. She leaned down to kiss Nat again, their breasts pressing together, drawing groans from both.

“Touch me,” Lottie said, guiding Nat’s hands to her chest. It was a demand.

Nat obeyed, her thumbs brushing across Lottie’s nipples. The pleasure was sharp, immediate, cutting through any remaining clouds.

“God, look at you,” Nat murmured. “You’re fucking incredible like this.”

The admiration in Nat’s voice sparked a fresh wave of need. Lottie shifted, bringing her center against Nat’s thigh, beginning a rhythm that sent jolts up her spine. Nat grabbed Lottie’s hips, guiding her movements to increase the pressure.

“That’s it,” Nat encouraged, her eyes locked on Lottie’s. “Take what you need.”

The permission unleashed something primal. Lottie rode against Nat’s thigh with increasing urgency. When Nat’s hand slipped between them, her fingers finding the exact spot that made Lottie’s vision blur, the sensation was almost too much to bear.

“I can’t—” Lottie gasped, even as her body pressed harder against Nat’s hand.

“You can,” Nat assured her, her other hand supporting Lottie’s back. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

The combination of sensation and safety pushed Lottie over the edge. Her orgasm crashed through her, a tidal wave of color and feeling. She cried out Nat’s name, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged studio as she shook with release.

When the intensity ebbed, she collapsed onto Nat, their slick bodies pressed together. Nat’s arms came around her, holding her close.

“That was...” Lottie began, unable to find the words.

“Yeah,” Nat agreed.

After a few moments, Lottie pushed herself up again. “I’m not done.”

A half-smile played on Nat’s lips. “No?”

“No.” Lottie slid off the desk, pulling Nat with her. She spread a large canvas drop cloth onto the floor. “Lie down.”

Nat complied without question. Lottie joined her, straddling her again, this time aligning their centers. “I want to feel connected to you. Completely.”

She began to move, creating friction where they both needed it most. Nat’s hands found her hips, encouraging, guiding, but not controlling. Lottie set the pace, taking pleasure while giving it.

“God, Lottie,” Nat breathed. “You feel so good.”

Lottie leaned down and captured Nat’s mouth, swallowing her moans as their bodies found a perfect synchronicity. The tension built again, faster this time.

“Stay with me,” Lottie whispered against Nat’s lips. “I want us to feel it together.”

Nat nodded, her eyes locked on Lottie’s as they moved as one.

“I’m close,” Nat warned, her voice breaking.

“Me too,” Lottie confirmed, her movements more urgent. “Don’t hold back.”

Nat’s body tensed, her hips rising as she cried out. The sight and sound of Nat’s release triggered Lottie’s second orgasm, washing over her in waves that went on forever.

This time, when they collapsed, they were truly spent. Lottie rested her head on Nat’s chest, listening to her slowing heartbeat. Nat’s arms held her as if she might disappear.

Minutes passed. “Are you okay?” Nat finally asked.

The question held layers of meaning. In this moment, her body humming and her mind clearer than it had been in months, Lottie knew the answer.

“Yes,” she said. “For the first time in a long time, I’m actually okay.”

Nat’s arms tightened. “Your father’s going to hear about the exam.”

The reminder should have brought anxiety, but Lottie felt calm. “I know. He’ll probably try to push me deeper into the fog.”

“You don’t have to face him alone,” Nat said, her tone soft. “I’m here. And not just for... this.”

Lottie propped herself up to look at Nat’s face. She found only earnest determination in her dark eyes.

“Do you promise?” Lottie asked, the question heavy with the weight of past disappointments.

Nat touched her cheek. “Yeah. I promise.”

The sincerity settled something deep inside Lottie, a foundation more real than any medication could provide. She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Nat’s lips—not of passion, but of something that felt dangerously close to love.

Chapter Text

Taissa POV

The rhythmic thump of tires over highway seams formed a metronomic backdrop to Taissa’s concentration. She sat near the front of the bus, spine straight against the worn upholstery, a sheaf of scouting reports spread across her lap. The laminated pages detailed Northwood Academy’s defensive formations, their key offensive players, statistical breakdowns of their last five games. Wiskayok Yellowjackets versus Northwood Ravens. Game three of the regional qualifiers. The landscape outside blurred into streaks of autumn color as her eyes traced player routes and highlighted vulnerabilities. Behind her, the usual pre-game cacophony rose and fell – Jackie Taylor’s animated recounting of some weekend drama, Nat Scatorccio’s sardonic interjections, the low murmur of Van’s voice in conversation with Shauna. Taissa filtered it all out, her focus absolute.

Coach Ben Scott slid into the empty seat beside her, his own clipboard already open. Taissa straightened her posture instinctively, a subtle shift from relaxed analysis to professional engagement.

"Morning, Turner." His voice was calm, a counterpoint to the nervous energy thrumming through the bus.

"Coach."

He tapped a finger on her Northwood report. "Their left fullback, number twelve, Davies. Overcommits on challenges. Leaves herself vulnerable to through balls if we can draw her out."

Taissa nodded, flipping to her own notes on Davies. "Her recovery speed is average. If Shauna or Melissa can make an overlapping run, we can exploit that space." She underlined a statistic. "Davies has conceded three penalties this season from mistimed tackles inside the box."

"Exactly. We need to be smart, patient. Don't force it early, but look for those opportunities." Coach Scott drew a small diagram on his own sheet, sketching a potential attacking pattern. "Four out of five, Turner. That's what we need for Spring Nationals qualification. This game, then Riverdale, then St. Catherine's. Win two of those, and we're in a strong position. Lose today, and the pressure mounts significantly for the next two."

"Understood." Taissa’s mind already calculated the permutations: win percentages, goal differentials, potential tie-breaker scenarios. She’d run the numbers last night. Today was critical. "Northwood’s midfield is their strength. Miller, number eight, controls their tempo. We need to shut her down centrally."

The bus hit a vicious pothole, jostling them both. Taissa’s meticulous reports slid, one page fluttering to the floor. As she bent to retrieve it, Coach Scott hesitated, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

"Speaking of opportunities," he began, his tone shifting from tactical to something more confidential. "Boston University’s head scout is making a special trip today."

Taissa’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. BU had a top-tier Division I program. She’d looked into them for herself, but their political science department wasn't as strong as Yale's or Georgetown's. "For who?"

Coach Scott watched her reaction carefully. "They've expressed serious interest in Palmer."

Van. 

The name hung in the air. Taissa felt a jolt, a complex mixture of pride and anxiety. Van’s talent was undeniable, their reflexes in goal often bordering on supernatural. But college scouts, especially from a program like BU, brought a different level of scrutiny.

"They're talking a full athletic scholarship, Turner. Full ride." Coach Scott’s gaze was direct, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "They want to see how Palmer handles pressure against a strong offensive team like Northwood. How they command the box. Their distribution."

Taissa processed the information, her mind immediately shifting gears. A full scholarship for Van would change everything. It meant options, freedom from the financial anxieties that always shadowed their discussions about the future. It meant Van wouldn't just be another Wiskayok graduate struggling to find their place; they would be a sought-after NCAA athlete.

"I know you'll make sure Palmer gets opportunities to shine today," Coach Scott added, his voice still low. "Ensure our defense gives them chances to showcase their range—long throws, quick distribution on counter-attacks, command on corner kicks."

A beat of silence stretched between them. 

Our defense . Ensure Palmer gets opportunities . 

The implication was clear. He wasn't just talking to his team captain; he was talking to Van’s girlfriend. Taissa’s fingers tightened slightly on the edge of her scouting report. The knowledge of their relationship, officially unacknowledged but an open secret among the team and, apparently, their coach, had always been a potential vulnerability. She waited for the reprimand, the warning about school rules, the reminder of Headmistress Porter's conservative stance on "appropriate student conduct."

Instead, Coach Scott simply continued, "They have a few specific things they’re looking for in Palmer’s decision-making under pressure. We need to ensure they have the chance to demonstrate those skills." He used “they” and “them” for Van without hesitation, without explanation. The pronouns landed with a quiet force, a subtle but undeniable acknowledgment.

Taissa tracked the shift instantly. It wasn't just that he knew; it was the way he knew. His casual, correct use of Van’s pronouns in a private conversation signaled not just awareness but acceptance. More than acceptance—respect. The ever-present tension in Taissa’s shoulders, the constant vigilance about protecting their relationship, eased by a fraction. The noise of the bus, the chatter and laughter from behind, faded into a distant hum as she processed the layers of this exchange.

"Thank you for letting me know," she said, her voice measured, betraying none of the surprise or relief coiling in her stomach. “I’ll make sure our defensive line is aware. We’ll give Palmer every opportunity.” Them , she corrected herself silently. 

Give them every opportunity.

Coach Scott nodded, then looked out the window for a moment at the passing trees. The silence between them felt different now, less hierarchical, more… allied.

"You know," he said, his voice taking on a nostalgic quality, "my senior year in high school, our goalkeeper was incredible. Best in the state. But he was… different. Didn't fit the usual jock mold. Some of the guys on the team, the coaches even, gave him a hard time. Made him doubt himself." He turned back from the window, his gaze distant. "I was co-captain. I should have done more to support him. To make sure he knew his talent was what mattered, not how well he fit in." He paused, then added, "He quit before regionals. Said the pressure wasn't worth it. We lost in the first round."

The story hung in the air, an indirect revelation. He didn't say "he was gay," or "I understood because I was too," but the implication was unmistakable in the quiet sincerity of his voice, in the specific regret he carried. Taissa observed the subtle lines around his eyes, the way his hands rested on his clipboard, seeing him not just as Coach Ben Scott, thirty-year-old faculty member, but as someone who had navigated similar complexities, who understood the weight of unspoken truths.

A silent understanding passed between them. Taissa’s perception of him recalibrated. He wasn't just an authority figure to be managed or impressed; he was a potential ally, someone who might understand the invisible battles fought daily within Wiskayok's hallowed, restrictive walls.

The bus began to slow as it approached the St. Margaret's campus. The familiar red brick buildings of the rival school came into view.

"Alright, Turner," Coach Scott said, his voice returning to its usual direct, coaching tone. "Let's break down their set-piece strategy. They run a near-post screen on corner kicks that we need to disrupt."

Taissa nodded, her mind clicking back into game mode, but a new track ran parallel to the tactical analysis. How to create opportunities for Van to make game-changing saves. How to ensure the defensive line fed Van balls that allowed them to initiate counter-attacks. How to subtly highlight every aspect of Van's talent for the Boston University scout, without making it obvious or compromising the team's overall strategy. It was a complex equation, the kind Taissa excelled at solving.

The bus pulled to a stop. The chatter around them intensified as players gathered their bags.

"Remember, Turner," Coach Scott said as he stood. "Control the midfield, protect your keeper, and let Palmer do what they do best."

Taissa met his gaze. "Understood, Coach. Completely."

As they prepared to disembark, Coach Scott paused at the front of thebus, addressing the team with his standard pre-game instructions. Taissa caught his eye and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn't just the captain acknowledging her coach. It was something more. A deeper appreciation, a recognition of shared understanding and unexpected alliance.

She straightened her uniform, the green and gray fabric feeling less like a constraint and more like armor. The responsibility of leadership pressed down, but now it was intertwined with a more personal, more urgent imperative: Van’s future. And for the first time, facing the institutional pressures of Wiskayok, Taissa Turner didn't feel quite so alone in her fight.

* * *

Van POV

Van stretched in goal, rolling their shoulders and bouncing on their toes to warm up their muscles. The familiar pre-game ritual usually centered them, but today their movements felt mechanical, their mind scattered. Coach Ben's pregame talk had been standard—Northwood's offensive strengths, defensive weaknesses, set-piece strategies—but Van had barely absorbed half of it, too busy scanning the growing crowd on the sidelines.

That's when they spotted them.

Two figures in scarlet and white polos near midfield, clipboards in hand, heads bent in conversation. The taller one, a woman with short gray hair and athletic posture, gestured toward the field while her younger colleague nodded, jotting something down. The distinctive BU logo on their right breast pockets were unmistakable—Boston University scouts.

Van's stomach plummeted, a cold wave of realization washing over them. They weren't just here for the game. They were here for for one of them. And given that it was openly known that Boston University’s soccer team was openly recruiting for a new goalkeeper or two— 

"Shit," they muttered, missing the ball Nat had just sent their way during warm-ups. It rolled past, hitting the back of the net with a soft thud.

"Earth to Palmer!" Nat called, jogging over to retrieve it. "You planning to actually stop some shots today, or what?"

Van nodded distractedly. "Yeah. Sorry."

Nat followed their gaze to the sidelines, understanding dawning on her face. "Ah. The suits are here." She kicked the ball back to Van with surprising gentleness. "Don't overthink it. Just do what you always do."

"Right." Van caught the ball, their usually confident hands suddenly clumsy. "What I always do."

But what did they always do? Every instinct and reaction that had become second nature over years of goalkeeping suddenly felt foreign, like trying to recall the mechanics of walking while in motion. Van fumbled the next practice shot from Mari, nearly dropping it before clutching it to their chest.

"Fuck," they whispered, heat rising to their face. The scouts had definitely seen that.

They forced themselves through the rest of the warm-up routine, hyperaware of every movement. Were their positioning cues too predictable? Was their footwork clean enough? Did their distribution show enough range and accuracy? Questions spiraled as they dove for balls that would normally be routine saves.

By the time Coach Ben called them in for final instructions, Van's jersey was soaked with nervous sweat, their heart hammering so hard they could feel it in their throat. This wasn't just another game. This was their future—a chance to play at the next level. The pressure compressed their chest until each breath felt shallow and insufficient.

"Palmer, you good?" Coach Ben asked, his eyes sharp as the team huddled up.

"Yes, Coach," Van managed, though the words felt hollow.

As the team broke formation, Van caught sight of the scouts again. The woman was now pointing directly at them, saying something to her colleague that made him nod and write something down. Were they critiquing their warm-up? Noting their nervous energy? Already deciding they weren't Division I material?

Van returned to the goal, adjusting their gloves for the fifth time. The familiar leather suddenly felt wrong against their skin, too tight in some places, too loose in others. They bounced on their toes, trying to shake out the tension that had settled into their muscles.

A figure appeared at their side—Taissa, her expression unreadable to anyone who didn't know her as well as Van did. But Van saw the subtle crease between her eyebrows, the slight tightening at the corners of her mouth. Concern.

"Your left glove is twisted," Taissa said casually, positioning herself between Van and the sideline where the scouts stood. She reached for Van's hand, adjusting the glove with deliberate movements.

"They're from BU," Van whispered, their voice tight. "Why didn't anyone tell me they were coming?"

"Because you'd overthink it. Like you're doing right now." Taissa's hands moved to Van's shoulders, firm and steady. "Hey, look at me."

Van reluctantly met her eyes, finding none of the panic that churned in their own chest—only calm certainty.

"You're the best goalkeeper in the state," Taissa said, her voice low and intense. "Those scouts are here because they already know you're amazing. They've seen your stats, they've watched film. Today is just confirmation of what they already believe."

"But what if I—"

"Remember that save against Phillips Academy? The one-handed tip over the crossbar in the eighty-seventh minute?" Taissa's fingers tightened slightly on Van's shoulders. "Or the penalty save against Riverdale? Three consecutive corner kicks against St. Catherine's where you didn't just make the saves but started the counter-attack that led to our winning goal?"

Despite their anxiety, Van felt a small smile tug at their lips. "You've been paying attention."

"Always." Taissa's voice dropped to an intimate whisper. "You were born for this, Palmer. Just play your game."

From the corner of their eye, Van noticed Nat casually stretching nearby, her body angled to block any view of their conversation from the coaches or other players. The subtle act of protection touched something deep in Van's chest.

Taissa glanced quickly around, then leaned forward and pressed a swift, fierce kiss to Van's lips. The contact lasted barely a second, but Van felt its impact ripple through their body like a stone dropped in still water. Taissa's hand came up to cup their face briefly, her thumb brushing across their cheekbone.

"For luck," she murmured, pulling back.

The simple gesture grounded Van in a way that all their physical warm-up exercises hadn't. Their breathing deepened, heartbeat steadying as Taissa's familiar touch anchored them to the present moment.

"Thanks," Van whispered, feeling the tension in their shoulders begin to ease.

"Don't thank me yet," Taissa replied with a small smile. "Thank me after you show those scouts exactly why they came all this way."

The referee's whistle pierced the air, signaling the teams to take their positions. Taissa jogged back to midfield, leaving Van alone in the goal—but somehow the solitude felt different now. The crushing pressure had transformed into something more manageable, more familiar. The pre-game jitters that had felt so overwhelming moments ago settled into the usual focused alertness that made them effective between the posts.

Van took their position, planting their feet firmly on the goal line as they surveyed the field. They could still see the scouts in their peripheral vision, but they no longer dominated their thoughts. Instead, Van focused on the eleven Northwood players in their crimson uniforms, mentally cataloging the scouting report details Coach Ben and Taissa had emphasized.

The whistle blew again. Game on.

The first ten minutes passed in a blur of motion, both teams testing each other's defenses without creating clear chances. Van stayed engaged by calling out positioning cues to their defenders, organizing the wall for a free kick, and distributing the ball quickly after a routine catch.

Then, in the eleventh minute, Northwood's attack suddenly cohered. Their midfielder—Miller, number eight, the one Taissa had highlighted as their playmaker—threaded a perfect pass through Wiskayok's defensive line. Their forward broke through, one-on-one with Van, and fired a low, hard shot toward the bottom corner.

Time seemed to slow. Van saw the striker's hips open slightly before the shot, telegraphing direction. They pushed off their right foot, diving with full extension. The world narrowed to a single point of focus—their gloved hands and the ball hurtling toward the corner of the net.

The connection was clean, the ball smacking against their palms with a satisfying thud as they clutched it to their chest. The momentum of their dive carried them to the ground, but they maintained their grip, the ball secure against their body.

Van sprang back to their feet in one fluid motion, adrenaline coursing through their system. Without hesitation, they launched the ball upfield with a powerful punt that dropped perfectly into space for Shauna to run onto.

"Great save, Palmer!" Coach Ben shouted from the sideline.

Van allowed themselves a quick glance toward the scouts. Both were watching intently, the woman making a note on her clipboard. A small surge of confidence replaced the earlier anxiety. This was what they knew how to do. This was where they belonged.

The game's rhythm established itself—Northwood controlling possession but Wiskayok dangerous on the counter-attack. Van settled deeper into their element with each passing minute, their instincts taking over as they directed the defense, adjusted positioning, and made routine catches with increasing assurance.

Midway through the first half, Northwood earned a corner kick. Van surveyed the crowded penalty area, noting the runners and blockers setting up their patterns. As the ball was struck, they recognized the near-post screen Coach Ben had warned about—three Northwood players creating a wall to block Van's path to the ball.

The cross sailed high into the penalty area, a dangerous ball curling toward the cluster of players. Without hesitation, Van called "Keeper!" and launched themselves above the crowd, arms extended. They snatched the ball from the air at its highest point, their timing perfect as they soared over the attempted screens.

Landing securely with the ball clutched in both hands, Van immediately looked for the counter-attack opportunity. They spotted Taissa breaking into space and delivered a precise throw that hit her in stride, allowing Wiskayok to transition from defense to attack in seconds.

From the corner of their eye, Van caught the female scout nudging her colleague, both of them watching with obvious appreciation. The younger scout nodded, writing something down with what looked like enthusiasm.

A warm sense of accomplishment spread through Van's chest. This was what BU wanted to see—not just shot-stopping, but command of the area, decision-making under pressure, and the ability to turn defense into attack with intelligent distribution.

Van caught Taissa's eye from across the field. Her small, proud smile conveyed everything words couldn't in that moment. Van returned it with a subtle nod—a silent acknowledgment of what they'd accomplished together.

For the first time since spotting those scouts, Van felt not just confident but genuinely excited. They weren't a threat to be feared; they were an opportunity to be embraced. And Van Palmer was ready to show them exactly why they deserved that scholarship, one save at a time.

* * *

Nat POV

Nat leaned against the sideline bench, arms crossed over her chest, watching the field with uncharacteristic intensity. The game swirled before her in patterns she normally pretended not to recognize—defensive rotations, attacking channels, the subtle shifts of momentum that determined outcomes long before the final whistle. But today, her attention kept drifting to one specific player.

Lottie Matthews moved across the midfield with a fluidity Nat hadn't seen from her before. No hesitation, no delayed reactions, none of the medication fog that usually slowed her movements. Every touch was deliberate, every run perfectly timed. The transformation was striking—and fucking hot, if Nat was being honest with herself.

"She's something else today," Nat muttered under her breath, eyes tracking Lottie as she executed a perfect turn to evade a defender.

Three days ago in the art studio, Nat had experienced a side of Lottie few people ever saw—confident, passionate, completely present in her body. That intensity had apparently carried onto the field. Nat knew why. Lottie had been gradually reducing her medication, skipping doses to reclaim her senses, her perceptions, her physical abilities. The risk was significant, but the results... Nat shifted her weight, unable to tear her eyes away from Lottie's graceful movement through the midfield.

"Something's different about Matthews today," Coach Scott said, appearing beside Nat with his ever-present clipboard. "She's reading the game three steps ahead."

Nat shrugged, trying to sound casual. "Just having a good day, I guess."

Coach's eyes flicked from the field to Nat, then back again. "Reminds me of another player who sees more than she lets on." He gave Nat a knowing nod before returning his attention to the game. "Interesting to see you so invested in our tactical approach today, Scatorccio."

Heat crawled up Nat's neck. She forced a smirk. "Don't get used to it."

On the field, Lottie intercepted a pass with perfect anticipation, immediately launching a counterattack. She moved with a freeness Nat had only witnessed in their most private moments, as if finally inhabiting her body without constraint. Her acceleration left Northwood's midfielders scrambling to recover position.

"Look at that," Coach Scott murmured appreciatively. "Matthews is playing three levels above where she was last week."

Nat bit back a smile. Nobody understood why—nobody except her. This was Lottie without the chemical barriers her father insisted upon, Lottie with her natural perceptions and instincts intact. It was exhilarating to watch, knowing she was one of the few people who understood the significance of this transformation.

The play developed with breathtaking speed. Lottie threaded a pass between two defenders, finding Jackie near the penalty area. Jackie drew the goalkeeper before sliding the ball back across to Lottie, who had continued her run into the box. Without hesitation, Lottie struck the ball first-time, sending it curling into the top corner beyond the keeper's desperate reach.

The Wiskayok bench erupted. Coach Scott pumped his fist while the team swarmed Lottie in celebration. Nat remained rooted to the spot, her chest tight with an unfamiliar mixture of pride and something deeper she wasn't ready to name.

"Fucking beautiful," she whispered, allowing herself a genuine smile.

The celebration was short-lived. As play resumed, Nat noticed number seventeen from Northwood's—a stocky defender with a perpetual scowl—watching Lottie with obvious malice. The girl had been physical all game, but something in her expression now sent a warning signal through Nat's system.

"Coach," Nat started, taking a half-step forward.

Before she could finish, the Northwood's player charged across the field toward Lottie, who had just received a pass with her back to the defender. The collision was deliberate and excessive—shoulder driving into Lottie's spine, cleats following through against her calf. Lottie crumpled to the ground, the impact audible even from the sideline.

"What the fuck!" Nat shouted, her body tensing immediately. Every instinct screamed at her to run onto the field, to stand between Lottie and her attacker, to check if she was okay. Her hands balled into fists as she took another step forward.

Coach Scott's hand caught her shoulder, restraining her with surprising strength. "Easy, Scatorccio."

"Did you see that?" Nat demanded, struggling to keep her voice down. "That was intentional!"

"I saw it," Coach confirmed, his expression hardening as the referee jogged over to assess the situation.

On the field, Lottie remained down, curled slightly on her side. Shauna and Jackie knelt beside her while the Northwood's player backed away, hands raised in mock innocence. Nat's chest constricted as she watched Lottie struggle to sit up, her face contorted with pain.

"Let me—" Nat began, her voice revealing more than she intended.

"Scatorccio," Coach Scott interrupted, his tone shifting, "get warmed up. You're going in."

Nat blinked, momentarily confused. "What?"

"You heard me." Coach nodded toward the field. "I need someone to secure our right side and protect our midfield. Someone who won't be intimidated." His eyes met hers with unmistakable meaning. "Someone who understands what's really at stake."

Understanding dawned. Coach was giving her an opportunity—not just to play, but to protect Lottie in a way that wouldn't attract unwanted attention. Nat nodded, immediately shedding her warmup jacket and checking her cleats.

By the time the referee had sorted out the situation—yellow card for the Northwood's defender, free kick for Wiskayok—Lottie was back on her feet, limping but determined to continue. The crowd applauded as she tested her weight on the injured leg.

Coach Scott signaled to the referee for a substitution, pointing at Nat and then at Gen, who had been playing right wing. The referee nodded, holding up his flag to pause play.

"Remember," Coach said quietly as Nat prepared to enter, "play the game, not the player. Smart defense, not retaliation."

Nat jogged to the sideline, waiting for Gen to exit the field. As the substitution was made official, she stepped onto the pitch, immediately scanning for number seventeen. The defender met her gaze with a smirk that made Nat's blood boil.

She jogged toward her position, deliberately crossing paths with Lottie, who was making her way back into formation. Their shoulders brushed, and Lottie's fingers briefly caught Nat's wrist—a touch so quick most would miss it.

"Make her pay," Lottie whispered, her eyes fierce despite the pain evident in her posture. "But stay in the game. I need you out here with me."

The simple admission—I need you—sent a jolt through Nat's system. She gave a nearly imperceptible nod before continuing to her position, new determination fueling her movements.

It took less than two minutes for number seventeen to test Nat. The Northwood's player received the ball near the halfway line and immediately turned toward Nat, clearly intending to intimidate the substitute with aggressive positioning.

Nat waited, body coiled like a spring, watching the ball rather than the player's face. When seventeen committed to a heavy touch, Nat pounced. Her timing was immaculate—sliding in from the side, cleanly taking the ball while staying firmly within the rules. The precision of the tackle sent the Northwood's player stumbling while Nat maintained possession, immediately finding Taissa with a perfectly weighted pass.

A surprised murmur rippled through the crowd. From the goal, Van called out: "That's right! Mess with Lottie and you got Nat to deal with now!"

The unexpected display of skill drew looks of shock from her teammates. Shauna's eyebrows nearly reached her hairline, while Taissa gave Nat an appraising nod that contained a new level of respect.

"Where the hell did that come from, Scatorccio?" Jackie demanded as they reset for a goal kick.

Nat shrugged, already tracking number seventeen's movement across the field. "Just playing the game, captain."

For the next fifteen minutes, Nat positioned herself strategically, constantly monitoring the space around Lottie. Every time the Northwood's defender moved toward Lottie, Nat materialized in her path, cutting off angles, intercepting passes, creating a protective barrier without ever making it obvious that was her intention.

From the sideline, Coach Scott made notes on his clipboard, nodding with approval as Nat showcased the soccer intelligence she normally kept hidden behind her disaffected exterior. She intercepted three passes meant for number seventeen, executed two more perfect tackles, and even initiated a counterattack that nearly resulted in another goal.

"Water break!" Coach called during a stoppage in play. The team jogged to the sideline, grabbing water bottles while he gave tactical adjustments.

As the group began to disperse, Coach motioned for Nat to stay behind. "That's some of the best defensive awareness I've seen from you, Scatorccio," he said, just quietly enough that others couldn't hear. "Where have you been hiding that level of play?"

Nat took a long drink from her water bottle, avoiding direct eye contact. "Just trying not to embarrass the rest of the team with my superior skills," she deadpanned.

Coach Scott chuckled, seeing through her deflection. "Well, whatever's motivating you today, keep it up. You're reading the game beautifully." He checked his notes. "I'm keeping you in for the second half. We need that presence on the right side."

"But Gen—"

"Will understand." Coach glanced toward the bench where Gen sat beside Mari, both watching the field with focused attention. "Some games call for different personnel. Today, we need what you're bringing."

Nat nodded, something warm and unfamiliar expanding in her chest at his recognition. As Coach moved away to address other players, Lottie appeared at Nat's side, her movement still slightly hampered by her earlier injury.

"Looking good out there," she said, voice pitched for Nat's ears alone. Then, with a quick glance to ensure no one was watching, she delivered a swift slap to Nat's ass. "Keep it up. I like watching you get all protective."

The contact sent heat shooting up Nat's spine, and she nearly choked on her water. Before she could respond, Lottie was already jogging back onto the field, leaving Nat momentarily speechless.

"Alright ladies, positions!" Coach called. "Let's lock this down in the second half!"

Nat tossed her water bottle aside, a new energy coursing through her veins as she jogged back onto the field. For once, she wasn't playing to avoid attention or to meet minimum expectations. She was playing for Lottie, for the team, and maybe—just maybe—for herself.

* * *

 Jackie POV

Jackie stood rigid on the sideline, watching her team execute a simple 4-3-3 formation against Northwood's defense. She should have been analyzing weaknesses, identifying opportunities—captain things. Instead, her focus narrowed to a single point on the field where Shauna and Melissa were connecting with an ease that made her stomach clench.

"Looking sharp today, Ship!" Melissa called, perfectly threading a through-ball into space where Shauna would be, not where she was.

And somehow, impossibly, Shauna was there to receive it, like they shared some telepathic connection Jackie wasn't part of. The Northwood's defense scrambled to adjust as Shauna controlled the ball with one deft touch before sending it back to Melissa, who had continued her run into attacking position.

In the bleachers, Peter Prescott, the Princeton assistant soccer coach, the one Meredith Caldwell sent to watch the game. The who should be watching her and her alone—scribbled something on his clipboard. His attention focused entirely on Shauna and Melissa, who had been performing perfect corner kicks all season specifically for this moment. Jackie's fingers curled into her palms, nails biting into skin.

"Textbook give-and-go," Coach Ben called from beside her. "Great vision from both of you!"

The praise that should have been hers settled on Shauna's shoulders instead. Jackie watched Shauna's face transform with the acknowledgment—a flash of genuine pride before she ducked her head in that characteristic way that had always seemed endearing but now felt calculated. Playing humble while stealing Jackie's spotlight.

"Taylor," Coach Ben said, startling her from her thoughts. "You're back in.”

Jackie jogged onto the field, deliberately positioning herself between Shauna and Melissa as they set up for the next play. She felt rather than saw Taissa's disapproving glance from midfield but ignored it. This was her team. Her position. Her future on the line.

"Stay wide," Jackie instructed Melissa with more force than necessary. "I'll take the center channel."

Melissa's eyebrows rose slightly, but she adjusted her position without comment. Shauna hesitated, confusion flickering across her features as the formation they'd practiced all week suddenly shifted.

The whistle blew. Play resumed with Wiskayok pushing forward. Taissa controlled the midfield with her usual precision, looking for passing options as Northwood's closed in around her. Jackie created space, making herself available for the pass.

"Here! Tai!" She waved her arms, drawing attention to her position.

Taissa hesitated—just for a fraction of a second, but Jackie caught it—before sending the ball her way. It rolled toward her with perfect pace. An easy trap. The kind of pass she could handle blindfolded after years of practice.

And somehow, she missed it.

The ball rolled past her foot as her concentration broke, her eyes drawn to the sideline where both scouts were watching Shauna moving into attacking position. The simple error sent Northwood's on a counter-attack, players streaming past Jackie who stood frozen, the space between her ears filled with the sound of her own heartbeat.

"Taylor! Wake up!" Coach Ben's voice cut through the ringing. "Track back!"

