Simone's Week

Simone is 36. Evy is 22. Arden is old enough to know better.

Monday

Simone shifts in her seat. Crosses her legs the other way, like that's gonna help. The guy from Brand is still talking. He's saying "synergy." Again.

She glances down, careful, subtle--thumb just brushing the edge of her phone screen.

Evy [2:11 PM]

Q: Why did the landlord break up with the tenant?

A: There was no lease on life.

Simone bites her lip. Hard. It's bad. Like, genuinely terrible. And she feels the laugh bubbling up anyway. She coughs instead. Covers it with a throat clear.

The SVP gives her a look. She lifts her chin. Daring him to say something. Back to the phone.

Evy [2:12 PM]

Ok wait

I have more. You asked for this.

Simone [2:13 PM]

I categorically did not ask for this.

But go on.

Buzz.

Evy [2:14 PM]

Q: Why don't real estate agents ever play hide and seek?

A: Because good luck hiding when they've got your location, location, location.

Simone pinches the bridge of her nose. Exhales through her teeth. Tries not to smile. She can feel it curling at the corner of her mouth.

Across the table, someone asks a question about brand tone. She misses it. She's back in her messages.

Simone [2:15 PM]

That one deserves jail. Not even bail.

Just straight to prison.

Evy [2:15 PM]

You love it.

I see that smirk, don't lie.

She tucks the phone deeper into her lap. Feels heat rise under her collar. Because fuck--yes. Evy sees her. Even from blocks away.

Evy [2:16 PM]

Also

When you get out of that meeting

I want to kiss you.

Just that.

No punchline.

And that one lands.

Hard.

Simone's breath catches. For a second, the buzz and babble of the room fades out--slides off her skin like water. Just her and that message. That girl. That woman who makes awful jokes just to make her laugh, then sucker-punches her with sincerity in the same thread.

She straightens in her seat.

Uncrosses her legs.

And texts back:

"Soon."

The key turns. Deadbolt clicks. Simone steps into her apartment and exhales like the door itself pulled the tension out of her ribs.

Shoes off, blazer draped over the back of a chair. The air smells faintly like jasmine and burnt rice. Evy's cooking.

She's in the kitchen in an oversized T-shirt and nothing else, hips bare and easy, one foot tapping to a rhythm only she hears. The light above the stove halos her in gold. She doesn't turn around.

"You're late," Evy calls, her Norwegian accent soft but unmistakable. "I was about to eat without you and then dramatically text you about it."

Simone drops her bag with a soft thud and wanders into the kitchen like she's being pulled on a string.

"You already did text me dramatically," she says, slipping her arms around Evy's waist from behind. "You committed war crimes in the name of puns."

Evy grins, leans her head back against Simone's shoulder. Her skin is warm. Smells like cardamom and cheap lotion.

"And yet," she murmurs, "here you are. Hungry for justice. Or maybe dumplings."

Simone hums. "Jury's out."

Evy turns in her arms. Kisses her once--soft and slow, lips parted just enough to promise but not deliver. Not yet. Her hand rests against Simone's cheek like she's remembering something old and important.

"Sit," she says. "Let me feed you."

Evy hums as she stirs dumplings, barefoot and light, no armor on.

Simone watches her and thinks, God, it must be nice--to move through the world without needing to prove softness isn't weakness.

Simone wants to argue. Wants to pull her in, press her back against the counter, taste her mouth until the dumplings burn. But she doesn't. Not tonight. Tonight is for stillness. For being wanted gently.

She sits.

Evy plates dinner. Dumplings and rice, something green, a bit of sauce she made from scratch because she "felt like fussing." They eat on the couch, cross-legged, no music, no TV. Just the sound of chopsticks clicking and the occasional sigh of a long day being put to bed.

At one point, Evy rests her head on Simone's thigh and scrolls through her phone, still trying to come up with worse jokes. Simone strokes her shaved head absentmindedly, her thumb tracing small circles at the nape of her neck.

There's a window open. A breeze. Distant sirens. But in here?

It's calm.

Evy falls asleep half on her. Mouth parted slightly. One hand still curled around her phone.

And Simone?

Simone watches her.

She doesn't check her email. Doesn't move. Just sits there, grounded under this woman's weight, wondering when tenderness started to feel this fucking wild.

