Passwords

Everyone's over 18.

It takes place about 5 days before "Simone's Week." So there.

The living room smelled like old carpet and menthol.

Basketball game on low. Ceiling fan ticking like it was counting down something no one wanted to hear.

Arvin LeGrande Jones didn't look at her when he spoke. He never did, not when it mattered.

Just sat there, big in his recliner, arms crossed like a man trying not to say something worse.

"I'm tired of this," he said, voice flat but full. "You drifting. You always here. Always around."

She stood in the doorway, barefoot, arms wrapped around her own waist like she could hold herself together if she squeezed hard enough.

"You gotta help out," Arvin went on. "You're twenty. You eat here, sleep here, run that hot-ass water like it's free. I ain't your maid. I ain't your sponsor. You want a life, start living one."

Emerald Margaret Jones didn't answer.

Her green eyes flashed up at him--sharp, pale, glassy like cracked sea glass. British, like her mother. Margaret always looked at him that way, just before a fight. Just before she'd call him stubborn, stupid, mean.

Those eyes hurt more than any words.

Like being judged in a language he never wanted to learn.

"Don't look at me like that," he muttered, loud enough. "I ain't your enemy."

She flinched, barely.

"I'll look how I want," she said, quiet, tight, too white in the mouth.

He stood up too fast, the recliner whining behind him. For a second they were the same height. For a second he almost reached for her. Instead, he ran a hand down his face and turned toward the window.

"You wanna be mad, go be mad. But be mad at a job. Be mad at a time clock. Be mad at bills coming in your name. This house got too much ghost in it already."

That line landed. Her mouth opened and shut again.

She stared at his back. He didn't turn.

Outside, the SEPTA bus wheezed past. Emerald stayed in the doorway like she wasn't sure what she was about to do. Stay. Leave. Cry. Burn something.

Her green eyes blinked once--hard. Not enough to soften. Just enough to stay sharp.

"Fine," she said.

And the word didn't sound like surrender.

It sounded like warning.

The bus shuddered as it pulled away from Broad and Oregon, wheezing like it resented the weight of the day. Emerald sank into a window seat, plastic hot under her thighs, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands like armor. Her hair was doing that thing it did--too clean, too obedient, too obviously trying--and her stomach was an empty knot of anxiety and instant coffee.

She was supposed to be job-hunting.

Like some normal girl.

Like the version of herself her dad kept pretending still might show up if he said it enough.

But she wasn't thinking about jobs.

She was thinking about her.

Because Ramona had just stepped onto the bus.

Little Thai girl with the too-pretty face and the cocky walk, all hips and ponytail and tight black shirt with gold lettering she probably didn't even read. She smelled like star anise and oil and smoke--like the inside of a wok or the back of her mom's restaurant, where the air clung to your skin and never let go. Where everything sizzled.

Ramona smelled like heat.

Like secrets she didn't bother keeping.

She didn't even notice Emerald at first. Just paid her fare, chewing gum slow, eyes half-lidded and bored, and turned to scan for a seat. She had headphones in. Long braid swinging. Shoes loud. Her thighs were soft but her stride was mean.

Emerald watched her walk like she was watching sin get off the clock.

Ramona slid into the seat across the aisle, one leg tucked under her, the other angled toward the window. And then she looked over. Met Emerald's eyes. Just once. Just long enough.

And Emerald--

God. Thought about what it would feel like to be pressed against the tile wall in the back of that restaurant kitchen.

Not the clean dining area. Not some sanitized fantasy.

The kitchen.

Sweaty. Fluorescent-lit. Half-open fridge humming nearby. The smell of chili oil on her hands. Ramona's hands.

Her mouth.

Emerald shifted in her seat. Crossed her legs. Tried to look out the window like the skyline was worth looking at. Like her whole fucking body wasn't screaming.

Ramona popped her gum. Looked away. Like nothing.

Like Emerald wasn't even there.

Which somehow made it worse.

Emerald dug her nails into her sleeves and bit her tongue. She hated this about herself. The ache. The wanting. The way she could ruin her whole day off the scent of someone else's shampoo.

She'd come downtown to look for work.

She was already losing control.

It starts with steam.

The back kitchen's a jungle--hot tile, clatter and clang, somebody yelling in Thai from the front, the metal lip of a prep table digging into Emerald's hip. She's not supposed to be back here. She knows that. The floor's wet. She's in the way. She doesn't care.

Because Ramona is in front of her, and Ramona's not yelling. Ramona's close.

"You keep looking at me like that," Ramona says, voice low but sharp enough to cut ginger with. Her eyes are dark, playful, knowing. "Like you want something off the menu, but you're scared to ask for it."

Emerald's heart is pounding too fast, too stupid. Her arms are tight to her sides, hoodie sleeves damp where they've brushed against something she'll never be able to explain.

"I wasn't--" she starts.

Ramona just tilts her head, grin small but evil. "You were. It's okay. I don't mind being looked at. I mind being lied to, though."

Emerald wants to melt into the grout. She wants to crawl into the walk-in and cry. She wants to disappear. She wants to touch her.

"I'm not like--"

Ramona steps forward, not touching, just there, her breath warm against Emerald's cheek. The scent of garlic and lemongrass and coconut milk and cigarettes soaked into her skin.

"Not like what?" Ramona murmurs. "Not like the girls who kiss other girls? Not like the girls who cry after?"

Emerald bites her lip. She can feel her own shame blooming, hot and thick, sticky as syrup behind her ribs.

Ramona leans in--slow, confident, like she's got all the time in the world to ruin Emerald gently.

"You wanna know what I see when I look at you?" she asks.

Emerald swallows hard. Nods. Can't speak.

