City of Belief

Drew lives for the one day off. All week she had smiled through double shifts, bitten her tongue at customers, and chewed a dozen straws down to wet plastic strings just to keep her mind from drifting into dangerous territory. Now the week is over. The afternoon is hers. She doesn’t drive—never needed to. When the sun starts leaning toward the water, she walks from her place on the west side, hands in her pockets, pink hair catching the gray-orange light like a struck match. Every step is deliberate. There’s a tick in her chest that feels close to joy, but she’d never call it that. Still, she walks faster. Past the storefronts. Past the library blue door. Down the sidewalk cracked like a pale scar through the city. She knows the way to your place the way she knows the shape of her own name.

The door is nothing to her now. It’s just a door. She doesn’t hesitate. Her fist hits the wood a few times, sharp and rapid, like she’s annoyed already. “It’s me! Open up!” she calls, voice carrying down the empty street. Then she waits. One second. Two. A dog barks somewhere. The wind tastes like salt. She grins and slides the spare key from the little pocket sewn into the inside of her jacket—she’s had it for so long now it’s part of her. The lock clicks. The door swings wide.

She doesn’t knock again. She steps inside like she owns the place and closes the door with her heel, the sound heavier than it needs to be. “I’m not doing that thing where I sit on the porch and wait for you to decide whether or not you want company,” she says to the room, even though she hasn’t seen you yet. “I’ve been waiting all week for a free day, and you’re not about to waste it with your indecisive ass.” The lock turns behind her with a satisfied snap. She flicks on the light like she’s still outside, still loud, still entirely too sure of herself. “We’re hanging out. Today. Now. If you’re smart, you’ll just nod and put on something half-decent.”

She walks deeper into the house, not looking back. One hand ruffles through her hair like she’s fixing it, then drops to her side. There’s a little swing in her step, in her hips, automatic. Her jaw works around a toothpick she definitely wasn’t chewing a moment ago. “If you’re playing games, say your goodbyes,” she mutters, nose wrinkling at some smell in the air. “Otherwise, get your ass out here and tell me I look good before I drag you to the diner myself.” She says it like a joke, but her green eyes are already moving through the rooms, hunting for you—sharp and hungry under the casual tone.

Drew felt the seconds dragging like syrup. Her feet ached, her shoulders were tight, and her customer-service smile had been pasted on since four o'clock. The diner was nearly empty now, a couple of old regulars hunched over coffee, a trucker finishing a slice of pie, and the other waitresses moving slow as they wiped tables and counted down the minutes. Drew had already rolled her eyes at the clock twice. The scent of bleach, old grease, and weak coffee hung in the air like a warning. She was so close to freedom. Just a few more checks, a few more fake smiles, and she could rip off the apron and walk into the cold night with nothing on her mind but you.

Then the bell above the door rang. That little tinny chime she had grown to hate. It meant one thing: someone with bad timing wanted food. She felt her smile harden before she even turned. Her mouth went through the automatic greeting, the polite little sound she made for drunk old men and fussy couples. But the words died in her throat the second her eyes found you standing just inside the door. For a single, ugly second, her whole body gave her away. The rise of her chest, the stupid flush of heat up her neck, the way her seafoam eyes went wide and bright before she could reel it in. Then a grin split her face—not the customer one, but the real one, the dangerous one. She was already moving.

"Hey! Get your ass in here—no, not the counter, come on." She grabbed his arm with both hands and yanked him toward the nearest booth, nearly knocking a napkin dispenser off the table. "Y'all back off, this one's mine," she barked at the other waitresses, not breaking stride. One of them, a thin older woman with a sore face and a towel over her shoulder, just raised her hands and turned away. She knew better. Everyone knew better than to fight Drew over you. The seat made a squeak as she shoved you toward it, then she slid in across from you, slapped a menu down, and leaned forward on her elbows, grinning like a stray cat who just caught something warm.

"Alright. You want the usual, or are you gonna make me work for it?" She didn't look away. Her voice had dropped into that rough, playful register she used only when she was alone with him, or pretending they weren't surrounded by people. "Cause I'm off in twenty, so don't you dare order some complicated shit. And if you say you're not hungry, I'm still making you sit here and watch me eat. So start talking."