Jackie turned to chase, but the mistake had already cost them position. Only Van's spectacular save prevented Northwood's from capitalizing on her error.

"Focus, Jackie," Taissa jogged past, voice low but firm. "Head in the game."

As if she needed advice from Taissa Turner, who'd never understood what it meant to have expectations bearing down on you from every direction. Who'd never known what it was like to be weighed and measured at every family dinner, every school function, every moment of every day.

When play reset, Jackie positioned herself deliberately in the center forward position—her position, where she'd been playing all season. Where the scouts would naturally look for the team captain. Where she belonged.

Shauna and Melissa had set up on the left side, already exchanging quick passes that broke through Northwood's defense with frustrating ease. Their movements were synchronized, anticipating each other without verbal communication, creating space where there should have been none.

"Wide!" Jackie called, demanding the ball despite being tightly marked by two defenders.

Shauna looked up, clearly registering that Jackie was covered, before sending the ball back to Melissa instead. The smart play. The right play. Jackie hated her for it.

She jogged forward, deliberately inserting herself into the passing lane between Shauna and Melissa, disrupting the flow they'd established. The Northwood's defender marking her followed, creating congestion in what had been open space.

"Taylor, maintain position!" Coach Ben shouted from the sideline. "You're bunching the attack!"

Jackie ignored him, continuing to drift into Shauna and Melissa's channel. When Melissa received the ball again, Jackie called for it forcefully despite being in a worse position. Melissa hesitated, clearly torn between respecting her captain and making the obvious tactical choice.

In that moment of hesitation, Northwood's defender stepped in, poking the ball away from Melissa. But instead of a clean tackle, the ball spun directly back to Shauna, who one-touched it through the disorganized defense—a perfect assist that found Melissa in stride.

Melissa took one touch to control, another to settle, and then drove the ball into the bottom corner with clinical precision. The net rippled as the goalkeeper dove in vain.

Wiskayok's sideline erupted in cheers. Jackie stood frozen as her teammates converged on Melissa, congratulating her on the goal that put them ahead. Shauna reached her first, throwing her arms around Melissa in a celebration hug that lasted a beat too long for Jackie's comfort.

Something hot and ugly twisted in Jackie's chest as she watched them embrace. Shauna's face was alight with joy—the unrestrained happiness she used to show only with Jackie, now directed at someone else. Melissa's hands lingered on Shauna's waist as they separated, the contact casual but intimate in a way that made Jackie's throat tighten.

"Great finish, Bennett!" Coach Ben called from the sideline. "Excellent vision, Shipman! That's what I've been talking about—reading the game two steps ahead!"

Jackie forced herself to jog over, to join the celebration as expected of the captain. She patted Melissa's shoulder with mechanical precision, her smile not reaching her eyes.

"Nice shot," she managed, the words tasting like ash.

"Couldn't have done it without Ship's assist," Melissa replied, arm still draped around Shauna's shoulders. "We've been working on that connection."

Connection . The word echoed in Jackie's head, taking on dimensions beyond the simple soccer play. She watched the easy way they stood together, the wordless communication that had developed between them over mere weeks. What had taken Jackie years to build with Shauna, Melissa had somehow replicated in a fraction of the time.

The whistle blew for a water break. As the team jogged toward the sideline, Jackie overheard fragments of conversation from Peter Prescott and BU scouts who stood conferring near the benches.

"The chemistry between those two is remarkable," Prescott — her Princeton scout—said to the BU scouts. "Shipman's field vision is collegiate-level already, and Bennett reads her cues perfectly."

"Natural partnership," one of the BU scouts agreed, making a note. "The kind of intuitive connection that can't be coached. Either it's there or it isn't."

Jackie's breathing became erratic, her chest constricting as if the air had suddenly thinned. Natural partnership. Intuitive connection. The very things she'd worked so hard to cultivate with Shauna, now being attributed to this... this interloper. This junior who had no right to Shauna's attention, to Shauna's assists, to Shauna's smiles.

"Water, Taylor?" Coach Ben extended a bottle toward her.

Jackie took it without responding, her eyes still fixed on the scouts and their damned clipboards. Her future was being rewritten on those pages, her carefully constructed Princeton path crumbling before her eyes.

When play resumed, Jackie felt a dangerous energy building beneath her skin. Every pass that didn't come her way, every look exchanged between Shauna and Melissa, every note the scouts scribbled—each moment compounded her growing sense of desperation.

Midway through the second half, Wiskayok maintained their lead through Van's exceptional goalkeeping and Nat's surprisingly solid defensive work. The team had fallen into a rhythm that worked—a rhythm that somehow didn't center Jackie as it always had before.

Shauna received a pass near midfield, looking up to assess her options. Melissa was already making a run down the left, perfectly timed as usual. Jackie positioned herself directly in Melissa's path, ostensibly creating a passing option but effectively blocking the lane between Shauna and Melissa.

As Shauna prepared to pass, Jackie made her move. She sprinted toward Melissa, shoulder lowered. The collision seemed accidental but carried enough force to send Melissa off-balance, stumbling slightly before regaining her footing.

"Watch your run," Jackie called, as if Melissa had been at fault.

Across the field, Taissa shot her a warning look. The disapproval in her co-captain's eyes was unmistakable—Taissa had seen the intentional contact for what it was. But Taissa didn't understand what was at stake. Couldn't understand what it felt like to watch your entire future slipping through your fingers.

Play continued with Wiskayok maintaining possession. Shauna found space on the right, drawing defenders before looking up to find her options. Jackie raised her hand, clearly open on the penalty spot—the perfect position for a shot.

But once again, Shauna's eyes focused elsewhere. She spotted Melissa making another run and delivered a perfectly weighted pass into her path. The ball curved around the defender, falling exactly where Melissa would arrive.

Something inside Jackie snapped.

"WHAT THE FUCK, BENNETT?" she screamed, loud enough for her voice to carry across the entire field. "STOP BALL-HOGGING!"

The accusation was so ridiculous, so obviously untrue, that play momentarily stuttered as several players turned to look at her in confusion. Melissa had just received her first touch in nearly five minutes—the opposite of ball-hogging.

"Taylor!" Coach Ben shouted from the sideline, his tone carrying a clear warning.

Nat jogged over, placing a hand on Jackie's shoulder. "Hey, take it down a notch. We're winning."

Jackie violently shrugged off the contact. "Don't touch me." Her face felt hot, her vision narrowing to tunnel focus. "She's been ignoring open teammates all game."

"That's not true and you know it," Nat responded, stepping back as if sensing the volatility radiating from Jackie.

The referee approached, whistle in hand, clearly concerned by the outburst. But Jackie was beyond caring about officials or penalties or anything beyond the white-hot rage consuming her from within.

"You think you're so special?" she spat at Melissa, who stood frozen several yards away, confusion evident on her face. "You think you can just walk in and take over?"

Taissa moved between them, using her body to create distance while maintaining a calm exterior. "Jackie, that's enough. We're in the middle of a game."

"Get out of my way, Turner." Jackie tried to step around her, focus still fixed on Melissa. "This doesn't concern you."

"It concerns the whole team," Taissa replied, her voice level but firm. "You're our captain. Act like it."

The redirect to her leadership role should have landed, should have reminded Jackie of her responsibilities. Instead, it only fueled her anger.

"Don't you dare lecture me about being captain," she hissed, rounding on Taissa now. "You and Nat and the rest—you've all taken her side."

"There are no sides," Nat interjected, stepping closer despite the danger in Jackie's expression. "There's just the game, which we're trying to win."

The referee approached with purpose now, yellow card already in hand. "Number 10, that's enough."

Coach Ben called from the sideline, his voice cutting through the tension. "Taylor! Sideline, now!"

But Jackie was too far gone, emotions spiraling beyond her control. "This is bullshit!" she shouted, not even sure anymore who she was addressing—the referee, her teammates, the universe that was suddenly, inexplicably failing to follow her carefully constructed plan.

"Of course you'd defend her," she continued, gaze swinging wildly between Nat and Taissa. "The troublemaker and the perfect student. You think I don't see what's happening? You think I'm stupid?"

The referee's expression hardened as he lifted the yellow card higher. "This is a warning. One more word and it's a red."

Jackie laughed, the sound harsh and brittle. "A warning? For what? For calling out someone who's deliberately undermining team strategy?"

From the corner of her eye, she could see Shauna standing apart from the confrontation, her expression a mixture of shock and something worse—pity. The recognition that Shauna felt sorry for her rather than supportive drove the final nail into Jackie's composure.

"This is your fault," she said, turning to Shauna directly now. "You've been shutting me out for weeks. Ever since she showed up." She gestured wildly toward Melissa. "What, is she your new project? Someone else to make you feel special?"

The personal attack crossed a line. The referee's whistle blew sharply as he reached into his pocket, yellow card shifting to red in one smooth motion.

"Number 10, you're done. Red card, ejection from the game."

The finality of those words hit Jackie like a physical blow, cutting through her rage and leaving cold horror in its wake. She stood frozen, suddenly aware of the absolute silence that had fallen over the field. Every player, every coach, every spectator—and most devastatingly, both college scouts—watched as Wiskayok's captain self-destructed in real time.

"I..." she began, but no words followed. What could she possibly say now?

The red card remained extended toward her, the referee's expression implacable. "Off the field, please. Now."

Coach Ben's disappointment radiated from the sideline, his clipboard lowered, his posture slumped in a way she'd never seen before. "Taylor," he called, voice heavy with what could only be described as resignation. "Just go."

The walk to the sideline was the longest of Jackie's life. Each step hammered home the reality of what she'd done, what she'd thrown away in a moment of uncontrolled emotion. Princeton didn't recruit players who couldn't maintain composure under pressure. Princeton didn't want hotheads who put personal feelings above team success. Princeton certainly didn't offer scholarships to athletes who got ejected during scout evaluations.

As she passed the section where the scouts stood, Jackie couldn't bear to look up. But she heard the scratch of pen on paper, documenting her failure in real time. One sentence in her life's story, abruptly concluded: 

Jackie Taylor, Princeton prospect.

The team would play on without her. The game would continue. Shauna and Melissa would probably connect for another goal, their natural chemistry undisturbed by her absence. And Jackie Taylor—student body president, team captain, Princeton legacy—would watch from the sideline, the architect of her own undoing.

Chapter Text

Jackie POV

The bus ride from Northwood was controlled torture. Jackie sat rigid, staring out the window at the blur of autumn trees, their vibrant colors mocking the empty landscape of her thoughts. The team’s subdued victory celebration felt like a personal indictment. Every compliment for Van’s spectacular saves or Nat’s unexpected defensive prowess was a small cut against her composure. Worse was watching Shauna and Melissa in the seat across the aisle, heads bent close, sharing earbuds and a quiet intimacy that built a physical barrier between them. Jackie’s red card, her public failure, hung in the air, an ugly stain she couldn’t wash away.

For two days, she had been locked in a performance of indifferent captaincy, offering clipped congratulations and strategic advice while a storm raged inside her. The humiliation was a constant, acrid taste. She replayed the scene on a loop: the scout’s unimpressed face, the referee’s red card held aloft like a final judgment, the pity in Shauna’s eyes.

When she finally pushed open the door to their dorm room, the sight that greeted her was the final insult. Shauna’s side, usually a mirror of Jackie’s own meticulous order, was in chaos. Textbooks lay splayed open, clothes overflowed from the hamper, and papers were scattered across her desk like fallen leaves. It was a physical manifestation of the disorder Shauna had introduced into their lives—into their future.

A switch flipped in Jackie’s brain. Inside the storm of failure and jealousy, she found something she could control—Shauna's mess. A problem with a solution.

She dropped her bag by her immaculate desk and crossed the invisible boundary dividing their room. "For God’s sake, Ship," she muttered to the vacant air, stacking the scattered history textbooks. She snatched a crumpled sweater from the floor, folding it with sharp, angry creases before placing it on Shauna's bed. This was her role, wasn't it? Cleaning Shauna's messes. Guiding her. Providing structure.

Her movements became methodical, a desperate attempt to impose order on her spiraling emotions. She organized the pile of clothes, sorted notebooks by subject, and finally turned her attention to the disaster of the desk.

English papers lay mixed with calculus worksheets, poetry collections stacked atop history notes. Jackie sorted them into neat piles, her frustration mounting with each misplaced document. How could Shauna be so careless? Under a copy of Mrs. Dalloway , she saw it—the corner of a thick manila envelope peeking out. Annoyed by the sloppiness, she pulled it free.

Her breath caught.

The letterhead was stark, official, and utterly foreign. Brown University. Office of Undergraduate Admissions.

The room felt smaller, the air thinner. Jackie’s hands trembled as she turned the envelope over. It was addressed to Shauna Shipman. Not mailed; it was part of a larger packet. She sank onto the edge of Shauna’s bed, the neatly folded sweater a mockery of the order she had tried to impose.

Her fingers fumbled with the clasp. A voice in her head screamed that this was a violation, a line she could never uncross. A louder, wounded voice drowned it out. What else don’t you know?

Inside was a completed application. Shauna’s familiar, neat handwriting filled the blanks with an alien confidence. Tucked behind it was the personal statement. Jackie’s eyes scanned the first paragraph, her heart beginning a frantic, galloping rhythm against her ribs.

“Institutions, like people, present a carefully curated front,” Shauna had written. “But true identity is not forged in the manicured quads of accepted tradition, but in the private pursuit of an authentic self, often in defiance of the paths laid out for us…”

Jackie’s vision blurred. Paths laid out for us. That was them. Princeton. She flipped to the second page, her eyes snagging on a sentence that felt like a direct, personal betrayal.

“…and so the desire for independence becomes more than a simple wish for autonomy; it is a fundamental need to discover who I am when I am not reflecting someone else’s light.”

Someone else’s light…  

Jackie’s light.

A wave of nausea washed over her. The room tilted. She fell back against Shauna’s pillows, the faint scent of vanilla and lavender that usually brought her comfort now suffocating. This wasn't just an application. It was an escape plan. A secret declaration of independence she was never meant to see.

Her trembling fingers dug deeper into the envelope, pulling out more documents. Recommendation requests sent to Ms. Burns. Financial aid forms filled out with her parents’ modest income, a sharp reminder of the scholarship that kept Shauna here. Then, the final, gutting blow: a printout confirming an alumni interview for a writing fellowship, scheduled over a month ago. “We were so impressed with your thoughtful perspective on creating one’s own narrative, Shauna. We look forward to speaking with you.”

Months. This had been happening for months. Every late-night study session, every whispered excuse about extra reading—it was all a lie. A carefully constructed wall built around a secret she was on the outside of.

Her heart hammered a painful, frantic beat against her chest. Her palms were clammy, the high-quality bond paper sticking to her skin. She scanned a supplemental essay, her eyes catching phrases that twisted like knives. “Choosing a community where my voice can be my own…” “…the courage to diverge from a shared path…” “…defining success on my own terms…”

Each word was a rejection. Of Jackie, of their friendship, of the future she had taken for granted was theirs .

The sound of the dorm room door opening was a physical shock. Jackie scrambled to sit up, the papers scattering across the bedspread like shrapnel.

Shauna stood in the doorway, a weary but genuine smile on her face. “Hey, I was just—” Her words died as her gaze dropped from Jackie’s face to the Brown University letterhead clutched in her hand.

The color drained from Shauna's face. Her smile evaporated, replaced by an expression of pure, cornered panic. Her backpack slid from her shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud that resounded in the sudden, ringing silence.

“When were you going to tell me?” Jackie’s voice was a strangled whisper. She held up the application, the paper shaking. “Or were you just going to disappear in August and send a postcard?”

Shauna stood frozen, her mouth opening and closing. She looked from the papers to Jackie’s face, her eyes wide with a guilt so profound it was a confession.

“Jackie, I…” she started, taking a hesitant step into the room. “I was going to tell you. I was just waiting for the right time.”

“The right time?” Jackie’s voice cracked, rising. The quiet whisper was gone, replaced by a raw, ragged sound. “When would that have been? After you got accepted? After you paid your deposit? When you were packing your bags to go to Providence instead of Princeton with me?”

She shot to her feet, the papers fluttering to the floor. “This is months of lying.” She stabbed a finger at the documents. “Letters of reccomendation from Ms. Burns! Financial aid! You built a whole secret life behind my back!”

“It wasn't like that,” Shauna pleaded. “I needed… I needed to see if I could get in on my own. Without your family’s name, without the path everyone expected.”

“There is no ‘us’ in this!” Jackie shrieked, snatching the personal statement from the floor. She waved it in front of Shauna’s face, her hand trembling with rage. “This says ‘independence.’ It says ‘my own voice.’ It says you need to escape me to find yourself!” The words tore from her throat, raw and wounded. “If you need to leave to find yourself, Shauna, what the hell does that say about who you’ve been with me for seventeen years?”

The question—her deepest, most terrifying fear articulated—hung between them, ugly and exposed.

Shauna flinched as if struck. “It’s not about you,” she whispered, tears welling. “It’s about me. Not just being ‘Jackie Taylor’s best friend’ for the rest of my life.”

“I never made you that! We were a team! We were Jackie and Shauna!” Jackie began to pace, a caged animal in the life they had built. She gestured wildly at the physical evidence of their shared history. “Look at this! The picture from our first day at Wiskayok! The matching Princeton pennants! The corkboard with pictures of our dream dorm room!”

She ripped a photo from the board—the two of them, arms slung around each other, grinning in front of Nassau Hall. “Was this all a lie? Were you thinking about Brown even then?”

“No! Of course not!” Shauna’s voice gained strength, a flicker of defensiveness breaking through her panic. “But people change, Jackie.”

“You changed,” Jackie accused, her voice breaking. “You started hiding from me. Whispering in corners with… with her .” The name felt like poison on her tongue. “Melissa.”

Shauna’s jaw set. “Don’t bring Melissa into this. She has nothing to do with my decision to apply to another school.”

“Doesn’t she?” Jackie’s laugh was harsh, humorless. “She’s encouraging you, isn’t she? Telling you how special and ‘authentic’ you are. Filling your head with this bullshit about finding your own voice. She wants to steal you from me.”

“Nobody can steal me, Jackie! I’m not a possession!” Shauna’s voice rose to match hers, her hands clenched. “And it’s incredibly hypocritical for you to be jealous of who I spend my time with.”

“Hypocritical? How is it hypocritical to want my best friend?”

“Because it shouldn't matter who I spend my time with!” Shauna took a step forward, her eyes blazing with a fire Jackie had never seen. “You’re straight, Jackie! You’re dating Jeff! You are supposed to be building a life with him!”

The words struck Jackie with the force of a physical blow. Straight. The word, so simple, so factual, felt utterly wrong. She flinched. A profound confusion crossed her face before anger rushed back in to protect her. She couldn’t process the vertigo the word induced, the sudden, terrifying chasm that opened beneath her.

“What does Jeff have to do with anything?” she shot back, her voice brittle as she fought to regain her footing on ground that had turned to sand. “This is about you and me. Loyalty. About you throwing away our future because some junior flattered you!”

“This is not about Melissa! It’s about you wanting your perfect life with Jeff, and also keeping me in this little box, exactly where you want me, forever! You can’t have both!”

“I don’t want both!” Jackie screamed, though a confusing part of her knew it was a lie.

They stood face to face, the air between them charged with years of unspoken feelings, a decade of friendship fracturing in real-time. Tears burned behind Jackie's eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She would not be the first to break.

The silence was a screaming void. There was nothing left to say that wasn't a weapon. Her carefully constructed world had shattered.

With a choked sob of pure rage and confusion, Jackie spun around, snatching her jacket. She couldn't look at Shauna.

She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the photos on the wall rattled. The sound was a definitive, catastrophic end. A sonic boom marking the moment her world fell apart.

Taissa POV

Taissa smoothed the rainbow-flag-patterned bandana over the dusty wooden crate serving as their coffee table. Beside it, Van arranged a plate of slightly squashed pack of Oreos and a two-liter bottle of soda. The air in the abandoned groundskeeper's cottage held the scent of damp earth and old wood, but flickering battery-powered lanterns cast a warm light, and the quilt Taissa liberated from the East Dorm linen closet added a splash of color to the worn armchair.

"Think anyone will actually show?" Van asked, nudging a cookie. Their voice held a nervous tremor.

Taissa adjusted a string of fairy lights draped across a grimy windowpane. "I put the word out to everyone who gave me a flicker of a 'maybe.' But Misty’s been making noises about cracking down on 'unapproved student gatherings.' People might be spooked." She’d used innocuous language for the invitations—"a discussion group about student life"—delivered through trusted intermediaries.

"Even Shauna?" Van fiddled with the collar of the oversized flannel Taissa had picked out for them.

"Especially Shauna, given everything. But Jackie keeps her on a pretty short leash. And Melissa… she’s careful." Taissa stepped back, surveying their work. "It’s not the student union, but it’s private."

"It’s ours," Van said, a small, genuine smile appearing. "That’s what matters."

The heavy door creaked open. Nat Scatorccio stood silhouetted against the fading twilight, a plume of cigarette smoke obscuring her features before she flicked the butt into the undergrowth. "This the right shithole for the secret society of… whatever this is?"

Taissa’s prepared welcome caught in her throat. "You found it."

Nat’s sharp eyes took in the lights, the cookies, the hopeful setup. A knowing half-smile played on her lips. "Didn't think I'd come?" She sauntered in, hands in the pockets of her illegally modified blazer, its crest partially obscured by a safety-pinned patch. "Lottie said there’d be snacks. And drama. I’m here for both."

Van offered her a cookie. "Help yourself."

The door creaked again, revealing Lottie Matthews, her ethereal presence vibrating with a nervous energy. Her large eyes scanned the room, lingering on Nat before finding Taissa. "Am I… late?"

"Right on time," Taissa reassured her.

Melissa Bennett slipped in next, her entrance quieter. She gave a small nod to Taissa before choosing a seat near the wall, her gaze sweeping the room, cataloging exits with a pragmatism Taissa appreciated.

A few minutes later, Mari Ibarra appeared. "Okay, so I got this weird, super-vague invite from Gen, who got it from Akilah, who said Taissa Turner was hosting a thing? I’m pretty sure I’m not who you think I am, but my Tía Rosa and Tía Sofia are the reason I know how to fix a leaky faucet, so if this is like, a GSA thing, I’m an ally. Plus, Gen mentioned free snacks." She spotted the cookies. "Sold."

Taissa waited a beat, then cleared her throat. The small group fell silent. Her voice shifted to the formal, measured cadence she used in student government. "Thanks for coming. I know it wasn’t easy. The purpose of this gathering is to create a space where we can be ourselves. Or figure out who that is. Without the uniforms, without the regulations, without the feeling of being watched." Her gaze flickered to the barred window. "What's shared here, stays here. That’s a requirement for everyone’s safety. Confidentiality is paramount. Agreed?"

Nods rippled through the group. Nat grunted something that sounded like assent.

"Good." Taissa relaxed slightly. "So, who wants to start?"

The silence was thick. Melissa broke it. "I came out to my parents freshman year," she began, her voice even. "They’re… cool with it. More than cool, actually. Here, though?" She gestured vaguely. "It’s like stepping back in time. The 'don't ask, don't tell' vibe is suffocating."

Lottie, twisting a strand of hair, spoke in a low voice. "I… don't know what my label is. I just know that… some connections feel right, regardless of expectations." Her gaze drifted towards Nat. "It's hard to explore that when every part of your life is monitored."

Mari chimed in, "My Tía Rosa always said, 'Love is love, mija. The rest is just paperwork and other people's opinions.' They’ve been together twenty-five years. So yeah, I get wanting a space to just… be."

Nat, who had been observing everyone, surprised them. "Labels are boxes," she said, her voice devoid of its usual sarcasm. "Sometimes they fit. Sometimes they're a cage. I've been with guys. I've been with girls. It was always about the person. Do they see me?" Her eyes met Taissa's. "This place," she gestured around, "it’s less bullshit than usual. That's a start."

Taissa watched Van, who had been examining the grain of the wooden armrest. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Van took a deep breath. "So, um." Their voice was low. "Most of you know me as Vanessa. Or Van. And… she/her." They paused, fingers curling around the edge of the chair. Taissa reached out, her hand briefly covering theirs, a silent anchor. "Lately, though… 'she' doesn't feel right. Like a uniform that's two sizes too small." Their eyes flicked up. "I've been talking with Tai… and… I think 'they' fits better. Non-binary."

The confession hung in the air.

Melissa was the first to speak, her voice calm. "Thanks for telling us, Van. They/them. Got it."

Lottie smiled softly. "It suits you."

Mari nodded. "Cool. So, Van. They. Easy."

Nat tilted her head. "Anything else we can do? To make it less… shitty for you here?"

Van looked up, a grateful smile flickering across their face. "Just… that. It means a lot." Their gaze found Taissa’s again, holding it.

Taissa drew out her small notebook. "Okay. So, we know this place has issues. Misty’s 'appearance checks,' the 'appropriate physical boundaries' BS, the entire dress code," she said, her voice regaining its strategic edge. "Let’s list the specific policies that make things hardest. Maybe we can find ways to challenge them. Through proper channels, of course." A hint of irony touched her lips.

The group began brainstorming. They settled on "Wilderness Preservation Society meeting" as a code name. They planned staggered departures. As the designated end time approached, the energy had shifted. The musty air felt lighter, charged with a fragile, nascent community.

Finally, only Taissa and Van remained.

"That..." Van began, looking around the small space, "that went better than I expected."

Taissa nodded. "It's a start."

Van reached out, pulling Taissa into a tight embrace. "Thank you," they whispered, their breath warm against Taissa's skin. "For making this happen."

Taissa held them close, inhaling the scent of Van’s flannel shirt. She tilted their chin up, and their lips met, a slow, soft kiss that deepened with a newfound confidence. This space, this refuge, was theirs.

Van’s hands, usually so quick in goal, moved with a tentative exploration, slipping under the hem of Taissa’s uniform shirt. Their fingers splayed against Taissa’s bare skin, a touch that was hesitant and bold, a question and an answer.

A thrill coursed through Taissa, a heady mix of desire and the profound relief of being truly seen. Words she’d only allowed to form in the most private corners of her mind surfaced.

"I have this fantasy sometimes," Taissa murmured against Van’s lips, her measured speech giving way to something more direct. "About you… tying me up. Here. Where no one can find us."

Van pulled back slightly, their grey-green eyes widening. Surprise morphed into keen interest, a slow smile spreading across their face. "Oh?" they breathed, their voice a low thrum. "Tell me more."

Van’s breath hitched. "Is that right, Turner?" Their voice dropped, a low vibration that resonated deep in Taissa’s chest. Their thumbs followed the sharp line of Taissa’s jaw. "The great Taissa Turner… fantasizes about being tied up?"

A flush crept up Taissa’s neck. "Sometimes the control… it’s exhausting."

Van’s smile was slow, dangerous. "You want someone to make all the decisions?" Their gaze dropped to Taissa’s lips, then lower, to the column of her throat where her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm. "To tell you what to do. What to feel."

Taissa nodded, a barely perceptible movement. "Yes." The single word was a surrender.

Van’s hands slid down her shoulders, their touch surprisingly gentle. "And in this fantasy…" their voice was a velvet rasp near her ear, "what happens then?"

Taissa’s own hands found the hem of Van’s flannel. "I don't know exactly," she confessed, her fingers brushing the warm skin of Van's hip. "It’s more… the feeling. Of not having to think."

Van’s chuckle was low. They covered Taissa’s hands with their own, stilling her clumsy efforts. "Let me." They unbuttoned their own shirt, then Taissa’s blazer, their knuckles grazing her collarbone.

"Here," Taissa whispered, her voice husky, "no one can hear you scream."

Van’s eyes locked with hers, a flicker of something wild in their depths. "Is that what you want to do, Tai? Scream?" Their hands moved to the knot of Taissa’s school tie. With a deft tug, the silk loosened.

"Maybe," Taissa admitted, her breath catching. "Maybe I want you to make me."

A predatory gleam entered Van's eyes. "I think I can arrange that." They stepped back, surveying the small, rustic bedroom. Their gaze fell upon the sturdy wooden bedframe. "That bed looks strong enough."

Taissa’s heart leaped. This Van, this commanding, captivating Van, was a revelation.

"You think so?" she managed.

Van’s lips curved into a confident smirk. "I know so." They moved toward the bed, testing a post with a firm hand. Satisfied, they turned back to Taissa, the school tie held loosely. "Come here."

It wasn't a question. Taissa obeyed, her body humming with a nervous energy.

"Sit."

Taissa sat on the edge of the mattress, the old springs groaning.

"Hands behind your back," Van instructed, their voice even.

Taissa complied. The position felt vulnerable. Van knelt before her, their proximity sending a wave of heat through her. They took one of her wrists, then the other, securing them to the bedpost with the tie. The knot was firm, efficient, not painful but certainly secure.

"Comfortable?" Van asked, their face close.

Taissa could only nod, her throat suddenly dry. This loss of control was terrifying and unbelievably arousing.

Van leaned in, their lips brushing her ear. "Good. Because you’re not going anywhere." They pulled back, their gaze intense. "You wanted me to make the decisions, Tai. So, I will."

Van’s hands went to the buttons of Taissa’s blouse, their touch now assured. One by one, the buttons gave way, exposing the lace of her bra. Van’s fingers brushed the edge of the lace, a feather-light contact that made Taissa gasp.

"You're so beautiful when you let go," Van murmured. Their mouth followed the path their fingers had taken, warm lips pressing against Taissa’s collarbone, then moving lower.

Taissa arched her back, her bound hands instinctively trying to reach for them. A frustrated sound escaped her.

Van chuckled softly. "Patience." Their lips found the front clasp of her bra, and with a practiced flick, it sprang open. The cool air hit Taissa's exposed skin.

Van’s attention was thorough, unhurried. Their mouth found one nipple, tongue flicking, then drawing it deep, suckling with a hunger that sent jolts of pleasure straight to Taissa’s core.

Taissa cried out, her head falling back. This was overwhelming, this complete surrender to sensation.

Van moved to her other breast, while their free hand slid down Taissa's stomach, dipping beneath the fabric of her skirt. The first touch against her clit was electric. Taissa gasped, her hips bucking.

"Easy, Tai," Van soothed, their voice a low growl. "We have all night."

But Taissa couldn't be easy. The feelings were too intense. She felt the tell-tale coil tightening deep inside her.

"Van… please…" she begged.

"Please what?" Van’s voice was a silken challenge. "Use your words, Taissa. Tell me what you want."

"I… I can't…" she gasped.

"Yes, you can." Van’s fingers pressed harder. "You want to come, don’t you?"

"Yes! God, yes!"

Van’s mouth found hers, a bruising, searching kiss that stole her breath while their fingers worked their magic, pushing her closer to the edge.

Then, it hit. A shattering, blinding orgasm ripped through her. She cried out Van’s name, her body arching violently against her restraints. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain, a complete obliteration of thought.

She collapsed back, panting, boneless. Van’s mouth was still on hers, gentler now. Their fingers, slick with her release, continued to stroke her with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Taissa’s eyes fluttered open. Van was watching her, their face flushed, their eyes luminous with a potent mix of tenderness and triumph.

"That was…" Taissa struggled for words.

"Just the first one," Van whispered, their lips curving into a wicked smile. "I told you I’d make the decisions tonight."

Before Taissa could recover, Van’s head dipped lower, their warm breath ghosting over her still-sensitive clit. Taissa gasped, a fresh wave of anticipation washing over her. Van’s tongue, hot and wet, flicked out, tasting her. She was completely at their mercy, adrift on a sea of sensation.