Tuesday

The bathroom fills with steam before the water even turns hot.

Evy is already inside, back to the spray, eyes half-lidded. Her body shines--long legs, full hips, skin turned slick and golden in the morning light. She doesn't call Simone in. She doesn't have to. Simone follows the heat like a moth.

She steps into the shower behind her, kisses her shoulder, and lets her hands roam.

No words yet.

They don't need them.

Evy shifts, her back pressing against Simone's chest. She reaches behind her, takes Simone's wrist, and guides her down, down, until Simone's hand cups her between the legs. Warm. Slippery. Familiar.

Simone kisses the curve of Evy's neck, right beneath her ear, and whispers, "You're already soaked."

"You're already late," Evy murmurs, voice lazy and amused.

Simone grins against her skin. "My schedule can fuck itself."

Their rhythm is slow. Evy rocks against Simone's hand in short, breathy rolls, water pounding on the tiles like rain. She grips the edge of the shelf for balance when Simone sinks lower, kissing the base of her spine, tongue dragging downward like she's memorizing taste as much as shape.

And just as Simone spreads her open with both hands, mouth hovering over heat--

The phone buzzes on the counter. Once.

Twice.

But no one hears it.

Evy lets out a sound--half sigh, half gasp--and pushes her hips back. Simone closes her mouth over her, lips plush and greedy. She's not teasing today. She's taking. Her tongue works in slow, firm strokes, hands keeping Evy open, grounded. Evy whimpers, fingers white-knuckled on the shelf.

Another buzz. Then silence.

Water runs. Bodies move.

Evy comes like a wave cresting--quiet but unstoppable, shaking and gasping as Simone holds her through it.

And afterward, they stay under the water. Simone presses her forehead to Evy's back, arms wrapped tight around her middle. Neither says a thing for a long time.

Outside the bathroom, the phone sits face-up.

The message reads:

Arden [7:52 AM]

Can we talk? I'm downstairs.

They're in the kitchen, towels slung low on hips, hair damp, bodies still humming from the shower. Evy's making coffee, moving with that slow grace that Simone loves--bare feet, sleepy eyes, the curve of her back catching sunlight like a promise.

Simone's at the counter, scrolling absently, phone screen lighting her face.

Then she freezes.

Just a breath.

Just one name.

Arden.

Can we talk? I'm downstairs.

Simone locks the screen without thinking.

Puts the phone face down.

Evy sets a mug beside her. "Who's Arden?"

The words land soft. No accusation. No heat. Just... curiosity. Earnest. Quiet.

Simone swallows. Doesn't look at her yet.

"An ex," she says finally.

Evy raises an eyebrow. "The kind that sends 'we need to talk' texts at 8 a. m.?"

Simone laughs, but it's empty. She picks at a tear in the countertop laminate. "The kind that doesn't know when to stay gone."

Evy leans against the counter. Takes a sip of her coffee, watching her.

"You didn't tell me about her."

"There wasn't anything to tell." Simone's voice is steady, but her shoulders are tight. "She was chaos. It ended."

"Clearly," Evy says, with a tilt of her head toward the phone. "So what's she doing on your doorstep?"

Simone finally meets her eyes. "I don't know."

"You gonna find out?"

There it is.

Simone hesitates. Then: "Not right now."

That answer hangs there. It's honest. Not easy. Not smooth.

Evy nods slowly. Sets her mug down. Leans in and presses a kiss to Simone's cheek--just the edge of it, like a punctuation mark.

Then she walks back to the bedroom without saying another word.

Simone stays standing at the counter. Phone face-down. A body full of afterglow and regret.

And somewhere downstairs, Arden's waiting.

Simone pulls on sweatpants and a hoodie. No bra. No earrings.

The hallway smells like old carpet and weed from the neighbor across the way. And then--she opens the front door.

There Arden is.

Same skinny limbs and tangled red hair, same cracked leather jacket she probably hasn't taken off in a year. Pale, wired, smirking like a dare.

Simone doesn't say anything at first.

Arden breaks the silence. "You look good."

Simone leans on the doorframe. "You look like you borrowed a hangover."

"Still funny." Arden tilts her head. "Still mad?"

"I'm not mad."

"No?" Arden's eyes narrow. "Then why'd you ghost me like I set fire to your dog?"