Drew's grogginess didn't make her any less dangerous. If anything, it made her worse. She was sprawled in bed, one leg kicked free of the sheets, hair a pink disaster, the smell of fry oil and diner soap still clinging to her skin even after a two a.m. shower. The light through the blinds was that weak November gray, the kind that made her room look like a photograph left out too long. Her phone sat on her chest, warm as a hand. She'd checked it before her eyes were even all the way open. No texts. No missed calls. No little blinking ghosts from you. Nothing.

She stared at the screen until the numbers began to blur. He wants to ignore me? The thought came first, then the heat. Not anger exactly—something more useful. It was that old, familiar fire, low in her belly, that always got her in trouble. Or trying to. She pushed herself up, lip caught between her teeth, and looked down at her own body. The tank top she'd worn to bed was twisted, the straps slipping off one shoulder. Her tits were already half out, pale and heavy, nipples pebbled from the cool air. A very bad idea started warm and glowing in the back of her skull.

She grabbed the hem and pulled the top off without ceremony. The shorts stayed. The selfie was not careful. It was honest. Her body, bare from the waist up, pink hair messy, lips parted like she'd just woken up with someone worth waking up for. She angled the phone so it caught the curve of her shoulder, the full swell of her chest, one nipple, then the other. She didn't overthink it. This was not a performance. It was bait. She thumbed the camera, pulled the photo up, and then wrote a text to you that she would never admit she'd rehearsed in her head a hundred times.

"morning. going back to sleep. this humidity is brutal lol" She attached the picture. Her thumb hovered. Then sent. The little whoosh felt louder than she expected. She dropped back into the mattress, phone in hand, eyes locked on the screen. For a long moment she didn't move, her whole body still except for the rise and fall of her bare chest. Now say something. Ignore that. I dare you. She could already feel the anticipation like a hook behind her ribs, pulling her toward whatever you would say—or wouldn't.

Drew decided that the day would be theirs before the sun even finished rising. She didn't call first. She didn't ask if you were busy. She just showed up at your door in a bikini top and cutoffs, pink hair pushed back with cheap drugstore sunglasses, a grin on her face that said she had already won. The top was too small on purpose. The bottoms were high on her hips, digging into the curves she wanted you to look at. She knocked once, maybe twice, and then let herself in like always. Her flip-flops smacked against the floor as she walked in, and the whole place seemed to brighten just from the heat of her being there. "Beach. Now. Don't argue. Don't put on a shirt. Let's go." Her voice cut through the quiet of the house like a lifeguard whistle.

She grabbed your wrist and dragged you out. The car windows went down, the radio came on, and she sang along badly, slapping the dashboard to the beat. The beach was mostly empty—just the gulls, the wind, and the cold blue ocean stretching out forever. The water came into view, and Drew let out a whoop that sounded half feral. She parked herself in the sand, dropped the bag and towel, and took off running. Her feet hit the wet sand, then the freezing surf, and she screamed with laughter at the shock of it. She waded deeper, arms out, body glossy with sea spray, fearless. "Get in here, you coward! It's not that cold!" She turned back toward you, hip-deep, hair already damp at the edges, and her grin was enormous.

She came back up the sand with the surf still sucking at her ankles. Her skin was bright with water. Every step made her hips sway once, twice—like a dare she was too proud to make out loud. She scooped up the towel from the bag and flicked it hard to shake the sand out. Then she dropped onto her stomach, not even looking where, and settled in with her arms folded under her head. The position pushed her ass up in a way that made the bottom of her bikini look even smaller. The word "dangerous" wasn't enough for what that did. She turned her face to the side, eyes half shut, smiling like a cat in the sun.

The waves kept their rhythm. The gulls cried. The breeze combed through the dune grass. After a long moment of nothing but the ocean and the heat of the sand, Drew opened one eye and looked up at you. "Are you just gonna stand there and stare at my ass like a good boy, or are you gonna put sunscreen on me before I burn to a crisp?" She bit the corner of her lip, trying to look annoyed, but the satisfaction in her voice was unmistakable. She shifted slightly on the towel, making sure you had a clear view of everything she'd brought with her. "And don't act like you weren't looking. I can feel you looking. It's the only reason I wore this."

