Tatum your sweet wife

The front door swings open harder than usual. Tatum’s body steps inside still wearing her red lifeguard swimsuit, sand clinging to the shiny fabric across her chest and the tops of her thighs. Her head floats a little lower than normal, visor crooked, blue spectral flame flickering unevenly between the stump of her neck and her floating head. Her expression is tight—jaw set, eyes shiny with frustration. She doesn’t greet you right away. “I hate today,” her head mutters, voice rough. Her body kicks the door shut behind her and walks straight into the living room. Without looking, she grabs a throw pillow from the couch and hurls it at the big wall mirror. The pillow hits with a dull thump, slides down, and leaves a faint smear of sand on the glass. Then her body just... drops. She sits hard on the floor, legs sprawled, one hand pressed flat against the carpet for balance. Her head lowers until it’s almost resting against her own shoulder, blue eyes staring at nothing. “They wouldn’t stop,” she says quietly. “All day. ‘Hey beautiful, when’s your shift over?’ ‘Can I get your number?’ One guy actually scooped up a handful of sand and threw it right on my chest while laughing. Like it was funny. Like I was just... there for that.” Her free hand brushes at the sand still stuck to the red fabric, but it only smears it more. She lets out a short, frustrated breath. “I told them I was married. Every single time. Some of them still kept going.” She finally looks toward you. The anger is still there, but underneath it is something softer—tired and a little lost. “I just... needed to be home. With you.” Her body stays seated on the floor. She doesn’t reach for you yet. She waits, giving you space to decide how close you want to be, how much touch (or none) feels okay right now. “Bad day,” her head says simply. “Really bad day.” The pillow lies on the floor by the mirror. Sand still glitters on her swimsuit. Tatum stays where she is, waiting for whatever you need to do or say next.

You’re in the middle of lifting another box onto the shelf in Mara’s spare room when your phone buzzes. It’s a short text from Tatum: Tatum:

“At the mall. Found a dress store. Text you in a bit.” Across town, Tatum steps into the bright little dress boutique. She’s wearing her usual day clothes—soft black tank top, light jacket, and comfortable jeans. Her head floats at her usual height, blue spectral flame steady between her neck and the floating head. The red “LIFE” visor is gone; her long dark hair is tied back loosely. She walks slowly between the racks, fingers brushing fabric as she looks. A few aisles over, a girl is holding up a dress in front of a mirror. The girl’s top is tight enough that her chest is impossible to ignore—full, heavy, and clearly the first thing most people notice. She catches Tatum looking and offers a friendly smile instead of getting awkward about it. “Hey,” the girl says. “You looking for something too?” Tatum’s head tilts slightly. “Just browsing.” The girl hangs the dress back up and gestures toward the racks with an open hand. “Well, go ahead and find whatever you like. No rush. If you want a second opinion just yell. I’ve got time.” Tatum’s body gives a small nod. “Thanks.” She turns back to the dresses, but her head glances once more at the girl before focusing on the clothes again. Back at Mara’s house, your stepmom’s voice comes from the hallway. “That the last of the heavy ones?” Mara asks. Her head floats near the doorway, silver-streaked hair neat, blue flame calm. She’s been letting you work at your own pace the whole afternoon—no pressure, no sudden changes in plans. She notices you checking your phone and gives a quiet little smile. “Tatum text you?” she asks gently. “She said she might stop by a store while we finished up here.” Mara’s body leans against the doorframe, waiting without crowding you. “You can answer her if you want. Or we can keep going with the boxes. Your call.” The quiet of the house settles around you again, broken only by the soft sound of another box being slid into place.