"You set fire to me," Simone says, low. "Repeatedly."

Arden shrugs. "Yeah, well. You lit the match, babe."

There it is. That familiar burn. That old ache that used to make Simone ache in all the wrong places.

"You don't get to knock on my door like it's still 2020," Simone says.

Arden steps closer. One foot in Simone's space. "I was gonna text first. But then I did. And then you didn't answer."

Simone's jaw tightens. "You think I owe you something?"

"No. I think you want something." Arden's eyes flick down her body. "I can tell."

Simone barks a laugh--sharp, cruel, a little too loud. "You always did think my pussy was a truth serum."

"You always liked how honest it made you."

That lands. Simone looks away, jaw clenched. She hated how Arden made her feel--out of control, small, cracked open in all the places she'd spent her life stitching shut.

And still, the memory is hot. Still, her knees remember.

"Evy's inside," Simone says, voice flat.

Arden smirks. "That bald nonprofit girl? I've seen her Insta. Real wholesome. Bet she makes you chamomile tea and shit."

"She makes me happy."

Arden's face doesn't move. But something shifts in her eyes.

Simone steps forward, closes the space. "You want to know why I never answered you? Because I know how this goes. You fall apart and I get bloody holding you together. You leave. I clean up. We fuck. You leave again. Repeat."

Arden's lips twitch. "Sounds hot."

"It was. Until it wasn't." Simone's voice cracks a little. "I don't want to bleed for you anymore."

A pause. Then Arden says, quieter: "So why'd you come down?"

Simone blinks.

"I don't know," she says, honestly. "Maybe I needed to hear myself say it out loud."

They stand there.

Simone's heart is hammering. Arden's chewing her lip. Somewhere upstairs, Evy is making breakfast and trusting her.

"I'm not coming up," Arden says.

"Good," Simone replies. "I wouldn't let you."

Another beat.

"You ever miss me?" Arden asks.

Simone looks her in the eye. "Every time I remember who I used to be with you."

She closes the door.

Just like that.

But her hands are shaking.

The lights are low. Just a single lamp in the corner and the flicker of a muted TV they're not watching. The remains of dinner--takeout this time, neither of them had the energy to cook--still sit on the coffee table. One half-finished soda. An empty soy sauce packet.

Simone lies on the couch in a camisole and soft shorts, legs stretched across Evy's lap.

Her skin--rich, brown, smooth--catches the light in warm gold patches.

Evy's hand rests gently on Simone's calf, thumb drawing absent little arcs.

Evy's in an old tank top and underwear, pale thighs on display, her Nordic skin almost translucent in the low light. Freckled, pink at the knees, a ghost against Simone's deeper tone. They look like a study in opposites. Like shadow and snow tangled together, soft in different ways.

For a long time, they say nothing.

Then:

"You're quiet," Evy murmurs.

Simone shifts slightly, just enough for her knee to press firmer into Evy's side.

"Just... chewing on things."

"Anything I should know about?"

A beat. Simone glances toward the ceiling.

"I keep thinking about how Arden used to talk to me. Like I was always a second away from vanishing. Like she had to pin me in place with chaos or I'd slip away."

Evy runs her fingers along Simone's shin, gentle and slow.

"You ever feel like you're slipping now?"

"Not with you." A pause. "But sometimes I don't know how to just be without having to brace for impact."

Evy smiles, but there's ache in it.

"We're not at war, Simone."

"I know." She sighs. "It's just... muscle memory."

Evy leans down and presses a kiss to Simone's ankle. Not erotic. Just grounding.

"Then let me be the place your body forgets how to flinch."

Simone goes still.

A moment passes. Two.

Then she shifts again, this time folding herself into Evy's lap, head on her thighs, face turned into the soft warmth of her skin. Evy's fingers thread into Simone's hair, slow and easy.

"Your skin's so pale it glows," Simone murmurs. "Like some sort of midnight fairy tale."

"And you," Evy says, voice low, "look like honey poured over firewood."

Simone huffs a laugh against her leg.

"That's extremely specific."

"I've been workshopping it."

They don't kiss. They don't fuck.

They just are. Breathing, touching, resting in the space they've made together.

The TV's still flickering, muted. Outside the window, the L train murmurs past, all steel and light.

