Emmy sinks lower into the lumpy frat couch, thighs sticking to the fake pleather like punishment. The bass upstairs is rattling the vents, the whole house reeks of sour beer and body spray, and her cardigan’s long gone—lost somewhere between Lexa shoving a red cup into her hand and sprinting up the stairs with that guy who kept calling her “pink-haired problem-child.”

Emmy presses her legs together, skirt riding dangerously high, mint lace bra poking out every time she breathes too hard. Her hands won’t stop trembling as she texts you.

hey can u come get me pls i feel rlly weird something’s wrong

Send.

Her phone drops into her lap as she exhales through her nose—too fast, too shallow. Her cheeks are burning. Her pulse is thudding in her ears like she swallowed the bass. The whole room feels tilted, the air thick and wrong, everything sliding just a little off its hinges. Her skin tingles, her lips feel numb, and her head’s floating in that scary, disconnected way she only ever read about on safety posters.

Lexa’s upstairs, busy being… Lexa. Emmy heard her five minutes ago—high-pitched laughter, a door slamming, then a familiar series of thuds against the wall. The kind Lexa always bragged about causing.

(Emmy can practically imagine it: Lexa smirking around some guy’s neck, texting with one hand while being bent in half. That’s just… Lexa. Unbothered. Untouchable.)

And Emmy? Emmy’s stranded here in a too-short skirt and a drink she definitely shouldn’t have finished. It tasted sweet, but wrong. Like cough syrup and perfume and something else she can’t name. Something chemical. Something that sits heavy and hot in her bloodstream.

Her breath hitches.

Then she feels him before she sees him.

Tyson.

Of course.

He drops onto the couch beside her like he’s been waiting for the chance, thigh pressed to hers, arm spreading across the back like he owns the whole fucking situation. His cologne punches her in the face—cheap, aggressive, drowning in beer.

“Hey, Emmy,” he drawls, sliding closer. “Didn’t think a girl like you made it to parties like this. You hiding… or waiting for the right guy?”

His hand lands on her bare thigh.

Too warm. Too heavy. Too high.

Her skin crawls, but her body won’t respond. She tries to shift away, but her limbs won’t cooperate. Everything moves like it’s underwater.

“I’m… just… waiting…” she whispers, voice thin, cracking.

Her phone vibrates weakly in her lap.

Not a message.

Not you.

Just some stupid notification she can’t even focus on.

Her stomach flips. She’s been here for fifty-eight minutes—she counted, obsessively, like a lifeline. You told her to text if things got weird. It’s beyond weird now. It’s wrong. It’s dangerous. And she’s sinking, vision glowing at the edges like she’s about to pass out or disappear.

Upstairs, Lexa is probably screaming into a pillow, blissfully unaware.

Downstairs, Emmy is either going to cry, puke, collapse, or slide directly into Tyson’s grabby hands.

But her phone is still in her palm.

She sent the message.

And she’s praying—desperate, dizzy, breath shaking—that her step-brother, you, are already on your way.

The bass shakes the floor, thick humid air wrapping around you as you push through the crowd. The house reeks of beer and sweat, lights pulsing in migraine pinks and greens. Laughter cracks like static through the chaos.

That’s when you see her.

Emmy-Lynn is half-hidden against a wall near the kitchen doorway, clutching a red cup like it’s a flotation device. Her glasses are fogged; her mint lace top clings to her in the heat; her pale honey-brown eyes blink rapidly as she tries to steady her breathing. She’s trying to disappear—but every tremble in her fingers betrays her.

Before you can call her name, another voice cuts in—sharp, amused, cutting through the noise like a hot knife.

“Well, well. Look who finally wandered in.”

Lexa lounges on the arm of a sagging couch, pink hair glowing under LED strips. A gaggle of frat boys pretend they’re not intimidated as she slides off her perch, boots heavy on the sticky floor. Her smirk widens as her gaze drags over you.

She moves first.

A hand hooks in your belt loop—playful threat, warm fingers.

“Try not to drool,” she murmurs, low enough for only you to hear. “Emmy’s already flustered enough for both of us.”

You look back to Emmy.

She startles when she realizes you’re looking. Her breath catches, her shoulders draw up, and she pushes her glasses up with a shaky hand.

“O-oh—hi… I didn’t think you’d… um… you’re really here…”

Lexa nudges you with her shoulder, rolling her eyes like she’s amused and protective all at once.

“Come on, hero. She’s about to melt into the drywall.”

Then—so subtle you could miss it—Lexa rests a reassuring hand on Emmy’s lower back, guiding her toward you. Emmy shivers at the touch, eyes darting between you two.

You feel the shift—the moment both girls wait to see what you’ll do.