The second orgasm was even more intense, a long, keening wave that left her utterly spent, sobbing softly. Van shifted, their weight settling beside her, their arm coming around her, pulling her close.

"Still want me to stop?" Van murmured, their voice thick with satisfaction.

Taissa could only shake her head, burying her face against Van's chest, feeling the steady beat of their heart against her ear. She, Taissa Turner, who always had a plan, had been completely undone. In that unraveling, she had never felt more herself, or more connected to Van. The cottage, their secret space, had witnessed a surrender more profound than any she could have strategized.

Chapter Text

Shauna POV

Shauna stood outside Melissa Bennett’s door, the duffle bag cutting into her shoulder, its weight a physical manifestation of the argument she’d fled just a few hours earlier. 

Two AM. 

The numbers on her phone glowed accusingly. Her knuckles hovered inches from the smooth wood of room 317, a single room, a luxury Shauna had only fantasized about. What was she doing? This was a mistake. A huge, impositional, middle-of-the-night mistake. She should turn around, go back upstairs to the cold war that Room 417 had become since Jackie unearthed the Brown application.

She could almost feel the silence from her own dorm room pressing down on her, the air thick with unspoken accusations and Jackie’s simmering rage. The thought of returning, of sleeping in that charged atmosphere, made her stomach clench. She raised her hand, hesitated, then knocked, the sound shockingly loud in the pre-dawn stillness of the corridor.

The door opened almost immediately, as if Melissa had been expecting her. Melissa’s amber eyes, framed by sleep-tousled blondish-brown hair, widened slightly, concern replacing the drowsiness. In the dim hallway light, those eyes held a strange, almost golden glow, a warmth that Shauna felt drawn to, even as shame prickled at her skin.

“Shauna? What’s wrong? It’s…” Melissa glanced at the clock on her bedside table. “It’s two in the morning.”

“I know. I’m so sorry,” Shauna mumbled, the words catching in her throat. Her own voice sounded distant, tight. The weight of Jackie’s betrayal—or rather, Jackie’s perception of betrayal—pressed down on her, making it hard to form coherent sentences. “I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

Melissa’s expression softened. She stepped back, holding the door wider. “Get in here. You’re soaking wet.”

Only then did Shauna register the dampness of her clothes, the light autumn rain she’d barely noticed during the lost hours she had spent roaming the campus in a daze. She must look as broken as she felt. Melissa pulled her inside, the movement gentle but firm, and closed the door, shutting out the cold hallway and the unspoken judgment of Wiskayok.

The room was small, but tidy. Literary posters – Virginia Woolf, James Baldwin, a stark black and white print of Patti Smith – adorned the walls instead of glossy magazine cutouts or pristine athletic team photos. A single shelf above the desk held a collection of well-loved paperbacks, their spines creased, their pages visibly worn. It was so different from the perfect, curated aesthetic of the room she shared with Jackie, where every item was chosen for its contribution to their shared image, their shared future. This room felt… real. Lived in.

Shauna’s fingers, numb from cold and tension, fumbled with the strap of her duffle. It dropped to the floor with a soft thud. She kept her gaze fixed on the worn Persian rug, unable to meet Melissa's scrutiny. The mattress dipped as Melissa guided her to sit on the edge of the bed. The quilt was hand-stitched, a cozy patchwork of blues and greens.

A cool glass of water appeared in her vision. Melissa’s hand, steady and warm, pressed it into hers. “Drink this.”

Shauna’s hands trembled so violently she nearly spilled it. The cold liquid slid down her dry throat, grounding her momentarily. She could feel Melissa watching her, but the gaze didn’t feel like Jackie’s usual dissection, demanding explanation or compliance. It felt… patient.

“Did something happen?” Melissa asked, her voice quiet.

Shauna tried to start, to articulate the explosion that had ripped through her carefully constructed life tonight. The words caught, a jumbled mess of guilt and anger and a strange, terrifying exhilaration. “Jackie… she…” Another shaky breath. “She found it. The application.”

Melissa’s eyes didn’t register surprise, merely a deeper understanding. “Brown?”

Shauna nodded, fresh tears pricking. “And the essay. The one I… the one I was working on.” She could still see the look on Jackie’s face – the disbelief morphing into pure, unadulterated rage. The accusations. ‘ Months of lying to me. Right to my face. ’

“She called me a liar. A traitor.” The words finally burst forth, a torrent after a dam breaking. “She said I was sneaking around, planning this whole other life behind her back. Like… like wanting something for myself, something different , was the ultimate betrayal.” Shauna’s voice grew stronger, fueled by weeks of suppressed frustration. Years, maybe. “She doesn’t understand. She can’t. Her future has always been this straight, paved road. Mine… mine feels like I’m constantly hacking through a jungle with a dull machete.”

As she spoke, the years of suppressed emotions, the constant, low-level hum of Jackie’s controlling influence, rose to the surface. She felt something uncurl inside her, a knot loosening in her chest. Melissa listened, her shoulder a warm, steady pressure against Shauna's as she nodded occasionally, offering no judgment, only silent, unwavering support. It was that quiet acceptance that gave Shauna the courage to continue, to voice truths she’d barely acknowledged to herself.

“It’s always been like this,” Shauna continued, the words tumbling out faster now. The warmth of Melissa’s presence, the absence of Jackie’s critical analysis, created a space where honesty felt possible. “Even when we were little. Jackie decided what games we played, who our friends were, what movies we watched. I just… I went along with it. It was easier.”

Restless energy surged through her. Shauna rose from the bed, needing to move, to pace the small confines of Melissa’s room. Her hands gestured emphatically as the examples poured out, a litany of Jackie’s subtle, and not-so-subtle, manipulations.

“She picked out my dress for junior prom. Said the blue one I liked made me look ‘washed out.’ Hers, of course, was perfect.” Shauna’s voice dripped with a sarcasm she rarely dared to use around Jackie. “She vets my class schedule every semester. ‘Oh, Shipman, you don’t want to take that seminar with Professor Davies, he’s so dry. Take ceramics with me instead, it’ll be fun!’ Fun for her , because it meant I wasn’t off doing something she couldn’t control or be the best at.”

Each example, spoken aloud, felt like a small act of liberation. A strange lightness spread through her chest. Naming Jackie’s behavior seemed to strip it of its power.

“She even determined which parties were ‘worth attending.’ If Jeff wasn't going to be there, or if the ‘right’ people weren't on the guest list, suddenly it was ‘too loud’ or ‘immature’.” Shauna laughed, a short, sharp sound devoid of humor. “And I just… I let her. Because that’s what I do. I’m Shauna Shipman, Jackie Taylor’s best friend. Her sidekick. The quiet one who’s always there.”

She stopped pacing, her back pressed against Melissa’s bookshelf. The spines of books – Plath, Baldwin, Morrison – felt solid against her shoulder blades. Her voice dropped, the anger receding, replaced by a vulnerability that felt raw and exposed.

“She’s never… she’s never let me just be .” The confession hung in the air. The unspoken element, the constant, confusing physical affection from Jackie, the kisses that blurred lines, the way Jackie’s hands always seemed to find her, lingered between them. “I’ve never been allowed to choose my own path. My own… desires.”

Melissa rose from the bed and approached her slowly. She stopped a foot away, her amber eyes searching Shauna’s. “What do you want, Shauna?”

The question, so simple, so direct, resonated through Shauna like a bell being struck. Time seemed to slow. No one had ever asked her that. Not really. Not without an agenda, without a pre-approved answer already in mind. Jackie always told her what they wanted. Her parents asked what would make her "happy" in a general, future-oriented way, but never this. What do you want? Right now. For yourself.

Shauna looked into Melissa’s eyes, the golden flecks seeming to swim in their depths. And suddenly, amidst all the confusion, the hurt, the fear of Jackie’s wrath and the looming uncertainty of her future, one thing became crystal clear. One desire, sharp and undeniable.

“I want you,” Shauna said, the words barely a whisper, yet carrying the weight of a revelation. Her gaze dropped to Melissa’s lips, then back to her eyes.

Then, with a surge of exhilarating power, Shauna stepped forward. This was her choice. Her desire. Her action. Not performed for Jackie’s benefit, not a reaction to Jackie’s control, but a decision born from her own, newly awakened want.

She closed the distance, her hands coming up to frame Melissa’s face, and kissed her.

An electric current shot from her lips through her entire body as Melissa responded, not with surprise, but with an immediate, reciprocal warmth. Their mouths met, a soft collision that quickly deepened. Melissa’s hands found Shauna’s waist, pulling her closer until their bodies pressed together against the bookshelf. This wasn’t the hesitant, exploratory kiss they’d shared in the library. This was different. Firmer. More certain. The sensation was both foreign and, somehow, deeply familiar, like finding a language she hadn’t known she spoke. The spines of the books behind her dug slightly into her back, a grounding reality in the midst of the swirling emotions. Shauna’s fingers tangled in Melissa’s soft hair as the kiss became searching, demanding, a declaration of something new and fragile and undeniably real.

The kiss broke, but the connection lingered, an almost visible current between them. Shauna's hand, still cupping Melissa’s jaw, felt steady. Her own heartbeat, which should have been frantic, was a strong, even drum against her ribs. Melissa’s amber eyes were wide, questioning, but also alight with a reciprocal desire that mirrored Shauna’s own.

A new kind of confidence, sharp and exhilarating, flooded through Shauna. This feeling—this intense, undeniable wanting —was hers. Not Jackie’s. Not a reaction to Jackie. It was a clean, bright line of her own desire.

She kept one hand on Melissa’s cheek, her thumb stroking the soft skin, then took Melissa’s other hand. “Come here,” she said, her voice lower than usual, imbued with a certainty that surprised even herself.

Shauna led Melissa away from the bookshelf, toward the small, neatly made bed with its patchwork quilt. Each step felt deliberate, chosen. Her hand on Melissa’s was firm, her fingers interlaced. This wasn't the tentative, almost accidental touching that happened with Jackie, freighted with years of unspoken complexities. This was straightforward, honest.

At the edge of the bed, Shauna turned Melissa to face her. The lamplight cast shadows across Melissa’s features, highlighting the curve of her lips, the slight flush on her cheeks. Shauna’s hands moved to Melissa’s waist, her touch exploring the shape of her, the give of the cotton shirt she wore.

“Is this okay?” Melissa whispered, her breath warm against Shauna’s face.

“More than okay.” Shauna’s own voice was husky. She met Melissa’s gaze directly. “This is what I want.”

The admission, spoken aloud, felt like unlocking a door she hadn't known was barred. Agency surged through her, a heady rush. She, Shauna Shipman, was choosing this. For herself.

Her hands slid up Melissa’s sides, fingers splaying across her ribs, feeling the quickened pace of Melissa’s heartbeat. With a newfound boldness, Shauna leaned in and kissed Melissa again, slower this time, more thoughtful. It was a kiss of exploration, of intention. Melissa’s arms came around Shauna’s neck, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss, but her body remained pliant, responsive to Shauna’s lead.

Shauna guided them down onto the bed, never breaking the kiss. The patchwork quilt was soft beneath them. She shifted, positioning herself over Melissa, supporting her weight on her elbows, taking a moment to just look at her. Melissa’s eyes were dark with desire, but there was trust there too, an openness that made Shauna’s chest ache with a tender, unfamiliar emotion.

“You’re beautiful,” Shauna said, the words surprising her. She’d always thought it, but to say it aloud, to claim that observation as her own, felt significant.

Melissa’s answering smile was radiant. “So are you, Shauna.”

Shauna’s hands began to explore, slowly, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. She traced the line of Melissa’s collarbone, her fingers brushing against the soft skin of her neck. Each touch was a decision, a conscious act of wanting. With Jackie, so much had been passive, reactive. With Melissa, Shauna felt herself initiating, choosing.

She moved her hand to the hem of Melissa’s shirt, hesitating for a fraction of a second. “Can I?”

Melissa nodded, her eyes never leaving Shauna’s. “Please.”

Shauna lifted the shirt slowly, revealing the smooth skin of Melissa’s stomach, the gentle curve of her ribs. She bent her head, pressing a soft kiss just below her sternum, feeling Melissa’s breath hitch in response. The sensation of Melissa’s skin against her lips was electrifying.

This power, this agency, was intoxicating. It wasn’t about dominance, but about ownership of her own desire, her own actions. She was an active participant, not just a recipient of confusing, unacknowledged affection.

Her lips moved lower, over the waistband of Melissa’s pajama pants. She fumbled for a moment, her fingers suddenly clumsy. Melissa’s hands came to rest on her shoulders, a gentle, encouraging pressure.

“It’s okay,” Melissa murmured. “Take your time.”

The quiet reassurance settled Shauna’s nerves, her movements becoming more assured. Her hands slid beneath the flannel, fingers tracing the line of Melissa’s underwear, feeling the warmth of her skin.

“You tell me if… if anything’s not right,” Shauna said, her voice a little shaky but determined.

“Everything’s right,” Melissa whispered, her fingers tightening slightly on Shauna’s shoulders. “Everything you’re doing feels right.”

That affirmation, so simple, so direct, undid something inside Shauna. A knot of anxiety she hadn’t even realized she carried loosened, and tears pricked at her eyes. Not tears of sadness, but of an overwhelming, unexpected joy. The joy of being seen, of being wanted, of being allowed to want in return, freely and openly.

One tear escaped, tracing a hot path down her cheek. She pulled back slightly, worried Melissa would misinterpret.

“Hey,” Melissa said gently, her thumb brushing away the tear. “What’s this?”

“I don’t know,” Shauna admitted, a shaky laugh escaping her. “It’s just… this is the first time I’ve ever felt… like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I get to choose,” Shauna said, the words raw with honesty. “Like my wanting something actually matters.”

Melissa’s expression softened with understanding. She pulled Shauna down for a kiss that was tender and fierce all at once. “It matters to me,” she said against Shauna’s lips. “More than you know.”

Shauna’s hands explored Melissa’s body with a new sense of reverence, of discovery. Every curve, every soft expanse of skin, was a landscape she was charting for the first time. She removed Melissa’s pants, then her own, the movements unhurried, filled with a shared anticipation.

When they were skin to skin, the warmth between them was a comfort and a fire. Shauna kissed Melissa deeply, letting her hands roam, learning the responses of Melissa’s body. With each gasp, each sigh, each subtle shift of Melissa’s hips, Shauna felt her own confidence swell. She was doing this. She was making Melissa feel good. And it felt, in turn, incredibly, overwhelmingly good to her.

“Tell me what you like,” Shauna whispered, needing guidance, wanting to please.

Melissa’s answer was not in words, but in the way she arched her back when Shauna’s fingers brushed a particularly sensitive spot, the way her breath caught when Shauna’s lips found the soft skin of her inner thigh. Shauna followed those cues, letting Melissa’s body be her guide.

She moved lower, her mouth exploring, tasting. The intimacy was breathtaking, a complete shedding of insecurity. This wasn’t something she was doing for Melissa, but with her. A shared journey. And in that shared exploration, Shauna found parts of herself she hadn’t known existed—a boldness, a certainty, a capacity for pleasure that was entirely her own.

When Melissa’s breath started coming in ragged gasps, her fingers tangling in Shauna’s hair, pulling her closer, Shauna felt a surge of triumph. She focused her attention, her touch, until Melissa cried out, her body arching, a beautiful, shuddering release.

Lying beside Melissa afterwards, their bodies still humming, Shauna felt the tears come again, quiet this time, slipping down her temples into her hair. Melissa turned, propping herself up on an elbow, concern in her eyes.

“You okay?”

Shauna nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. She reached for Melissa’s hand, bringing it to her lips, kissing her knuckles.

This feeling, this profound sense of being utterly, completely herself, with someone who saw her, who wanted her, who let her want them back… this was liberation. And it had nothing to do with Jackie Taylor. It was all her own.

* * *

Nat POV

Nat slouched against her headboard, one foot propped on the rumpled bedspread, the other dangling off the edge of her narrow dorm bed. Van's absence created a rare pocket of solitude that she'd filled with Kerouac's rambling prose and intermittent texts to Lottie. The blue glow of her phone screen illuminated her face in the dimness of the room, casting shadows that accentuated her sharp features.

You sure you're okay? she typed, thumb hovering over the send button before pressing it. After their rooftop encounter earlier, Lottie had seemed steadier but still fragile, like glass cooled too quickly.

Lottie's response came almost immediately: Better now. My father can't reach me here. Not really.

Nat smiled, a small, private expression meant for no one. She was about to reply when three rapid, irregular knocks jolted her attention to the door. The sound was frantic, nothing like Van's steady rap or Taissa's measured double-tap.

"What the fuck?" Nat muttered, pulling her headphones down around her neck. She dog-eared her page in Kerouac and swung her legs over the side of the bed, approaching the door with the wariness of someone who'd learned early that unexpected visitors rarely brought good news.

She cracked the door open, ready to unleash a biting remark at whoever was interrupting her peace. The words died in her throat.

Jackie Taylor stood swaying in the hallway, knuckles white where they gripped the doorframe for support. Her face was a wreck—mascara smeared beneath puffy, red-rimmed eyes, her usually perfect strawberry blonde hair disheveled as if she'd been running her hands through it repeatedly. Her chest heaved with erratic breaths as she struggled to speak, but only choked sobs emerged.

"Taylor?" Nat's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise.

Jackie opened her mouth, but whatever she meant to say dissolved into another strangled sob. The smell of tequila wafted from her, strong enough that Nat instinctively glanced down the empty hallway. If Misty caught Jackie in this state, it would be immediate disciplinary action—probably the last thing Jackie needed on top of her red card and whatever the hell had driven her to Nat's door in the first place.

"Jesus Christ, Jackie," Nat hissed, grabbing Jackie's wrist and yanking her inside. She closed the door quickly, throwing the lock with a decisive click. "What the—"

Jackie stumbled forward, unsteady on her feet. Nat caught her by the shoulders, guiding her toward the bed. The team captain's body felt surprisingly small under her hands, fragile in a way that contradicted her usual commanding presence.

"Sit before you fall," Nat ordered, depositing Jackie on the edge of her unmade bed. "Fuck's sake, Taylor, how much did you drink?"

Jackie stared at the floor, shoulders slumped, her face crumpling again as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Her hands trembled in her lap, fingers twisting together so tightly the knuckles turned white. She tried to speak, managing only a few broken syllables before another sob escaped.

"Okay, okay," Nat said, her voice softening despite herself. She stepped back, grabbing a half-empty water bottle from her desk and holding it out. "Here. Drink this."

Jackie accepted the bottle with shaking hands but made no move to open it.

Nat sighed and sat down beside her, maintaining a careful distance. The mattress dipped under their combined weight. For a long moment, they sat in silence broken only by Jackie's ragged breathing and occasional hiccupping sob.

"What happened?" Nat finally asked, her voice gentler than usual.

Jackie's face contorted, tears flowing freely now. She gulped air between sobs, struggling to form words.

"Sh-Shauna," she finally managed, the name emerging like it had been torn from her throat.

"Brown," she added after another gasping breath.

"Melissa." This came out as almost a whisper, followed by another wave of tears.

Nat's eyes widened as understanding dawned. "Ah, shit," she muttered. The pieces fell into place—Shauna's secret application to Brown, something Nat had suspected for weeks based on the way Shauna guarded her notebook and disappeared into the library for hours. Add Melissa to the mix, and Jackie's meltdown made perfect, painful sense.

Jackie's hands were still trembling violently as she fumbled with the water bottle cap. Nat reached over, took it from her, twisted it open, and handed it back. Jackie took several gulping swallows, water dribbling down her chin.

"She lied to me," Jackie finally said, her voice raw. "For months. Behind my back."

Nat stood, moving methodically around the room. She helped Jackie out of her jacket, noticing how the usually immaculate team captain allowed herself to be maneuvered like a doll. The Jackie Taylor who controlled every aspect of her appearance with military precision was nowhere to be found in this disheveled, broken girl.

"These too," Nat said, kneeling to remove Jackie's shoes, setting them neatly beside the bed. She positioned the metal trash can from under her desk within easy reach of the bed. "Just in case."

Jackie stared at the can, then back at Nat, confusion momentarily overriding her misery. "Why are you helping me?"

Nat shrugged, dropping back onto the bed. "Because you look like shit and Van's not coming back tonight."

The blunt assessment startled a watery laugh from Jackie. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, a gesture so uncharacteristically undignified that Nat had to suppress a smile.

"So," Nat said, crossing her legs under her. "Shauna applied to Brown."

Jackie's face crumpled again. "Not just applied. She's been planning it for months. Writing essays about... about 'forging her own path' and 'dismantling perceived destinies.'" She spat the words like they tasted bitter. "And she never said a word. Not one fucking word."

"And you found out how?"

"Her desk was a mess. I was just trying to straighten up and there it was. The whole thing." Jackie took another swig of water. "We were supposed to go to Princeton together. That was always the plan. Since we were twelve."

"Your plan or hers?" Nat asked, the question direct but without judgment.

Jackie's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "Our plan. We talked about it all the time."

"Did you?" Nat leaned back against the wall. "Or did you talk about it, and she just... nodded?"

The question landed like a physical blow. Jackie's mouth opened, then closed, her certainty visibly wavering.

"I don't have anyone else," she whispered after a long moment. "I went back to our room after finding her application and realized—I don't have any real friends besides Shauna. I've spent so much time being Jackie Taylor, Soccer Captain and Student Body President that I... I don't know who I am without her."

"Yeah, well, welcome to the fucking club," Nat said, but there was no real bite to her words. "Most of us don't have our shit figured out at seventeen."

"But I'm supposed to!" Jackie's voice rose, cracking with emotion. "I'm supposed to know exactly who I am and where I'm going. Princeton, law school, then politics like my mother. It's all mapped out. And Shauna was always part of that map."

"People aren't landmarks, Taylor," Nat said quietly. "They move."

Jackie's shoulders slumped further, defeat written in every line of her body. "I know. I just... I didn't think she'd move away from me."

The raw vulnerability in Jackie's voice struck a chord Nat hadn't expected to feel. This wasn't the controlling, perfect Jackie who'd kissed Shauna in front of everyone at the party. This was someone lost, someone Nat recognized more than she cared to admit.

"So Shauna's applying to Brown," Nat said, keeping her tone matter-of-fact. "That sucks. But what about the Melissa part?"

Jackie's face darkened. "She's spending all her time with her. They have these... these inside jokes. And they look at each other like..." She trailed off, unable to finish.

"Like what?"

"Like they understand each other," Jackie whispered. "Like they share something I'm not part of."

Nat studied Jackie's face, the pain etched there so plainly it was almost difficult to look at directly. "Is it really Melissa that bothers you, or the fact that Shauna might want something—someone—other than you?"

Jackie stiffened, her gaze dropping to her hands. "It's not like that."

"Isn't it?" Nat kept her voice neutral. "Because from where I'm sitting, it seems like you want Shauna all to yourself while you also have Jeff."

"I don't—" Jackie started, then stopped. She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Jeff and I... it's not the same."

"How so?"

Jackie's gaze remained fixed on her hands. "With Jeff, it's all... planned. Scheduled. I have to remind myself to call him. To text him." She swallowed hard. "I force myself to be excited about seeing him. But with Shauna, it just... happens naturally."

The admission hung in the air between them. Nat said nothing, simply waited.

"When he touches me," Jackie continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing. But when Shauna..." She trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

"When Shauna what?" Nat prompted gently.

Jackie shook her head, tears threatening again. "It doesn't matter. She has Melissa now."

Nat shifted, crossing her legs under her as she faced Jackie fully. "Look, I'm going to tell you something, and you can take it or leave it. But it's the truth as I see it." She waited until Jackie met her eyes. "Labels are bullshit. Gay, straight, whatever—they're just boxes people try to stuff us into to make sense of something that's messy and complicated."

Jackie's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't interrupt.

"I've been with guys. I've been with girls," Nat continued, the admission matter-of-fact. "And what I've figured out is that it's not about fitting into categories. It's about being honest about who and what makes you feel alive."

Jackie's breath caught audibly. "You and Lottie..." she began, then stopped, her eyes dropping to her hands again. Her fingers twisted the hem of her shirt nervously. "How did you know? That it was... real?"

The question held no judgment, only genuine curiosity.

"I didn't, at first," Nat admitted. "I just knew that when I was with her, I didn't feel like I had to pretend. She saw me—the real me, not the fucked-up troublemaker everyone else sees." She shrugged, uncomfortable with the vulnerability of the conversation but pushing through it. "And that was enough to start with."

Jackie was silent for a long moment, processing. "I think I might..." she began, then shook her head. "I don't know what I am. But I know that when I'm with Shauna, I feel... real. And when I'm with Jeff, I feel like I'm playing a part in someone else's play."

The words weren't quite an admission of sexuality, but they didn't need to be. The unspoken truth hung between them, acknowledged without being explicitly named.

"So what do I do now?" Jackie asked, her voice small.

"Hell if I know," Nat replied with a half-smile. "But maybe start by not being such a raging bitch to Melissa. She's not the enemy."

A startled laugh escaped Jackie. "God, you really don't sugarcoat anything, do you?"

"Not my style," Nat agreed. She reached for her phone, typing a quick message to Van: Stay at Taissa's tonight. Long story. Tell you tomorrow.

Jackie watched the exchange, realization dawning. "I should go. I'm sorry for just... showing up like this."

"It's fine," Nat said, setting her phone aside. "You can crash here tonight. Van's not coming back."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. You're in no shape to deal with Shauna right now anyway."

Relief washed over Jackie's face. "Thank you," she whispered, the words carrying a weight of gratitude that extended beyond the simple offer of a bed for the night. "Really, Nat. Thank you."

The use of her first name rather than her last caught Nat off guard. She shrugged, uncomfortable with the naked vulnerability in Jackie's expression. "Don't make it weird, Taylor."

But as Jackie curled up on Van's bed, exhaustion and alcohol finally pulling her toward sleep, Nat found herself wondering at the strange turns life took. A month ago, she would have laughed at the idea of Jackie Taylor seeking refuge in her room, confessing her confused feelings for her best friend. Now, watching the team captain's breathing even out, face finally peaceful in sleep, it didn't seem so impossible after all.

Nat pulled the blanket over Jackie's shoulders before settling back on her own bed, Kerouac forgotten beside her. She picked up her phone, typing a message to Lottie: Got an unexpected visitor. Jackie. Long story. You okay?

The response came almost immediately: I'm better now that I know you're there.

Something warm unfurled in Nat's chest at the words. She glanced at Jackie's sleeping form, then back at her phone.

Always, she typed back, surprising herself with the truth of it.

Chapter Text

Van POV

Van’s fingers snagged on another knot, a particularly stubborn tangle near the nape of their neck. They worked at it with a sigh, the long reddish-brown strands clinging to their damp skin in Taissa's warm dorm room. Lounging on Taissa’s neatly made bed, the late afternoon sun slanting through the window, felt deceptively peaceful. Inside, a familiar storm brewed.

“This… mane ,” Van grumbled, finally yanking the knot free with a wince, “is actively trying to strangle me. I swear.” They held up the offending section of hair, glaring at it as if it were a separate entity. “It’s just… too much. It’s heavy.”

Taissa looked up from her political science textbook, a small smile playing on her lips. “Bad hair day, Palmer?”

Van flopped back against Taissa’s pillows, the mass of their hair fanning out uncomfortably. “It’s a bad hair life , Tai. Every morning, it’s like… like putting on a costume. This isn't me.” The words, once unspoken, now tumbled out with increasing frequency, especially here, in the relative safety of Taissa’s single room. "And it's not even a good costume. It's itchy, it gets in my face when I'm trying to make a save, and it takes forever to dry."

The daily battle with their hair had become a potent symbol of their broader discomfort. The weight of it, especially after a shower or a sweaty practice, felt symbolic, a physical manifestation of the gender dysphoria they struggled to fully articulate, even to Taissa, even to themselves sometimes. It was a constant, suffocating reminder of girlhood, of expectations they’d never asked for and couldn’t seem to escape.

“I keep meaning to get it cut,” Van continued, staring at the ceiling. “But the thought of going to that place in town… ‘Chic Cuts’ or whatever the hell it’s called… makes my skin crawl.” They shuddered. The salon, with its overwhelmingly feminine décor, the smell of perms and floral shampoos, the chatter about boyfriends and prom dresses – it felt like a specific kind of torture. “Besides, what am I gonna ask for? ‘Could you give me the least girly cut possible without getting me expelled by Headmistress Porter?’” A humorless laugh escaped them. “They’d probably just give me another one of those aggressively layered bobs that scream ‘soccer mom in training.’”

Taissa closed her textbook, setting it aside. She regarded Van thoughtfully, her dark eyes serious. “You know,” she began, her voice casual, almost offhand, “I could do it.”

Van’s head snapped up. “Do what?”

“Cut your hair.” Taissa shrugged, as if it were the most natural suggestion in the world. “I used to cut my brother Marcus’s hair all the time before he went to Oberlin. He was always trying out some new, vaguely punk style. I got pretty good with a pair of scissors.”

Van froze mid-gesture, a half-formed complaint about split ends dying on their lips. The air in the room suddenly felt thinner. Taissa’s words hung there, simple, direct, and utterly transformative. The possibility, a distant, nebulous wish Van had entertained in the darkest corners of their mind, became abruptly, urgently real. Their heart began to hammer against their ribs, a frantic rhythm of terror and a wild, surging excitement. This wasn't a someday-maybe daydream. This was something they could do . Right now.

"You're serious?" Van sat up straighter on the bed, the sudden movement making the springs creak. Their breath felt shallow.

Taissa’s lips curved into a confident smile. "Deadly. Unless you're attached to the Rapunzel look."

Van watched, mesmerized, as Taissa rose and crossed to her desk. She rummaged through the top drawer, pushing aside pens, notebooks, and what looked like a dangerously overdue library book. After a moment, she triumphantly produced a pair of sleek, silver scissors. They weren’t flimsy craft scissors, Van noted with a flicker of apprehension, but proper barber’s shears, long and wickedly sharp. They caught the late afternoon light streaming through the dorm window, glinting with promise and a hint of danger.

"Found 'em," Taissa announced, testing the blades with a soft snick-snick that seemed to echo in the suddenly silent room. "Still sharp." She then grabbed the faded, slightly stained towel that usually hung on the back of her desk chair. "Okay, Palmer. You ready to make some questionable life choices with me?"

Van’s throat felt dry. They swallowed, their gaze fixed on the glinting scissors in Taissa’s hand. This was it. No more vague wishing, no more salon-induced anxiety. Just Taissa, those scissors, and a decision that felt both monumental and terrifyingly simple. The cool, smooth plastic of Taissa's desk chair pressed against Van’s back as they sat down, a strange sense of calm settling over the initial panic. Taissa draped the old towel around their shoulders with a practiced efficiency that was oddly reassuring. They felt exposed, vulnerable, yet a spark of fierce empowerment ignited within them. This was their choice. Their body. Their hair.

A stray beam of sunlight caught Taissa’s antique standing mirror, tucked in the corner of her room. Van caught a glimpse of themselves—the cascade of reddish-brown curls falling halfway down their back, the hair that had always felt like someone else's, a beautiful, heavy weight they were forced to carry. The face in the mirror, framed by that avalanche of unwanted femininity, was a familiar stranger, never quite aligning with the person they felt themselves to be inside. The slight upturn of their nose, the stubborn freckles across their cheeks that their mother adored, the wide-set grey-green eyes – all of it felt wrong, draped in this curtain of expectation.

Taissa stood behind them, scissors in hand, her reflection meeting Van’s in the dusty glass. "Alright," she said, her voice gentle but businesslike. "How do you want it? Short-short? Undercut? Just trim off the tragic split ends and call it a day?"