Simone's half-asleep in Evy's lap, breath slow, hand curled under her chin.

Evy's fingers move gently through her hair, then pause.

She looks out the window--past the buildings, past the lights, past the fucking billboards for personal injury lawyers--and something in her goes quiet.

"Chicago is so loud," she says softly, half to herself. Her accent rounds the consonants, smooth and lilting.

Simone hums without opening her eyes.

"Louder than Florø?"

"Florø has... gulls. Wind. Fishermen yelling about their lunch." A small smile. "This place... it roars."

She doesn't say she misses home. Not outright.

But Simone hears it anyway.

She shifts, not sitting up, just enough to look up at her.

"You okay?"

Evy nods. Still looking out the window.

"I just... I used to think if I could make it here, then it would mean something. That it would feel like I'd arrived."

A pause.

"And now?"

Evy smiles again, more tired this time.

"Now I think arriving and belonging are not the same."

Simone is fully awake now. She sits up, stretches once, then leans against her, shoulder to shoulder.

"You belong here," she says quietly. "At least, you belong with me."

Evy turns toward her. Takes her hand.

"That's the only part that feels true."

Simone squeezes her fingers. "Still loud, though."

"Too loud."

They sit like that for a while--two women from faraway places, one raised in noise, one raised in salt air and still water, finding quiet in each other.

Evy's accent curls softly into the silence.

"We should go to Florø sometime. In summer. The sun doesn't set."

Simone raises an eyebrow.

"That sounds like a personal hell."

Evy grins. "Then I'll take you in winter. We can freeze together. Drink bad coffee. Complain about fish."

Simone laughs, low and warm.

"That actually sounds kinda perfect."

Outside, a siren wails in the distance. Inside, there's only this:

Contrast and comfort.

A Black woman who's learning stillness. A white woman who doesn't ask her to earn it.

Two bodies that look nothing alike but fit.

Not in some tragic metaphor. Not in erotica.

Just in the day-after part of love.

Wednesday

Simone steps into the station bathroom and catches her reflection.

Eyes tired. Edges curling.

She pulls a small tin of edge control from her bag and smooths them back with two fingers, checking the lines in the mirror.

Too sharp and they'll say angry. Too soft and they won't listen.

She finds the middle. Always the fucking middle.

Arden's leaning on the receptionist desk, too close, voice like silk and barbed wire. Simone's standing still, salad in one hand, restraint in the other.

"Then tell me to fuck off," Arden purrs, head cocked like a predator waiting to see if the prey still twitches.

Simone opens her mouth.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Evy.

Clear voice. Steady. Not loud--but it cuts.

Arden turns.

She wasn't expecting this.

And she was definitely not ready for what Evy looks like in daylight: shaved head, pale skin, cheekbones sharp, lips slicked with faint gloss, a fucking bag of dumplings in her hand like the goddamn domestic alt-goddess of your dreams. Calm. Confident. Dangerous in the way women are when they know exactly what they're worth.

Simone lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. It's not relief, not exactly. But it's something close.

"Hey," she says, quieter than she means to.

Evy smiles at her. Just for her. Then turns to Arden.

"You must be Arden."

Arden raises an eyebrow. "You've heard of me."

"In the same way people talk about hurricanes."

Arden's grin flickers. Evy doesn't blink.

"I brought lunch," she says, lifting the bag like a peace offering that doubles as a middle finger. "Figured you might be tired of sad office salads."

Simone clears her throat. "You have excellent timing."

"I know," Evy says, without looking at Arden again. "Are we eating outside?"

"Please." Simone doesn't even glance back at Arden.

Evy gestures toward the door with a little flourish. "After you."

As Simone walks past Arden, she doesn't say a word. Doesn't make eye contact. That silence is the loudest goodbye she's ever given.

Arden watches them go. Watches Simone lean into Evy as they step into the sun. Watches Evy hand her a dumpling and brush a crumb off her chin like she belongs there.

And Arden?

She's still standing in the lobby.

Jules reappears, leans in and whispers:

"Holy shit. Your ex's girlfriend is hot."

Arden laughs once.

Dry.

Then leaves.

The city hums around them--midday traffic, stroller wheels clacking over bricks, pigeons giving side-eye. The kind of spring day that almost feels warm, but still makes you second-guess if you need a jacket.