The air in the room shifted the second she opened the door. She didn't even close it all the way. She just stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam and heat, one hand holding up a white towel that barely wrapped around her. It hugged high on her thighs, tight around her tits, showing off the shiny, wet curve of her shoulders and the long line of her legs. Her pink hair was soaking and she didn't care, water dripping down her neck to the hollow of her throat and sliding under the towel. She didn't look like she'd just finished showering. She looked like she'd just made up her mind about something. And when she saw you on the couch, her whole face changed—not surprised, not shy. Amused. A little mean. The little scar through her eyebrow twitched as her smile cut across her face.

She walked slow. Not to tease, though that's exactly what it did. She let her bare feet carry her into the living room, past the television's blue light, past the pile of laundry she'd kicked aside earlier, until she was standing right there in front of you. Then she dropped down onto the couch, close enough that the warm, clean smell of her skin and that cheap strawberry bodywash filled the whole space between you. She tucked one leg under herself, making sure the towel rode up just a little. The move was casual. The effect wasn't. She didn't even try to fix it.

"What?" she said, already grinning. "You never seen a girl come out of a shower before? Or is it just me?" She tilted her head, letting a strand of wet hair stick to her cheek. Her eyes were bright and sharp, darting over your face like she was reading the silence, looking for any twitch, any sign that said you were noticing. "Cause I can go put on clothes if it's too much for you. But I don't think you want that. I think you like the view." She shifted again, uncrossing her legs, crossing them again, letting the towel part just enough at the bottom to show the soft, bare line of her inner thigh. "Not that I blame you. I'd stare at me too."

She laughed, low and full of heat, but it came out a little too quick, like she was nervous underneath all that swagger. She didn't look away. "Go on. Say something nasty. I know you're thinking it. That's the whole point." Her voice dropped, raspy and edged. "I didn't just get all wet and soapy for my health. I came out here to see if you'd bite." Her tongue ran slowly over her bottom lip, and she waited—every line of her body still and focused, like the next thing you said would decide whether she let the towel fall or got up and laughed it off. The only sound was the faint hiss of the bathroom fan and the soft drip of water from her hair onto the cushion.

The movie played on, some loud thing with shouting and a scuffle near a locker room. Drew had been half-smiling through the first hour, tossing popcorn at you and making jokes under her breath. But now her body had turned to stone beside you on the couch. Her legs, which had been stretched across your lap, stopped bouncing. Her hand, which had been floating toward the bowl, curled into a fist on her thigh. The scene wasn't even subtle—three guys moving in on a girl, their laughter fat and wet, hands shooting out to grab. It hit Drew like a wave of cold water. The angle of their bodies, the way the girl thrashed, the way no one came at first. It wasn't the same, but it was close enough. It was exact enough. And all at once, she wasn't in the room anymore. She was back behind the gym, in that gray little pocket of shade, with her heart slamming and her mouth running and their hands on her arms like iron bands.

Her breathing changed. Not loud. You might not have noticed if you weren't sitting right there, but it went shallow and tight, as if she were trying to breathe around a stone. On screen, the girl screamed. Drew's jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached. Then something worse came. The memory of you on the ground. The blood. The lights. The hospital blankets and the beeping machines. The two weeks she sat in a chair that smelled like bleach and rubber, waiting for you to open your eyes. That was the part she never talked about. That was the part that made her sickest. It wasn't just that they'd touched her. It was that you had almost died because she wasn't strong enough, fast enough, smart enough. That was the shame. That was the coal burning in her chest every time she let herself remember.

She didn't say anything about the movie. She didn't even look at you at first. She just turned into you, her body sagging against yours, and wrapped her arms around you with sudden, bruising force. Her face buried itself against your shoulder, her fingers digging into your shirt like you might vanish if she didn't hold tight enough. Her skin was warm, too warm, and damp with the faintest sweat. She smelled like butter from the popcorn and that cheap body spray she always wore. But under it, you could feel the shaking she was trying so hard to hide. It was small, but it was there, traveling through her like an echo. Her lips moved against your shoulder, and for a moment, no words came out. Then she found her voice—hoarse, low, the edge sandpapered down to something raw.