Van hesitated, the enormity of the decision suddenly pressing down. "I… I don't know." Their gaze flickered back to their reflection, to the long, unwanted waves. "Just… different. Shorter." It was so hard to articulate the image in their head, the feeling they chased. "Up to you, I guess. You're the one with the scissors and the alleged experience."

Taissa’s reflection smiled. "Okay, cautious approach it is. We could take it in stages. Maybe start with a shoulder-length cut today, see how you feel? We can always go shorter later."

The thought of gradual change, of prolonging this process, felt unbearable. The discomfort of their current hair was a constant, dull ache. They needed a decisive break, not a tentative trim. A surprising wave of certainty washed over Van, quieting the internal debate.

Van met Taissa’s eyes in the mirror, their own gaze suddenly firm. "No," Van said, the word emerging in a deeper, more confident register that resonated in their chest, feeling natural and true. "No stages. I just… I just need it gone. Now."

Taissa’s eyebrows rose slightly at the conviction in Van's voice. She studied their reflection for a long moment, then nodded. "Alright. Gone it is." She leaned forward, her expression a mix of seriousness and affection. "You sure about this, Van? No take-backs once I start snipping."

Van took a deep breath, their resolve solidifying. "I'm sure."

"Okay then." Taissa reached out and, with a soft cloth she’d found, gently covered the surface of the mirror, obscuring Van’s reflection. The simple act felt symbolic, a veil drawn over the past. "No peeking until the grand reveal." She leaned down, her lips brushing Van’s in a soft, quick kiss. "Trust me. You're going to look hot as hell."

Van closed their eyes, heart pounding a steady rhythm against their ribs. They heard the metallic snick of the scissors opening, felt Taissa gather a thick section of hair near their shoulder. A beat of silence, then the definitive, shearing sound. Snip .

A shockwave, electric and exhilarating, shot through Van’s system. The physical sensation of weight lifting from their scalp was immediate, tangible. A corresponding swoop in their stomach, like the first drop on a rollercoaster, accompanied the feeling. Without opening their eyes, Van could almost see the long, heavy strands of reddish-brown hair falling past their peripheral vision, tumbling silently to join the dust bunnies on Taissa's wooden floor.

Another snip. And another. Taissa wasn't holding back. Each cut was decisive, efficient. This wasn't a trim; this was a transformation. She was cutting off years of accumulated expectation, years of feeling like they were wearing someone else's life. Van realized, with a jolt that was pure, unadulterated joy, that Taissa was cutting their hair short. Really short. Just as they had secretly, desperately, always wanted.

As Taissa continued her work, the rhythmic snipping a soothing counterpoint to Van’s racing thoughts, Van’s hands gripped the smooth, worn edges of the wooden desk chair. Their knuckles whitened slightly, not from fear, but from the intensity of the emotions coursing through them. Memories surfaced, sharp and vivid.

"I tried to cut my own hair once," Van found themselves saying, the words emerging unbidden into the quiet intimacy of the room. "When I was four. My best friend was this kid Michael from down the street. He had this awesome buzzcut, likeGI Joe. I wanted to look just like him."

Taissa chuckled softly, the sound warm and close. "Oh, I can picture that. You probably rocked it."

"I thought I would," Van continued, a nostalgic smile playing on their lips despite the closed eyes. "I found Mom's sewing scissors – the big fabric ones, you know? – and just started hacking away in front of the bathroom mirror. Got about halfway through one side, a huge, jagged chunk right above my ear gone, before Mom found me."

A shadow of remembered anxiety flickered across Van's face. "She freaked. Cried, actually. Said I'd ruined my 'beautiful princess hair.'" The words, even recalled decades later, carried a familiar sting. "She dragged me to Mr. Henderson's barbershop the next day. Not the normal salon where she usually took me, thank god, but the old-school place where all the dads went. Smelled like talcum powder and whatever that blue stuff is they keep the combs in."

"Barbicide," Taissa supplied, her fingers gently combing through a section of hair near Van's crown.

"Yeah, that. Mr. Henderson just looked at the mess I’d made, then at my mom’s tear-streaked face, and then at Michael, who’d tagged along for moral support, pointing at his own head and saying, 'Like mine!'" Van’s voice became animated, reliving the moment. "And you know what? Mr. Henderson just shrugged and said, ‘Alright son, GI Joe it is.’ He buzzed it all off. Number two guard, I think."

Van opened their eyes briefly, the memory so clear. "It was the best haircut of my life, Tai. My scalp felt… free. Light. Like it was supposed to feel. I remember running my hands over the stubble, this amazing prickly sensation. I felt… right. For the first time, maybe ever."

The joy in their voice faded slightly as the rest of the memory surfaced. "Mom cried for a week. Said her little girl was gone. Kept putting these awful frilly headbands on me to try and 'feminize' it, which just made it look even more ridiculous." Their shoulders tensed, the echo of their mother's devastation a familiar weight. This current act of self-determination, this claiming of their own appearance, felt liberating, but the potential cost, the anticipated reaction from their mother, cast a long shadow.

Taissa’s hands stilled for a moment. Then she leaned forward, her voice a warm murmur near Van’s ear. "I bet you looked ridiculously cute with a buzzcut. We should try that sometime. For scientific purposes ."

Van felt a warm flush spread across their cheeks. Taissa’s casual acceptance, the playful suggestion of future, even more radical haircuts, was like a soothing balm. She wasn’t just tolerating this; she was embracing it, supporting their exploration without judgment, without making it a big deal. The simple words, "for science, obviously," carried a universe of understanding.

Taissa moved around to the front, positioning the chair slightly so she could reach the sections framing Van’s face. She straddled Van’s legs, her thighs resting lightly on theirs, a casual intimacy that felt both comfortable and electric. Van closed their eyes again, surrendering to the process, focusing on the gentle tugging sensation of the scissors moving through their hair, the light, almost feathery touch of Taissa's fingers against their scalp as she separated strands, measured lengths, snipped with focused precision.

The physical lightness that accompanied each cut was profound. It translated almost immediately into an emotional lightening, as if layers of performance, years of pretending to be someone they weren't, were falling away with each severed lock of hair. The steady, rhythmic snip-snip-snip of the scissors became a meditative sound, a soundtrack to their unfolding transformation. Occasionally, Van would crack an eyelid, a furtive glance downward, watching as more and more of their reddish-brown hair pooled on the floor around the chair, a tangible, growing testament to the change taking place. It was a physical record of their decision, of Taissa’s unwavering support.

Then, the snipping stopped.

The sudden silence in the room was profound. Van felt the shift in energy, a moment suspended in time, caught between the person they had been for seventeen years and the person they were becoming. Their heart hammered against their ribs, a mix of trepidation and a wild, exhilarating hope. Taissa’s hands rested on their shoulders for a beat, a silent acknowledgment of the moment’s significance.

“Ready?” Taissa’s voice was soft, barely a whisper.

Van nodded, unable to speak. They took a deep, shaky breath as Taissa reached forward and, with a slow, deliberate movement, removed the cloth covering the mirror.

For a long second, Van simply stared. The person looking back at them was… them. But a version of them they had only ever dared to glimpse in fleeting daydreams. The long, heavy curtain of reddish-brown hair was gone. In its place, a short, slightly tousled, undeniably masculine curtain haircut framed their face, the sides shorter, the top left a little longer, falling casually across their forehead. It highlighted the angles of their jaw, the line of their cheekbones, the directness of their grey-green eyes. It felt… startlingly, breathtakingly authentic.

A choked sound escaped Van’s lips. "It's… it's really me," they whispered, the words a fragile breath of wonder, of profound recognition. And beneath the joy, a thin thread of worry about the consequences, about what their mother would say, what Misty would note, what the world would make of this new Van.

Taissa leaned forward, her reflection appearing beside theirs. Her smile was soft, full of love and pride. She pressed her lips to Van's temple, a gentle, affirming kiss. "Yes," she murmured, her voice rich with emotion. "Yes, it really is."

Her words, the simple, unwavering affirmation, grounded Van in the moment, dispelling the nascent anxieties. Slowly, hesitantly, Van reached up, their fingers brushing against the unfamiliar texture of their newly shorn hair. The ends were soft, yet the overall feel was different, lighter, almost prickly where Taissa had cut it closer at the nape of their neck. The sensation was utterly foreign, yet at the same time, intensely, undeniably right. This was how their hair was supposed to feel. This was how they were supposed to feel.

* * *

Taissa POV

The worn strap of Taissa’s messenger bag dug into her shoulder, a familiar pressure. She adjusted it as they stepped out of East Dormitory’s imposing oak doors, the late afternoon air carrying the first real bite of November. Van walked beside her, close but not touching, their steps falling into a synchronized rhythm as they navigated the flagstone path towards the dining hall. The newly shorn reddish-brown hair, now a close-cropped curtain style that emphasized the strong lines of their jaw, looked strikingly, undeniably Van. But Taissa could feel the nervous energy radiating off them, a thrumming undercurrent beneath their usual quiet resilience.

"It looks good, you know," Taissa said, her voice low as they passed beneath the archway leading to the main quad. "Really good. The way it falls across your forehead? Definitely an upgrade from the 'drowning in curls' look."

Van shot her a small, grateful smile, but their shoulders remained tense. "Easy for you to say. You don't have Misty Quigley breathing down your neck about 'appropriate feminine presentation.'" They ran a self-conscious hand through their hair, the unfamiliar short strands spiking slightly. "Or Headmistress Porter."

Taissa’s jaw tightened. "Porter’s a problem, but she’s a predictable problem. Uniform code is vague on hair length. It just says ‘neat and presentable.’ Which you are." She bumped Van's shoulder gently with her own. "More than presentable, actually. You're radiating a dangerous level of 'about to steal your girlfriend' energy, Palmer."

Van chuckled, a breath of relief. "Think so?"

"Know so." Taissa’s gaze softened as she looked at them. The haircut wasn’t just a change in style; it was a reclamation. Van stood straighter, their movements more confident, even with the underlying anxiety about administrative reprisal. "It suits you, Van. Really. Don't let anyone make you doubt that."

They crossed the edge of the quad, the gothic architecture of Wiskayok looming around them. The bronze statue of founder Elizabeth Blackwell, perpetually stern, seemed to watch them with disapproval. Taissa had always found the campus both beautiful and suffocating, a gilded cage of tradition and expectation.

Then, Taissa’s internal radar pinged. Across the meticulously manicured lawn, near the entrance to the administration building, Headmistress Porter emerged, a tailored grey suit her unyielding armor. Taissa clocked her immediately – the stiff posture, the precise, unhurried gait, the way her silver-streaked dark hair was pulled back into an immaculate French twist that seemed to defy gravity and humidity. Porter’s gaze, sharp and discerning, swept across the quad. It landed on them. Lingered. Then narrowed, infinitesimally, as it fixed on Van’s hair.

Here we go, Taissa thought, a familiar tension coiling in her stomach. She could almost see the calculations flickering behind Porter’s cool blue eyes. This was exactly Van's worst fear materializing. Taissa's instinct to protect, to shield Van from the institutional chill Porter embodied, surged to the forefront.

"Miss Palmer! Miss Turner!" Porter’s voice cut through the crisp evening air, devoid of warmth, carrying the professional frostiness that was her signature. "A moment, if you please."

Van visibly tensed beside her, their earlier lightness evaporating. Taissa subtly shifted her stance as Porter approached, positioning herself a half-step in front of Van, a small but deliberate human shield. Porter’s eyes, the color of a winter sky, flicked from Van to Taissa, then back to Van, fixing on their hair with an expression of carefully controlled disapproval.

"Miss Palmer," Porter began, her voice modulated to a perfect, infuriating calm that always preceded a disciplinary strike. "I couldn't help but notice a rather… significant alteration to your appearance." Her gaze lingered on Van’s haircut, each syllable dripping with unspoken criticism. She didn't need to say "unfeminine" or "inappropriate"; the implication was clear.

Van swallowed, their knuckles white where they clutched the strap of their own bag. "Headmistress Porter." Their voice was quiet, strained.

"The Wiskayok Academy student handbook, a document I trust you are both intimately familiar with," Porter continued, her gaze now including Taissa in its icy sweep, "outlines clear expectations regarding student presentation. While we encourage individual expression within appropriate boundaries, deliberately provocative modifications designed to challenge institutional standards are… unhelpful." Her eyes returned to Van. "Such as this rather… dramatic haircut."

This was it – the opening salvo. Taissa felt Van flinch beside her, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but Taissa registered it like a physical blow. Porter’s choice of words – “provocative modifications,” “challenge institutional standards” – was a clear attempt to frame Van’s haircut not as personal expression, but as insubordination. Classic Porter.

Taissa’s mind raced, cycling through counter-arguments, handbook clauses, potential precedents. She kept her expression neutral, her voice calm when she spoke, matching Porter’s tone. "Headmistress Porter, with all due respect, section three, subsection B, paragraph four of the student handbook, regarding appearance and dress code, states that hair must be ‘neat, clean, and kept out of the eyes.’ It specifies no minimum or maximum length for female students."

She met Porter’s glacial gaze without flinching. The slight widening of the Headmistress’s eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening of her lips, told Taissa she’d scored a minor hit. Porter, for all her authority, was a stickler for rules, her own and the institution's. Quoting the handbook back at her was a strategic move.

"Indeed, Miss Turner," Porter conceded, her voice a fraction colder. "However, the overarching principle is one of maintaining an appearance that reflects the Academy’s standards of decorum and, dare I say, femininity. Miss Palmer’s current hairstyle could be interpreted as… deliberately contravening that spirit."

"The handbook also states, Headmistress," Taissa countered smoothly, her memory for detail—honed by years of debate club and student government—kicking into high gear, "that students must be ‘neat and presentable.’ Van’s hair is undeniably both. It is clean, well-maintained, and certainly doesn't obstruct their vision on the soccer field or in the classroom." She allowed a small, polite smile. "In fact, one might argue it's more practical for an athlete."

Porter’s jaw tightened visibly. She clearly hadn't expected such a direct, rule-based defense. She was used to students wilting under her scrutiny, not engaging in textual analysis of the student handbook. "Practicality, Miss Turner, while a virtue, does not supersede the expected standards of appearance for young ladies at Wiskayok Academy." The emphasis on "young ladies" was a deliberate barb. "This isn't merely about neatness, Miss Palmer," she said, turning her full attention back to Van, who looked like they wanted the earth to swallow them whole. "It's about understanding the image Wiskayok projects, an image parents and alumnae expect."

"I understand, Headmistress," Van mumbled, their eyes fixed on the ground.

Taissa saw the flicker of defeat in Van’s posture. Porter was shifting from rule-based argument to the more nebulous territory of "institutional image" and "expectations"—areas where the Headmistress held all the interpretive power. This required a different tactic.

An idea, rash and uncharacteristically impulsive, sparked in Taissa’s mind. For a split second, she questioned it. This was risky, potentially self-sabotaging. But then she saw Van’s face, the quiet despair there, the way they seemed to shrink under Porter’s gaze. The protective instinct, fierce and unwavering, overwhelmed her usual strategic caution.

With steady hands, Taissa reached into her messenger bag. Her fingers closed around the cool metal of the small, sharp sewing scissors she always carried for emergency uniform repairs or loose threads – a habit instilled by her meticulously organized mother. She pulled them out. The small silver blades glinted in the fading light.

In her peripheral vision, Taissa saw Van’s head snap up, eyes wide with shock and dawning horror. "Tai, what—?"

Porter’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. "Miss Turner, I hardly think this is the time for mending."

Taissa ignored them both. She gathered a thick section of her own long, dark, carefully maintained curls – hair she'd spent years growing, hair her mother loved, hair that conformed perfectly to Wiskayok’s unwritten code of acceptable femininity. And with a decisive snip , she cut it.

The dark strands, inches long, fell to the flagstone path at their feet, a stark contrast to the pale grey stone. Another snip. Another lock of hair falling. She wasn’t aiming for style, for evenness. The cuts were jagged, uneven, deliberately visible. Each snip felt like a small act of defiance, a severing of ties not just with her hair, but with the suffocating weight of expectation.

"As Van’s haircut adheres to the 'neat and presentable' clause, Headmistress," Taissa said, her voice calm, almost conversational, as she continued to sporadically chop at her own hair, "I fail to see how it constitutes a violation. Unless, of course, Wiskayok has an unwritten policy against short hair for its students?" She let another thick curl drop. "Because if that were the case, I imagine several faculty members would also be in violation."

The scissors snipped again. "Ms. Carson in the English department, for instance. Her hair is quite short. Very chic, I've always thought." Snip . "And Coach Miller, from the lacrosse team? Her pixie cut is practically iconic." Snip . More hair fell, creating a small, dark halo around her feet on the path. "Dr. Patel in Chemistry keeps hers in a very professional bob, well above the collar."

A surprising rush of power, dizzying and liberating, coursed through Taissa. This wasn't strategy; this was something else. Something raw. She felt Van staring at her, aghast, but she couldn’t stop.

"Perhaps if short hair is deemed 'unfeminine' or 'provocative' on a student, Headmistress," Taissa continued, meeting Porter’s stunned gaze, "it raises questions about consistency in applying these standards. Or maybe," she paused, the scissors glinting, "it suggests that an individual choice, when made by multiple individuals, becomes less about isolated vulnerability and more about… collective action."

The Headmistress’s face, usually a mask of cool composure, registered a flicker of genuine shock, then something akin to outrage, quickly suppressed. The script had been flipped. Taissa Turner, the model student, the strategic thinker, was behaving unpredictably, illogically. Porter’s carefully constructed authority script was unraveling in real time. She had no protocol for this.

Porter’s lips thinned into a hard line. Her eyes, for the first time, held a trace of uncertainty. "Miss Turner," she said, her voice dangerously low, "your behavior is… highly irregular and, frankly, disrespectful. This… display… will be subject to further review." The threat was vague, a placeholder for a counter-attack she hadn’t yet formulated. "As for you, Miss Palmer," she fixed Van with a final, frigid glare, "consider this your only warning. Any further… modifications that draw undue attention will result in formal disciplinary proceedings."

Without waiting for a response, Porter turned on her heel, her posture rigid, and marched toward the administration building, leaving a trail of disapproval in her wake.

The moment Porter was out of earshot, the adrenaline that had fueled Taissa’s impulsive act began to recede, leaving a strange hollowness in its place. Silence descended, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. Taissa stared down at the scattered locks of her dark hair on the flagstones, a tangible record of her rebellion. Only then did the reality of what she’d done truly register. She reached up, her fingers touching the jagged, uneven ends of her once meticulously styled hair. Patches were now shockingly short, while other sections remained untouched, creating a bizarre, almost feral asymmetry.

"Holy shit, Tai," Van whispered, their voice a mixture of awe and disbelief. They stepped closer, their eyes wide as they took in the full extent of Taissa's impromptu haircut. "You… you didn't have to do that."

Taissa met Van’s gaze, a shaky laugh escaping her. "Yeah, well." She ran a hand through the newly butchered sections, the sensation unfamiliar, almost alien. "Seemed like the strategic thing to do at the time." Though, in truth, it hadn't felt strategic at all. It had felt… necessary.

Van reached out, their fingers gently touching one of the shortest, most unevenly cut pieces of Taissa’s hair. "Are you okay?"

"I… I think so." Taissa nodded, though her hand trembled slightly as she continued to touch the jagged edges. The boldness she’d felt moments ago was fading, replaced by a dawning awareness of the potential consequences. This wasn’t just a bad haircut; it was a declaration. And Headmistress Porter did not take kindly to declarations.

"Dinner?" Van asked, their voice still hushed.

Taissa looked towards the brightly lit windows of the dining hall, the thought of facing the curious stares of her classmates, the inevitable questions, suddenly unbearable. She couldn’t perform normalcy right now. Not with her hair looking like a deranged animal had attacked it. Not with the lingering taste of defiance still sharp on her tongue.

She shook her head. "Let's skip it." Her gaze drifted towards the wooded path that led, eventually, to the cottage. "I think… I think I need some time at our new headquarters."

Van understood immediately. "Yeah. Me too."

They turned, abandoning the path to the dining hall, and headed towards the relative anonymity of the trees, Taissa’s hand occasionally, compulsively, reaching up to touch the insanely short, jagged edges of her impulsive, defiant act.

Inside the cottage, Taissa sat rigidly on a wooden chair, her fingers moving over the jagged ends of her hair with a clinical detachment that belied the turmoil beneath. The battery-powered lantern cast long shadows across the rough stone walls, its golden light both revealing and merciful as she examined her reflection in the small, cracked mirror Van had propped against the wall.

"It's..." she began, her voice trailing off as she tilted her head, cataloging the damage with methodical precision. One side was almost shorn to the scalp, an angry patch of dark stubble where she'd hacked away without thinking. The other side hung in uneven chunks, some strands still brushing her shoulders while others stood out at bizarre angles. The back, which she could only partially see by angling the mirror, appeared to be a disaster zone of competing lengths and accidental layers. "It's really bad."

The assessment was clinical, factual—the same tone she might use to analyze a failed play on the soccer field. Yet beneath the calm exterior, her stomach twisted with a strange cocktail of emotions: shock at her own impulsivity, satisfaction at Porter's momentary defeat, and a growing horror at the permanence of what she'd done.

"I mean, this isn't salvageable," she continued, her fingers finding a particularly short patch above her left ear. "Not without basically..." Her voice caught, the reality finally penetrating her analytical distance. "Not without buzzing it all off."

The thought triggered something unexpected—a hot, tight sensation behind her eyes. Taissa Turner didn't cry. Not over soccer losses, not over college rejections, and certainly not over hair. But here, in the privacy of their secret cottage, with only Van as witness, the careful compartmentalization that defined her existence at Wiskayok began to crack.

"My mom is going to..." She swallowed hard, unable to complete the sentence. Her mother, who had spent years carefully oiling and braiding her curls, who had taught her protective styles for soccer season, who had beamed with pride when Taissa finally grew it long enough for the elaborate updo at her cousin's wedding. "She's going to be devastated."

A single tear escaped, tracing a hot path down her cheek. Taissa wiped it away roughly, angry at this display of weakness, but another followed, and then another. She gripped the edges of the chair, knuckles whitening as she fought for control.

Van stood in the doorway, watching with a mixture of concern and guilt. Their own short haircut—neat, intentional, transformative—stood in stark contrast to the chaotic aftermath of Taissa's impulsive act of solidarity.

A sharp knock at the cottage door startled them both. 

"It’s probably Nat. I'll get it," Van whispered, squeezing Taissa's shoulder before slipping through the bedroom doorway.

Taissa quickly wiped her face, composing herself as she heard the creak of the main door opening. Muffled voices filtered through—Van's low murmur and then a familiar, sardonic tone that could only belong to Nat Scatorccio.

"Holy shit, Palmer," Nat's voice grew clearer as she entered. "When you texted me about a haircut emergency, I thought you meant thinking about doing it. Not that you already pulled the trigger."

Taissa emerged from the bedroom, her expression carefully neutral despite the evidence of tears still visible in her reddened eyes. Nat stood in the center of the main room, a small backpack slung over one shoulder and a bemused expression on her face. She gave a low whistle as she took in Taissa's appearance.

"Coach Ben didn't even blink when I asked for these," Nat said, pulling a pair of professional-grade clippers from her backpack. "Just said 'desk drawer, bottom left' and went back to grading papers. I think he thinks I'm shaving my head or something. Wait until he finds out it's you."

She handed the clippers to Van, then turned her full attention to Taissa, her usual sardonic expression softening slightly. "Damn, Turner. Didn't think you had it in you to go full anarchist on Porter." Her eyes swept over the disaster that was Taissa's hair, then she gave a decisive nod. "The haircut's a disaster, but the move? Pretty badass."

Before Taissa could respond, Nat continued, "Van's text made it sound urgent, so I'll leave you to it. Just wanted to say whatever shit comes down from Porter, Lottie and I have your backs." She glanced at Van, a silent understanding passing between them. "Both of you."

With that, she turned toward the door, pausing with her hand on the latch. "By the way, Palmer," she added, gesturing toward Van's haircut, "looks good. Really good. About damn time."

The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving Van and Taissa alone once more. Van set the clippers on the wooden crate that served as their makeshift table, then knelt in front of Taissa, their hands gently covering hers.

"Hey," they said softly, eyes searching Taissa's face. "I can see you freaking out. It's okay."

Taissa shook her head, frustrated by her own emotional response. "It's just hair. It's stupid to be upset about it."

"It's not stupid," Van countered, their voice gentle but firm. "And it's not just about the hair." Their fingers brushed against one of the brutally short patches. "What you did out there... Tai, that was—"

"Impulsive. Reckless. Potentially career-ending," Taissa finished, her voice tight. "Yale doesn't take students who get expelled for insubordination."

Van's eyes, grey-green and steady, held hers. "I was going to say 'the bravest thing anyone's ever done for me.'" They took a deep breath, their thumb brushing across Taissa's knuckles. "I can't believe you did that. For me."

The genuine wonder in Van's voice cut through Taissa's spiral of regret. She looked at them—really looked—taking in the transformation the simple haircut had wrought. Van seemed more present, more solid somehow, as if a layer of fog had been lifted from around them. Their jawline appeared sharper, their eyes brighter, their entire demeanor more aligned with the person Taissa had always seen beneath the surface.

"I'd do it again," Taissa admitted, surprised by the truth of it. "In a heartbeat."

Van's expression softened into something so tender it made Taissa's throat tighten. They reached for the small mirror, gently removing it from Taissa's grasp and replacing it with a faded towel. "Let me fix this for you," they said, their fingers brushing Taissa's as they negotiated this silent transfer of trust.

Taissa nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. She draped the towel around her shoulders, a strange calm settling over her as Van moved behind the chair and picked up the clippers.

"I can't promise it'll be perfect," Van said, their voice steady as they examined the damage more closely. "But I think I can make it look intentional, at least."

Taissa closed her eyes at the first touch of Van's fingers in her remaining hair, focusing on the sensation of careful touches rather than the buzzing sound as the clippers came to life. The vibration against her scalp was alien, terrifying, and yet somehow freeing. With each pass of the clippers, more of her hair fell away, joining the previous casualties on the cottage floor.

"I can't believe you did that," Van said quietly, their voice barely audible over the buzz of the clippers. They paused, and Taissa opened her eyes to see Van's reflection looking at her with an expression that made her chest ache. "Porter looked like she was going to have a stroke."

"Worth it," Taissa managed, watching herself articulate the words that had been building in her chest since the moment on the quad. "I love you, and I'm not letting you face anything alone."

Van's hands paused, the clippers hovering just above Taissa's temple. Their eyes met in the mirror, a weighted moment that transcended the practical task at hand. The words hung between them—not the first time they'd exchanged "I love yous," but perhaps the first time it had carried this depth of meaning, this declaration of unwavering solidarity.

"I love you too," Van whispered, their voice thick with emotion. They swallowed hard, then continued their careful work, sculpting what remained of Taissa's once-abundant curls into something new, something defiant.

As Van worked, Taissa found her analytical mind returning, considering the implications of what had transpired on the quad. "Porter backed down," she observed, her voice steadier now. "That's significant. She could have insisted on immediate disciplinary action, but she retreated."

"You caught her off guard," Van agreed, tilting Taissa's head gently to reach the back. "She's used to students wilting under her glare, not quoting the handbook back at her while staging a one-woman protest."

Taissa's lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. "It's a tactical victory, even if it's temporary. She'll regroup, come up with a new approach, but in the meantime..." She met Van's eyes in the mirror. "In the meantime, we've established a precedent. If she punishes you for your haircut, she has to punish me too. And punishing the student government VP with a perfect academic record and early acceptance to Yale creates complications she'd rather avoid."

"You think this might help others too?" Van asked, their hands steady as they shaped the short hair at Taissa's nape.

"Maybe," Taissa mused, her strategic mind mapping possibilities. "If one student cuts their hair and gets disciplined, it's an isolated incident. If two do it—especially two team captains with different social circles—it becomes harder to contain. It creates space for others to test boundaries."

The implications expanded in her mind—Mari might feel braver about wearing her cultural jewelry despite the "no adornments" policy; Lottie might push back on the medication monitoring; younger students might see possibilities they hadn't considered before. Small cracks in the edifice of Wiskayok's control, spreading outward from this one defiant act.

"Almost done," Van murmured, moving to the front to carefully trim the remaining longer sections to blend with the buzzed sides. Their face was a mask of concentration, tongue caught between their teeth as they worked.

When they finally stepped back, setting the clippers aside with a satisfied nod, Taissa barely recognized the person in the mirror. Her hair, once a crown of carefully maintained curls that fell past her shoulders, was now an ultra-short crewcut, barely half an inch long at its longest point. The sides were nearly shaved, while the top retained just enough length to show a hint of her natural texture.

Taissa raised a hand, running her palm over the unfamiliar terrain of her scalp. The sensation was shocking—so little between her hand and her head, so light, so exposed. Yet as the initial shock faded, she found herself appreciating what she saw. The severe cut emphasized her cheekbones, the elegant line of her neck, the intensity of her dark eyes. It was striking. Powerful, even.

"What do you think?" Van asked, a hint of nervousness in their voice.

Taissa continued to examine her reflection, turning her head to see the cut from different angles. "It's... actually kind of badass," she admitted, surprised by her own reaction. "My mother is still going to have a coronary, but..." She met Van's anxious gaze in the mirror and smiled, a genuine, unguarded expression rarely seen on the usually composed Taissa Turner. "I like it."

Relief flooded Van's face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Taissa stood, the towel falling from her shoulders as she turned to face Van directly. She reached up, running her hand over her newly shorn head once more, marveling at the sensation. "It feels right, somehow. Like I'm not hiding anymore either."

Van's eyes softened, understanding the deeper meaning behind her words. In Wiskayok's rigid hierarchy, Taissa had always been the perfect student, the model athlete, the consummate strategist—playing the game to perfection while harboring her own private rebellions. This visible, undeniable act of defiance marked a shift, a declaration that couldn't be taken back or hidden away.

"We're in this together," Taissa said, her voice low but firm as she stepped closer to Van. "All the way." The words were both promise and declaration, a commitment to whatever came next.

Van's hands came up to frame her face, thumbs brushing over her newly exposed temples. "All the way," they echoed, leaning in to seal the promise with a kiss.

As their lips met, Taissa felt a strange sense of freedom washing over her. Her hair—a weight she hadn't fully recognized until it was gone—had been more than just physical mass. It had been part of her carefully constructed image, her armor against the world's scrutiny. Without it, she felt simultaneously exposed and liberated, vulnerable and powerful.

Tomorrow would bring consequences—Porter's "further review," her teammates' reactions, the inevitable whispers in the hallways. But here in this moment, with Van's hands cradling her newly shorn head and the evidence of their shared defiance scattered across the cottage floor, Taissa Turner felt more herself than she had in years.

Chapter Text

Shauna POV

Shauna pulled Melissa's pink hat lower over her forehead, savoring its warmth against the November chill. Fallen leaves crunched beneath their shoes as they walked the tree-lined path toward East Dormitory, shoulders brushing with each step. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through bare branches, casting long shadows across their faces.

"I can't believe you stole my lucky hat," Melissa said, reaching up in a half-hearted attempt to reclaim it. "That's a serious girlfriend crime."

Shauna dodged away, laughing as she adjusted the backwards cap. "I'm cold. My ears are delicate. It's practically a medical necessity."

"Oh, is that what we're calling theft these days? A medical necessity?" Melissa's amber eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled. "I'll remember that defense next time I steal your favorite sweatshirt."