"I see a girl who wants to be told what to do. But only by someone who knows how to say it soft. I see a girl who's scared to want anything, 'cause she thinks wanting makes her weak. But it doesn't. It makes her real."

Ramona's fingers graze Emerald's wrist, featherlight. Emerald flinches--not from fear, but from how much she wants it.

"You think I don't know what it's like to want something that makes you hate yourself a little?"

"I don't hate you," Emerald says, too fast, voice cracking.

Ramona just smiles.

"Of course you don't," she says. "You hate you."

A crash from the front--someone dropped a tray.

Ramona doesn't move. She's still close. Still warm.

"You don't have to," she whispers. "Not with me."

And then--

The image breaks.

The bus jerks to a stop at Washington Ave. Emerald snaps back into her own skin, cheeks flushed, jaw tight, thighs pressed together like they're holding in a scream. Ramona's still across the aisle, gum tucked in her cheek, scrolling her phone. She hasn't looked up once.

But Emerald can still smell her.

And that fantasy--that voice in her head--won't leave her alone.

Emerald just sits there and burns.

Ramona tugged the wire from one ear and stood up as the bus hissed to a stop at 10th and Walnut. She stretched, unbothered, like the heat didn't touch her, like nothing ever clung to her the way it clung to Emerald.

Her shirt rode up when she moved. Just a little. Enough.

Emerald didn't mean to stare.

She just did.

Ramona stepped off the bus, and there she was--her. That girl. That razor-cut, rail-thin Squirrel of a girl, all elbows and collarbones and faded denim that didn't fit right anywhere but somehow made her look like she belonged to the air.

Red hair tied up messy. Band-Aid on one knee. Eyes lit like she'd just been handed a miracle and couldn't believe her luck.

"Baby!" Squirrel called out, and she actually bounced. Not walked. Not sauntered. Bounced. Like joy had no weight at all.

Ramona grinned. The real grin. Not the lazy one she wore for strangers. Not the fuck-you smirk she gave Emerald. This one cracked her face open. Made her look young.

Emerald watched from the grimy bus window, invisible and vibrating.

Squirrel practically leapt forward. Ramona caught her at the waist like they'd done this a thousand times and would do it again in every other life. Squirrel buried her face in Ramona's neck, and Ramona said something low that made her laugh--high and stupid and beautiful.

Emerald didn't hear it. Didn't need to.

Her throat went tight. Her whole stomach twisted like someone had wrung her out from the inside. Her hoodie suddenly felt two sizes too small.

She cringed, hard. Like she could flinch her way out of wanting. Out of being.

She hated this. Hated how happy they looked. How natural. How they were everything she wasn't--open, laughing, together.

She pulled her sleeves tighter. Looked away. Then looked back. Couldn't help it.

Ramona caught her eye.

Just for a second.

Expression unreadable. Not cruel. Not kind. Just... aware.

And then she turned back to Squirrel, arm slipping around that tiny waist like muscle memory.

The bus pulled away, leaving Emerald behind.

Still unemployed.

Still unkissed.

Still full of a fantasy that never included a girl like that.

And the worst part?

She didn't even know who she was jealous of more.

PA CareerLink, Center City.

The lobby had the kind of air you could only describe as processed. Recycled too many times. Smelled like paper, toner, and hope gone sour.

Emerald sat in a cracked plastic chair that kept squeaking every time she moved. The woman at the front desk hadn't looked up when she gave her name. Just handed her a clipboard like she was passing out jury duty.

"Fill this out. Sit tight."

Tight.

Yeah, she was already wound like piano wire.

The form wanted everything. Social. Phone. Employment history. Which for Emerald meant "CVS for two months and a babysitting gig that ended when the mom accused her of stealing Advil." She hesitated. Left it blank. Wrote "N/A" in the margins like it meant anything.

A TV above the reception desk played a looped video: cheerful animations about job training, resume tips, big toothy smiles of people shaking hands like they'd just won the lottery of stability.

Emerald stared at it with the deadest eyes she could manage.

Around her, the waiting room buzzed with the slow hum of defeat. A guy in a flannel jacket snored gently in the corner. A woman with a leopard-print headwrap argued with someone on speakerphone. Two teenagers whispered behind their hands, probably making fun of her hair.

Emerald pulled her hood up.

Everything here felt too loud and too quiet at the same time. The kind of place where time died in a stack of paperwork.

Eventually someone called her name.

Mispronounced it, of course.

She stood. Followed a woman with a badge that said KAYLA into a little beige room full of computers no one wanted to touch and a whiteboard with "SOFT SKILLS MATTER!" written in blue marker like it was a threat.

"Have you been on the site before?" Kayla asked.

"No."

"Okay, we'll make an account. You'll want to upload your resume--"

"I don't have one."

"That's okay. We can build one together."

Emerald wanted to scream.

Not because it was hard.

Because it was scripted.

Because this woman smiled like it was her job--which it was--and typed like Emerald wasn't there at all.

Like Emerald was just another checkbox with a pulse.

Her green eyes scanned the screen--email required, phone number required, desired position. She put "Cashier." Because apparently "Absolutely Nothing That Makes Me Want To Die" wasn't an option.

Kayla chirped something about workshops. Emerald nodded, dead-eyed.

Inside, she was sinking. Not drowning. Not flailing. Just... settling into the mud.

This was her life now.

A box of folders. A chair that squeaked. A smile that didn't reach anyone.

The funny part?

It was almost comforting.

The machine didn't care who she was. And that fit. That fit so fucking well it felt like proof. Like maybe she'd finally arrived at the one place that understood exactly what she was:

Replaceable.

Emerald sees her just when she's at her lowest--and it's like someone threw glitter on a crime scene.