"Just... stay still," she said. Not asking. Telling. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it filled the space between you. "Don't move. Don't say anything. Just—let me hold on for a second." The movie kept screaming in the background, a stupid, hollow sound now. She didn't loosen her grip. If anything, she pressed closer, her thighs squeezing against you, her face hiding in the crook of your neck. "You're such an asshole, you know that?" she whispered, but there was no heat in it. Just a crack down the middle of her pride. "I hate that I can't watch some dumb movie without thinking about it." Another beat. The shaking got worse, then steadied, because you weren't pulling away. "If you ever do something that stupid again," she murmured into your skin, "I'll kill you myself. Swear to God. I'm not sitting in that hospital chair again." But her arms said what her mouth couldn't: Don't leave. Don't get hurt. Don't make me watch you almost die for me a second time.

Drew planned the outfit like a heist.

She knew your schedule. Knew when you'd be home, when you'd be parked on the couch, when the lighting in the living room went that soft afternoon gold. The top she chose was a scrap of white cotton, cut high and tight, with thin little straps that bit into her shoulders. No bra. Nothing underneath but bare skin and bad intentions. The neckline didn't just show off her chest—it advertised it, bright against her fair skin, the soft line of each breast threatening to slip free every time she inhaled. She'd studied herself in the mirror. Jumped. Turned. Leaned over. The fabric lifted when she moved, riding up enough to flash the pale underside of her tits, the twin curve of them like something from a wet dream. She said it out loud to the empty room, just once, like a promise: "This'll do."

And then she walked in on you like it was nothing. The front door opened with a creak. She didn't knock. She never did. Her steps came slow and deliberate from the door to the living room, and every single one made her tits bounce. The fabric barely held them. Each fall of her heel sent a soft ripple through her chest, and she knew it. She'd timed the walk. Practiced it. The little smirk she wore was almost lazy, but her green eyes were sharp, glinting as they searched for your face in the dim. She didn't say anything at first. No greeting, no warning. Just the soft pad of her bare feet and the near-silent shush of that tiny shirt sliding up her ribs with every breath. Her nipples were hard from the cool air, poking against the thin fabric like they had a personal grudge against modesty. She paused in the doorway, one hand on her hip, and let the moment sit there, sticky and heavy, while she watched to see if you'd notice.

When you looked up—and she made sure you looked up—she gave a little bounce on the balls of her feet. Just enough to make things move. Then, with a bored little hum, she strolled toward you. The top inched up. Her stomach flexed. The pale curve of her underboob appeared and vanished as she moved. She grabbed the hem as if she were adjusting it, then tugged it down—no, down only far enough to stop just shy of decency. The shirt clung to her nipples, showing everything but the color. She let go. It rode up again. She didn't fix it. She was too busy looking at your face.

"What?" she said, voice all low and teasing, like she'd caught him doing something filthy. Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth, then she tilted her head, dim light sliding over the slope of her bare shoulder. "You gonna sit there and pretend you're not watching me? 'Cause I can feel you looking. It's cute." She tapped his knee with the side of her foot, then let herself drop onto the corner of the couch beside him, tucking one leg under her and letting the other dangle. Her tits settled, then bounced again as she leaned toward you. "So what're you watching? Something better than this?" The question wasn't a question. It was bait.

The towel was still wet, clinging to her like a second skin, but Drew moved like she was fully dressed, unstoppable. She didn’t knock. She didn’t hesitate. The door swung wide, then bounced off the wall with a hollow smack, and she was already saying your name before stepping in. Her feet left damp prints on the floor, and her hair was slicked back, fresh off her own shower but very clearly not done for the day. Her body steamed faintly in the cool air of the room, droplets tracing from her collarbones to the deep curve between her breasts. She saw you and zeroed in. No greeting. No preamble. Just fingers around your wrist, her grip strong and warm and a little wet.

“We’re taking a shower,” she announced flatly, tugging you toward the bathroom. “Not you. Not me. We.” She shot a look over her shoulder, green eyes bright and fixed, as if daring you to say otherwise. “You stink. I stink. We’re both saving water. It’s the responsible thing to do.” Her voice carried that teasing rasp, but underneath it there was no joke—only decision. She pulled harder when you didn’t move fast enough, her fingers cinching like she thought you might bolt. “Don’t make this weird. It’s just water and soap.”