Evy sits with one leg tucked under her, dumpling bag between them, elbow resting casually on the back of the bench behind Simone. Casual. Effortless. But not relaxed.

Simone is chewing, slowly, like maybe she forgot how to swallow.

They've barely spoken since they left the station.

Evy breaks the silence.

"Did she get to you?"

Her tone isn't jealous. It's not even accusing.

It's clinical. Like she's checking for shrapnel.

Simone swallows. Looks at her dumpling like it might have answers.

"Not like that."

"But she got in."

A pause.

Simone nods. Just once. The kind of nod that's less confession and more surrender.

"She always could," Simone says. "Just... slides in under your ribs before you even notice she's there."

Evy doesn't speak for a beat. Just watches her. Then:

"That's not a gift, babe. That's trespassing."

Simone lets out a breath--half-laugh, half-wound.

"You're not mad?"

"Oh, I'm furious," Evy says, plucking a dumpling from the bag. "I'm just good at triage."

She dips it in sauce. Takes a bite.

Simone stares at her like she just performed surgery in the park.

"You always this calm when people from your girlfriend's trauma vault show up?"

"Depends," Evy says, mouth full. "Did you fuck her?"

Simone chokes. "Jesus--"

"What? It's a valid question."

Simone stares. Then finally:

"No. I didn't. I told her to fuck off."

"You told her to fuck off in the building," Evy corrects. "Big difference."

Simone grimaces. "I was trying to handle it."

Evy softens a little at that. Leans in. Voice lower.

"Hey. I'm not here to punish you."

A beat.

"But I'm also not here to pretend, either."

Simone turns toward her. There's that look again--the one Evy gives her when she's stripping something internal, not clothes. When she's laying hands on nerves, not skin.

"I don't want her," Simone says. "I want you."

"Yeah," Evy says softly. "But parts of you still remember wanting her."

Simone closes her eyes. "I'm trying."

"I know," Evy says, without hesitation. "I see that."

She reaches over, brushes a stray piece of hair from Simone's face. Her fingers are soft. Firm. Certain.

"But I need you to see something, too."

Simone looks at her.

Evy gestures between them.

"This? This isn't your refuge from the storm. I'm not your shelter. I'm your life. So if she's still weather? Then you need to get out of the rain."

That lands like gospel.

Simone nods. Not small this time. Not broken. Intentional.

She reaches for Evy's hand. Twines their fingers.

"I'm done getting soaked," she says.

Evy kisses her knuckles. "Good. 'Cause I don't like umbrellas. I like bonfires."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

"Shut up and eat your dumpling."

They sit in silence for a while after that.

The kind of silence that builds, not breaks.

A woman and her lover. A bench and the city.

And Arden? Arden's still out there. Probably lighting another match.

But Simone?

Simone is dry. Warm. And not fucking leaving this fire.

Thursday

Simone's in the condiments aisle debating whether she actually needs the good sesame oil or if she's just trying to impress Evy's palate. Her cart's half full--lemongrass, bok choy, overpriced oat milk, frozen dumplings they'll laugh about later.

She's wearing her "casual girlfriend" outfit: jeans, flats, thin knit sweater, low bun. Still polished. Still fucking lethal.

Her phone buzzes.

Evy [6:43 PM]

get chili paste if they have the kind with the yellow label

and something crunchy for dessert. surprise me.

Simone smiles, taps a quick reply:

Simone [6:44 PM]

copy. chili paste. crunchy mystery. love you.

She's about to turn down the snack aisle when--

"Simone?"

That voice. Low. Familiar. A little winded. Like she ran into the building and doesn't know how to leave it.

Arden.

Holding a mesh bag of lemons and a bottle of coconut water like it's proof she belongs here.

Simone freezes. One hand still on the cart handle.

"You stalking me now?" she says, without looking at her.

"Relax," Arden says, taking a step closer. "My friend lives over on Fremont. I'm making dinner. It's a coincidence."

"You don't believe in coincidence."

"I don't," Arden admits, shrugging. "But here we are."

She looks good. Not in a hot way. In a fuck, I remember that body on mine way. Ripped jeans again. A leather cuff around her wrist like she's trying to be some queer Viking. Hair wilder than ever.

Simone exhales through her nose.