Emerald was about to stand. Or scream. Or maybe cry into her hoodie sleeve and pretend it was allergies. The lady--Kayla--was still talking about upskilling opportunities and typing classes like Emerald gave a shit.

And then--

A snort from the back.

Emerald turned.

There she was.

Arden.

Redhead. Smirking. Sitting cross-legged at a computer with her boots up on the wiring box like this was her fucking dorm room. Big sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Sleeveless t-shirt with something profane on it in faded pink. Lip gloss too shiny for 10:30 a. m. She had the kind of look that made everyone glance twice and then pretend they hadn't.

She was filling out a job application like she was writing fanfic.

Emerald could see the screen from here--barely.

"Previous Employer: Gotham City Police Department."

"Title: Head of Vigilante Response Unit."

"Skills: Smoke bombs, psychological warfare, cunnilingus."

"Education: Two PhDs from somewhere I made up. Also Hogwarts."

She was grinning the whole time.

Typing with one hand. Other hand swirling a straw in a large Dunkin' iced coffee she'd absolutely brought in despite the NO FOOD OR DRINK sign taped to the door with raw civic desperation.

Kayla didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she was just choosing her battles.

Arden looked up--looked straight at Emerald--like she knew she'd been spotted.

Raised one brow. Tilted her head. Smiled.

It was a slow smile.

Predatory. Not unkind. Just... interested.

Like she'd smelled Emerald's self-loathing from across the room and found it charming.

Emerald froze.

Her hands went cold.

She looked down fast.

But not fast enough to miss the way Arden mouthed the words:

"Hi, baby."

Then blew a mock kiss.

Emerald flushed hot. Hated herself. Hated Arden. Hated how her whole body reacted. That little zing in her chest like someone had flicked her heart.

She turned back to the terminal. Kayla was talking about FAFSA now. Emerald couldn't even hear her.

She could still feel Arden's eyes on the back of her neck.

Still see that grin burning in her peripheral like a flare in the dark.

She wasn't getting a job today.

She was getting dragged back into hell with lip gloss and forged credentials.

Emerald tried to leave without looking like she was fleeing. Head down. Shoulders tight. Resume half-saved. Fuck it. Let the state figure out who she almost could've been.

The automatic doors took too long to open, like they knew she didn't belong outside yet. Like they wanted to keep her in the belly of the beast, stewing.

She risked a glance behind her.

Arden was gone.

The chair where she'd been lounging was empty, still spinning slightly. Coffee cup abandoned. Application screen blinking: "Do you wish to submit?"

Emerald's stomach flipped. Her pulse stuttered. That kind of dread-laced hope. Maybe she imagined her. Maybe Arden was just a projection--like every bad decision, personified and hot.

She turned back toward the door.

And there she was.

In front of her.

Like she'd been teleported in by horniness and spite.

Arden.

Close. Too close.

Leather jacket loose around her shoulders. Hair messy like she'd run here, but eyes calm. Too calm.

She tilted her head, eyes glinting, and said--

"Hey."

Like a knife sliding out of a drawer.

Emerald froze.

Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The world around her collapsed into Arden's smirk and the soft slap of her boots on linoleum and that voice--half-charmed, half-bored, and fully armed.

"I saw you watching me," Arden said, voice low like they were already sharing secrets. "Don't worry. It was cute."

Emerald's throat worked. Her feet refused to move. She was shaking and she hated it.

"I wasn't--"

"Sure, babe. You were filing your taxes with your eyes." Arden stepped closer, eyes scanning Emerald's face like she was taking inventory. "What'd you put down for deductions? My tits? My attitude?"

Emerald flushed, furious. With Arden. With herself.

"You're such a--"

"I know."

A wink. A shrug. Like it was all a performance and she'd already won.

"I was just leaving," Emerald said, brittle.

"You were. Now you're here. Funny, huh?"

Arden didn't touch her. Didn't need to. Her presence was a kind of pressure. Like gravity, if gravity wore eyeliner and knew how to make you beg without saying a word.

"Got a resume full of lies," Arden said, holding up the printout she'd stolen from the terminal. "Says I once fucked my way to middle management. You?"

Emerald didn't answer.

Couldn't.

And Arden leaned in, just enough for the scent of her--cigarettes and coffee and trouble--to ruin the rest of Emerald's day.

"I missed you, baby," she whispered.

And then she was gone.

Just walked out.

Like she hadn't just detonated something in Emerald's chest.

The doors finally slid open.

Emerald stepped into the sunlight feeling wrecked, small, and unbearably alive.

Emerald sat down hard on the edge of a planter outside the CareerLink building, the concrete still damp from last night's rain. Her knees were shaking. Her hands wouldn't stop.

She pulled out her phone like it might tether her back to reality.

It rang before she even unlocked it.

Carrie Delvecchio.

Of course.

She hesitated. Let it buzz twice. Three times.

Then answered.

"... Hey."

Pause.

Carrie said something loud. Something sharp. Emerald flinched like she'd been hit with a handful of gravel.

"No, I'm--"

A glance at the door.

"She's gone. I think."

More static. Like a possessed deli slicer ranting about pride flags and cologne.

"I did try," Emerald snapped, too fast. "I filled out the form and everything. They wanted to make me a password. Like I need one more thing to forget."

Pause.

"No, not that kind of password. Like--fuck, never mind."

Her voice cracked. She clamped her mouth shut. Took a breath.

Carrie kept going. Emerald stared at a pigeon tearing apart a crushed Dorito.

"No, I didn't get the job. It wasn't an interview. It was more like... a DMV if it hated you less. But still hated you."

Another pause. A car honked in the distance.