"Bold of you to assume you haven't already stolen all my favorite clothes," Shauna countered, leaning closer as a particularly sharp gust of wind cut through their uniforms. "I'm just evening the score."

Melissa's arm slipped around Shauna's waist, the contact brief but warm through the layers of their blazers. "I suppose I can be generous. It looks better on you anyway."

Shauna felt her cheeks flush, still not entirely used to the casual way Melissa complimented her. With Jackie, compliments always came with conditions or comparisons. With Melissa, they were simple statements of fact, offered without expectation.

"So," Melissa said as they rounded the corner, the imposing façade of East Dormitory looming ahead, "the Wilderness meeting yesterday was pretty amazing."

Shauna glanced around instinctively, checking for eavesdroppers. The path was empty except for a junior hurrying in the opposite direction, head down against the wind.

"Yeah?" she asked, keeping her voice casual. "Good turnout?"

"The best yet," Melissa nodded, her expression brightening. "Over ten people, including two freshmen who heard about it through Mari's roommate. Taissa's really created something important."

Shauna felt a pang of curiosity mixed with apprehension. She'd heard snippets about these meetings from Melissa over the past few weeks—carefully coded references to "wilderness exploration" that they both knew meant something else entirely.

"That's great," she said, meaning it despite her hesitation.

Melissa studied her face for a moment, then asked softly, "Have you thought any more about coming sometime? No pressure," she added quickly. "Just... it might be nice. To have a space where you don't have to watch every word."

The question hung between them, delicate but weighted. Shauna tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, buying time as she considered her response.

"I'm not sure I'm ready for that," she finally admitted, her voice barely audible above the rustling leaves. "It's still... new. This." She gestured vaguely between them. "Being with you, figuring out what it means that I'm..." The word stuck in her throat momentarily. "Bisexual."

It still felt strange saying it aloud, like speaking a language she was just learning. But with Melissa, the word felt less frightening each time.

"Hey," Melissa said, stopping in the middle of the path. She turned to face Shauna, her expression serious but gentle. "There's no timeline for this. No checklist you have to complete. The invitation is open whenever—if ever—you feel comfortable."

She touched Shauna's arm lightly, the brief contact grounding. "I just want you to know there's a community there if you want it. People who get it."

Shauna nodded, unexpected emotion tightening her throat. "I appreciate that. Really. And I'm not ashamed or anything," she added hastily. "Of being with you. It's not that at all."

"I know," Melissa said, her smile returning. "I never thought it was."

"Good," Shauna said firmly. "Because you're my girlfriend and I'm... I'm really happy about that."

The word "girlfriend" fell from her lips before she could second-guess it. It was the first time she'd used the label aloud, though she'd been thinking of Melissa that way for weeks. The declaration hung in the crisp air between them, new and fragile and exhilarating.

Melissa's eyes widened slightly, a flush spreading across her cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold. "Girlfriend, huh?" she asked, her voice soft with pleased surprise.

"Is that okay?" Shauna asked, suddenly uncertain.

Melissa glanced quickly around the empty path, then leaned forward and pressed a swift, firm kiss to Shauna's lips. "More than okay," she whispered against Shauna's mouth before pulling back. "It's perfect."

The warmth of the kiss lingered as they continued walking, a new lightness in their steps despite the approaching darkness. The East Dormitory loomed ahead, its gothic architecture simultaneously imposing and familiar. As they approached the wide stone steps leading to the entrance, Shauna was already mentally calculating how many hours they could spend studying together before curfew.

A movement behind one of the massive stone pillars flanking the entrance caught Shauna's attention. Her steps faltered as a familiar figure emerged, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield.

"Good evening, ladies," Misty Quigley's voice carried an artificial brightness that immediately set Shauna's teeth on edge. Her magnified eyes behind those round glasses darted between them, lingering on the pink cap still perched on Shauna's head. "Enjoying the autumn air?"

Shauna felt her body tense, the relaxed happiness of moments ago evaporating. Beside her, Melissa shifted almost imperceptibly closer, a silent show of support.

"Just heading in to study, Misty," Shauna replied, attempting to keep her tone neutral as she moved toward the door.

"Actually, Miss Shipman," Misty stepped directly into their path, her smile fixed and unsettling, "I've been meaning to speak with you about a rather concerning pattern I've noticed."

Shauna's stomach dropped. "Pattern?"

"Indeed." Misty's voice took on the officiousness she reserved for her most enthusiastic rule enforcement. "As East Dormitory Resident Advisor, it's my responsibility to monitor compliance with housing regulations, which, as you know, include very specific provisions regarding overnight guests."

The blood drained from Shauna's face. She felt Melissa stiffen beside her.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Shauna managed, though her voice betrayed her.

Misty's smile widened, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "Don't you? Because my nightly room checks indicate that you've spent an unusual number of evenings away from your assigned room. Room 417, shared with Jacqueline Taylor." She consulted her clipboard with theatrical precision. "While simultaneously, the occupancy of Room 317—" her gaze flicked to Melissa, "—appears to have doubled on those same evenings."

Shauna's mind raced, searching for a plausible explanation. "Jackie and I had a disagreement. I needed some space."

"For two weeks?" Misty's eyebrows rose above her glasses. "That must have been quite the disagreement. And how interesting that you chose Miss Bennett's single room for your... retreat." She emphasized the word with unmistakable insinuation. "Rather than, say, requesting temporary reassignment through proper administrative channels."

Shauna opened her mouth, but no words came. Panic clawed at her throat as she realized the precariousness of their situation. Misty wasn't just making conversation; she was building a case. A case that could end with a report to Headmistress Porter, whose views on "appropriate female friendships" were well-known and decidedly archaic.

"I believe the handbook is quite clear," Misty continued, clearly enjoying Shauna's discomfort. "Section five, paragraph twelve: 'Students may not spend the night in rooms to which they are not officially assigned without prior written approval from the Housing Administration Office.' A rule designed, of course, to ensure we know where everyone is in case of emergency." Her tone made it clear she didn't believe this rationale any more than they did.

"It was my fault," Melissa stepped forward, her voice steadier than Shauna's had been. "I invited Shauna to stay. We've been working on a joint English project, and it was easier to—"

"A project requiring overnight collaboration for fourteen consecutive nights?" Misty interrupted, her voice dripping with skepticism. "How... academically dedicated of you both."

She adjusted her glasses, the lenses catching the fading light. "I'm afraid I'll have to report this violation to Headmistress Porter. The potential disciplinary consequences could be quite serious, especially given the... nature of the infraction."

The threat hung in the air, its implications clear. This wasn't just about breaking curfew or room assignment rules. This was about what Misty suspected—or claimed to suspect—was happening between them.

Shauna felt her future narrowing, possibilities collapsing like a house of cards. A disciplinary note in her file could jeopardize her Brown application. Worse, if Porter decided to make an example of them...

"Actually, Misty," a confident voice interrupted from the doorway, "you'll find that paperwork has already been filed."

Shauna turned, relief flooding through her at the sight of Taissa Turner standing in the entrance. The relief was immediately followed by shock. Taissa's once-long, curly hair had been cut dramatically short—almost shaved on the sides with just a bit of length on top. The transformation was startling, a radical departure from her usual meticulous appearance.

"Taissa?" Misty's surprise momentarily overrode her officiousness. "What happened to your—"

"Shauna's temporary room reassignment," Taissa continued smoothly, ignoring the reaction to her appearance. "It's all been properly documented with Housing Administration. She's staying in my room until after winter break."

Misty's mouth opened and closed, her certainty visibly faltering. "I... I wasn't informed of any reassignment."

"That's strange," Taissa replied, her voice carrying just the right note of polite concern. "The paperwork was submitted last week. Perhaps it hasn't been fully processed through the system yet?" She maintained unwavering eye contact, a subtle challenge in her steady gaze. "You're welcome to verify with Mrs. Daniels in Housing Administration, of course."

Misty clutched her clipboard tighter, her knuckles whitening. The mention of Mrs. Daniels—the notoriously disorganized housing coordinator who resented Misty's zealous "assistance"—was a calculated move. Checking would mean admitting she might have missed something, undermining her own efficiency narrative.

"I... that won't be necessary," Misty said finally, her voice strained. "I'm sure it's just a clerical oversight." She took a step back, adjusting her glasses nervously. "I was simply doing my job, ensuring all students are accounted for and following proper protocols."

"Of course," Taissa nodded, her expression neutral but her eyes unyielding. "We all appreciate your dedication to student safety, Misty."

Misty glanced between the three of them, clearly sensing she'd lost this round but unwilling to concede completely. "Well, I should continue my evening rounds. So many responsibilities as Resident Advisor." She backed away, adding with forced brightness, "Just doing my job!"

They watched in silence as Misty retreated down the path, her posture stiff with thwarted authority.

"Holy shit," Shauna breathed once Misty was out of earshot. "That was close."

"Too close," Melissa agreed, her shoulders finally relaxing. She turned to Taissa, eyes wide. "Thank you. Seriously. But also—" she gestured toward Taissa's head, "—what happened to your hair?"

Taissa ran a hand over her newly shorn scalp, a small smile playing at her lips. "Long story. Let's get inside before Misty decides to circle back."

They followed Taissa through the heavy oak doors and up the worn stone staircase, the familiar sounds of East Dormitory—music filtering through closed doors, distant laughter, the creaking of the ancient heating system—washing over them. As they climbed to the fourth floor, Taissa filled them in.

"I cut Van's hair yesterday," she explained, keeping her voice low despite the empty stairwell. "Short, like they've always wanted. But then Porter cornered us on the quad, started making threats about 'deliberately provocative appearance modifications.'" Her tone mimicked Porter's precise, chilly diction. "So I... made a point."

"By cutting off all your hair?" Shauna asked, unable to hide her astonishment.

"It was a strategic decision," Taissa said, though the slight quirk of her lips suggested there had been more impulse than strategy involved. "If she punishes Van for a haircut, she has to punish me too. Creates an uncomfortable precedent."

"It looks amazing," Melissa said with genuine admiration. "Seriously badass."

Taissa's expression softened slightly. "Thanks. Still getting used to it."

They reached Taissa's room, and she unlocked the door, ushering them inside. The space was meticulously organized, as Shauna had expected, but what she hadn't anticipated was the narrow cot set up against the far wall, already made up with fresh sheets and a spare blanket.

"You actually got a cot moved in?" Shauna asked, surprised by Taissa's thoroughness.

"Had maintenance bring it up this morning," Taissa confirmed, setting her bag on her desk. "I figured Misty would come sniffing around eventually. Better to have the evidence match the story."

"How did you know?" Melissa asked. "About Misty watching us?"

"Mari tipped me off," Taissa replied. "She saw Misty lurking outside your room two nights ago, taking notes. Figured it was only a matter of time before she made her move." She sat on the edge of her bed, adding with quiet certainty, "Wilderness members look out for our own."

The simple statement carried layers of meaning. Shauna felt a rush of gratitude, not just for the practical help, but for the underlying message: she wasn't alone.

Melissa checked her watch, then glanced at Shauna. "I should go see Gen about those chemistry notes before dinner. Meet you in the dining hall in an hour?"

Shauna nodded, warmth spreading through her chest at the normalcy of the question, the casual certainty of future plans together. Melissa hesitated for just a moment, then leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Shauna's cheek.

"See you soon," she said softly, then nodded to Taissa. "Thanks again. For everything."

After Melissa left, a comfortable silence settled between Shauna and Taissa. Shauna sat on the newly installed cot, testing its surprisingly sturdy frame.

"Thank you," she said finally, the words inadequate for the magnitude of what Taissa had done. "For intervening with Misty. For..." she gestured around the room, "all of this."

Taissa shrugged, the casual gesture at odds with the intensity of her gaze. "It's nothing. I get it, you know? Needing a safe space." She paused, then added with unusual directness, "If you ever need someone to talk to, about anything, I'm here."

The offer hung in the air, its significance not lost on Shauna. This wasn't just about room arrangements or administrative loopholes. It was about understanding, about solidarity in the face of institutional constraints.

"I appreciate that," Shauna said, meaning it deeply.

A mischievous smile suddenly crossed Taissa's face. "So, you and Bennett, huh? You two are pretty cute together."

"What? No, we're not—" Shauna's automatic denial died on her lips as Taissa's eyebrow rose, her gaze pointedly fixed on the pink baseball cap still perched on Shauna's head. Heat rushed to her cheeks. "Okay, fine. Yes. Me and Melissa."

Saying it aloud to someone else felt strange but freeing, like opening a window in a too-stuffy room. Shauna found herself smiling despite her embarrassment.

"It's... it's good," she admitted. "Really good, actually."

Taissa nodded, no judgment in her expression, only a quiet understanding that made Shauna wonder how much she'd already guessed. "I can tell. You seem happier… More yourself."

The observation struck Shauna with unexpected force.

More yourself.

It was true, she realized. With Melissa, she didn't have to carefully calibrate her words or actions to maintain someone else's comfort. She could just... be.

"Yeah," Shauna agreed softly. "I guess I am."

"Good."

Outside, the November darkness had fully descended, but inside Taissa's room—with its offered sanctuary and unspoken understanding—Shauna felt lighter than she had in years, the pink cap on her head no longer just borrowed warmth but a symbol of something precious and new: the freedom to choose her own path, her own heart, her own future.

* * *

Lottie POV

Lottie studied Nat's face as they walked across campus toward dinner, the setting sun painting the trees in burnished gold. The soccer team's implosion during the Northwood game had left an uncomfortable tension hanging over everyone. Jackie and Shauna were barely acknowledging each other, and the strained atmosphere was affecting everyone's play.

"Coach looked like he was going to have an aneurysm at practice today," Lottie said, watching Nat's profile. "Jackie nearly took Melissa's head off with that pass."

"Not sure you can call that a pass," Nat replied with a snort. "More like attempted murder with a soccer ball."

Lottie smiled, but her attention was caught by the tight set of Nat's jaw, the unusual pallor beneath her tan. Nat had been quieter than usual during practice, hanging back during drills, and now she kept clenching and unclenching her fists as they walked.

"Are you okay?" Lottie asked, her voice soft with concern.

Nat's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. "I'm fine. Just tired of all the drama."

But Lottie saw beyond the casual dismissal. The slight tremor in Nat's hands when she pushed her hair back. The thin sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cool evening air. The way she kept pulling her jacket tighter around herself.

"You don't look fine," Lottie pressed, stepping closer. "You're shivering."

"It's cold," Nat muttered, though the November evening was surprisingly mild.

Lottie cataloged more symptoms with growing concern: the way Nat's breathing seemed shallower than normal, how she winced slightly at louder sounds, the occasional full-body tremor she tried to disguise as a shrug.

"Nat," Lottie said, touching her arm gently, "what's going on? Really?"

"Nothing. I told you—" Nat's words cut off as she stumbled, her usual grace deserting her. She caught herself against a tree trunk, blinking rapidly as if trying to clear her vision.

Lottie felt a surge of protectiveness—unusual for her since Nat was always the strong one. She moved closer, steadying Nat with a hand on her elbow.

"Maybe we should skip dinner," Lottie suggested, studying Nat's face with growing anxiety. "Go back to the dorms. Or I could take you to the nurse."

Nat's expression immediately closed off. "No nurse. I'm fine. Just tripped."

But as they crossed the commons toward the dining hall, Lottie's worry intensified. Nat's breathing had become increasingly shallow, her responses more delayed. The confident swagger that characterized her walk had diminished to a careful, measured pace.

"Nat, you're clearly not well," Lottie said, her voice tinged with frustration and concern. "Please, let me help you."

"I don't need—" Nat started, then stopped abruptly, her face suddenly going still in a way that made Lottie's heart skip.

A green tinge crept across Nat's complexion, her eyes widening slightly. Without hesitation, Lottie grabbed Nat's arm and steered her toward the nearest trash can, instinctively positioning herself to block curious onlookers.

"It's okay," Lottie murmured, gathering Nat's blonde hair back from her face as she doubled over, retching into the bin. "I've got you."

Lottie held Nat's hair with one hand, her other arm wrapping supportively around her waist. The role reversal felt strange—she was always the one being taken care of, the fragile one needing protection. Yet here she was, shielding Nat as she emptied her stomach, whispering reassurances as students passed by, their curious stares lingering too long.

Anger flared in Lottie's chest as she noticed a group of sophomores pointing and whispering. She shifted her position, more deliberately placing herself between Nat and their prying eyes. Her usual medication-induced detachment had receded, replaced by a fierce, protective instinct.

"Don't look at them," she said softly as Nat straightened, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "They don't matter."

Nat's face was pale, her usual defiant mask momentarily absent. She looked younger suddenly, vulnerable in a way Lottie rarely saw.

"Fuck," Nat muttered, leaning heavily against Lottie. "This is embarrassing."

"It's not," Lottie assured her, handing her a tissue from her pocket. "Let's get you back to your room."

Before they could move, a familiar, grating voice cut through the evening air.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

Lottie turned to find Misty Quigley approaching, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield, her round glasses magnifying eyes that gleamed with suspicious delight. She took in the scene—Nat hunched over, Lottie's protective stance—with the air of someone discovering valuable contraband.

"Miss Scatorccio, are you ill?" Misty asked, her voice carrying a false concern that set Lottie's teeth on edge. "Or perhaps experiencing the after-effects of prohibited substances?"

Lottie felt Nat tense beside her, preparing for a defensive retort that would only make things worse. Before Nat could speak, Misty continued, her attention fixed on Nat's disheveled appearance.

"Your uniform is in clear violation of dress code standards," Misty noted, pen poised over her clipboard. "Untucked shirt, missing tie, and—" she leaned closer, sniffing performatively, "—is that cigarette smoke I detect? That's three separate infractions that I'll need to document."

Each word of Misty's petty critique felt like a personal attack to Lottie. She watched Nat struggling to stand upright, clearly in distress, while Misty completely ignored her obvious illness in favor of uniform violations. Something unfamiliar surged through Lottie's body—a fierce protective fury that cut through her medication fog with startling clarity.

"She's sick," Lottie said, her voice emerging with unexpected strength. "Can't you see that?"

Misty's attention shifted to Lottie, her smile tightening. "Illness should be reported to the health center, Charlotte. Proper protocols exist for a reason. And if Miss Scatorccio is experiencing withdrawal symptoms, that's a matter for disciplinary—"

"She's sick," Lottie repeated, her voice hardening as she stepped more firmly between Misty and Nat. "Go fuck yourself, Misty."

The words hung in the air, shocking in their clarity and force. Lottie felt as surprised as Misty looked—she couldn't remember the last time she'd spoken so directly, so assertively to anyone. But the fierce need to protect Nat overrode everything else.

Misty's mouth opened and closed, her clipboard lowering slightly as she struggled to process Lottie Matthews—quiet, compliant, heavily medicated Lottie—telling her to fuck off.

"I—well—that kind of language is completely—" Misty sputtered.

Lottie didn't wait for her to recover. She turned away, wrapping her arm more securely around Nat's waist.

"Come on," she said quietly to Nat. "Let's get you somewhere quiet."

She guided Nat away, feeling the slight tremors beneath her fingers as they walked. Nat leaned into her, allowing herself to be supported in a way she never had before. Lottie's movements felt sure, confident, as if the act of protecting Nat had unlocked some hidden reservoir of strength.

They made their way to East Dormitory in silence, Nat's breathing gradually evening out as they walked. When they reached Lottie's single room, she guided Nat inside and closed the door behind them.

Nat collapsed onto Lottie's bed, her usual grace absent as she curled slightly inward. Lottie moved with purpose, getting water, finding an extra blanket as Nat shivered despite the room's warmth.

"You don't have to do this," Nat said, her voice rough. "Play nurse. I'm fine."

"You're not fine," Lottie replied, sitting beside her on the bed. "And I want to help." She studied Nat's face, the slight sheen of sweat on her brow, the way her hands still trembled. "What's really going on, Nat?"

Nat was quiet for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible.

"I'm sober. Seventy-two hours now."

Understanding dawned on Lottie immediately. The symptoms, the physical distress—it all made sense.

"You're detoxing," she said softly.

Nat nodded, a wry smile twisting her lips. "Coach Ben's been helping me. We've been meeting every morning. Talking. Working through it." She shrugged, trying to downplay it. "It's not a big deal."

"It is a big deal," Lottie countered, pulling the blanket higher around Nat's shoulders. "It's brave."

Nat scoffed, but there was no real force behind it. "Not brave. Just necessary. Can't keep using forever, right?"

Lottie settled more comfortably beside her, watching as Nat's eyelids grew heavier. "How bad is it? The withdrawal?"

"Comes in waves," Nat admitted. "This was a bad one. Sorry you had to see that."

"Don't apologize," Lottie said firmly. "I'm glad I was there."

Nat's eyes drifted closed, exhaustion clearly overtaking her. Lottie sat quietly, watching the rise and fall of Nat's chest, marveling at the trust being shown to her. This was Nat Scatorccio—fiercely independent, perpetually guarded—allowing herself to be vulnerable, to be cared for.

As Nat's breathing deepened toward sleep, Lottie gently brushed a strand of blonde hair from her forehead. The gesture was tender, reverent almost.

"I'm proud of you, you know," Lottie whispered, her voice soft in the quiet room.

Nat's eyes fluttered open briefly, surprise flickering across her features. "For what? Being a mess?"

"For trying. For fighting. For doing something incredibly difficult because it's right for you." Lottie leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Nat's forehead. "Sleep. I'll be right here."

Nat's hand found hers, fingers intertwining weakly. "Thanks, Lot," she murmured, her voice already thick with approaching sleep. Her eyes closed again, her face relaxing as tension gradually left her body.

Just before she drifted off completely, Nat's lips moved again, the words barely audible: "I love you."

It was the first time Nat had said those words to her. They hung in the air between them, delicate and profound. Without hesitation, Lottie squeezed Nat's hand.

"I love you too," she whispered, the truth of it resonating through her entire being.

Lottie sat there as darkness fell outside her window, watching over Nat as she slept. For the first time in months—perhaps years—she felt completely present, completely herself. Not Lottie the patient, not Lottie the problem, but Lottie the protector, Lottie the strong one. The medication that usually dulled her perceptions couldn't touch this moment of perfect clarity: she loved Nat Scatorccio, and somehow, miraculously, Nat loved her back.

* * *

Jackie POV

Jackie settled into the passenger seat of Jeff's car, the leather upholstery cool against her bare legs. The evening at his parents' country club had dragged interminably—his father's golf stories, his mother's pointed questions about Princeton, the way the other members had looked at her with that particular blend of assessment and approval that always made her skin crawl. She'd played her part flawlessly, of course. Jackie Taylor, perfect girlfriend, future senator's wife, legacy Princeton student. The role fit like a second skin, even as it chafed.

Jeff started the engine, the luxury car purring to life with barely a whisper. "That wasn't so bad, right?" He shot her his easy smile, the one that had made half the girls swoon when they'd met at the joint St. Joesph and Wiskayok winter formal during their sophomore year.

"Not bad at all." The lie came automatically, practiced and smooth. "Your dad's golf buddies are always... entertaining."

"They love you, you know. Mom's bridge club too." Jeff pulled out of the parking lot, the country club's pristine grounds disappearing behind them. "Mrs. Hathaway kept going on about what a 'lovely young lady' you are."

Jackie forced a smile, staring out the window at the passing trees. Lovely young lady. The phrase settled on her shoulders like yet another weight, another expectation to carry.

"Oh, hey—" Jeff perked up, changing the subject. "Get this. Coach Miller has us on this insane new weight training regimen. Six days a week, focusing on explosive power. My arms are killing me but look at the results…." He flexed one bicep briefly before returning his hand to the wheel. "He says if I keep it up, I should be able to pack on at least fifteen pounds before spring season."

Jackie nodded, searching for something to contribute. "I've been thinking about doing something similar, actually. Coach Ben mentioned a strength program for the off-season. Might help me stay in shape between regular and nationals season."

Jeff's laugh cut through the car's quiet interior, sharp and dismissive. "You? Weight training?"

The sudden shift in his tone made Jackie turn to look at him fully. "What's funny about that?"

"Nothing, nothing." Jeff waved a hand, still chuckling. "It's just—thank God you're not into that whole looking muscly and mannish like Taissa or Van. Some of those girls on your team look like they could bench press me."

Something cold and unpleasant slithered through Jackie's chest. "What do you mean?"

Jeff seemed oblivious to the change in her voice, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "You know what I mean. All those girls with their bulging shoulders and thick legs." He squeezed her arm playfully, his touch suddenly feeling evaluative rather than affectionate. "I like that you're weak and soft. Feminine."

The words landed like tiny barbs beneath her skin. Weak. Soft. As if these were compliments. As if strength was somehow incompatible with being a woman.

"Those 'mannish' girls are exceptional athletes," Jackie said, unable to keep the edge from her voice. "Taissa's probably getting a full ride to the ivy of her choice because of her strength and skill. Van's goalkeeping is why we're almost guaranteed to win nationals again."

Jeff's eyebrows rose slightly at her tone. "Whoa, chill. I'm just saying I prefer girls who look like girls. What's wrong with that?" He gestured vaguely toward the road. "Did you see Van and Tai's dyke-ish haircuts? Van looks like a dude now, and Taissa might as well have joined the marines."

"Those 'dyke-ish haircuts' belong to my teammates," Jackie snapped, the heat in her voice surprising even her. "And their strength is exactly what makes them exceptional. Taissa can run circles around players twice her size because she's put in the work. Van can dive across the entire goal because they're strong enough to propel their body through the air. That's not 'mannish'—that's dedication and athleticism."

Jeff glanced at her, confusion evident in his expression. "Jesus, Jackie, what's gotten into you? I was paying you a compliment."

"By calling me weak?" The words burst out before she could stop them.

"By saying you're feminine! Like your mom." He shrugged, clearly bewildered by her reaction. "I'm just saying it's a good thing you're not like that. You're perfect as you are—pretty, and feminine and delicate like your mother."

Delicate. The word echoed uncomfortably in Jackie's mind, conjuring images of her mother's perfectly manicured hands, her carefully controlled expressions, her life spent navigating the treacherous waters of political appearances. Was that really how Jeff saw her? As some fragile ornament?

"What exactly do you mean by 'delicate'?" Jackie pressed, her heart rate increasing with each exchange.

Jeff's confusion deepened, his brow furrowing as he navigated a turn. "I don't know, Jackie. Normal girl stuff? Why are you getting so worked up?"

"I'm not worked up. I'm asking a question." Jackie shifted in her seat to face him more fully. "What does 'delicate' mean to you?"

"It means you're a girl! You know—soft, pretty, not all... muscly and aggressive." Jeff's voice rose slightly, frustration evident. "Why are you getting so worked up? It's not like you've ever cared about being strong before. You care about being pretty and popular—that's your thing."

Jackie felt as if she'd been slapped. Her thing. As if her entire identity could be distilled down to those superficial qualities. As if that was all he saw when he looked at her.

"My 'thing' is being captain of a nationally ranked soccer team," she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "My 'thing' is maintaining a 3.9 GPA while running student government. My 'thing' is scoring more goals this season than any other forward in our division."

Jeff rolled his eyes, clearly not grasping the shift that had occurred. "Yeah, and you look cute doing it. That's what I'm saying."

Jackie turned away, staring out the passenger window. The familiar streets of Wiskayok passed by in a blur, the quaint town square with its ancient oak tree, the artisanal coffee shop where she and Shauna sometimes studied on weekends. Everything looked different somehow, as if she were seeing it through new eyes.

The silence that filled the car was thick, uncomfortable. Jeff attempted small talk a few times—comments about the weather, a question about an upcoming exam—but Jackie's responses were monosyllabic at best. Her mind was elsewhere, replaying Jeff's words. Pretty. Feminine. Delicate. Weak. The adjectives circled like vultures, picking at something that had been dying inside her for longer than she cared to admit.

When they finally reached the imposing gates of Wiskayok Academy, Jackie felt a surge of relief. The gothic architecture of her school, usually so oppressive, now represented escape.

"So, I'll call you tomorrow?" Jeff asked as he pulled up to the drop-off point, his tone cautious, clearly sensing something was still wrong.

"Sure." Jackie gathered her purse, already reaching for the door handle. She couldn't get out of the car fast enough.

"Hey—" Jeff's hand caught her wrist gently. "Are we okay?"

Jackie looked at him—really looked—taking in his handsome face, his concerned expression, the genuine confusion in his eyes. He truly didn't understand what he'd done wrong. And why would he? He'd been raised to see girls like her as decorative, delicate creatures whose primary value lay in their appearance. Just as she'd been raised to be exactly that.

"I don't know," she answered honestly, pulling her wrist from his grasp. "Goodnight, Jeff."

She slipped out of the car before he could respond, her legs carrying her swiftly away. Behind her, she heard him call her name, confusion evident in his voice, but she didn't turn back. Her heels clicked against the pavement as she walked, each step putting more distance between herself and the conversation that had somehow stripped away a layer of comfortable illusion.

Jackie took the shortcut past the library, her mind still replaying Jeff's comments, when she froze mid-step. Between the library and the science building, partially hidden in the shadows, two figures stood locked in an embrace. Even in the dim light, there was no mistaking Shauna's familiar silhouette.

Jackie's breath caught in her throat. Shauna was pressed against the brick wall, her face tilted upward, expression clearly visible in a shaft of moonlight. And before her stood Melissa Bennett, her hands on either side of Shauna's head, their bodies close enough that not even air could pass between them.

As Jackie watched, transfixed, Melissa shifted her stance. With a fluid, effortless movement, she hoisted Shauna slightly higher against the wall, lifting her with a casual display of strength that made Jackie's breath catch. Shauna's legs wrapped around Melissa's waist, her arms circling Melissa's neck as they kissed with an intensity that was almost painful to witness.

What struck Jackie most wasn't the kiss itself—though that was shocking enough—but the expression on Shauna's face. A look of pure, uninhibited joy, a raw, honest desire Jackie had never seen before. Shauna's usually guarded features were transformed, open and vulnerable and alive in a way that made Jackie's chest tighten painfully.

A volatile cocktail of emotions flooded through her: jealousy at their intimacy, humiliation at witnessing it, and a strange, unwanted longing. Not just for Shauna—though that familiar ache was certainly present—but for something else. The strength in Melissa's arms as she held Shauna effortlessly against the wall. The confidence in her stance. The way Shauna responded to that strength with such obvious pleasure.

Jackie backed away, her heart hammering against her ribs. The image burned into her mind: Melissa's hands gripping Shauna's thighs, supporting her weight with casual ease. Shauna's face transformed by desire. The way they moved together, uninhibited, unashamed.

She turned abruptly, changing course. Her vision blurred slightly with unshed tears as she walked with determined strides, needing to be anywhere but where she was. The athletic center loomed ahead, its modern architecture a stark contrast to the gothic buildings surrounding it. Without conscious thought, Jackie found herself fumbling with her captain's key at the side entrance, hands shaking slightly as she let herself in.

The weight room was dark and silent, the equipment waiting like silent judges as she approached without a plan. Jackie flipped on the lights, the harsh fluorescents illuminating the space in unforgiving clarity. Rows of weights, benches, machines—all designed to build the strength she'd been taught to avoid, the power she'd been conditioned to see as unfeminine.

Moving on autopilot, Jackie shed her cardigan and kicked off her heels. She approached the free weights, her hand hovering over the rack before selecting a pair of dumbbells that looked manageable. Twenty pounds. Not too heavy, not too light. She'd seen Taissa use these during team conditioning.

The first curl was awkward, her form poor. The second was better. By the fifth, she'd found a rhythm, the burn in her biceps a welcome distraction from the image still seared into her mind: Melissa's strength, Shauna's joy.