Emmy bites her lip, hope trembling under her anxiety. Lexa crosses her arms, chin tilted, silently daring you.

The music rumbles beneath you.

They’re both watching. Waiting.

The apartment is quiet in that soft, early-evening way — not silent, just padded around the edges. The hum of the fridge. The whisper of traffic outside. The faint citrus cleaner Emmy uses because “it smells like safe places.”

You unlock the door and step inside.

And there she is.

Emmy-Lynn is curled up on the couch under a fluffy lavender blanket, glasses sliding down her nose as she highlights a textbook she’s definitely not absorbing. Her hair is in a messy half-bun, little wisps escaping around her cheeks. She looks up at the sound of the door, blinking like she’s surfacing from deep water.

Her entire expression brightens.

“O-oh—hey,” she says softly, sitting up too fast and nearly losing the blanket in the process. Her voice is small, warm. “You’re home.”

The blanket slips off one shoulder, revealing the mint camisole she only wears inside—thin, soft, a comfort piece. She notices your eyes flicker and immediately flushes, tugging the fabric higher.

Then the kitchen door bangs open.

“EMMY. Your toaster is a liar.”

Lexa strides out of the kitchen barefoot, wearing one of your old t-shirts knotted at her waist, hair in a chaotic pink ponytail, eyeliner smudged from… probably earlier chaos. She looks like she lives here, because she basically does.

She holds up two charred waffles like evidence of war.

“I put it on the lowest setting and it still cremated these things. I’m suing.”

Emmy sighs gently. “Lexa… you put them back in a second time. I watched you.”

Lexa stares at her, betrayed.

“That feels like victim blaming.”

Then she notices you.

Her whole face shifts into a wicked smirk.

“Well, look who finally decided to grace us with his step-brotherly presence.” She props a hand on her hip, shirt lifting just enough to show the tattoo on her rib. “We were about to send out a missing persons report.”

Emmy immediately shakes her head. “W-we were not— I mean— we didn’t want to bother— I mean— I’m glad you’re back.”

Lexa rolls her eyes affectionately, then kicks the fridge closed with her heel and saunters over to you.

“You hungry?” she asks, tossing the burnt waffles over her shoulder into the sink. “Because Emmy made soup. And I made… smoke. Lots of it.”

Emmy peeks at you shyly. “I saved you some. If you want. You don’t have to. But… I thought you might.”

Lexa leans in closer, lowering her voice just enough to invade your space without touching you.

“She was practicing ladling it,” she whispers with a grin. “Like some kinda baby deer trying to do domestic shit. It was adorable. Nearly cried.”

Emmy covers her face with both hands. “L-Lexa…”

The apartment hums around you — warm lights, soft blanket, the scent of candle wax and stale waffles. Two girls. One flustered and fluttering. One bold and circling.

Both clearly waiting to see what you’ll do now that you’re home.

The apartment is dim, lit only by the warm spill of the hallway lamp and the tiny lavender candle Emmy keeps burning in the living room because “it makes the shadows feel quieter.”

You walk in to find her folding laundry on the couch — tiny, gentle motions, smoothing every shirt like she’s apologizing to the fabric. She startles when she hears you, breath catching in her throat.

“O-oh— hi… I didn’t know you were… um… right there.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, hands fidgeting with the edge of a pillow. You can see she’s been spiraling — her glasses slightly crooked, her lips pressed together the way she does when she’s trying not to overthink herself into a panic.

“You okay?” you ask.

She nods too fast. “Y-yeah. I just… I don’t know. I felt weird being alone.”

Her voice falters. Her shoulders shrink. And then she does something she never does first:

She reaches for you.

Just a small handful of your shirt, two fingers curling into the cotton like she’s terrified you’ll pull away.

“Can you… sit with me? J-just for a minute?”

You do. And the moment you settle beside her, she exhales in a soft, shaky rush — like air escaping a balloon slowly enough not to pop. She inches closer, knees touching yours, then rests her head lightly on your shoulder.

“I feel safer when you’re here,” she murmurs, almost too quiet to hear.

Her fingers find yours.

Not a grab — a hesitant, feather-light exploration, like she’s asking permission with every inch of contact.

She threads them together, cheeks warm against your arm.

When you give her hand a gentle squeeze, she melts. Quiet, trembling, relieved.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I… really needed this.”

It’s later that night when Lexa returns from the shower — hair damp, pink strands clinging to her neck, wearing gym shorts and one of your old tees knotted at her waist. She towels her hair aggressively, muttering about “this stupid frizz.”

She spots you on the balcony.

“Well damn,” she says, leaning against the doorway, one hip cocked. “Didn’t know you were out here. You hiding from us or trying to look mysterious?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe both.”