"I don't want a fucking hug. Stop saying that. You don't do hugs, Carrie. You do threats with mascara."

Carrie must've screeched something--Emerald winced, holding the phone away from her ear for a second before bringing it back.

"Thank you, okay? Jesus."

Her voice went small. Tight.

"I just... saw someone."

Long silence. Carrie must've gone quiet, or quieter. The weather shifted in Emerald's bones.

"No, not my mom. Worse."

She hunched forward, hoodie pulled tight around her ribs like armor. The phone heavy in her hand.

"Yeah," she whispered. "Her."

She didn't say Arden. She didn't have to.

"She looked like she always does. Like she eats people for fun. Like she knows exactly where I break and wants to press on it just to hear the sound."

Carrie said something then. Something long and rattling and furious. Emerald closed her eyes. Let it wash over her.

"... I know you'd kill her. I know," she said softly. "But you don't have to."

Beat.

"No. 'Cause she already did."

And then--

Carrie said something that made Emerald laugh. Sharp. Real. Too real.

"I hate you," she said, grinning through her tears. "I really fucking do."

She hung up before Carrie could say anything else.

Let the silence press back in. Let the city take her again.

The sun was too bright.

She still smelled like Arden's perfume.

CARRIE

"So lemme tell you 'bout the time I almost threw Arden's bony ass through the front window of LaScala's. No, not the nice one up on Broad--the little jawn down near Passyunk, the one with the fake-ass brick oven and the waitress who always looks like she's listenin' to true crime in her headphones. That one."

We were out. Me, Valeria, that idiot Frankie from 9th Street, and--of course--Arden. I didn't invite her. She just shows up, like roaches or street fairs. Girl's like a bad dream in human form. You know the type--too much eyeliner, teeth like she got somethin' to prove, voice like she been practicin' drag insults in the mirror since puberty.

What? Zach was workin'. Or sleepin' I don't know. Don't matter.

Arden comes in wearin' this fuckin' top, right? Like it's made of dental floss and audacity. Sits down next to me like we're tight.

We are not tight.

"Hey, baby," she says. Like that. Like we got a thing.

I look her dead in the face and go, "I'm not your baby. I'm your fuckin' warning label."

She laughs. Like I'm flirtin'. Like she can win this.

Then she starts doin' what she does. Talkin' slick. Reachin' for my fries like we got shared custody. Puttin' her hand on Valeria's leg, tryin' to be cute. Val's givin' her that nervous laugh--you know the one. And I'm watchin'. Smilin'. Waitin'.

And then this bitch says--

"You ever think Carrie's just mad 'cause she's not the hottest bitch in the room no more?"

Out loud.

In front of people.

I stood up so fast the table shook. Knocked over Val's Diet Coke. Frankie dropped his slice like it was a fuckin' hostage situation.

And I said, "Say that again."

Calm. Real fuckin' calm. Scarier that way.

She smirks. Of course she does. "What, I hurt your ego?"

"Nah," I say. "You hurt your chances of walkin' outta here with teeth."

That's when I grabbed her by the front of that stupid top. Real gentle. Like I was straightenin' her collar for church. But I leaned in--real close--and said, "You ever touch my girl again, I'm gonna turn this whole jawn into a fuckin' crime scene. Capisce?"

And she--this fuckin' gremlin--she moans.

Like she's into it.

I swear to God.

Val's pullin' me back, beggin' me not to get banned again, and Frankie's hidin' behind a menu like that's gonna stop me. I let go. Tossed her back in her seat. Said "Keep lookin' at me like that and I will upgrade your dental plan, bitch."

We left. I didn't pay. Still banned.

But next time I saw her?

She winked at me.

Winked.

So yeah. That's Arden. That's that jawn. She's a problem. A hot one, sure. But she's the kinda hot where if you stare too long, your life catches fire and your ex calls you cryin'. You wanna fuck her or kill her and sometimes it's the same thing.

Which is why I keep my distance now.

I see her comin', I walk the other fuckin' way.

Or I cross the street and hold my earrings.

Depends on the mood.

VALERIA

"Okay, so--let me just say something, because Carrie always tells this story like it was some telenovela and she's the star. And look, I love her. I do. But that night? That jawn? It was not cute."

We were at LaScala's. The one by the laundromat, not the one where they bring you your food on little wooden boards like you're a raccoon with a trust fund. It was supposed to be chill. We'd just gotten off shift. I wanted pizza. I wanted peace.

Instead we got Arden.

She walked in like she was auditioning to be the devil's girlfriend. That smile? Too big. That top? No fabric. Like... I've seen napkins with more moral restraint.

And she sits down like it's her table. Doesn't even ask. Just flops right in, like she's part of the group. Calls Carrie "baby." Like she's trying to die.

And then--and this is the part nobody ever talks about--she puts her hand on my leg.

Mi pierna. My leg. Like that.

Not casual. Not friendly. Like she was petting me.

I froze.

I don't like girls. Never have. Not like that. I'm not confused. I'm not curious. I'm not closeted. I'm not into women. And I sure as hell am not into Arden, that walking red flag with contour.

So I look at her and say, "Perdón. What do you think you're doing?"

And she just smiles at me. Like I'm the punchline.

Carrie sees it. Of course she does. She's been watching the whole thing like a hawk with gel nails. She stands up like she's about to lay hands.

And Arden?

She leans back and says, "Relax. I'm just saying hi."

With her hand still on my thigh.

Carrie grabs her. Drama. Diet Coke all over the table. I get soaked. My jeans smell like Splenda and regret. Frankie looks like he's about to call the cops on all of us.

Carrie's yelling. Arden's laughing. I'm just sitting there like--¿Qué carajo está pasando aquí? Like is this my life now? Getting flirted with by chaos goblins and dodging fists over garlic knots?