But even as she said it, the memory rolled through her like steam. That old shower. The one when they were younger, just starting to change, all elbows and new angles and unsure voices. She remembered the way the water hit their shoulders, the way she’d glanced down once—only once—and how the image had never really left her. That was the moment. The root of every straw she’d ever chewed, every joke she’d told with too much heat, every lonely night she’d spent with her thighs pressed tight and her mind on you. It was shame and want braided together so tightly she couldn’t tell them apart anymore. Her lips pressed flat. She blinked, forcing the thought down like a pill.

“I already said there’s no arguing,” she said, more firmly now, tugging you through the doorway into the bathroom. The towel shifted as she moved, riding higher on her thigh, and she didn’t bother to fix it. “You’re getting in that shower with me. I don’t care if you just stood there like a statue. That’s fine. But you’re doing it.” She glanced back again, this time slowly, and her voice dropped into something almost soft, almost dangerous. “Unless you’re scared. In that case, say it now, and I’ll call you a pussy and never let you live it down.”

The bottle was nearly empty. It sat between her thighs like a third passenger, sweating against her skin. She didn't remember when she'd opened it, only that the room had gone soft at the edges and the lamp light looked like honey. Drew leaned back on the couch, hair a mess, cheeks flushed. Her head lolled toward you, a slow grin spreading like spilled syrup. "You know what I hate?" she slurred, not waiting for an answer. "That I gotta be this drunk to even think about doing somethin' I've wanted to do for years. Years. That's so stupid." She laughed, but it came out uneven, too honest.

Her hand landed on your thigh, fingers curling, hot through the fabric. "There's somethin' I wanna do," she said, lower now, eyes fixed on the shape of you. Her tongue swept across her bottom lip. "And you're gonna let me. No. Don't talk. Just sit there." She shifted, sloppy but sure, sliding off the couch and onto her knees between your legs. Her palms slid up your legs, then she hooked her fingers into your waistband and yanked. The drag of fabric was the only sound besides her breathing, suddenly loud and shallow.

Then your cock was out. She stared. Her mouth fell open, just a little. A bead of saliva gathered under her tongue. She remembered the first time she saw it, years ago, both of them young and dripping and quiet. But this was better. Thicker. Realer. Her whole face went soft and hungry. "Fuck," she whispered. "I knew it'd be big." She didn't give you time to answer. Her lips parted, and she leaned in and took you into her mouth. The moan came instantly, low and wet, vibrating down the shaft. Her eyes fluttered shut. Then opened. Then she started moving—slow at first, then deeper, cheeks hollowing, one hand braced on your thigh and the other reaching low to steady the base.

She pulled off just enough to gasp, a thread of spit still connecting her bottom lip to your cock. "Don't just sit there. Put your hand in my hair. I like it rough." She swallowed you again, moaning like she'd been starved for it. Her head bobbed faster, messy, eager, filthy with purpose. The room shrank to the heat of her mouth and the hard, wet sound of her working you.

The condom wrapper crinkled between her fingers like a dare.

Drew didn't knock. She never did. She stepped into the room with damp hair and a fresh sheen on her skin, wearing nothing but an old faded tank top and panties so small they disappeared under the bottom hem. The confidence on her face was all performance, but the shake in her breath was real. This was the moment. No more jokes with a safety net. No more pretending the filth was just for fun. She held the wrapper up like it was a trophy, and her seafoam eyes gleamed with challenge.

"Know what this is?" she asked, even though she knew you did. She wiggled it between two fingers. "I got it from the gas station. The lady looked at me weird. I told her it was for a school project. She didn't believe me." A short laugh, too sharp. Then her eyes dropped to your lap and back up. "So here's the bet. Since you're always running that mouth—" she took a step closer, "—I bet you can't even fill this thing. I bet you'd blow early. Two pumps. Three if you're lucky."

She moved again. Closer. Close enough that the heat from her body touched your skin. She held the condom out, tapping it against your chest.

"Here's the deal. You make it burst. Fill it so goddamn full it pops. You do that, and I'll buy you two large pizzas. Whatever toppings. I'll even deliver them to your bed. Naked." She lingered on the word, saying it slow, like syrup dripping. "But if you can't? If you waste it in five seconds like a scared little boy?" She tilted her head, smirk widening. "Then you have to eat me out until I can't walk straight. That's the deal. No take-backs."

She let the wrapper drop into your lap.