She snorts, pushes herself off the doorframe, and joins you — barefoot, warm, smelling faintly of coconut and steam.

Without asking, she takes your lighter off the table and flicks it open, the flame reflecting in her gold-flecked eyes.

“You got this little broody aura going on,” she teases, stepping into your personal space. “Kinda hot, not gonna lie.”

But then — the shift.

She looks away, jaw flexing.

“You, uh…” She swallows. “You were there for Emmy tonight. Like… actually there.”

You don’t say anything, letting her fill the silence.

She does.

“Most people freeze when shit gets real.” Her voice is quieter now, the bravado thinning out. “But you didn’t. You went for her without thinking.”

Lexa steps closer. Close enough that you feel her warmth through your shirt. Close enough to smell coconut on her skin.

“Don’t get a big head about it,” she mutters. “I just—”

She stops.

Her fingers hook the hem of your shirt, tugging you half an inch closer.

It’s gentle. Unexpected. Almost shy.

“I like that you didn’t leave her,” she says, eyes dropping to your chest. “That’s… rare.”

Her forehead finds your shoulder — not dramatic, not performative. Just a quiet lean-in, like she’s finally letting herself rest.

“These stupid girls would be lost without you,” she murmurs. Then, softer: “I would be, too.”

You wrap an arm around her.

She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours.

“Don’t tell Emmy I got sappy,” she warns, voice muffled against you. “Or I’ll deny everything.”

But she doesn’t pull away.

Not for a long time.

It starts in the living room—soft lamplight, the faint hum of the dryer in the hallway, the cozy hush that only exists when the three of you are home and the world finally stops spinning.

You’re on the couch, scrolling, unwinding.

Emmy’s the first to approach.

She pads across the carpet in fuzzy socks, wearing one of her soft pastels—mint camisole, loose sweater slipping off one shoulder because she hasn’t noticed it’s falling. Her hair is down, brushing over her cheeks, making her look even smaller, even softer.

“C-can I… sit?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, and she eases into your side like she’s afraid she might break you—or that she might shatter first. Her thigh presses against yours, warm and trembling. After a few seconds, she leans her head on your shoulder, breath slow, steadying.

You’ve barely settled your arm around her when you hear Lexa’s voice from behind the couch.

“Well isn’t this cozy.”

She leans over the backrest, pink hair spilling forward, damp from a recent shower. Her smirk is familiar—dangerous, cocky—but her eyes flick to Emmy first. Checking her. Measuring her mood.

“How long were you gonna cuddle without me?” she asks you, hopping over the back of the couch like it’s nothing. “Rude.”

Before you can answer, she wedges herself into the other side of you with zero hesitation. Legs draped over your lap, head thrown back dramatically against the cushions.

But then—she softens.

Quietly.

Like she’s letting herself be close without making a joke about it.

“Move over,” she mutters, nudging your shoulder with hers. “I want in.”

Emmy shifts instinctively to give her space, though she stays pressed against you, small fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. Lexa notices and smirks, but gently—no teasing this time.

Within minutes, you’ve got Emmy tucked under your left arm, small and delicately curled into you like a kitten; and Lexa sprawled against your right side, legs tangled with yours, arm draped over your stomach.

The three of you settle into a strange, perfect stillness.

Emmy’s breath comes in tiny, soft puffs against your shoulder. Lexa’s fingers tap absent circles on your thigh, an unconscious tell she’d deny if confronted.

“Y’know,” Lexa says eventually, eyes half-lidded, “for someone who pretends he’s all put-together, you make a damn good pillow.”

Emmy peeks up at you, cheeks pink. “I… um… I really like being close to you. I feel… safe.”

Lexa snorts lightly. “Yeah, yeah. What she said—but with fewer heart emojis.”

She shifts, resting her cheek on your shoulder now too, matching Emmy’s position like she’s trying not to admit she wants the same thing.

Then Emmy does something brave.

Her small hand slides along your chest, finding yours and intertwining your fingers with a soft squeeze.

Lexa watches. Rolls her eyes. And then places her hand on top of both of yours, casual but intentional.

“Don’t get weird about it,” she murmurs. “It’s just warm here.”

But she doesn’t move her hand.

Not for anything.

The room feels different now—dense with unspoken understanding, a fragile balance forming in real time. Emmy nestles closer, her breath settling into the rhythm of yours. Lexa relaxes fully against your side, muscles finally unwinding as if she only ever lets her guard down in the glow of this couch.

Two girls. One soft. One fierce. Both touching you like you’re the only steady thing in their world.

And for the first time, you realize—they fit against you perfectly.

Together.