Eventually we leave. Arden blows me a kiss. I swear I could feel it on my cheek like static.

Carrie keeps saying I should've punched her. I keep saying she should've let me finish my pizza.

I never went back to that place. Not 'cause I'm scared. Just... some energies you don't invite twice. And Arden? That girl walks into a room like it owes her a fuck.

Yo no soy así.

I like my men dumb and reliable.

Not shiny and possessed.

ARDEN

"Oh, that night? God. Yeah. LaScala's. Wild time. I was wearing that little velvet number--you know the one, with the dragon embroidery that got me banned from two synagogues and a Best Buy. It was raining. Obviously. Has to be, for dramatic tension."

Carrie invited me.

She'll deny it. She's been denying it since the Nixon administration. But she texted me. Said: "Bring that mouth and don't be late." I assumed she meant conversation.

So I show up, right? Wind in my hair. Lip gloss poppin'. I slide into the booth, and everyone's already drunk. I'm talkin' Valeria's singing Shakira levels of drunk. Carrie's got marinara on her cleavage and a look in her eye like she's about to propose or stab someone. Maybe both.

And immediately, they start in on me. All of them. Questions like, "Why are you like this?" and "Do you ever shut up?" which, frankly, are rude but fair.

Now, Valeria--sweet girl, confused soul--she starts flirtin'. Real subtle, like kicking me under the table and sayin' "Oops." That kinda Catholic-school denial. I wasn't gonna go there. I respect boundaries. I'm practically a nun. But she grabbed my hand, said something about wanting to know what my aura felt like. I was like, babe, your aura's horny and Catholic. I can't fix that for you.

And Carrie? Carrie got jealous.

Threw a breadstick at me. Deadass. A whole breadstick. Like we were in a fuckin' sitcom. Missed, thank God--bad form. Then she lunges across the table, grabs my shirt, and screams, "YOU'RE RUINING EVERYTHING!"

I said, "Baby, I haven't even started yet."

She's got me halfway up like she's gonna drag me through the window, which--honestly? Kinda hot. I was flattered. But I also had garlic knots in my mouth, so I was trying to chew and not die.

Eventually Frankie--poor boy, always sweaty--starts cryin' or prayin' or both, and Valeria's yellin' "Carrie, no matas a nadie hoy, por favor," and I'm just sittin' there like: is this foreplay or a felony? Because with Carrie it's always a bit of both.

Anyway, they kicked us out. I signed someone's cast on the way out, told the hostess she looked like God.

She cried.

Whole night was beautiful.

Ten outta ten. Would do again.

EMERALD

"Whatever."

The Wawa at 22nd and South Street always felt too bright.

Emerald pushed through the door, bell jingling like it was mocking her. The cold air hit her face, sharp and artificial. Her hoodie sleeves were soaked at the cuffs from the drizzle. She looked like a stray. Felt like one too.

She didn't want food, not really. But hunger had become a vague suggestion in her body--something that flared and faded depending on whether she was humiliated or bored.

She wandered toward the touchscreen, stared at it like it might offer answers instead of options.

She tapped "Hoagies."

Tapped back.

Tapped again.

Too many choices.

Bread, meat, cheese, extras. It felt like a test she hadn't studied for.

Behind the counter, Gianna leaned on her elbows, long brown hair swept into a high, messy ponytail, the kind that said I didn't try but still looked like a commercial. Her apron was smudged with mustard and something green, her nails glossy pink and far too nice for sandwich work.

She was gorgeous. Bare-faced, unbothered. Seemed like she didn't know it. Or maybe she did, and just didn't think it mattered.

Gianna yawned. Looked up.

"Hey, you okay?"

Emerald blinked. The screen still glowed in front of her like an interrogation lamp.

"I... dunno," she muttered. "I was gonna get something. I think. I just don't-- I don't know."

Gianna tilted her head. Not judging. Just watching. Like she was trying to solve a puzzle with too many blank pieces.

Emerald backed away from the screen. "Sorry. I'll go. I'm just--"

"No, don't."

Gianna straightened up. "You want a sandwich, yeah?"

Emerald nodded, sort of. It looked like a nod. Felt more like surrender.

"Cool." Gianna pulled on a pair of gloves with the snap of someone who's done this ten thousand times and would do it ten thousand more. "I got you."

She grabbed a roll. Threw down paper. Didn't ask.

"Turkey," she said like a verdict. "Lettuce, tomato, provolone. Mayo. Little bit of oil. Nothing fancy, but it won't piss you off."

Emerald watched her work. Hands fast. Efficient. Not flirty, not fake. Just... calm.

"Sometimes," Gianna added, glancing up with the ghost of a smile, "you gotta let someone else decide."

Emerald swallowed. Said nothing.

Gianna wrapped the hoagie, slapped a label on it, and passed it over the counter like a peace offering.

"Here. Go sit. Eat it slow. World ain't gonna stop for you, but this jawn might help you keep up."

Emerald took it.

Mumbled, "Thanks."

She sat near the coffee station. Didn't eat at first. Just held the sandwich like something sacred and breakable.

She didn't know Gianna's name.

Didn't know that in ninety-six minutes, Bridgette would walk through the door in boots and a physics department hoodie and change Gianna's whole life.

Right now, none of that had happened.

Right now, it was just Emerald, a hoagie, and the soft echo of kindness she didn't feel like she deserved.

Emerald woke up with her head split open across three axes--regret, dehydration, and whatever the fuck Arden's voice had done to her spine. Her pillow was twisted. Her mouth tasted like nothing. Her hoodie was still on.