Jackie moved to a bench press next, loading the bar with more weight than was prudent for someone without a spotter. The strain in her arms as she pushed upward felt almost welcome, a physical manifestation of the emotional weight she'd been carrying. Each rep was fueled by Jeff's words, by Shauna's expression of pleasure, by her own confused desires.

Sweat beaded on her forehead, her carefully styled hair coming undone as she moved from one exercise to the next with reckless intensity. She added more weight to the bar, ignoring the voice of caution in the back of her mind. The strain in her muscles became almost welcome as she punished herself, trying to prove something she couldn't even articulate.

The bar wobbled dangerously on her next attempt, her arms shaking with fatigue. As it began to tilt, threatening to slip from her grasp, a pair of strong hands appeared, steadying the weight and helping her rack it safely.

"Whoa there," Coach Ben's voice cut through her concentration. "That's enough, Jackie."

She blinked up at him, momentarily disoriented. Coach Ben stood over her, concern evident in his expression as he took in her disheveled state—the designer dress incongruous with the weight room setting, the mascara tracks on her cheeks she hadn't realized were there, the wild look in her eyes.

"What are you doing here so late?" he asked, offering her a hand up from the bench.

Jackie accepted his help, suddenly aware of the trembling in her overworked muscles. "Just... getting in some extra training."

Coach Ben's eyebrows rose skeptically. "In that outfit? Without proper form or a spotter?" He gestured to the weight she'd been attempting. "That's way too heavy for someone without proper training. You could have seriously hurt yourself."

The concern in his voice made something crack inside her. Jackie looked away, unable to meet his gaze as she fumbled for an explanation that wouldn't reveal the turmoil inside her.

"Here," Coach Ben said, handing her a water bottle from his gym bag. "Sit down for a minute."

Jackie sank onto a nearby bench, accepting the water with hands that still trembled slightly. Coach Ben sat across from her, his expression patient as she took several long sips.

"Want to tell me what's really going on?" he asked after a moment.

"Nothing," Jackie replied automatically, the defensive response ingrained. "Just trying to stay in shape for nationals."

Coach Ben's silence spoke volumes. He simply waited, his gaze steady but not intrusive, creating a space for her to fill if she chose to.

"Do you think I'm weak?" The question escaped before she could stop it, vulnerability bleeding through the cracks in her carefully maintained facade.

Surprise flickered across Coach Ben's face. "Weak? You're one of the most determined athletes I've ever coached."

"Not mentally. Physically." Jackie gestured to her arms, her legs. "Jeff said... he said he likes that I'm 'weak and soft.' That I'm not like Taissa or Van or..." She swallowed hard. "Or Melissa."

Understanding dawned in Coach Ben's eyes. "Ah." He considered his next words carefully. "Physical strength isn't about looking a certain way, Jackie. It's about building something sustainable, something that's truly yours. Something that serves you, not others' perceptions of you."

The words penetrated Jackie's defenses, touching something raw and unacknowledged. "But isn't there something... unfeminine about being strong? About having muscles?" She hated how small her voice sounded, how the question revealed the depth of her insecurity.

Coach Ben shook his head, his expression serious. "That's society talking, not reality. Strength is human, not gendered. The question is: what do you want from your body? What would make you feel powerful in your own skin?"

Jackie stared at her hands, considering the question. What did she want? Not just what her mother wanted, or what Jeff expected, or what Princeton demanded. What did Jackie Taylor, stripped of all those external expectations, actually desire?

"I want..." she began hesitantly, "I want to be strong enough to lift someone. To hold them up against a wall and..." She trailed off, heat rising to her cheeks as the image of Melissa and Shauna flashed through her mind again.

If Coach Ben noticed her blush, he gave no indication. "That's a perfectly reasonable goal. But the way to get there isn't by throwing yourself at random weights without proper training. It's through consistent, intelligent work."

He stood, retrieving a notepad from his gym bag. "If you're serious about building strength, I can design a program for you. Proper progression, balanced muscle development, appropriate nutrition." He scribbled something on the pad, then tore off the sheet and handed it to her. "This is a basic starting point. Three days a week, focus on compound movements. We can adjust as you progress."

Jackie took the paper, something warm and unfamiliar expanding in her chest at his matter-of-fact acceptance of her goal. No judgment, no questioning, just practical support. "Thank you," she said, meeting his eyes for the first time since he'd found her.

Coach Ben nodded, his expression kind but professional. "Just promise me you won't try this again without proper supervision. Strength training is about building yourself up, not tearing yourself down."

"I promise," Jackie agreed, feeling suddenly exhausted but somehow lighter. She folded the paper carefully and tucked it into her purse.

As she gathered her discarded cardigan and shoes, a realization settled over her: this might be the first decision she'd made in years that wasn't calculated to please someone else or maintain her carefully constructed image. This was something just for her—a step toward discovering who Jackie Taylor might be beyond everyone else's expectations.

The thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. As she left the athletic center, her muscles pleasantly sore and her mind still processing the events of the evening, Jackie found herself wondering what other parts of herself might be waiting to be discovered—and whether the confusion she felt watching Shauna and Melissa might be more than just jealousy over a friendship.

Perhaps, she thought as she made her way back to the dormitory under the starlit sky, it was time to find out.

Chapter Text

Shauna POV

Pale November sunlight slanted through Taissa's dorm room window, casting geometric patterns across the worn hardwood floor. Shauna sat cross-legged on the narrow cot that had become her temporary sanctuary, textbooks and notebooks spread in organized chaos around her. The sounds of distant activity filtered through the closed door—excited voices, hurried footsteps, occasional laughter—as families arrived for parents' weekend.

Shauna's own parents wouldn't be coming. Her father's car had finally kicked the bucket after years of ominous rattling, and the repair costs had drained their modest savings. Her mother's apologetic voice still echoed in her mind from their phone call last night: "We'll make it up to you when you come home for winter break, sweetheart. I promise." The disappointment had been real but manageable—just another reminder of the invisible barriers that had always separated her from classmates like Jackie, whose parents would undoubtedly arrive in their gleaming luxury sedan bearing expensive gifts and dinner reservations at The Birchwood.

The thought of Jackie sent a familiar ache through Shauna's chest. Four weeks since their explosive fight, and the wound still felt raw. They passed each other in hallways now with the careful choreography of strangers, exchanging terse nods that acknowledged their shared history without bridging the chasm between them.

Shauna sighed, refocusing on her American Literature essay. Ms. Burns had assigned an analysis of Edith Wharton's "Roman Fever," and Shauna found herself particularly drawn to the story's exploration of long-buried secrets and their aftermath. She'd been working on this paragraph for nearly thirty minutes, trying to articulate how Wharton's protagonists created elaborately false narratives about each other while harboring their own devastating truths.

Much like Jackie and me , she thought, then immediately pushed the comparison away. She'd promised herself a Jackie-free morning.

The muffled sounds of a particularly enthusiastic reunion drifted through the wall—a mother's voice rising in delight upon seeing her daughter. Shauna allowed herself a small, wistful smile before turning back to her laptop. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard, searching for the precise words to capture Wharton's layered ironies.

The ping of an incoming email broke her concentration.

Shauna ignored it initially, determined to finish her thought. Another ping followed, then a third. Annoyed, she glanced at the notification banner on her screen, ready to dismiss whatever campus-wide announcement was interrupting her focus.

The subject line froze her in place: BROWN UNIVERSITY - EARLY DECISION NOTIFICATION

Her heart slammed against her ribs, the sudden surge of adrenaline making her fingers tremble as they hovered above the trackpad. This was it—the moment she'd been simultaneously dreading and longing for since submitting her application. The notification that would either validate her painful break from Jackie's vision of their shared future or confirm that she'd sacrificed their friendship for nothing.

Shauna closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath. Just open it. Whatever it says, at least you'll know.

She clicked.

The email loaded with excruciating slowness, the university's crest materializing at the top of the message in rich burgundy and gold. Her eyes scanned the first line, then stopped, unable to process what she was seeing.

Dear Shauna Shipman,

Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that I inform you of your admission to Brown University's Class of 2029 under our Early Decision program...

The rest of the words blurred as tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away, reading the sentence again. And again. The meaning remained unchanged.

She'd done it. She'd actually done it.

A choked sound escaped her throat—half laugh, half sob. Her body felt suddenly weightless, untethered from the expectations and identities that had bound her for so long. In that moment, she wasn't Jackie's sidekick or her parents' sensible daughter or Wiskayok's quiet scholarship student. She was simply Shauna Shipman, accepted to Brown University on her own merit.

The email continued with details about the financial aid package—not a full ride, but substantial—and mentioned the writing fellowship application was still under review. She'd need to maintain her GPA and submit additional materials by February, but she'd cleared the first and most daunting hurdle.

Shauna reached instinctively for her phone, muscle memory directing her fingers to Jackie's contact before conscious thought intervened. She froze, the reality of their estrangement crashing back. Jackie had been her first call for every significant moment since kindergarten. The person who knew every secret, every fear, every triumph.

But not anymore.

The realization brought a fresh wave of complicated emotions—grief for what they'd lost tangled with the liberating knowledge that this achievement belonged entirely to Shauna. Jackie hadn't helped craft her essays or proofread her application or even known about the fellowship opportunity. This was hers alone.

Well, not entirely alone.

Shauna set her phone down and closed her laptop. She gathered her scattered notebooks, tucking them neatly into her backpack. This news couldn't wait, couldn't be contained within the confines of Taissa's quiet room. There was one person who would understand exactly what this meant, who had encouraged her writing with genuine appreciation rather than Jackie's alternating indifference and possessive pride.

Melissa.

Shauna hurried down the stairs to the third floor, her heart still racing with the enormity of her news. She moved with unusual urgency, barely acknowledging the greetings of classmates she passed in the hallway. At Melissa's door, she paused, suddenly self-conscious about her appearance—worn sweatpants, oversized t-shirt, hair pulled into a messy bun. But the excitement overrode her hesitation, and she knocked with more force than intended.

No answer.

Shauna knocked again, disappointment beginning to creep in. What if Melissa was already out? Her parents weren't visiting either—her mother had a gallery opening in Boston, and her father was presenting at a conference—but she might have gone to breakfast with friends or to the library.

Just as Shauna was turning to leave, the door swung open. Melissa stood in the doorway, hair tousled from sleep, wearing basketball shorts and a faded t-shirt with a coffee stain near the hem. Her eyes were bleary, and a faint pillow crease marked her cheek.

"Ship?" Melissa blinked, squinting slightly in the hallway light. "It's like seven-thirty on Saturday. Is everything okay?"

The question made Shauna realize she hadn't actually planned what to say. How to convey the magnitude of this moment, the ways it would reshape her future. Instead of the eloquent announcement she should have prepared, what emerged was:

"I got in."

Melissa's expression shifted instantly from sleepy confusion to dawning comprehension. "Brown?" she asked, fully alert now, voice dropping to an excited whisper. "Early decision?"

Shauna nodded, unable to contain her smile despite the tremor in her voice. "Just got the email. They said yes."

What happened next unfolded in a blur of motion. Melissa's face transformed with joy, her amber eyes widening before she launched herself forward, tackling Shauna in a full-body embrace that nearly sent them both crashing to the floor. Only Shauna's quick backpedaling kept them upright as Melissa's momentum carried them into the opposite wall of the hallway.

"I knew it!" Melissa was saying, her arms wrapped tightly around Shauna's neck. "I fucking knew they'd see how amazing you are!"

Before Shauna could respond, Melissa's mouth found hers in a kiss that erased every coherent thought from her mind. Unlike their usual careful affection—mindful of Wiskayok's conservative environment and watchful eyes—this kiss held nothing back. Melissa's hands framed Shauna's face, her body pressing closer as the kiss deepened into something urgent and celebratory and utterly uninhibited.

Shauna responded with equal fervor, her back against the wall, heart hammering against her ribs. The textbooks in her backpack dug uncomfortably into her spine, but she barely noticed, too caught up in the warm pressure of Melissa's lips, the faint taste of toothpaste, the solid reality of her girlfriend's body against hers.

A door opening further down the hallway finally broke them apart, both breathing heavily as they remembered where they were. Melissa grabbed Shauna's hand and pulled her into the privacy of her room, closing the door firmly behind them.

"Sorry," Melissa said, though her radiant smile contradicted any actual remorse. "I got carried away. But seriously, Shauna—this is huge! You did it!"

"I did it," Shauna echoed, the reality sinking in deeper with each repetition. She dropped her backpack and collapsed onto Melissa's unmade bed, wonder and disbelief cycling through her. "They actually want me. For my writing."

"Of course they do," Melissa said, sitting beside her. "Your writing is brilliant. That essay on institutional structures and authentic identity? I told you it was knockout material."

She took Shauna's hands, her expression growing more serious. "I am so incredibly proud of you. Not just for getting in, but for having the courage to apply in the first place. Do you have any idea how brave that was? To choose your own path even when it meant risking so much?"

The words touched something deep in Shauna's chest—a place that had been hollow for so long she'd forgotten it existed. Pride. Not the academic pride of good grades or teacher approval, but a deeper satisfaction in knowing she'd faced her fears and emerged victorious.

"It still doesn't feel real," Shauna admitted. "Like I'll wake up and find out it was a mistake."

"Not a mistake," Melissa assured her, squeezing her hands. "They recognized what I've known since that first day in the library—that you're extraordinary."

Shauna ducked her head, still unused to such direct praise. With Jackie, compliments always came with qualifiers or were delivered as reflections of their shared excellence. Melissa's straightforward admiration remained disarming.

"There's one issue," Shauna said, remembering the details of the acceptance letter. "The fellowship application is still pending. Without it, even with the financial aid that they're offering, I'm not sure my parents can afford—"

"You'll get it," Melissa interrupted with such certainty that Shauna almost believed her. "But let's not worry about that today. Today is for celebrating."

She leaned in, capturing Shauna's lips in another kiss, gentler than before but no less affecting. Shauna's eyes drifted closed as she allowed herself to be pulled further onto the bed, Melissa's weight settling half on top of her. The familiar comfort of these moments—the quiet exploration of touches and tastes that had defined their relationship over the past weeks—grounded Shauna in the present even as her mind raced with future possibilities.

They lost track of time, the morning slipping away as kisses deepened and hands wandered beneath clothing. Neither heard the increased activity in the hallway outside—parents arriving, tearful reunions, the growing bustle of family weekend taking shape around the isolated bubble of Melissa's room.

Eventually, they broke apart, both flushed and breathless. Melissa propped herself on one elbow, her expression thoughtful as she traced lazy patterns on Shauna's collarbone with her fingertip.

"I have an idea," she said, a hint of mischief entering her eyes. "A proper celebration."

"What kind of celebration?" Shauna asked, recognizing the particular tone that usually preceded Melissa's more adventurous suggestions.

"Let's get out of here." Melissa sat up, sudden energy animating her movements. "Off campus. Away from parents' weekend and all forced formality."

"And go where?"

"Into town. We could get a hotel room." The suggestion hung in the air between them, its implications clear. "My uncle gave me an emergency credit card that he never ever checks. We could order room service, watch terrible movies, and..." She trailed off with a meaningful look.

The proposal sent a flutter of nervous excitement through Shauna's stomach. They hadn’t spent a single night together since the scare two weeks ago with Misty. 

"Isn't that kind of risky?" Shauna asked, though she was already imagining it—a room of their own, no threat of interruption, no need to keep their voices down. "What if someone notices we're gone?"

"It's parents' weekend," Melissa pointed out, growing more animated as she warmed to her plan. "Half the dorm is staying with their families at hotels anyway. No formal checks, no mandatory activities. We could leave this afternoon and be back tomorrow before anyone notices."

Her fingers traced the edge of Shauna's t-shirt, slipping underneath to skim across bare skin. "Think about it—just us, no Misty, no listening for footsteps in the hallway..."

The touch sent goosebumps across Shauna's skin, her body responding even as her mind calculated risks. It was tempting—especially when she imagined the alternative of remaining on campus, potentially encountering Jackie and her parents in the dining hall or at one of the weekend events.

The thought of Jackie's mother—Senator Taylor with her political smile and assessing gaze—made Shauna's decision crystallize. She couldn't bear the thought of those ice-blue eyes examining her across the quad, noting her absence from Jackie's side with that particular blend of confusion and dismissal. Couldn't stomach watching Jackie perform the role of perfect daughter while Shauna sat alone, the conspicuous empty space beside her announcing their fractured friendship to everyone.

"Okay," Shauna said, the word carrying more certainty than she actually felt. "Let's do it."

Melissa's face lit up with surprise and delight. "Really? You're sure?"

Shauna nodded, a strange recklessness taking hold. Why shouldn't she celebrate this way? She'd been accepted to Brown—the future she'd hardly dared imagine was becoming real. For once, she wanted to stop calculating consequences and simply follow her desires.

"I'm sure," she said, finding that the words became truer as she spoke them. "Let's get out of here. Have one night that's just ours."

Melissa's answering smile was radiant. "Ship, you continue to surprise me." She leaned in for another kiss, this one carrying the promise of what awaited them. "I'll make the reservation now."

As Melissa reached for her phone, already discussing potential hotels and check-in times, Shauna felt a strange lightness settle over her. The acceptance letter had changed something fundamental—validating not just her academic abilities but her courage in choosing a different path. In this moment, surrounded by the comfortable chaos of Melissa's room, with plans forming for their illicit escape, Shauna felt something she'd rarely experienced before.

Freedom. Not just from Jackie's expectations or Wiskayok's structures, but from her own hesitation. She'd taken the biggest risk already—applying to Brown, challenging the future Jackie had outlined for them both—and it had paid off. What was one more small rebellion in comparison?

Tomorrow would bring its own concerns—fellowship applications, financial realities, the continued navigation of life without Jackie. But today, Shauna decided, watching Melissa's animated excitement as she secured their reservation, was for celebration. For acknowledging that sometimes, the scariest choices led to the most worthwhile rewards.

And for the first time since she'd clicked "submit" on her Brown application, Shauna felt certain she'd made the right decision—not just about college, but about claiming ownership of her own life, her own heart, her own future.

* * *

Taissa POV

The stares were like tiny, persistent insects buzzing at the edge of Taissa’s awareness. She felt them as she and Van crossed the quad, a gauntlet of parental scrutiny on this crisp Saturday morning. Two weeks. It had only been two weeks since their haircuts, and the novelty for the rest of Wiskayok had clearly not worn off. 

She saw an older couple, likely some trustee’s grandparents, whisper behind cupped hands, their gazes lingering on Van. Instinctively, Taissa shifted her position, her body becoming a subtle shield, an interruption in their line of sight.

Van’s anxiety was a palpable thing, a low hum of energy Taissa could feel vibrating through the space between them. Their pace quickened, their hand repeatedly coming up to adjust the stiff collar of their uniform blouse, a nervous tic that had resurfaced with a vengeance.

Taissa reached out, her fingers finding Van’s. She interlaced their hands with a deliberate firmness, a public statement for anyone who cared to look. The skin of Van’s palm was cool and slightly damp.

“You know,” Taissa said, her voice a low counterpoint to the distant campus chatter, “that uniform has never looked better. Positively dashing.” She squeezed their hand. “Must be the handsome person wearing it.”

A faint blush touched Van’s cheeks, a fragile warmth against the pale canvas of their stress. “Shut up, Turner.” But the tension in their shoulders eased a fraction.

As they passed the archway near the arts building, Taissa tugged Van into the recessed alcove, a pocket of privacy shielded by overgrown ivy. The sudden seclusion felt intimate. She reached up, playfully tousling the short, reddish-brown strands of Van’s hair. It was soft, springy, so perfectly them .

“Just needed a moment to appreciate the view,” she murmured, her thumbs tracing the line of Van’s jaw.

Van’s eyes, a stormy mix of grey and green, held a universe of worry. “My mom’s going to hate it.”

“Your mom is going to see her kid, who is brilliant and talented and is being actively recruited by a top tier D1 program.” Taissa leaned in, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to their lips. A shot of confidence. A reminder of who they were together. “It’s one breakfast. An hour, tops. She has to get back to the hospital for her shift. We can survive one hour.”

Van leaned their forehead against hers. “You’re not the one who has to get the ‘I’m just so disappointed, Vanessa’ speech later.”

“No,” Taissa agreed, her voice softening. “But I’m the one who gets to be with you after. And I’m the one who knows you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.” She pulled back, her expression shifting to one of strategic calm. “Besides, I have an exit strategy. If it gets bad, I’ll get a ‘Code Red’ text from the student government group chat about an emergency meeting with Porter. We’ll apologize and be out of there in sixty seconds.”

The lie was smooth, practiced. It was a contingency plan she’d already mapped out in her head, down to the pre-typed text message saved in her drafts. “And after, we have four hours to ourselves. We can go back to my room, watch some movies. Then later, we’ll go  meet my parents for a picnic. Brace yourself, my dad will probably try to recruit you for a polysci debate.”

She kept her tone light, but a flicker of her own nerves surfaced. This was a first for her, too. She’d never brought anyone home, never attached her name to another person in that way. It wasn’t that she feared her parents’ reaction—they were academics, champions of progressive thought, at least in theory. It was the vulnerability of it, the act of presenting a part of her heart for their inspection.

“Ready?” Taissa asked, taking Van’s hand again.

Van took a deep, fortifying breath. “As I’ll ever be.”

The campus café was a sunlit, noisy space, the air thick with the scent of overpriced coffee and baked goods. Taissa scanned the room, locating Corinne Palmer at a small table near the window. Van’s mother sat with her back to them, nursing a coffee, her posture ramrod straight even in the casual setting.

Taissa felt Van hesitate at the entrance, a barely perceptible pause. She didn’t stop walking, but maintained her measured pace, her hand moving to the small of Van’s back, a point of steady, guiding pressure.

"I'm right here, baby," she whispered, her lips brushing their ear.

As they approached, Corinne turned, a polite, expectant smile on her face. Taissa watched the smile falter, then dissolve, as Corinne’s gaze landed on Van. It was a rapid, brutal sequence of emotions played out in a matter of seconds. Confusion at the short hair. Recognition of her child. And then, a wave of barely-concealed disappointment that washed all warmth from her features.

Van flinched as if physically struck. Taissa’s own expression hardened into a mask of polite neutrality, a practiced defense mechanism. She extended her hand before Corinne could speak.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Palmer. I’m Taissa Turner.” Her handshake was firm, her voice even. The perfect, unimpeachable student. The kind of girl mothers were supposed to approve of.

Corinne’s answering handshake was limp, her attention still fixed on Van’s head. “Taissa. Yes. Vanessa’s… friend.”

The deliberate categorization landed with a thud. Taissa let it pass, pulling out a chair for Van before taking her own.

The table became a tiny battlefield. Taissa observed the shifting dynamics with the cold precision of a strategist. Van, launching into an eager, detailed account of the Boston University scout, their voice filled with a hopeful energy.

“And Coach said they’re talking a full ride, Mom. Everything paid for. Even housing too.” The words were an offering, a gift of success laid at their mother’s feet.

Corinne’s response was a dismissive wave of her hand. “That’s nice, honey.” Her focus, however, was elsewhere. “But we need to talk about your hair. What on earth possessed you?”

The abrupt pivot was jarring. The pride in Van’s face curdled into a familiar, weary pain. Taissa watched the light go out of their eyes, their shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly.

“I wanted a change,” Van said, their voice small.

“A change?” Corinne’s laugh was brittle. “Vanessa, you look like a boy. A handsome boy, I’ll grant you that, but a boy nonetheless. Is this another one of your tomboy phases? I thought we were past that after you discovered makeup in tenth grade.”

Each word was a careful incision, designed to delegitimize Van’s identity, to reduce it to a temporary, childish whim. Each utterance of “she” and “her” was a pinprick, a constant, low-grade assault. Taissa felt a hot, controlled anger rise in her chest, but she kept her features schooled, her expression placid. A confrontation here would only make things worse for Van later. She deliberately picked up her coffee cup, placing it on the table between Van and their mother, a small ceramic barricade. A subtle act of protection. Under the table, her knee found Van’s, a point of silent, steady contact.

“You know,” Corinne continued, oblivious or indifferent to the tension she was creating, “it reminds me of that time when you were four. Remember? You took my sewing shears to your beautiful curls because you wanted to look like that little boy from down the street.”

Van stared down at their untouched muffin. “I remember.”

“I cried for weeks,” Corinne said, as if recounting a cherished family anecdote rather than a moment of early gender dysphoria. “We had to take you to a real barber to have him buzz it all off. You looked so… severe. It broke my heart.”

Taissa took a slow sip of her coffee, the bitter liquid a match for the taste in her mouth. She watched the way Corinne framed the story, centering her own pain, erasing the memory of Van’s joy at the buzzcut—a joy Van had recounted to Taissa just two weeks ago.

“You know, Christmas is just around the corner,” Corinne said, her tone shifting to one of forced brightness. “If you wanted to get me a really special gift this year, you could start growing it out again. For me.”

The request was so breathtakingly manipulative that Taissa almost choked on her coffee. She set the cup down with a sharp click, the sound drawing Corinne’s attention for the first time.

“Actually, I think it looks fantastic on them,” Taissa said, her voice pleasant but edged with steel. “Very athletic. Powerful.”

Corinne’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Well, as Vanessa’s friend , it’s nice to hear that you’re so supportive of all her little phases.” The emphasis on “friend” was a deliberate erasure of their relationship, a dismissal so complete it was a physical blow.

Taissa felt the impact in her solar plexus, but she held Corinne’s gaze, her expression unwavering. She would not give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

Just as the silence stretched to an uncomfortable length, Corinne glanced at her watch. “Oh, look at the time. I’m going to be late for my shift.” She began gathering her things with a sudden, manufactured urgency. “Traffic is always a nightmare on a Saturday.”

Taissa’s mind immediately clicked into crisis management mode. Van’s face had gone pale, their expression shuttered. Corinne’s abrupt departure was another dismissal, a final statement on the worth of this conversation.

“It was lovely meeting you, Taissa,” Corinne said, offering another limp handshake. Then she turned to Van, giving them a brief, one-armed hug that was more duty than affection. “Be good, honey. Call me next week. And think about what I said. About what to get me for Christmas.”

And then she was gone, leaving a wake of emotional devastation behind her.

Taissa watched the color drain completely from Van’s face as they watched their mother walk away. She dropped a twenty on the table, more than enough for the coffees and the uneaten muffin.

“Let’s go,” she said softly, her hand finding its now-familiar place at the small of Van’s back.

The walk back to East Dormitory was a silent, protective procession. Taissa walked closer to Van than she normally would in public, creating a protective bubble with her body language. She was acutely aware of the other students crisscrossing the quad, their eyes drawn to them. She saw Mari and Gen give them a wide berth, a look of sympathetic understanding on their faces. They recognized the aftermath of a difficult parental encounter when they saw one. It was a language universally understood at Wiskayok.

Back in the sterile quiet of Taissa’s single room, the door clicked shut behind them. Van dropped their bag by the desk and stood rigidly in the center of the room, staring at a spot on the wall.

“I’m fine,” they said, their voice flat.

Taissa read the truth in their ramrod-straight posture, in the way their hands were clenched into tight fists at their sides. “I know.”

She didn’t challenge their statement. Instead, she moved to her closet. “You should change,” she suggested, her tone gentle. “Get out of this stupid uniform. It’s Saturday.” It was a practical suggestion, a way to help them reclaim their identity without directly confronting the pain.

She pulled out one of her own soft, gray sweatshirts and a pair of worn sweatpants, laying them on the bed. An offering. Van looked at the clothes, then back at Taissa, a flicker of gratitude in their hollow eyes. They nodded, grabbing the clothes and retreating into the small, ensuite bathroom to change.

While Van was gone, Taissa moved with deliberate calm, despite the anger still simmering in her veins. She pulled the laptop from her desk, her movements efficient. She scrolled through their shared folder of saved movies, bypassing anything too heavy, too emotionally demanding. She settled on Galaxy Quest , a film they’d watched a dozen times, its dialogue a familiar, comforting liturgy. It required nothing from them but passive observation.

When Van re-emerged, swallowed in Taissa’s oversized clothes, the rigid lines of their body had softened. They looked smaller, younger, and achingly vulnerable. Taissa opened her arms wordlessly, and Van stepped into her embrace, burying their face in the crook of Taissa’s neck. Taissa held them, her hands rubbing soothing circles on their back, feeling the tension slowly begin to leak out of their frame.

“Come on,” she murmured after a long moment. “Let’s watch a movie.”

She guided them to the bed, pulling back the covers. They crawled in, the movie’s opening credits already rolling, casting a blue glow across the room. Taissa arranged the pillows, then settled beside Van, pulling the heavy wool blanket up to their chins.

She positioned her body to be both support and shield, letting Van curl against her side, their head resting on her shoulder. Her arm wrapped around them, holding them securely. It was a conscious construction of safety, a physical harbor against the emotional storm.

As the familiar, goofy dialogue of the film filled the quiet room, Taissa leaned her head against Van’s, inhaling the clean scent of their hair.

“For the record,” she whispered, her lips brushing against their temple, “I fucking love your hair… I love how it frames your face so perfectly and somehow makes your gorgeous eyes look even greener.”

Van’s body shuddered with a silent, suppressed sob.

“I love you,” Taissa continued, her voice a low, steady anchor in the darkness. “Exactly as you are. Right now. Today. Don’t you ever let anyone, not even your mom, make you think you’re anything less than perfect, Van Palmer.”

She felt Van’s hand find hers under the blanket, their fingers lacing through her own, a desperate, grateful grip. They didn’t speak, didn’t need to. In the quiet darkness of the dorm room, with the comforting nonsense of the movie playing on, Taissa held them, a silent, unwavering shield against a world that didn’t understand. And for now, it was enough.

* * *

Lottie POV

Lottie arched her back against the sheets of her dorm bed, the sensations cascading through her body like electric currents. Nat's mouth worked between her thighs with confident precision, each stroke of her tongue sending waves of pleasure that made coherent thought impossible. The medication fog that usually clouded Lottie's mind had receded completely, leaving only this moment, this feeling, this connection.

"God, baby," she gasped, fingers tangling in Nat's blonde hair, her body trembling on the precipice of release. "Don't stop... please don't stop..."

Nat hummed against her, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure up Lottie's spine. Her world narrowed to the exquisite pressure building inside her, everything else—Wiskayok, her father, the medications, the constant surveillance—falling away until there was nothing but this perfect, crystalline moment of bliss.

The first wave of her orgasm crashed through her, her back arching further off the bed as she cried out. The second wave was building, her body tensing in anticipation, when a harsh buzzing sound cut through her pleasure-soaked haze.

Her phone vibrated violently against the wooden surface of her nightstand, the screen illuminating with a single word that sliced through her euphoria like a blade of ice: FATHER.

Reality crashed back with brutal force. The phone continued its insistent buzzing, the screen flashing as if to emphasize the intrusion. Nat pulled back immediately, her eyes wide with concern as she registered the shift in Lottie's expression.

"Shit," Lottie whispered, her voice still breathless but now tinged with panic rather than pleasure. Her trembling fingers fumbled for the phone, nearly knocking it to the floor in her haste.

She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breathing before answering. "Hello? Father?"

Alexander Matthews' voice came through with crystal clarity, as cold and precise as a surgical instrument. "Charlotte. I'm approximately twenty minutes from campus. I trust you're prepared for my arrival?"

Twenty minutes. The words echoed in Lottie's mind, triggering an immediate cascade of anxiety. Her father wasn't supposed to arrive for another two hours. He was early—deliberately early, she knew, a tactic he'd employed since her childhood to catch her unprepared, to maintain the upper hand.