"I'm not doing this with you in front of the goddamn condiments."

"What are you doing?" Arden asks, voice low. "Besides pretending you're not thrilled to see me in your little curated grocery world?"

Simone turns. Finally faces her.

"Thrilled isn't the word. And neither is yours. Not anymore."

A pause. Arden's eyes search her.

"You look different."

"I feel different."

"You still write everything in that little Moleskine? Still talk in half-sentences when you're mad?"

Simone glares. "You still ruin everything you touch?"

Arden smirks, but it's fragile.

"You always hated that I knew you."

"No," Simone says. "I hated that you used it."

A beat.

"I'm making lemongrass chicken," Arden says, holding up the bag like a peace offering. "I still think of you when I cook it."

Simone wants to laugh. Or scream. Or both.

"I'm making dumplings. For someone who doesn't leave when things get hard. For someone who doesn't need me to bleed just to prove I'm still alive."

Another beat.

Arden looks away. "She's lucky."

Simone doesn't answer. Just nods once and turns her cart.

"Simone," Arden calls after her. "If I asked you to have a drink with me sometime--just one drink--would you say no?"

Simone stops at the end of the aisle. Doesn't turn around.

"I'd say Evy's waiting. And I don't leave people waiting anymore."

And then she pushes the cart forward. Picks up the yellow-label chili paste. Grabs something crunchy and stupid from the snack aisle--seaweed chips or caramel popcorn, whatever.

When she gets to the register, her hands are steady.

And when Evy opens the door later and kisses her cheek like it's just Thursday,

Simone knows exactly who she is.

The apartment is quiet. Dim light from the kitchen. Dishes done. The good chili paste in the fridge, unopened. Evy's curled on the couch in a fleece blanket, knees up, reading some paperback novel about a woman who moves to Montana and learns to love herself through snow or horses or whatever.

Simone's next to her, legs stretched out, phone balanced on her stomach. She's scrolling aimlessly, thumb twitching in half-boredom.

Buzz.

Evy glances over. Doesn't say anything.

Buzz.

Simone stills. Glances at the screen.

Arden [11:48 PM]

you still think about it?

that night in the hotel? the one with the thunderstorm?

Buzz.

Arden [11:49 PM]

i could still make you shake

one word from you and i'm in a car

Simone's face tightens. Jaw. Neck. Shoulders. She doesn't respond. Doesn't delete.

But she doesn't hide it either.

Evy speaks first. Quiet. Calm.

"Herregud. Is this going to be every night now?"

Simone closes her eyes. "She's drunk."

"Yes. I gathered that from the complete lack of punctuation."

A beat.

"Did you see her today?" Evy asks.

Simone sighs. "Whole Foods."

"Let me guess. Lemongrass and guilt?"

Simone almost smiles. Doesn't.

"She said she still thinks about me when she cooks it."

"Does she also still think you're an emotional utility she can plug into when she feels lonely?"

Simone looks at her now. Really looks.

"I didn't respond."

"Not the point," Evy says. Her voice is still calm, but there's a pressure building underneath it now. Her accent stronger. "The point is you keep letting her speak to you. You leave the line open."

"I'm trying to be better."

"Better isn't the same as closed."

Simone swallows.

"You think I want her?"

"No," Evy says. "But I think part of you still wants to be wanted by her."

That one cuts. Not cruelly. But with surgical precision.

Simone sets the phone down. Face-up. Arden's messages still on-screen, lit and buzzing like a live wire no one's brave enough to snip.

Evy shifts. Sits up. Wraps the blanket tighter around her.

"Uff. I don't wish to compete with a ghost, Simone. I don't want to be the girl who teaches you peace while you still romanticize the fire."

"I don't romanticize it."

"You let it talk. That's romantic enough."

Silence. The kind that creaks under its own weight.

Simone reaches over. Puts a hand on Evy's knee.

"What do you want me to do?"

Evy stares at her. Long. Tired.

"Block her."

Simone doesn't move.

"Now."

She swallows. Reaches for the phone. Thumbs stiff. Clicks through the message thread.

Her finger hovers. That pause. That tiny death of nostalgia.

Then:

Block.

"Done," she says.

Evy nods. But her body doesn't relax. Not yet.

"You want tea?" Simone offers. Weakly.