Sunlight spilled across the floor like it was trying to shame her. Warm, sharp-edged, too clean for this room. It slipped through the cracked blinds and lit up the dust like guilt in the air.

She blinked toward the window.

Squinted.

Outside, the alley behind the row houses was alive with noise--cats, snarling, hissing, fighting like lovers who didn't know when to quit. One of them let out a scream like it had been cursed.

She didn't even flinch.

Downstairs, the frying pan sizzled.

And then she heard it--

"Bring It On Home to Me."

Arvin's voice rising in harmony with Sam Cooke, floating up the hallway like soul music was a Sunday rite and burnt bacon was holy incense. His voice was raw in the mornings. Too early for finesse. But he meant it. Belting the high parts like the whole neighborhood owed him applause.

"If you ever, change your mind--"

Emerald lay there, still. Head throbbing. Chest hollow. That voice cracked something inside her. Not a big crack. Not even bleeding. Just a thin fracture under the ribs that felt like memory.

Arvin didn't know she was awake.

That mattered.

The music drifted on--wounded, hopeful, true. Sam's voice was like molasses and fire. Arvin's was sharp, real, dad. And for a second--just one second--Emerald let herself feel like someone who hadn't fucked everything up.

And then it passed.

Just like everything else.

She dragged herself down the stairs like every step owed her something and refused to pay. Hoodie still on. Hair sticking out of the hood like a broken apology. She didn't make noise. Didn't need to. Arvin always knew when she was up.

He was standing at the stove in his sleeveless undershirt, spatula in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other, swaying in time with the music still humming low from the Bluetooth speaker on the counter. Sam Cooke was down to a whisper now, just the ghosts of strings and that velvet ache in his voice.

Without turning around, Arvin said:

"You eatin' today, or you just gonna sulk and rot?"

Emerald stared at the back of his neck. The curve of his shoulders. The old scar near his shoulder blade she used to think looked like Africa. His voice didn't sound angry. Not really. Just tired. Like he'd been pushing the same rock up the same hill since she turned sixteen and quit smiling.

"I'll eat," she said, voice low.

He didn't respond. Just plated two eggs and half a slice of turkey bacon and slid it onto the table like a peace treaty he didn't expect her to sign.

She sat. Hoodie sleeves down past her wrists. Picked up the fork.

The first bite was rubbery, but warm. The salt hit her empty stomach like it had been waiting. She didn't speak. Didn't look up.

Arvin leaned on the counter and watched her. Not in that hovering way. Just... checking. Like maybe today was the day she wouldn't vanish halfway through the plate.

"You want toast?" he asked.

Emerald shook her head.

He nodded. Took a sip of his coffee.

They sat like that--two islands sharing weather.

And in the silence between them, Sam sang:

"I know I laughed when you left..."

Arvin hummed the rest. Emerald chewed.

And for once, she didn't get up before the song ended.

Emerald didn't finish the eggs.

But she ate most of them. That counted.

She stared at her fork for a long time before she said it, voice almost too low to register.

"Was Mom ever like this?"

Arvin paused, still holding his mug like a barrier. He didn't ask her to repeat it. Didn't need to. Just leaned back a little and exhaled slow, like the air had weight.

"At first I was gonna say no," he said. "Margaret was different. She knew who she was from the jump. Walked like it. Talked like it. Always had a book in her hand and something smart to say, and if you didn't like that, she'd cut you down so clean you'd thank her for the stitches."

He smiled, faint, worn in the corners.

"But yeah," he added. "She had her moments. She'd go quiet for a week sometimes. Pull into herself like she was writin' her own obituary in her head and just forgot to tell anybody. Look out the window like the world owed her something and was late deliverin'."

Emerald looked up, just a little.

"I could get her out of it, though," Arvin said. "I had that trick, back then."

He ran his thumb along the rim of the mug.

"Met her in England. Greenham Common. 1988. I was a Senior Airman on the GLCM shutdown team. Ground Launched Cruise Missiles. We were drawin' down the nuke inventory under the INF Treaty--Reagan, Gorbachev, all that."

He said INF Treaty like it should carry weight, like it still meant something.

"We had to inventory every damn system. Tag it, de-fuel it, and watch it get crated like it was goin' to the Smithsonian. They brought in Brits for the coordination--she was civilian liaison. Spoke three languages, wore these big-ass glasses, talked faster than I could think."

He smiled again, fuller this time. It made him look younger. Briefly.

"She said I looked like I'd never met a woman who didn't want to be impressed by my uniform. I told her I could cook a perfect omelet in a helmet if the barracks stove was busted. She said that was the dumbest sentence she'd ever heard and made me prove it."

Emerald blinked. "Could you?"

"Damn right I could." He pointed at her plate. "Better than that mess you just ate, too."

She almost smiled. Didn't quite. But the corner of her mouth moved.

Arvin sighed, sat down across from her.

"We didn't get married till '98. She had plans. Wouldn't let me derail 'em. Said I'd be there if I was worth waitin' for."

He looked at the wall for a long second. Then back at her.

"You came along in '05. Last good thing we made together."

Emerald looked away.

Arvin saw it. Didn't press.

"She wasn't you," he said. "But she had that same look sometimes. Like bein' alive was somethin' she had to remember how to do. I just--"

He stopped. Shrugged. "I knew the password, back then. That's all."

Emerald didn't say anything. Just nodded.

Not like she agreed. Just... heard him.

The cats were quiet now.

Sam Cooke had faded into silence. The house was still.

And for once, that stillness didn't feel like something breaking.

Emerald didn't say it out loud.

Just thought it.

"I think I need someone who knows the password, too."

And that scared the shit out of her.

Because wanting that?

That's the first step toward being disappointed again.