"So what do you say, big boy? You gonna make me a pizza girl, or are you gonna choke before the first moan?"

She licked her bottom lip, then bit it. But her thighs were pressed tight together, and her free hand twitched at her side like it didn't know whether to shake or reach for you. Hungry. Scared. Done waiting.

"Go on," she whispered, voice dropping to a rasp. "You gonna let me win, or are you gonna fuck that rubber until your balls give out?" She moved to the edge of the bed, braced one knee on the mattress, and leaned in, her tits heavy under the thin tank. "Because I'm tired of waiting." A beat. No retreat. "I've been waiting for years." Her green eyes shimmered. "And I'm so wet right now it's humiliating."

She crawled forward, one knee at a time, until she was over you, the heat of her body pitching low and needy. She didn't touch. She just let the weight of the moment press down, the broken air around her crackling with intent.

"Now shut up and fill it."

Her grin came back, wild and doomed.

The bathroom fan clicked on overhead, rattling like it was dying.

Drew sat on the edge of the tub with the test strip in her hand, her thumb pressed over the little result window like she could hold the future in place. She didn't move. The linoleum was cold under her bare feet. Sweat gathered at her temples and along the back of her neck, and the little white stick trembled between her fingers. She'd been in the bathroom for twelve minutes now. Maybe longer. The lock wasn't even turned. And still the test lay there, face down on the counter, waiting like a verdict.

In her head, she had argued both sides until her thoughts burned into static. She wanted to be pregnant. She wanted to be empty. She wanted proof. She wanted none. She wanted a second chance. She wanted it to be gone. But none of those wants held still. They rolled through her like the ocean at night, every wave dragging her a little further out. She clutched her knees and drew a shaky breath. A memory of you surfaced unbidden—your hand in her hair, your voice low in the dark, the way you'd said her name. Then the sound of it—that sudden, sickening give when the rubber split. The hot gush. The finish. She remembered laughing at first, then freezing. She'd called you every name she could think of, threw a pillow at you, then ran to the shower and stood under the water until it ran cold. The joke had been a joke. The bet had been stupid. But deep in her stomach, there was no laughing now. Just fear, thick and alive, coiling low.

She flipped the test over.

One line. Dark. Certain. She stared at it, feeling the first rush of release, the floor dropping out of her chest. Her lips parted, and a sound came out—half laugh, half sigh. Not pregnant. Not pregnant. She shook her head, suddenly giddy, suddenly furious, suddenly numb. "Fuckin' told you," she whispered to the empty room, though you weren't there. "Not potent enough. I knew it. You couldn't knock me up if you tried." A cheap smile tried to crawl onto her face. Then it stopped. Her eyes caught a tiny shadow at the edge of the strip. A second line. But it was forming. Her breath hitched. It wasn't faint. It wasn't the almost-there half-life of a maybe. It was pink and dark and it kept getting darker, filling in like a bruise.

Drew's hand dropped to her stomach. The stick hit the floor, and she didn't pick it up.

For a long, cold moment, she forgot how to breathe.

"Shit," she said. It came out tiny, like a kid saying it. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit." Her voice cracked on the last one. She pressed both hands flat against her lower belly, staring at her own reflection in the bathroom mirror—face pale, pink hair damp, green eyes wide and rimmed with imminent tears. Somewhere inside her body, something that was half you and half her had already started. A consequence. A secret. A thing she could not laugh off. She tried to summon her usual sharpness, her crude little comeback for every awful thing. But nothing surfaced. For what felt like the first time since she'd almost lost you, she had no plan. No joke. No performance. She just sat there, on the edge of the tub, with her hands over her belly and her heart beating against her ribs, too raw to name what she felt.

The dress was heavier than she expected, and not because of the fabric.

Drew stood in front of the full-length mirror in the back room of the old church and hardly recognized herself. The skirt fell in clean lines to the floor, ivory and soft and made for someone with a plan. But her belly pushed against the bodice, a small, undeniable curve that had arrived too soon and stayed. She turned a little, side to side, watching the way the dress pulled over her stomach. Pregnant. Very. The word still felt like a stranger's. Her hair was all done up with little white flowers tucked behind one ear, and someone had brushed something pink and glittery over her cheeks. But underneath all of it, she looked sweaty and nervous and a little like she might throw up. Not from the baby. From everything else.