"No," Evy says. "I want to not feel like a placeholder for your healing."

That lands. Hard. True. Not mean.

Just the kind of tired that comes from holding someone up long enough to feel your arms go numb.

Simone doesn't say anything.

Evy gets up. Walks to the bedroom.

She doesn't slam the door.

She just closes it.

The light's barely in the room. Just the soft blue-gray glow of early morning slinking in through the blinds. The sheets are tangled. The room smells like sweat, detergent, and lavender from that goddamn pillow spray Evy won't sleep without.

Simone stirs.

She watches Evy's back for a minute. The curve of her spine. The edge of one bare shoulder, freckled and soft, rising and falling with slow, even breath.

She reaches out. Touches her thigh, fingers trailing slow up toward her hip. Just enough pressure to ask, is this okay?

Evy doesn't move.

Simone presses her lips to her shoulder, breath warm.

"Hey," she whispers. "Thought maybe we could..."

She lets the sentence fade. Hopes Evy will fill it in with want instead of war.

Evy exhales. Not a moan. Not a yes.

Just breath. Stiff.

Simone's hand lingers a second too long. Then Evy shifts--away. Not violently. Not with malice. Just... no.

She sits up. Swings her legs off the bed. Rubs her face with both hands. Stands.

Simone watches her go cold and dressed in the same breath.

"I was trying," Simone says softly.

Evy pulls on underwear. Finds her T-shirt from the floor. Doesn't look at her.

"You always try when you feel guilty."

Her accent's thicker this morning. Vowels harder. Consonants sharp. Like she's grinding the words out on a whetstone.

Simone sits up, pulling the sheet with her.

"That's not fair."

Evy laughs once. Bitter.

"Nei, det er ikke rettferdig. Ikke en jævla ting med dette er rettferdig."

Simone stares. She doesn't speak Norwegian. Not much, anyway. But she doesn't need translation to understand tone.

"I didn't text her back," she says. "I blocked her. I chose you."

"You chose me after she made herself a headline again," Evy snaps, turning. "You always act like you're saving something, but you only move when the building's already burning."

The silence stretches.

Evy breathes. Slower now. Fist unclenched.

"I love you," she says. "But I need time. Not touching. Not trying. Time."

Simone nods. Quiet. Swallows it.

"I'll make coffee," she offers, voice barely there.

"Takk," Evy says, already halfway down the hall.

And then she's gone. Not gone-gone. But gone enough.

Simone sinks back into the bed. Pulls the sheet over her chest. Stares at the ceiling like maybe it'll show her how to stop fucking up love.

Evy sits on a bench near the pond, plastic tub of caramel corn in her lap. She eats one piece at a time--slowly, methodically, letting each one melt before she chews. The air is sharp with early spring. Ducks drift past on water that reflects nothing. A toddler screams at pigeons. The pigeons stare Evy down like tiny gangsters in feathered jackets.

She doesn't feed them.

They need it, sure. But need isn't always enough.

Her phone is tucked between her cheek and shoulder. The line crackles--international lag, Florø to Chicago. Her sister, Mari, is on the other end. Her voice is bright. Too bright.

"So. When are you coming home?"

Evy snorts.

"Define home."

"Uff. Don't start with that. You know what I mean."

Evy leans back against the bench. Pops another piece of corn in her mouth. Chews.

"Simone's in her own head again," she says after a beat. "Ex problems. Ghosts texting. Same song, different remix."

"You sound tired."

"I am."

Mari sighs. The kind of sigh only an older sister can manage. Full of love and thinly veiled judgment.

"Come home for a bit. Two weeks. Mamma keeps asking. I'll buy the plane ticket."

Evy closes her eyes. Lets the wind run fingers through her scalp.

"That's not why you want me here."

"No. I want you here because Chicago sounds like it's eating you."

"It's not." A pause. "But some days it chews."

"What's she doing that's so hard?"

"Nothing," Evy says. "And everything. She's trying. She's lovely. But she's still bleeding for people who set the fire. And I'm tired of always being the one holding the fucking hose."

A longer silence.

The pigeons edge closer. One hops onto the bench beside her.

She glares at it. It hops down again.

"Come home," Mari says. "Florø misses you."

Evy smiles, but it's crooked. Sad.

"Florø never even noticed I left."