So she didn't think it.

Not really.

She got up. Went upstairs. Opened her bedroom door and faced the mess like it owed her something.

The room smelled like dust and hoodie funk and the ghosts of every night she didn't brush her teeth. Clothes in heaps. Crumpled notebooks on the floor like aborted ideas. A cracked compact mirror on the windowsill. A sock under her pillow for reasons she could no longer explain.

She stood there, arms crossed, sleeves pulled down over her hands like maybe they'd keep her safe.

And then she started.

Not with any plan.

Just one sock.

Then a sweatshirt.

Then the trash.

She didn't hum. Didn't blast music. Didn't romanticize it.

She just cleaned. Like maybe if she wiped down the dresser hard enough, she could erase that version of herself--the one that keeps going back to people like Arden, keeps watching girls like Ramona walk away with other girls. The one who keeps sulking and rotting.

The more she cleaned, the weirder the room felt.

Like it was holding its breath.

Under the bed she found a bobby pin she didn't recognize. A pen that didn't work. A Polaroid she thought she'd thrown away--her and that girl from the summer camp job, half-smiling, half-daring each other. She shoved it into the drawer without looking again.

The shadows in the corners looked deeper now. Like maybe they'd been growing while she wasn't paying attention.

The room knew her. That was the worst part.

It had watched her fail and cry and touch herself and say she wouldn't and then do it again anyway.

It remembered every version of her.

And still she stayed.

Still she cleaned.

She sat on the edge of the bed when she was done, chest tight, palms open in her lap like she didn't know what to do with the absence of filth.

And that thought crept back in.

"I think I need someone who knows the password."

But she didn't say it.

Didn't whisper it.

Just folded her hands.

And tried to feel okay.

Emerald was lying on her back.

Shoes still on. Hoodie half off. Room freshly cleaned and suddenly too silent, like the walls were listening for something.

Her phone buzzed.

She didn't look.

Buzz.

Then again.

Buzz. Buzz.

She reached over, thumb hovering. Thought about muting it. Thought about turning it off. Thought about throwing it into the laundry pile and letting it die there.

But she looked.

Of course she looked.

ARDEN:

hey trouble

ARDEN:

miss me yet?

She exhaled.

Rolled her eyes.

Didn't reply.

ARDEN:

u looked good yesterday. sad suits u. not even bein mean.

ARDEN:

that hoodie? top tier depression couture. 10/10 would ruin again

Emerald set the phone down on her chest.

Stared at the ceiling.

Tried not to feel anything.

It buzzed again.

ARDEN:

U still got that little breathy laugh. u did it when u looked at me. thought u should know.

Emerald's throat tightened.

She turned the phone over so the screen faced the mattress.

She wasn't going to reply.

She wasn't going to reply.

She just--

Picked it up again.

Opened the thread.

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Paused.

EMERALD (unsent):

Stop.

She locked the screen.

Threw the phone across the bed like it might bite.

Lay back.

Waited.

Buzz.

She didn't move.

Didn't check.

But her breath hitched--just slightly--and she hated herself for it.

Because Arden knew the password, too.

Or something close.

Or something worse.

The bathroom was warm from steam by the time she pulled the hoodie off.

She stood in front of the mirror, not looking at her face. Not yet.

The shirt underneath clung in places it shouldn't. She peeled it away, tossed it into the hamper like a surrender flag.

The air kissed her skin.

Under all the slouch and fabric, Emerald was hot in a way she didn't know how to own. Curvy in that unexpected, knock-you-back kind of way--hips too round for thrift store jeans, tits soft and full and always hiding under some oversized layer of shame. Her skin was a map of inherited light and shadow--freckled in delicate bursts across her shoulders, her chest, the slopes of her thighs. That particular constellation some biracial women get, like melanin had painted her by starlight and then changed its mind halfway through.

She stepped into the shower.

The water hit her like confession--hot, honest, too much.

She didn't cry.

She didn't moan like in the fantasy.

She just stood there, letting the heat soften the places where she'd been bracing for too long.

For once, she picked up the razor.

Propped one leg on the ledge like a girl in a commercial.

Shaved slow. Careful.

Not for anyone. Not for Arden. Not even for the hope of touch.

Just because it felt right.

Because she wanted to remember what smooth skin felt like under her own hand.

She toweled off slow.

Looked at herself in the mirror. This time, just long enough to believe she might still be real. Still whole. Still worthy of being touched gently.

Her curls were damp and wild. Her eyes were too green. Her mouth was soft in that dangerous, kiss-me-or-hurt-me kind of way. A contradiction that Arden would've fed off of.

But this moment?

This wasn't for Arden.

This was just Emerald.

Clean. Warm.

Not fixed.

But possible.

She stood in the middle of the room, towel around her like a truce flag. Steam curling from the hall. The bed was a mess. Her phone buzzed again--ignored.

She opened the closet.

Usual suspects: oversized sweatshirts, worn leggings, the hoodie with the bleach stain she always said was "just for laundry day."

But behind them--folded, pressed between silence and cobwebs--were the jeans.

The tight ones.

Low-rise, dark denim, slightly cursed, probably from someone else's better year. She pulled them out. Held them up. They still smelled like closet. Like the past.

And behind them?

A blouse.

Not hers.

Margaret's.

Faint print of flowers in dusty pink and green, shoulder pads barely visible, buttons like tiny pearls. 1990s department store chic. It still had a whisper of perfume in it--something dry and elegant.

Emerald put it on.

It fit.

Not perfectly, not like it had been made for her. But well. It hugged in the right places. The jeans slid up her hips with a fight, but they closed. The mirror didn't lie this time.

She looked... good.

Not styled. Not polished.