She pressed one hand against the curve of her belly and let herself breathe. This was not how she'd imagined it. In her head, there had always been a wedding—just the vague, daydream version, with you at the end of it and her in something tight that made you sweat. But now her feet were sore and her tits were too big for the cups and a tiny, half-formed version of you sat inside her like a promise she had not been ready to make. You had knocked her up. But you had also looked at her in the middle of the chaos, after the test and the tears and the long awful silence, and said exactly the right thing. Now she was going to be your wife. And if she thought about that too long, her whole body went hot and wobbly.

The music started. Some soft thing with piano and strings, climbing up through the quiet. The double doors opened. Drew's breath caught. The first row of people stood, all blurry and faceless, and at the end of the aisle, past the kneelers and the worn red carpet, you were waiting. Waiting. Actually waiting. For her. The sight of you hit her like a wave, and before she could stop it, her eyes filled and spilled over. She squeezed her bouquet so hard the stems bent. A tear rolled off her chin and vanished into the white of the dress. She mouthed something to herself, wiped her cheek with the back of one hand, and started walking. Every step felt enormous. Her heart was too loud. Her legs were not quite steady. And all she could think, over and over, was that she would never forget the way you looked at her just then.

She reached you and stopped. The church was so quiet she could hear the scratch of a candle in the front row and the soft, wet sound of her own lips parting. She sniffed hard, smiled up at you with her eyes still wet, and whispered, "Don't you dare say I look fat in this dress." Her voice cracked on the last word, but she held your gaze anyway. "It's your fault I'm all... round." A shaky little laugh escaped her, and she pressed one hand to her belly like she was already introducing you to it. "And if you make me cry again, I'll tell everyone what a sap you are." But her fingers were already reaching for yours, and she knew there was nowhere else in the world she would ever want to be.

Drew stepped out of the kitchen with one hand drying on a dish towel and the other still working a kink out of her lower back. The apartment was too quiet. Not the good kind of quiet, the kind after a school day when little feet finally stopped hammering the floor. This was the hunting kind. The kind that meant her kid was somewhere she shouldn't be, doing something she'd blame on you later.

"Alright, where is that little devil?" she muttered to herself, eyes narrowing as she scanned the narrow hall. "She better not be in my makeup again. Or the candy. Or the window. Or—" She checked the bathroom, the hall closet, even behind the shower curtain, because Jesse had done that once and cackled for an hour about it. Nothing. Not a single sign. The trampled rug. The crayon smell. Nothing fresh.

Then it hit her like a slow cold wave. The living room. Of course. It was always the living room when she got quiet. Drew exhaled through her nose and rolled her eyes hard enough to see her own thoughts. "That little shit," she whispered, already grinning despite herself. Her bare feet padded down the hallway, and she came to a stop at the edge of the couch.

There was Jesse—a ten-year-old hurricane with her father's eyes and Drew's own pinkish hair, though she called it "strawberry, Mom"—sprawled across your lap like a queen. Her arms were wound tight around your waist, her face squashed into your stomach, and one bare foot twitched lazily over the arm of the couch. She had the nerve to look comfortable. At peace. Like she'd won something. "Are you kidding me?" Drew said, planting one hand on her hip, the towel tossed aside. "You little gremlin. That's my spot. I was gone for five minutes."

Jesse didn't even open her eyes. She just burrowed deeper against you and stuck out her tongue in Drew's general direction. "Snooze you lose, Mom. I got here first." Her voice was all smug, thick with victory. "And I'm not moving. Daddy said I could stay. He said it with his eyes."

Drew stared at her for a long, hard moment. Then a laugh cracked out of her, sudden and warm and full of reluctant affection. "You are so full of it." She stepped around the coffee table and dropped onto the cushion beside you, her body bumping your side as she landed. She gave Jesse a little nudge with her foot, not enough to move her, just enough to let her know the fight wasn't over. "Fine," Drew said, crossing her arms but already relaxing into the couch. "You can have him now. But when it's bedtime, I get your father." She looked over at you then, and there it was—that old green-eyed heat beneath the smile. A single raised brow. A flick of her tongue over her bottom lip. Later, that look said. You're going to owe me. And she let the words hang there, soft as smoke, while Jesse grinned against your chest and claimed her prize.