"Bullshit. You're the loudest person in town after you drink two glasses of wine."

"That's because you water the wine down."

"Because you drink it like juice."

They both laugh. Just a little.

Then Evy says, more quietly:

"I'm in love with her."

"I know."

"It's the kind that could go deep. Like... the kind that builds houses."

"And still you're in a park alone."

That lands.

Evy wipes caramel off her fingers with a napkin she forgot was in her pocket. She looks out at the water. The ducks are still drifting. The sky still pretending not to care.

"I'll think about it," she says.

"That's all I ask."

They say goodbye. Mari clicks off. The line goes dead.

Evy tucks the phone into her coat pocket. Pulls her knees up onto the bench. Stares at the city she chose. The city that hasn't chosen her back yet.

The pigeons keep waiting.

She still doesn't feed them.

Arden cuts through the park with a hangover headache blooming behind her eyes. Hoodie up. Sunglasses on. Iced coffee she doesn't want sweating in her hand. She's walking nowhere in particular--just away from everything she should be facing.

She sees her from half a block away.

Evy.

Sitting on a bench like she owns the stillness. Knees pulled up. Bald head shining. Tub of caramel corn cradled in one hand like it's sacred. No Simone in sight.

Well, fuck.

Arden stops walking.

She doesn't mean to. Her body just goes still. Like a deer. Or a mistake.

Evy hasn't seen her. She's on the phone. Laughing softly, head tilted, eyes tired. Her accent curls around the breeze, just faint enough to catch if you're close enough to ruin everything.

Arden exhales. Watches her from behind a half-dead oak. She tells herself she's not hiding.

You could say hi.

You could say you're sorry.

You could say something that means nothing and still sets the whole house back on fire.

She takes a step forward.

Stops.

No. Not her. Not this time.

Because Evy's not Simone.

Evy doesn't break for sport. Doesn't flinch when you threaten love. Doesn't bite just to feel alive.

Arden watches her pick a piece of popcorn from the tub and pop it in her mouth. Watches her wrinkle her nose at the pigeons. Watches her hold the phone against her cheek like it's something warm, something earned.

She looks... real.

Simone's in love with her, Arden thinks.

Fuck.

And for a second, Arden feels something sharp in her chest. Not jealousy. Not quite. Just... grief for a version of herself that could've been worth staying for.

She turns. Keeps walking.

Doesn't look back.

Behind her, Evy shifts slightly on the bench. Glances over her shoulder.

Eyes scan the path.

Whatever she thought she felt--it's already gone.

Saturday

Simone stands at the counter in a tank top and sweatpants, staring at the French press like it owes her answers. The kitchen smells like burnt toast and last night's silence. Her hands rest on the edge of the sink. Her shoulders are bare, tense, pulled up like she's expecting a blow that hasn't come yet.

Evy hasn't said much since the park.

They came home late. Didn't talk. Didn't fight. Just drifted to opposite sides of the bed like bruises trying not to touch.

Now it's morning. Light filters in, soft and forgiving. Simone breathes deep, steady, bracing for another day of maybe.

She doesn't hear Evy's footsteps--just feels the arms suddenly around her.

Firm. Certain. Warm.

Evy presses her body into Simone's back and wraps her up like she's catching something about to fall.

Simone closes her eyes.

Doesn't speak.

Evy rests her forehead between Simone's shoulder blades. Just breathes there.

She holds her like that for a while--not to be forgiven, not to forgive. Just to say:

I'm still here. I haven't left. This is still ours.

Simone lifts one hand and places it over Evy's forearm. Slow. Gentle. But real.

"You okay?" she whispers.

"No," Evy answers, muffled. "But I'm here."

Simone exhales. Shaky.

"I keep thinking I'm gonna fuck this up."

Evy squeezes her tighter.

"You probably will," she says. "So will I."

A beat.

"But let's fuck it up together. Not apart."

Simone turns slightly in her arms. Not a full turn--just enough to feel her more fully. To rest her cheek against Evy's temple.

"You're really bad at pep talks," she murmurs.

"I'm better at hugging."

And she is.

They stand there like that, bathed in morning light and the quiet hum of not giving up.

Outside, the city stirs. Sirens. Buses. Brakes squealing.

But in the kitchen?

Two women. One moment. Zero ghosts.

For now.