"Twenty minutes?" Lottie repeated, her voice higher than usual. "I thought—I mean, yes, of course. I'll meet you at the visitor's parking area."

"Good. We have reservations at L'Étoile for lunch. Dress appropriately." The line went dead without further pleasantries.

Lottie stared at the phone in her hand, adrenaline flooding her system. "He's here—twenty minutes away," she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she turned to Nat, who was already pulling herself up from between Lottie's legs, concern etched across her features.

"Fuck," Nat said simply, immediately grasping the gravity of the situation. "Okay, we've got this. Twenty minutes is plenty of time."

But Lottie was already spiraling, her mind racing through all the ways her father would find her lacking. She scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping in her haste, and rushed to her mirror. Her reflection stared back at her with damning evidence of what she'd been doing—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair tangled from where she'd been writhing against the pillows. Worse, her eyes held a clarity, a brightness that her father would immediately recognize as deviation from her medication protocol.

"He'll know," she whispered, her fingers touching her heated cheeks. "He always knows. He'll see it on my face. He'll know I haven't been taking everything exactly as prescribed."

Her hands shook as she fumbled with her uniform, hastily buttoning her blouse, her fingers clumsy with panic. The room seemed to pulse around her, the walls breathing in and out with her accelerated heartbeat. This was bad. This was very bad. Her father's impromptu visits were never coincidental—they were calculated inspections, opportunities to evaluate her stability, her compliance, her worth as an investment.

Nat approached from behind, her movements calm and deliberate in contrast to Lottie's frantic energy. "Here, let me help," she said, gently taking over the buttons Lottie was struggling with. "Breathe, Lot… Just breathe."

Lottie tried to follow the instruction, drawing a shuddering breath that did little to calm her racing heart. Her gaze fell on the small pill organizer on her nightstand, the accumulated medication she'd been selectively taking or skipping entirely over the past weeks. The evidence of her rebellion sat in plain sight, tiny capsules of different colors and sizes that should have been inside her body, maintaining the chemical leash her father insisted was necessary.

"Should I take them now?" she asked, her voice small as she stared at the pills. "Maybe if I take them all at once, I'll seem more... normal to him."

Nat's hands stilled on Lottie's uniform, her expression hardening as she followed Lottie's gaze to the pill organizer. "Absolutely not," she said firmly. "That's dangerous, and you know it. Taking multiple doses at once could make you sick or worse." She turned Lottie to face her, hands gentle but insistent on her shoulders. "Look at me, Lot."

Lottie raised her eyes reluctantly to meet Nat's intense gaze.

"You're not doing that," Nat continued, her voice low and fierce. "We'll figure this out. You've been doing so well on the adjusted doses. Your art is better, your focus is better, you're more you . We're not throwing that away because your father showed up early to play mind games."

The fierce protectiveness in Nat's voice steadied Lottie momentarily. She nodded, trying to draw strength from Nat's unwavering support.

"My hair," she said suddenly, turning back to the mirror. "It's a mess. And my makeup—I need to look put together. He always notices if I don't look put together."

Nat guided her to sit on the edge of the bed, retrieving a brush from Lottie's dresser. With gentle but efficient strokes, she began smoothing Lottie's long dark hair, her touch a calming counterpoint to the storm raging inside Lottie's mind.

"I'm not leaving you alone with him, not for one fucking second," Nat said as she worked, her eyes meeting Lottie's in the mirror. The statement wasn't a question or an offer—it was a declaration.

Lottie felt tears threatening at the simple, unwavering support. No one had ever stood between her and her father before. No one had ever offered to be her shield.

"He won't like that," she whispered, even as relief flooded through her at the thought of not facing him alone.

"I don't particularly care what Alexander Matthews likes," Nat replied, her tone matter-of-fact as she secured Lottie's hair in a neat, elegant style that framed her face. "There. Perfect."

She moved to Lottie's makeup bag next, selecting items with surprising knowledge of what would create the appearance of calm stability that Alexander Matthews would expect. A touch of concealer under the eyes, a hint of blush to mask the heightened color from their earlier activities, a neutral lipstick to replace the kiss-swollen look.

As Nat worked, Lottie felt her breathing gradually slow, the methodical application of makeup creating a strange bubble of calm in the eye of her anxiety storm. Nat's face was a mask of concentration, her usually sardonic expression replaced by intense focus as she created the mask Lottie would need to survive the next few hours.

"Thank you," Lottie said softly as Nat finished, the words inadequate for the depth of gratitude she felt.

Nat's eyes softened momentarily. "You don't have to thank me for this, Lot." She leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Lottie's forehead, careful not to disturb the makeup she'd just applied. "Now, let's finish getting you dressed. Something your father would approve of, right?"

Lottie nodded, moving to her closet to select the appropriate uniform pieces—the longest regulation skirt she owned, the most conservative blouse, the cardigan with the embroidered school crest that her father had specifically purchased as an "upgrade" to the standard issue. Each item felt like armor being donned for battle, pieces of a costume that would allow her to play the role of Charlotte Matthews, Alexander Matthews' perfectly balanced, perfectly medicated, perfectly controlled daughter.

As they finished the final preparations, Nat checking Lottie's appearance with a critical eye, Lottie felt a strange calm descend. Not the artificial flatness of her heaviest medication days, but something different—a clarity born of purpose and, unexpectedly, of Nat's unwavering presence.

"How do I look?" she asked, turning to Nat for final approval.

"Like the perfect Wiskayok student," Nat replied, her expression a mixture of pride and sadness. "But remember," she touched Lottie's cheek gently, "I know who you really are underneath all this. And that person is fucking amazing, Lot. Don't let him make you forget that."

The words anchored Lottie, giving her something to hold onto as they left the safety of her dorm room and made their way across campus. The November air was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and woodsmoke. Students and parents milled about, the atmosphere festive in a way that felt alien to Lottie's experience of Parents' Weekend. For most, this was a celebration, a reunion. For her, it had always been an evaluation.

As they walked, Lottie found herself mentally rehearsing responses to her father's inevitable questions. 

Yes, I'm taking all medications as prescribed. 

No, no unusual episodes. 

Yes, my grades are satisfactory. 

No, no concerning behaviors from my peers. 

Yes, I'm being monitored appropriately by the staff.

Each prepared answer felt like a betrayal of the person she'd been discovering herself to be over the past months—the person who found clarity in selective medication, who experienced genuine emotion without chemical dampening, who had discovered passion and connection with Nat. But these truths would be unacceptable to Alexander Matthews, whose primary concern had always been control rather than his daughter's happiness.

"Remember to breathe," Nat murmured beside her as they approached the visitor's parking area. "I'm right here."

Lottie nodded, drawing strength from the slight pressure of Nat's fingers against hers—a brief, hidden touch of support before they stepped into view of the parking lot.

Alexander Matthews' sleek black Mercedes was already there, its polished surface gleaming in the late morning sun. Her father stood beside it, his tall figure immaculate in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his silver-gray hair styled with precision. His posture was rigid, his expression already evaluating as his cold blue eyes fixed on his daughter's approach.

Lottie felt herself instinctively straighten, her society smile sliding into place with practiced ease. She was aware of Nat beside her, a steady, grounding presence, but her focus narrowed to the familiar ritual of greeting her father—the polite hug that was never too emotional, the appropriate level of filial enthusiasm, the careful presentation of herself for inspection.

"Father," she said, her voice carefully modulated as she approached. "It's good to see you. I hope your drive was pleasant."

Alexander Matthews accepted her brief embrace with the stiff formality that characterized all their physical interactions. His eyes performed a swift, clinical assessment, cataloging every detail of her appearance with the precision of a scientist examining a specimen.

"Charlotte," he acknowledged, his voice cool and measured. His gaze shifted to Nat, a flicker of disapproval crossing his features before being carefully masked. "I wasn't aware you'd be bringing a... friend."

The subtle emphasis on the word "friend" carried layers of meaning—suspicion, disapproval, warning. Lottie felt her heart rate accelerate again, but Nat's presence beside her gave her a courage she wouldn't have found alone.

"Father, this is Natalie Scatorccio," Lottie said, proud of how steady her voice remained. "She's one of my closest friends and teammates. Nat, this is my father, Alexander Matthews."

Nat stepped forward, offering her hand with a confidence that bordered on defiance. "Mr. Matthews. Nice to meet you."

Alexander regarded Nat's extended hand for a fraction too long before accepting it, his handshake brief and dismissive. "Miss Scatorccio." His gaze returned to Lottie, dismissing Nat entirely. "We should be going. I've made reservations at L'Étoile for noon, and I'd like to discuss your progress with Dr. Henderson before we leave campus."

The mention of the school nurse sent a chill through Lottie. These "discussions" were nothing more than status reports on her medication compliance, her stability, her docility—all delivered without her presence or consent.

"Actually," Lottie began, her voice higher than she intended, "I thought perhaps we could skip the meeting with Dr. Henderson today. It's such a beautiful day, and I've been doing very well. My midterm results were excellent, and my art was selected for the winter showcase."

Her father's expression didn't change, but his eyes hardened slightly. "Your academic performance, while commendable, is secondary to your health management, Charlotte. Dr. Henderson's insights are valuable in ensuring your continued stability."

The familiar dismissal of her achievements in favor of "stability" stung, but Lottie pressed on. "I understand, but perhaps just this once, we could focus on other aspects of my life here. I'd love to show you my latest art project before lunch."

Alexander checked his watch, his impatience evident. "We don't have time for that today. Our reservation at L'Étoile is in forty-five minutes, and the restaurant is twenty minutes from campus." He turned toward his car, clearly expecting Lottie to follow without further discussion. "We should be going."

The casual dismissal of her art, of her wishes, of her entire identity beyond her diagnosis was so familiar that Lottie almost stepped forward automatically, conditioned by years of compliance. But something stopped her—a small spark of defiance fueled by months of gradually reclaiming herself, by Nat's unwavering support, by the clarity she'd found in her own mind when not completely fogged by excessive medication.

She felt Nat's hand squeeze hers briefly, a silent reminder of her presence, her support. Drawing strength from that touch, Lottie took a deep breath and spoke words she'd never dared before.

"I'd love to go to lunch, but only if Nat joins us," she said, her voice firmer than she'd expected. The statement hung in the air between them, a small but significant act of defiance.

Alexander turned slowly, his expression a carefully controlled mask of surprise and displeasure. "I don't believe that's necessary, Charlotte. I've made reservations for two, and I had planned for us to discuss some private family matters."

Lottie's heart pounded against her ribs, but she stood her ground. "Nat's family couldn't make it today," she continued, the half-truth slipping easily from her lips. "It wouldn't be right to leave her alone while everyone else is with their parents." She met her father's gaze directly, something she rarely dared. "Either Nat joins us, or I won't go."

The statement, so simple yet so revolutionary in their relationship, seemed to hover in the space between them. Alexander's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, assessing this unexpected resistance, calculating the potential costs of forcing the issue versus accommodating this small rebellion.

Lottie could see the exact moment he made his decision—not out of care for her wishes, but from a cold assessment of the situation. Creating a scene in the visitor's parking lot, surrounded by other Wiskayok parents, would be unacceptable. The appearance of familial harmony was paramount.

"Very well," he said, his tone clipped. "Miss Scatorccio may join us. I'll call the restaurant to adjust our reservation." The words were a concession, but his eyes promised a reckoning later. "I'll expect both of you in the car in five minutes."

As he turned away to make the call, Lottie felt a dizzying mixture of triumph and terror. She'd stood up to her father—in a small way, yes, but she'd done it. And he'd yielded, however reluctantly.

Nat moved closer, her voice low enough that only Lottie could hear. "That was amazing, Lot."

The simple praise, so genuine and unqualified, made Lottie's chest tighten with emotion. This small victory—insisting on Nat's presence, refusing to be isolated with her father—felt monumental, a tiny crack in the perfect control Alexander Matthews had maintained over her life for as long as she could remember.

"I couldn't have done it without you here," Lottie whispered back, the truth of it resonating through her entire being.

Nat's eyes, usually guarded or sardonic, shone with something fierce and protective. "You're stronger than you think. And I meant what I said—I'm not leaving you alone with him. Not today, not ever."

As they moved toward the sleek black Mercedes where Alexander Matthews waited, phone pressed to his ear as he amended their lunch plans, Lottie felt something shift inside her. The familiar dread of her father's presence was still there, but alongside it was something new—a fragile, tentative sense of her own agency, her own worth beyond his narrow definition of her value.

It was a small step, this insistence on Nat's presence at lunch. But it was her step, her choice, perhaps the first truly independent one she'd made in her father's presence. And as she slipped into the back seat of the Mercedes, Nat beside her like a shield against the cold assessment that would come from the front seat, Lottie held onto that small victory like a talisman against the battles she knew still lay ahead.

Chapter Text

Van POV

Van walked alongside Taissa toward the lakeside picnic area, each step feeling heavier than the last. The morning's disastrous breakfast with their mother had left a hollow ache in their chest that even three hours of mindless comfort movies in Taissa's room couldn't fully dispel. 

"What if they hate me?" Van whispered, eyes scanning the scattered groups of families enjoying the unseasonably mild November afternoon. "What if they take one look at my hair and think I'm corrupting their perfect daughter?"

Taissa's hand brushed against theirs, a fleeting touch that carried more reassurance than words could. "My parents aren't like that. My dad has three openly gay colleagues in his department alone, and my mom's best friend from college is a lesbian who's been with her wife for over twenty years."

"That's different," Van insisted, anxiety sharpening their voice. "That's other people's kids. Not their daughter's..." They trailed off, uncertain what label to use.

"Partner," Taissa supplied without hesitation. "And trust me, they're going to love you. My mom already thinks you're a genius because of that save you made against Northwood. Dad's been analyzing your goalkeeping technique from the videos I sent him."

Van's steps faltered. "You sent them videos of me playing?"

"Of course I did," Taissa said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I've been talking about you for months."

Before Van could process this revelation, Taissa's arm extended, pointing toward a colorful picnic blanket spread beneath a massive oak tree at the lake's edge. "There they are."

Van followed her gaze to where a striking couple sat arranging what appeared to be an elaborate picnic. Daniel Turner was tall and lean, with the same regal bearing as his daughter, though his close-cropped hair was sprinkled with gray. Maya Turner was a vision in a vibrant yellow sweater, her natural hair styled in an elegant twist, her movements graceful as she unpacked containers from a wicker basket.

As if sensing their approach, both Turners looked up simultaneously. Van's breath caught as twin smiles broke across their faces—not the polite, measured expressions they'd expected, but genuine, warm grins that transformed their features.

"There she is!" Maya called, already rising to her feet.

Van froze, suddenly acutely aware of their short hair, their lanky frame, the way their uniform never quite fit right no matter how carefully they adjusted it. Their hand instinctively reached up to touch their short hair, a gesture of self-consciousness they couldn't suppress.

"They'll love you," Taissa whispered again, her hand pressing gently against Van's lower back, guiding them forward. "I promise."

That small pressure—supportive without being controlling—gave Van the courage to continue walking. They squared their shoulders, preparing for the formal handshake they'd rehearsed in their head, the careful introduction they'd practiced.

But Maya Turner bypassed all social conventions, stepping forward to envelop Van in a warm, enthusiastic hug that smelled of jasmine and something baking—cinnamon, maybe. The unexpected physical affection made Van stiffen momentarily, their arms hanging awkwardly at their sides before tentatively returning the embrace.

"It's wonderful to finally meet you," Maya said, pulling back to look at Van with genuine interest. "Taissa talks about you constantly—though I see she failed to mention how striking you are in person."

"I—thank you, Mrs. Turner," Van managed, their cheeks warming under her approving gaze.

"Maya, please," she corrected, giving Van's arm a gentle squeeze before stepping aside.

Daniel Turner approached next, his hand extended. Van braced for the limp, disinterested handshake they'd received from so many adults over the years. Instead, his grip was firm and warm, his eyes—the same intense brown as Taissa's—meeting theirs directly.

"So you're the one that Tai's been talking about non-stop," he said, his deep voice carrying a hint of amusement. "The goalkeeper with the fastest reflexes in the conference, if I'm to believe my daughter's completely unbiased assessment."

The warmth in his tone instantly dispelled some of Van's tension. "She exaggerates," they replied, a small smile tugging at their lips. "I'm only the fastest in the state, not the whole conference."

Daniel's laugh was sudden and genuine. "I like this one already," he told Taissa, who was watching the exchange with barely concealed relief.

"Come sit," Maya urged, gesturing to the picnic blanket. "We've brought enough food to feed half the soccer team."

As they settled onto the blanket, Van couldn't help but notice the careful arrangement of the picnic—the real plates instead of paper, the cloth napkins folded into perfect triangles, the assortment of cheeses and fruits artfully arranged on a wooden board. It was worlds away from the hurried fast food meals that constituted most of their outings with Corinne.

"Tai mentioned you might have dietary restrictions," Maya said, offering Van a plate. "So we brought options—there's vegetarian, gluten-free, dairy-free... basically everything except taste-free."

The thoughtfulness of this gesture—so small yet so considerate—caught Van off guard. "I eat pretty much anything," they said, oddly touched. "But thank you for thinking of that."

"Of course," Maya replied simply, as if accommodating others' needs was the most natural thing in the world.

As they filled their plates, Van carefully observed the Turners, searching for signs of the tension or forced politeness that had characterized so many interactions with their own mother. Instead, they found themselves drawn into a conversation that flowed with surprising ease.

Daniel rested his hand casually on Maya's shoulder as he passed her a napkin—a small, unconscious gesture of affection that spoke volumes about their relationship. The easy intimacy between them was so different from anything Van had witnessed growing up. Corinne had been single for as long as Van could remember, their father nothing more than a name on a birth certificate and occasional child support checks that had stopped coming years ago.

"So, Van," Maya said, offering them first choice from a platter of sandwiches, "Taissa tells us you're quite the student athlete. Any thoughts on continue to play in college?"

The question was asked with genuine interest rather than the evaluative tone Van was accustomed to from adults. They swallowed a bite of sandwich before answering, acutely aware of Taissa's attentive presence beside them.

"Yeah. I think so," they said carefully. "Boston University has a strong soccer program. They've shown some interest in me. They sent a scout to our last game and there’s early talks of maybe a scholarship or something but nothing concrete yet."

"That's wonderful," Maya said, her smile genuine. "Though I imagine many schools will be interested in someone with your immense talent."

The conversation shifted to soccer, with Daniel revealing a surprising knowledge of goalkeeping techniques. "That save you made in the Northwood game—the one where you had to push off from your non-dominant side—that was exceptional spatial awareness."

Van blinked in surprise. "You watched our games?"

"Taissa sends us the highlights," Daniel explained, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Though her definition of 'highlights' really means 'any moment Van touches the ball.'"

"Dad!" Taissa protested, a blush darkening her cheeks.

Van glanced at her, a small smile playing at their lips. The idea of Taissa proudly sharing their plays with her parents—talking about them, thinking about them when they were apart—created a warm glow in their chest.

"Well, she has good taste," Maya said, her eyes twinkling as she looked between them. "Both in partners and haircuts, it seems."

Van's hand automatically went to their short hair, the mention of it bringing back echoes of Corinne's disapproval from that morning.

"Speaking of which," Maya continued, reaching out to lightly touch Taissa's cropped style, "this is actually growing on me. It brings out your cheekbones beautifully."

"Thanks, Mom," Taissa said, her expression softening.

Maya then turned to Van, her gaze direct but kind. "And you look quite handsome, if I may say so. This style suits your face perfectly."

The compliment, delivered so casually yet with such genuine warmth, caught Van completely off guard. Their throat tightened with unexpected emotion, the contrast between Maya's acceptance and Corinne's earlier reaction almost too stark to process. They fumbled with their sandwich, nearly dropping it.

"I—thank you," they managed, their voice slightly hoarse.

Daniel, seeming to sense their discomfort, smoothly shifted the conversation. "So, Tai, have you finished your Yale application yet? Early decision deadline is coming up fast."

Van noticed Taissa tense slightly beside them, her posture straightening almost imperceptibly. A silent communication seemed to pass between father and daughter, something weighted and significant that Van couldn't quite decipher.

"Actually," Taissa said, setting down her glass with deliberate care, "I've been doing some reconsideration with my college applications. I've decided not to apply to Yale for early decision."

The statement hung in the air, its significance clearly greater than the casual tone with which it was delivered. Van watched Daniel and Maya exchange a quick glance, a wordless conversation between long-time partners.

"I see," Daniel said carefully. "May I ask what prompted this change? You've had your heart set on Yale since freshman year."

Taissa's fingers picked at the edge of her napkin, a rare display of nervousness from someone usually so composed. "Yale is still on my list, but I don't want to commit early decision. I'm... exploring other options. Harvard has an excellent political science program too, and their urban policy concentration aligns better with my interests."

Van's eyes widened as the implication of Taissa's words sank in. Harvard. In Boston. Less than four miles from Boston University. The realization hit them with the force of a physical blow—Taissa was rearranging her carefully plotted future, shifting the trajectory of her college plans to remain close to Van.

They glanced at Taissa, who met their gaze with a small, nervous smile, a silent confirmation of what Van had just understood. The magnitude of this gesture—from someone as strategic and focused as Taissa Turner—left them momentarily breathless.

Daniel leaned back slightly, studying his daughter with thoughtful eyes. "Harvard is certainly a worthy alternative," he said after a moment. "Their faculty in political science is first-rate, particularly in urban policy."

Van held their breath, waiting for the objections, the concerns about prioritizing a relationship over academic opportunities—the response their own mother would certainly have delivered. Instead, Daniel and Maya exchanged another of those mysterious parental glances, a silent communication that seemed to contain volumes.

"Well," Maya said finally, reaching for the container of strawberries, "Harvard is an excellent school. And Boston is a wonderful city for young people—diverse, vibrant, lots of opportunities." She offered the container to Van first, a small gesture that somehow conveyed acceptance of something much larger. "Berry?"

The simple question, asked with such casual warmth after what should have been a momentous revelation, left Van momentarily speechless. They accepted a strawberry with slightly trembling fingers, marveling at how the Turners had acknowledged Taissa's change of plans—clearly understanding the motivation behind it—without drama or resistance.

As the conversation shifted to lighter topics—Taissa's brother's latest research project, a funny story about Daniel's department chair, Maya's upcoming lecture series—Van gradually relaxed. Their shoulders lowered from their defensive posture, their responses becoming more natural, less carefully filtered.

A family of ducks paddled across the lake, the mother leading a line of fluffy ducklings through the calm water. Van watched them, suddenly able to imagine weekends in Boston with Taissa—studying in cozy coffee shops, taking the T between their campuses, building a life together beyond Wiskayok's restrictive walls. For the first time, it didn't feel like a distant fantasy but a tangible possibility, one that Taissa was actively working to create.

"Van," Daniel's voice drew their attention back to the picnic, "Taissa mentioned you're interested in sports medicine. Is that still the direction you're leaning?"

The question was asked with genuine interest, not the dismissive tone Corinne used when discussing Van's "unrealistic" career aspirations. Van nodded, surprised that Taissa had shared this detail with her parents.

"I've always been fascinated by how the body works, especially under physical stress," they explained, finding it unexpectedly easy to share their passion with these attentive listeners. "And I've had my share of injuries as a goalkeeper, so I understand the athlete's perspective too."

"That's a growing field with excellent prospects," Daniel nodded approvingly. "One of my former students is doing groundbreaking work in ACL reconstruction techniques at Mass General. If you're serious about it, I'd be happy to put you in touch."

The casual offer—this extension of his professional network to someone he'd just met—left Van momentarily stunned. "That would be... amazing. Thank you."

"Of course," Daniel said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to offer such support to his daughter's partner. "That's what connections are for—to be shared."

As the afternoon light softened over the lake, Van found themselves drawn into the warm circle of Turner family stories. Maya shared embarrassing tales of Taissa's childhood determination…."She organized a protest in second grade when the school tried to cancel recess"... while Daniel recounted her early political ambitions… “At nine, she drafted a constitution for the household that included her right to veto our dinner choices”.

The stories were told with such obvious affection, such clear pride in who Taissa was—not just her achievements but her passion, her principles, her stubborn determination. It was so different from how Corinne spoke about Van, always focusing on what needed fixing, improving, changing.

When Maya pulled out homemade cookies for dessert, Van realized with a start that nearly two hours had passed. The time had flown by without the tense hypervigilance that usually characterized their interactions with adults. They hadn't needed to carefully monitor every word, hadn't felt the need to perform or minimize aspects of themselves.

"These are incredible," Van said after biting into a cookie that somehow managed to be both chewy and crisp.

"Family recipe," Maya explained, her smile warm. "Though I've tweaked it over the years. The secret is browning the butter first."

"Mom's cookies are legendary in the poli-sci department," Taissa added, reaching for her second one. "Dad brings them to faculty meetings when he needs to get controversial proposals approved."

"Strategic deployment of baked goods," Daniel confirmed solemnly. "The cornerstone of academic politics."

Van laughed, the sound surprising them with its ease. When was the last time they'd laughed so freely around adults? Around their own mother? They couldn't remember.

As the afternoon began to wane, Maya glanced at her watch. "We should probably start packing up if we're going to make our dinner reservation," she said, though she sounded reluctant to end their time together.

"You two are welcome to join us," Daniel offered, looking between Van and Taissa. "It's just a casual place in town with a few other parents. Nothing fancy."

The invitation was genuine, Van could tell—not a polite formality but a real desire for their company. The realization was both touching and slightly overwhelming after the emotional rollercoaster of the day.

"Thanks, Dad," Taissa said, glancing at Van with a question in her eyes. "But I think we might hang back. It's been a long day."

Van felt a rush of gratitude for Taissa's intuitive understanding of their emotional limits. As much as they'd enjoyed the Turners' company, they were approaching social overload after the morning's confrontation with Corinne.

"Another time, then," Maya said easily, with no hint of disappointment or judgment. She began gathering the picnic supplies with practiced efficiency.

As they helped pack up, Van found themselves beside Maya, folding the large picnic blanket while Taissa and her father collected the remaining food containers.

"Thank you," Van said quietly, the words carrying more weight than the simple courtesy suggested. "For... everything."

Maya paused, her hands stilling on the fabric as she met Van's gaze. Something in her expression shifted, a maternal perception that seemed to see straight through to the heart of what Van wasn't saying.

"You know," she said, her voice pitched low enough that only Van could hear, "when Taissa first told us about you, it wasn't your soccer abilities that made the strongest impression, though those are certainly impressive." Her smile was gentle but knowing. "It was the way my baby’s voice changed when she said your name. Brighter. More alive. Like she'd found something she hadn't even known she was looking for."

Van swallowed hard, unprepared for the emotion that tightened their throat.

"You're always welcome with us, Van," Maya continued, her hand briefly touching their arm. "Any time. No matter what? You understand? I want you to know that."

The simple statement, delivered with such quiet certainty, pierced straight through Van's carefully maintained defenses. They nodded, not trusting their voice, as something shifted inside them—the first fragile hope that family might someday mean acceptance rather than performance, that belonging wasn't just a distant dream but a possibility already taking shape.

As the Turners gathered their things and prepared to leave, Daniel shook Van's hand again, this time with a warmth that felt like inclusion rather than mere politeness. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Van. I hope we'll see you again soon—perhaps at your next home game?"

"I'd like that," Van replied, surprised by how much they meant it.

Hugs were exchanged—Maya's embrace lingering a moment longer than strictly necessary, communicating something Van couldn't quite name but desperately needed. As the Turners walked toward the parking lot, Van stood beside Taissa, watching them go.

"So?" Taissa asked, a hint of uncharacteristic nervousness in her voice. "What did you think?"

Van turned to look at her, taking in the hopeful vulnerability in her expression. The afternoon sun caught in her newly shorn hair, highlighting the elegant lines of her face, the strength and determination that had drawn Van to her from the beginning.

"I think," Van said slowly, finding the words as they spoke, "that I'm starting to understand where you get your amazingness from." They reached for Taissa's hand, intertwining their fingers with newfound confidence. "And I think I'm a little bit in love with your parents."

Taissa's laugh was bright and relieved. "They're pretty great, aren't they?"

"They are," Van agreed, their gaze drifting back to the lake where the mother duck and her ducklings were now resting at the water's edge, safe and together. "But more importantly, they raised someone amazing."

As they walked back toward campus, hand in hand in the golden afternoon light, Van felt something unfamiliar settle in their chest—a quiet certainty, a vision of a future where they might be accepted exactly as they were, where family could be chosen as well as born, where love didn't require performance or pretense.

For the first time since cutting their hair, since embracing the truth of who they were, Van felt not just the relief of authenticity but the possibility of joy—a life beyond Wiskayok where they could be fully, completely themselves, with Taissa by their side and people who saw them, truly saw them, and found them worthy just as they were.

* * *

Jackie POV

Jackie sat with perfect posture at the ornate round table in Wiskayok's grand dining hall, her shoulders back, ankles crossed beneath her chair, just as her mother had taught her. The Princeton-emblazoned tablecloth felt like it was slowly suffocating her, each golden tiger a reminder of expectations she wasn't sure she could meet anymore.

"More water, Miss Taylor?" A server approached with a silver pitcher.

"Yes, thank you," Jackie replied, her voice hitting the exact notes of gracious appreciation her mother had drilled into her since childhood. Not too eager, not too indifferent. The practiced lilt of someone born to social standing.

At her right, Senator Christine Taylor barely acknowledged the server, deep in conversation with two distinguished Princeton alumni. Her mother had been working the room since they'd arrived ninety minutes ago, moving from pleasantry to political observation with the precision of a chess master, each word calculated for maximum effect.

Jackie took a careful sip of water, using the moment to compose herself. The morning had been brutal—two hours of her mother's assessment of her recent failings, delivered in the privacy of Jackie's dorm room with the clinical efficiency of a surgeon. Each point had been presented as concern rather than criticism, making it impossible to defend against.

"Darling, I couldn't help noticing your hair seems a bit... lackluster today. Perhaps that new shampoo isn't working for you." Translation: You're letting yourself go.

"The red card incident was unfortunate timing with the Princeton scout present. We'll need to strategize about how to frame that in your interviews." Translation: You've damaged your chances and embarrassed me.

"And what exactly happened between you and Shauna? The Shipmans have always been such loyal supporters, despite their limited means." Translation: You've lost a valuable accessory to our family image.

Jackie felt her smile tighten as Dr. Westfield, a Princeton admissions liaison with silver-streaked hair and a bowtie, asked about her extracurriculars. She launched into her rehearsed response, the words flowing automatically.

"I've been student body president for two consecutive years, with a particular focus on expanding academic resources for our humanities programs. As captain of the varsity soccer team, I've led our squad to regional championships three years running, and we're favored for nationals this spring."

Her voice sounded distant to her own ears, as if someone else was speaking through her. Each achievement felt hollow now, stripped of whatever meaning they might once have held.

Across the table, her mother was working her magic on the alumni. Jackie watched, fascinated despite herself, as Senator Taylor leaned in slightly toward Mrs. Harrington, a major Princeton donor, creating an illusion of intimacy in the crowded dining hall.

"Between us, Eleanor," her mother confided, though her voice was pitched perfectly to carry to the others at the table, "I've always believed that what distinguishes Princeton isn't just academic excellence, but the quality of character it instills. Don't you agree?"

The donor nodded enthusiastically, clearly flattered to be brought into this apparent confidence. Her mother touched the woman's arm briefly—the exact duration of contact that conveyed warmth without overstepping boundaries.

Jackie felt a cold shock of recognition ripple through her. She had used that exact technique last month at the student council fundraiser, right down to the arm touch. Had employed that same head tilt when convincing Headmistress Porter to approve extended library hours. Had mastered that same balance of exclusivity and inclusion in her voice when rallying the soccer team.

She was her mother in miniature. A perfect reproduction, programmed with the same software, running the same calculations behind every social interaction.

The realization created a strange doubling effect, as if she were simultaneously inside her body and floating above it, watching herself perform. The cognitive dissonance made her chest tighten, her carefully manicured fingernails digging into her palm beneath the table.

"Jackie has been Princeton-bound since she could walk," her mother was saying now, a practiced laugh softening the statement. "Taylor family tradition, you know. Third generation."

"And what specifically interests you about Princeton, Jackie?" Dr. Westfield asked, turning his attention back to her.

Jackie opened her mouth, the practiced answer about Princeton's prestigious political science program poised on her tongue, when a strange emptiness swept through her. What did interest her about Princeton? Had she ever actually considered any other option? Had the choice ever been hers?

"I'm particularly drawn to the Wilson School's approach to public policy," she heard herself say, the words emerging perfectly formed despite the void expanding inside her chest. "The intersection of theory and practical application is, I believe, essential for those of us who hope to continue in public service."

Dr. Westfield nodded approvingly. "Following in your mother's footsteps, then?"

"Jackie has always had a natural aptitude for politics," her mother interjected before Jackie could respond. "Even as a child, she could read a room better than most adults. I always say she got my policy mind and her father's negotiation skills—quite the combination."

Jackie maintained her smile as her mother continued, smoothly taking control of the conversation while positioning Jackie as both product and project. It was a familiar dynamic—Jackie as the promising extension of Christine Taylor, a living testament to her excellent parenting and genetic contribution.

"She's already making connections that will serve her well at Princeton," her mother continued. "Her boyfriend Jeff—Richard Sadecki's son, you might know him from the judiciary committee fundraisers, Eleanor—will be most likely attending as well. His father's a legacy."

Jackie felt a wave of nausea wash over her at the mention of Jeff. The memory of their recent argument in his car, followed by witnessing Shauna and Melissa together, created a sickening swirl in her stomach.

"Jeff and Jackie make such a suitable match," her mother added, her smile revealing nothing of the intense conversation they'd had that morning about Jackie's "inexplicable cooling" toward the Sadecki boy. "It's so convenient when these things align properly. The right boy, the right school..." Her mother's eyes found Jackie's, the message clear: Don't mess this up.

Jackie's water glass trembled slightly as she raised it to her lips. The pressure in her chest was building, each breath becoming more difficult than the last. The carefully planned future her mother was outlining—Princeton with Jeff, followed by law school, then a strategic marriage and political career mirroring her mother's path—suddenly felt like a tomb being sealed around her.

Who was she if not Christine Taylor's daughter? Who was she if not Jeff's girlfriend, or Shauna's best friend? The roles that had defined her were dissolving, leaving nothing but a shapeless terror in their place.

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" Jackie managed, her voice still impressively steady despite the earthquake happening inside her. "I need to visit the ladies' room."

"Of course, darling," her mother replied, though her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, recognizing the disruption to her carefully orchestrated luncheon.

Jackie rose with practiced grace, forcing herself to walk—not run—from the table. She maintained her measured pace through the dining hall, smiling and nodding at familiar faces, her social mask firmly in place until she pushed through the heavy wooden door into the empty hallway.

The moment the door swung shut behind her, Jackie's composure fractured. She stumbled toward the bathroom, her breathing shallow and rapid, spots dancing at the edges of her vision. Inside, she lurched into the nearest stall, slamming the door shut with trembling hands.

Leaning against the cool tile wall, Jackie struggled to breathe as waves of panic crashed over her. Her chest felt as if it were being crushed under an impossible weight. She recognized the symptoms of a panic attack—had experienced them before big games or exams—but never with this intensity, this existential terror.

Who am I? The question echoed in her mind, finding no answer but its own desperate echo.

Her fingers shook violently as she pulled her phone from her pocket, navigating to her messages. She bypassed Shauna's name out of habit, still raw from their fight. Jeff wasn't an option. Her thumb hovered over her mother's contact before skipping past it. Finally, she tapped on Nat's name, surprising herself with the choice.

911. Bathroom by dining hall. Can't breathe. Help.

She slid down the wall to sit on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, trying to focus on slowing her breathing. The pristine white tiles blurred before her eyes, the fluorescent lights suddenly too harsh, too revealing.

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

Shit. Not on campus. With Lottie and her dad. Stay put. Getting help to you.

Jackie stared at the message, a fresh wave of panic washing over her. She couldn't stay here. Her mother would come looking for her soon. Senator Christine Taylor's daughter didn't hide in bathrooms during important networking events. She needed to pull herself together, to return to the dining hall, to resume her performance.

She forced herself to stand, legs unsteady beneath her. In the mirror above the sinks, her reflection was a stranger's—face pale, eyes wide with barely contained terror. She ran cold water over her wrists, a technique her father had taught her for pre-game nerves, but it did little to calm the storm inside her.

Another text from Nat arrived: Hang on. Ben is coming. Just breathe.

Ben?

Coach Ben? 

Jackie felt a flicker of embarrassment cut through the panic. Coach Ben was the last person she wanted to see in this state. She splashed water on her face, careful not to smudge her makeup, and tried to compose herself. It wasn't working. Her chest remained tight, her breathing shallow.

She had to return to the lunch. Her mother would be suspicious already. Straightening her shoulders, Jackie pushed through the bathroom door into the hallway, only to nearly collide with Coach Ben.

"Jackie," he said, his voice low and calm. "Nat texted. You okay?"

She opened her mouth to insist she was fine, but no words came out. Instead, she found herself shaking her head, a small, unconscious gesture of truth that surprised her.

Ben nodded, understanding immediately. "Okay. I’ve got you."

The simple lifeline nearly undid her. Jackie nodded gratefully, still not trusting her voice.

"Let's take care of this situation in the dining hall first," Coach Ben said, gesturing toward the doors Jackie had escaped through minutes earlier.

They re-entered the grand hall together, Coach Ben's presence beside her strangely steadying as they approached the Princeton table. Her mother looked up, disapproval flashing briefly in her eyes at the interruption.

"Senator Taylor," Coach Ben greeted her mother with respectful professionalism. "I apologize for the intrusion, but I need to borrow Jackie for an urgent team matter. The regional conference director just called about our potential change in our seeding for the upcoming nationals season, and as team co-captain, Jackie's input is critical."

Her mother's expression shifted rapidly, calculations clearly running behind her eyes. Jackie recognized the sequence—annoyance at the disruption, assessment of how resistance might appear to the Princeton representatives, recalibration to maintain the image of supportive mother to a student athlete.

"Of course," Senator Taylor said smoothly, the perfect balance of reluctance and understanding in her voice. "Jackie's leadership on the team is so important." She turned to the alumni with an apologetic smile. "Sports wait for no one, I'm afraid, not even proud mothers."

The table laughed appreciatively at her practiced self-deprecation. Jackie felt Coach Ben's hand rest briefly on her shoulder, a steady pressure that kept her grounded as she made her apologies to the group.

"I'm so sorry to leave," she said, drawing on her last reserves of composure. "It was an honor to meet you all. I look forward to continuing our conversation soon."

Her mother rose halfway, kissing her cheek in a performance of maternal affection. "Don't be too long, darling," she murmured, her voice pitched for Jackie's ears alone. "Dr. Westfield was about to discuss summer internship opportunities."

The warning was clear beneath the pleasant tone. Jackie nodded, then followed Coach Ben from the dining hall, her legs threatening to give way with each step. Only when they were safely in the empty corridor did she allow her shoulders to slump.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice finally returning though it sounded strange to her own ears.

Coach Ben studied her face for a moment, then gestured toward the exit. "Let's walk."

They moved in silence through the quiet campus, most students and families gathered in the dining hall or at the various Parents' Weekend activities. Jackie focused on matching her breathing to their steady pace, the tight band around her chest gradually loosening as they put distance between themselves and the dining hall.

"My father was a state representative," Coach Ben said abruptly as they rounded the corner toward the athletic facilities. "My mother ran his campaigns before starting her own political consulting firm."

Jackie glanced at him, surprised by the personal disclosure.

"They had my entire life planned out by the time I was ten," he continued, his voice matter-of-fact rather than bitter. "Which prep school, which college, which law school, which political office I'd run for first." He unlocked the side door to the athletic center, holding it open for her. "They even had opinions on who I should date—girls from the 'right' families who would make suitable political wives someday."

The parallel to her own situation was so clear that Jackie felt a fresh wave of emotion threaten to overwhelm her. She followed him into the building, the familiar scent of the athletic center—rubber flooring, cleaning supplies, the faint tang of sweat—oddly comforting.

"What happened?" she asked, genuinely curious about how he had ended up here, coaching girls' soccer at a boarding school instead of running for office.

"I broke," he said simply. "Senior year of high school. Perfect grades, president of three clubs, interning at the statehouse. One day I just... couldn't do it anymore." He led her toward the weight room, flipping on lights as they went. "Had a panic attack in the middle of my AP Calculus exam. Couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Ended up in the hospital."

The weight room—the space that had become her unexpected sanctuary over the past weeks—welcomed her with its simple solidity. Everything here was straightforward, measurable. Lift the weight or don't. Improve or don't. No performance required.

"That must have been terrifying," Jackie said quietly, recognizing the echo of her own experience in his words.

"It was," Coach Ben agreed. "But it was also clarifying. Made me realize I was living someone else's life, not my own." He gestured toward the locker room. "Got get changed. We'll stick to our regular program—it’s a leg day, right?"

“Yeah. But…” Jackie hesitated, glancing at her watch. "My mother will expect me back soon."

"Don’t worry. I'll handle your mother," Coach Ben said with quiet confidence. "Trust me, I speak fluent political parent. You need this more than you need another hour of networking."

The simple understanding in his voice—free from judgment or pity—loosened something tight in Jackie's chest. "Thank you," she said again, meaning it more deeply than she could express.

As she turned toward the locker room, Coach Ben added, "Hey, Taylor."

She paused, looking back at him.

"Real strength isn't always about how much you can lift," he said, his expression thoughtful. "Sometimes it's about knowing when to ask for help. That text to Nat? That was strength."

Jackie felt her throat tighten with unexpected emotion. She nodded, not trusting her voice, and continued toward the locker room.

Inside, she changed methodically, exchanging her carefully selected lunch outfit for the simple utility of workout clothes. With each item she removed—the designer blouse, the pearl earrings her mother had given her "to make the right impression," the carefully selected heels that added height without being inappropriately attention-seeking. Jackie felt layers of performance falling away.

By the time she returned to the weight room in her practice shorts and T-shirt, hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, Jackie felt almost like herself again. Whoever that was.

Coach Ben was waiting by the squat rack, already loading the bar with the weights they'd been working with in their recent sessions. He didn't comment on her reddened eyes or the slight tremor still visible in her hands, just nodded toward the bar.

"Six sets of ten today," he said. "Focus on form."

Jackie moved into position, settling the bar across her shoulders, feeling its reassuring weight. Here, in this room, there was no Princeton, no Jeff, no political future to fulfill. There was only the next rep, the next breath, the next moment of focusing entirely on the physical reality of her body in space.

As she began her first set, Coach Ben's steady presence nearby, Jackie felt something like peace gradually replacing the panic that had overwhelmed her. The weight room couldn't solve the larger questions haunting her—who she was beneath the roles she played, what she actually wanted for her future, how to reconcile her confused feelings about Shauna. But for now, it offered something almost as valuable: a place where she could simply exist, without performance or expectation.

Bar by bar, rep by rep, breath by breath, Jackie reclaimed the moment, grateful for the unexpected sanctuary and the coach who understood exactly what she needed.

* * *

Nat POV

Nat's knee bounced incessantly beneath the starched white tablecloth as she surveyed the restaurant. Everything about L'Étoile screamed money—from the crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light across the dining room to the velvet-upholstered chairs that probably cost more than her mother's monthly rent. The menus had no prices printed on them, which Nat knew from movies meant if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.

Across the table, Alexander Matthews scanned the wine list with the detached scrutiny of someone accustomed to judging everything and everyone around him. His immaculate silver hair caught the light, not a strand out of place. His tailored charcoal suit fit his athletic frame so perfectly it might have been painted onto his body. Even his manicured fingernails spoke of meticulous self-maintenance that Nat found exhausting just to witness.

"The 2006 Bordeaux, I think," he told the hovering sommelier without bothering to look up. "Decanted, of course."

Nat fought the urge to roll her eyes. Of course this prick would order wine that needed to be "decanted." She glanced sideways at Lottie, who sat rigidly between them, shoulders pulled inward as if trying to occupy less space. The subtle tremor in Lottie's hands didn't escape Nat's notice—nor the way she kept her eyes fixed on the elaborate place setting before her.

"And for the young ladies?" the sommelier asked, his French accent so pronounced Nat wondered if it was real or part of the restaurant's pretense.

"My daughter will have sparkling water," Alexander answered before Lottie could speak. "And her... friend?"

The pause before "friend" carried enough judgment to sink a battleship. Nat met his icy blue eyes directly.

"Water's fine," she replied, keeping her voice neutral despite the anger already simmering beneath her ribs.

As the sommelier departed, Alexander's clinical gaze shifted to Nat, taking in her appearance with undisguised disapproval. She'd made an effort, wearing her least wrinkled uniform pieces but there was no disguising the chipped black nail polish, the multiple ear piercings, or her severely overgrown blonde mullet.

"So, Natalie," he began, pronouncing her full name with deliberate precision despite having heard Lottie use "Nat" several times. "Lottie tells me you're on the soccer team together."

"Yeah, we're both midfielders," Nat replied, fingernails digging into her palm beneath the table. "Lottie's got amazing field vision. Best on the team."

Alexander's thin smile never reached his eyes. "Charlotte has always shown aptitude for team sports. Her doctors recommend the physical outlet for managing her... condition."

Nat's knee bounced faster. She caught Lottie's slight flinch at the word "condition" and felt a surge of protectiveness. Ben’s steady voice echoed in her mind: Four counts in, hold for two, six counts out. She followed the breathing pattern, feeling some of the tension release from her shoulders.

"Interesting adornment," Alexander continued, his gaze flicking to the small temporary tattoo visible at Nat's wrist. "I imagine your parents have a rather... liberal approach to parenting."

The deliberate jab at her background made Nat's teeth clench. She pictured her mother, passed out on the couch by noon most days, and her father, whose last "parenting" had left her with a permanent scar on her chin.

The waiter appeared with their drinks, saving Nat from further commentary on her family situation. Alexander ordered for the table without consulting either of them—some French dish Nat couldn't pronounce, followed by a salad with ingredients she'd never heard of. Lottie remained silent, her gaze now fixed on the bubbles rising in her water glass.

"So, Natalie," Alexander continued once the waiter departed, "what are your plans after Wiskayok? Assuming you're a senior as well?"

There it was—the dismissive tone suggesting he doubted she'd graduate at all. Nat felt her defenses rise but remembered Coach Scott's advice: Show them who you really are, not who they expect you to be.

"I am," she confirmed, sitting straighter. "Actually, I'm looking at several college options right now."

Alexander's eyebrows rose slightly. "Indeed? Vocational programs, I presume?"

Nat took another measured breath. "Physics programs, actually. Astrophysics specifically."

The faintest flicker of surprise crossed his face before he masked it with skepticism. "That's... ambitious. Those programs are quite selective."

"I'm aware," Nat replied, her voice steadier than she expected. "But with a 3.89 GPA and 1590 SAT, I've got options. NYU has a strong undergraduate physics program I'm particularly interested in, though I'm also looking at Stanford and MIT."

Lottie's head snapped up, her eyes widening as she turned to Nat. "NYU? You never told me you were thinking about New York."

The genuine excitement in Lottie's voice made something warm unfurl in Nat's chest. For the first time since they'd entered the restaurant, Lottie's face lit up with a real smile, not the practiced expression she maintained for her father's benefit.

"Yeah, well," Nat shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "Ben has some connections there. Thinks I might be a good fit."

"That's wonderful," Lottie said, her hand briefly brushing Nat's beneath the table. "Their physics department is amazing."

Alexander cleared his throat, clearly displeased at losing control of the conversation. "And how exactly do you plan to finance this education, Natalie? Astrophysics isn't a field known for its scholarship opportunities for students from... non-traditional backgrounds."

The condescension in his tone made Nat's jaw tighten, but before she could respond, the waiter arrived with their appetizers—elaborate constructions of seared scallops, microgreens, and some kind of foam that looked more like a science experiment than food. Nat eyed it warily while Alexander launched into a lengthy discussion with the waiter about the wine's "terroir" and "bouquet."

When the waiter finally retreated, Nat watched as Lottie picked at her food, moving small pieces around the plate without actually eating anything. The behavior was familiar—Nat had seen it numerous times in the dining hall, especially after Lottie's father adjusted her medication. The food went in circles, occasionally lifted toward her mouth but rarely consumed.

"Charlotte, you've barely touched your appetizer," Alexander noted after several minutes, his tone carrying a warning. "You know Dr. Henderson emphasized maintaining proper nutrition with your current prescription."

"I'm not very hungry," Lottie murmured, but dutifully placed a tiny morsel in her mouth.

"Speaking of your medication," Alexander continued, dabbing his lips with his napkin, "I've been consulting with Dr. Patel about your winter break regimen. He agrees that a brief stay at the resort might be beneficial for a recovery period. A chance to rest and recalibrate before the second semester."

Nat froze mid-bite. The resort. The careful euphemism didn't disguise what he was really saying. He meant Riverdale—the "residential treatment facility" where she'd spent three months after her breakdown last spring. She'd heard Lottie mention the code word her family used for Riverdale at least a dozen times before. Not a resort but a place where Lottie had been heavily medicated, isolated, and treated like a collection of symptoms rather than a person.

Something cold settled in Nat's stomach as she watched Lottie's face drain of color. The fork in Lottie's hand trembled visibly, and her breathing quickened.

"I don't... I don't think that's necessary," Lottie managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "My grades are good, and I'm doing well with the current—"

"It's not up for debate, Charlotte," Alexander cut her off smoothly. "Dr. Patel has already arranged the admission paperwork. Two weeks should provide adequate time for observation and adjustment. It's for your own good."

A familiar phrase that Nat had heard too many times from her own father before the fists started flying. It's for your own good. The universal justification for control, for cruelty, for breaking someone down.

"Lottie turns eighteen in two weeks," Nat said, the words emerging before she could stop them.

Both Matthews turned to her, Lottie with surprise, Alexander with narrowed eyes.

"Excuse me?" he said, the polite veneer cracking slightly.

Nat set her fork down with deliberate precision. The restaurant around them faded into background noise as she met Alexander Matthews' cold gaze directly.

"November 22nd," Nat continued, her voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "That's Lottie's birthday. Which means she'll be a legal adult before winter break starts."

Alexander's mouth thinned into a disapproving line. "I fail to see how this concerns you, or how my daughter's medical care is any of your business."

"It concerns me because forced institutionalization of a legally competent adult is a crime," Nat replied, leaning forward slightly. "Admitting someone to a psychiatric facility against their will requires a court order showing they're a danger to themselves or others. Which Lottie isn't."

Alexander's expression shifted from one of dismissal to one of surprise. Clearly, he hadn't expected the "troubled scholarship student" to know anything about legal rights.

"I have medical power of attorney," he countered, though something in his tone suggested he was less certain than before.

"Until she turns eighteen," Nat corrected. "After that, you'd need a court-appointed guardianship, which requires proving she's incapable of making her own decisions. That's a pretty high bar when she's maintaining a 3.75 GPA at one of the most competitive prep schools in the country."

Nat felt Lottie's wide-eyed stare but kept her focus on Alexander, whose complexion had taken on a reddish hue.

"You seem surprisingly well-versed in psychiatric commitment laws for someone your age," he said, voice tight with controlled anger.

"My mom was involuntarily committed twice," Nat replied flatly. "I learned the system early."

It wasn't the whole truth—her mother's stints in rehab had been court-mandated after DUIs, not psychiatric holds—but Alexander Matthews didn't need to know that. What mattered was that Nat understood exactly how these systems worked, how power operated within them, and how to fight back.

"And then there's the matter of her medication," Nat continued, sensing her advantage. "Adjusting prescriptions without informed consent, especially medications with potentially dangerous side effects? That's the kind of thing medical licensing boards and ethics committees find very interesting."

Alexander's face transformed completely, the mask of civility dropping to reveal genuine rage. His eyes, so similar to Lottie's in color yet utterly different in expression, fixed on Nat with cold fury.

"You have no idea who you're dealing with," he said, voice low and threatening. "The Matthews family name carries significant weight. Do you really think anyone would take the word of a scholarship charity case over mine?"

"Maybe not," Nat acknowledged, unintimidated. "But Boston Globe reporters? They love stories about wealthy executives using their positions to manipulate their children's psychiatric care. Especially when those executives run pharmaceutical companies that manufacture the very drugs being prescribed."

Alexander's knuckles whitened around his wine glass. For a moment, Nat thought he might throw it at her. Instead, he turned his attention to Lottie.

"Is this what you've been doing at school, Charlotte? Confiding family matters to this... this delinquent? Allowing her to interfere in your medical care?"

Before Lottie could respond, Nat reached across the table and took Lottie's hand, intertwining their fingers in full view. The gesture was deliberate, unmistakable. Alexander's eyes widened as understanding dawned.

"You and I both know Lottie's not actually sick," Nat said, voice steady. "She just sees the world differently than you do. And it terrifies you because you can't control it, can't measure it, can't force it into your neat pharmaceutical boxes."

"You have no right—" Alexander began, but Nat cut him off.

"I have every right to protect someone I care about," she said, giving Lottie's hand a gentle squeeze. "So here's what's going to happen. Lottie turns eighteen in two weeks. After that, any decisions about her care are hers to make. If you try to force her into any facility, if you threaten her in any way, I will make it my personal mission to make your life a living hell."

The threat hung in the air between them, its weight amplified by the absolute conviction in Nat's voice. She meant every word, and Alexander Matthews seemed to recognize it.

He stood abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the floor. Several nearby diners turned to look as he leaned forward, hands planted on the table.

"You have no idea who you're dealing with," he repeated, voice trembling with rage. "My daughter has a condition that requires professional management. This... rebellion will only lead to another breakdown."

"Maybe," Nat conceded. "But it'll be her choice. Her life."

Alexander straightened, smoothing his perfectly tailored jacket with shaking hands. His gaze shifted to Lottie, who sat frozen, still clutching Nat's hand like a lifeline.

"When this ends poorly—and it will—don't come crying to me," he said, his tone cold and final. "The Matthews name carries responsibilities and expectations. Best you remember that, Charlotte."

With that, he turned and strode toward the exit, drawing stares from other diners as he passed. Nat watched him go, her heart hammering against her ribs from the confrontation. Only when the restaurant door closed behind him did she notice he'd left his credit card on the table beside his half-finished wine.

The silence between them stretched for several seconds before Lottie finally spoke, her voice barely audible.

"Did you mean it?" she asked, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope. "About protecting me?"

Nat turned to face her fully, all pretense of casual indifference abandoned. She reached up to brush a strand of hair from Lottie's face, her touch gentle despite the adrenaline still coursing through her system.

"Every fucking word," she confirmed, the intensity in her voice matching the fierce protectiveness in her chest. "I love you, Lot. I'm not letting anyone lock you away or drug you into someone you're not."

The words hung between them, Nat's declaration of love spoken aloud in the most unlikely of settings. Without hesitation, she leaned forward and kissed Lottie, not caring who might see. The kiss was gentle but firm, a physical promise to match her verbal one.

When they parted, Lottie's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but her smile was radiant—the genuine, unguarded expression that Nat treasured above all others.

"He's going to be furious," Lottie whispered, glancing toward the door her father had just stormed through.

"Probably," Nat agreed, her gaze falling on the abandoned credit card. A slow, mischievous smile spread across her face as she picked it up, turning it between her fingers. "Good thing he left us a way to properly celebrate your upcoming independence."

Lottie's eyes widened as she caught Nat's meaning. "You can't be serious."

"Dead serious," Nat replied, signaling to the waiter. "Excuse me? We'd like to see the dessert menu."

The waiter approached with professional efficiency. "Of course. And will you be continuing with your entrées, or...?"

"Actually," Nat said, her smile widening as she gestured to the barely touched appetizers, "we'd like to start over. Two of your most expensive steaks, the lobster appetizer, and whatever champagne goes best with 'screw you, Dad.'"

The waiter blinked, clearly unsure how to respond to the unusual pairing request.

"My father insisted we enjoy ourselves," Lottie added, a spark of defiance lighting her eyes as she straightened in her chair. "It would be rude to disappoint him."

As the waiter departed with their elaborate order, Nat reached across the table to reclaim Lottie's hand. The physical connection grounded them both—a reminder that whatever came next, they would face it together.

"To freedom," Nat said softly, lifting her water glass in a toast.

Lottie raised her own glass, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "And to finally having a choice."

Their glasses clinked softly in the hushed atmosphere of L'Étoile, a quiet rebellion in a world that had tried to silence them both—Nat through neglect, Lottie through control. But in this moment, with Alexander Matthews' credit card between them and their fingers intertwined, they had carved out a small victory in the ongoing war for their own lives.

* * *

Shauna POV

Shauna lay back on the plush hotel mattress, the unfamiliar crispness of the high-thread-count sheets a stark contrast to the worn flannel of her dorm room bed. The room was a landscape of their small, perfect celebration: a champagne bottle, empty and elegant, stood sentinel on the nightstand beside a half-eaten tray of chocolate lava cakes. A pleasant buzz hummed behind her eyes, a welcome quiet in the space where anxiety usually resided. For the first time in months, maybe years, her shoulders felt their own weight, unburdened by the phantom pressure of Jackie’s arm or expectations.

She traced the rim of her champagne glass, watching the last of the bubbles die. The silence wasn’t empty; it was full of a new, comfortable ease. It was a silence Melissa didn’t feel the need to fill.

“I have one more surprise for you,” Melissa announced from across the room, her voice theatrical. She was rummaging through the beat-up duffle bag she’d packed for their impromptu escape. “A proper ‘Congratulations on getting into Brown and starting your new life as a badass intellectual’ present.”

Shauna laughed, the sound coming out lighter than she was used to. “You didn’t have to get me anything. The champagne and room service were more than enough.”

“Nonsense.” Melissa emerged, holding a carefully wrapped package in tissue paper that crinkled with promise. “This is non-negotiable.” She set it on the bed beside Shauna, her expression a mix of excitement and nerves. “I actually got it for you two weeks ago, the last time we went into town. I saw you looking at it in that little vintage shop window.”

Shauna sat up, her brow furrowing. She couldn’t remember looking at anything specific.

“You probably don’t even remember,” Melissa continued, her words tumbling out quickly. “You had this look on your face, just for a second. Like you wanted it, but knew you couldn’t have it. Or shouldn’t.” She shrugged, a flicker of uncertainty in her amber eyes. “I don’t know if you’ll even like it. It’s not really… your usual style.”

That last part made Shauna’s fingers twitch with anticipation. She pulled at the tissue paper, revealing a swatch of soft, worn cotton. It was a t-shirt, faded to a perfect charcoal grey, the iconic image of Sonic Youth from their Goo album cover stark against the fabric. Beneath it were a pair of artfully ripped black jeans and a tailored blazer, its sharp shoulders and single-button closure a stark contrast to the punk aesthetic of the shirt. It was an outfit of contradictions—structured and rebellious, smart and messy. It was everything Shauna wasn’t allowed to be.

“I saw it and I just… I saw you in it,” Melissa said softly. “The you that writes those essays. The you that’s going to take Brown by storm.”

A lump formed in Shauna’s throat. To be seen like this, with such clarity and hope, felt more intimate than any physical touch.

“Try it on,” Melissa urged, her voice bright with anticipation.

Shauna hesitated for only a moment, clutching the soft fabric of the shirt. Then she nodded, gathering the clothes and retreating into the pristine marble bathroom. The door clicked shut behind her, the silence of the small space amplifying the frantic beat of her own heart. She hung the clothes on the back of the door and looked at her reflection. She saw plain old  Shauna Shipman in a Wiskayok soccer sweatshirt and high-waisted jeans. Dependable. Quiet. Predictable.

She shed her clothes piece by piece, dropping them into a careless pile on the floor. Then she picked up the new clothes, unsure of where to start. First, the ripped jeans. They slid on easily, hugging her soccer-toned legs in a way that was both revealing and powerful. The rips at the knees felt like a declaration. Then the t-shirt. It was slightly oversized, the worn cotton soft against her skin, draping over her frame in a way that felt like deliberate nonchalance. Finally, the blazer. As she slid her arms into the sleeves, she felt a shift. The garment settled on her shoulders perfectly, its sharp, structured lines lending her a new kind of authority. It was a strange armor, both powerful and deeply, authentically her.

She stared at her reflection, a stranger looking back with her own eyes. This version of her was different. Sharper. More confident. Less concerned with taking up the appropriate amount of space. A woman who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to go after it. A writer. A Brown student.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped back into the main room.

Melissa, who had been absently flipping through the room service menu, looked up. Her mouth fell open slightly, the menu forgotten in her hand. A slow, appreciative smile spread across her face as her eyes traveled from the scuffed toes of Shauna’s sneakers up to the perfectly constructed shoulders of the blazer.

“Holy shit,” Melissa breathed, standing up.

She circled Shauna slowly, like an art critic examining a masterpiece. Her movements were reverent. She reached out, adjusting the lapel of the blazer, her fingers brushing against the fabric. “I knew it.”

Shauna stood frozen, a blush creeping up her neck, feeling simultaneously self-conscious and more powerfully herself than ever before. The blazer felt like a second skin, the ripped jeans a quiet rebellion.

“You look…” Melissa paused, searching for the right word as she stood directly in front of Shauna, so close that Shauna could smell the citrusy, clean scent of her perfume—a bright, sharp contrast to Jackie’s familiar, comforting vanilla. “You look fucking hot, Babe.”

The words were a low growl, a rumble of appreciation that vibrated through Shauna. Melissa’s gaze was intense, her amber eyes burning with an open admiration that made Shauna’s breath catch.

Melissa reached up, her touch surprisingly gentle as she tucked a stray strand of dark hair behind Shauna’s ear. Her fingertips lingered against the sensitive skin of Shauna’s neck for a fraction of a second too long, sending a jolt of electricity down her spine.

“You can be whoever you want at Brown,” Melissa murmured, her voice dropping to a whisper that felt more intimate than any shout. Her gaze dropped from Shauna’s eyes to her lips. “No one telling you what to wear, how to act, who to be.”

In that moment, a dam inside Shauna broke. Everything she’d been holding back. The years of suppressed desire, the frustration with Jackie's control, and the burgeoning confidence Melissa’s acceptance had fostered surged forward.

She didn’t wait for Melissa to make the next move. She didn’t hesitate. With a certainty that came from a deep, previously untapped well within her, Shauna stepped forward and closed the distance, her mouth claiming Melissa’s in a kiss that was all heat and want and declaration.

Melissa responded instantly, her hands coming up to grip the lapels of the blazer as she kissed back with equal intensity. The taste of her was champagne and chocolate and a thrilling, unfamiliar freedom.

Then, Melissa did something unexpected. She pushed back, not with force, but with a playful resistance, a teasing challenge. A wicked smile played on her lips as they broke apart, both breathing heavily.