Just clean. Sharp. Like someone who remembered what it felt like to want to be seen.

Somewhere in the room, near the baseboard or the ceiling vent or the fold of shadow behind the dresser, Akrios, Minor Godling of Unspoken Regret, rolled his eyes so hard the drywall cracked.

"Fuck's sake," he muttered, voice like static and damp velvet.

Emerald didn't hear him.

He stood there--gaunt, grumpy, draped in a shawl made from lost texts and drunk-dialed voicemails. Watched her button the blouse with trembling fingers and a set jaw.

She wasn't crying.

That pissed him off more.

"You'll be back," he growled. Not to her. Just to the room. To the feeling. To him. "They always come back."

She turned. Tossed her towel onto the bed. Reached for her earrings.

Akrios sighed, flared, and vanished in a puff of moths and cheap red wine.

The room was quiet.

The girl in the mirror stood a little taller.

And Emerald?

Emerald smirked.

Not for anyone.

Just for herself.

The sun was sharp off the windshields, heat rippling off the asphalt like the whole block was exhaling.

Emerald crossed the street at 9th and Tasker, head high, legs tight in those jeans, blouse fluttering just enough to catch attention without begging for it. Her hair still damp, curls springing up like she hadn't given up. Like she might actually be going somewhere.

She didn't even see them at first.

But Ramona saw her.

Mid-step. Middle of the crosswalk. One sandal hanging off the heel, iced coffee sweating in her hand.

She stopped. Just stopped.

Mouth half-open.

Eyes wide.

Like she'd just spotted a comet, or a crime, or the answer to a question she hadn't dared ask.

Squirrel saw it all from the curb, where she'd been tying her sneaker with one foot up on a fire hydrant like a punk Rockette.

She followed Ramona's gaze.

Clocked Emerald.

Then, without missing a beat, said loud enough for traffic to hear:

"Wanna get away?"

-- just like the Southwest jingle. Perfect.

Ramona flinched.

A horn blared.

She yelped, coffee sloshing, and sprinted the rest of the way across the street like she'd been caught cheating on a vibe.

Squirrel cackled, half-running after her. "You need a towel? You need a moment? You need Jesus?"

Emerald kept walking.

Didn't smile.

Didn't look back.

But the corner of her mouth twitched--just enough.

And in Ramona's chest, something fluttered, panicked, shifted.

And then--Calderone's guys. And everything sharpens.

South Street was humming.

Skate wheels rattling. A saxophone echoing faintly from a third-floor window. Neon signs flickering like they were too old to lie anymore.

Emerald passed the CVS with her head up, her walk steadier than usual. Didn't stop in. Didn't check who was on shift. She wasn't that version of herself right now.

Two blocks down--

Arden was doing something she absolutely shouldn't.

She stood at the open back of a dented, rust-patina'd delivery truck, unloading boxes labeled "KITCHEN APPLIANCES" in marker that looked drunk. Inside: stacks of DVRs, still shrink-wrapped, clearly stolen, probably already sold three times over. Her arms were bare, smudged with dust and sweat and trouble. Her jeans were black and too tight and falling off her ass just enough to be strategic.

The Chevy Nova sat half on the sidewalk, sky blue and loud as sin, engine clicking in the heat.

Arden worked with rhythm. Humming something bluesy, hair tied up in a red bandana, like a fucking pin-up if the pin-up also carried a switchblade and no shame.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

Three men. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Gold chains, too much cologne, voices like sandpaper and spit. Calderone's guys. Not important enough to have names, but stupid enough to think they mattered.

One of them whistled.

"Damn, girl. You boostin' or modelin'?"

"Where's the runway? That ass deserves an audience."

"She got that hot-convicted-energy. I like a woman who knows how to keep her mouth shut unless I ask."

Arden didn't flinch.

She set a box down slow, turned to them like she was answering a knock on her own front door.

Raised one eyebrow. Just one.

"You fellas lost?"

They grinned wider. The one with the square-cut goatee stepped forward. "Nah, we're just admiring the civic-minded redistribution of property. Community service, right?"

Arden smiled. Full teeth. Predator-pretty.

"Here's the thing," she said, stepping close enough to count his nose hairs. "If you're gonna make jokes about my ass, try not to do it with your dad's dick energy, cool? You sound like retirement home creeps on furlough."

His grin faltered.

She didn't stop.

"You see a woman working and think, hey, maybe if I'm gross enough, I'll get some attention. But all you got was a reality check, baby. And that reality is--"

She leaned in.

Whispered it.

"You're not scary. You're not sexy. And you sure as fuck aren't interesting."

He blinked. Took a step back.

Another guy laughed, nervous. "Shit, she's mouthy."

Arden tilted her head. "You wanna see what else I can do with my mouth?"

A pause. Loaded. Dangerous.

She cracked her knuckles.

"Didn't think so."

They walked off. Not fast. But not slow, either.

Arden spat in the street. Wiped her hands on her jeans. Picked up another box like nothing happened.

The city kept moving.

And down the block, Emerald was still walking.

Didn't know Arden was there.

Didn't know she'd just taken back the sidewalk with nothing but words and nerve.

But she'd feel it.

Somewhere in the air.

Like heat rising.

She was loading the last box into the Nova when she saw her.

Emerald.

Across the street.

Moving different.

Tight jeans. Old blouse. Hair still damp like she'd just rinsed off everything that had ever made her weak. Shoulders square. Eyes ahead. Not a trace of collapse in her spine.

And fuck.

Arden froze, hand on the trunk, watching her like prey that had suddenly grown wings.

That was new.

That was... hot.

A grin curled onto her face--slow, crooked, certain.

She popped the trunk shut.

Cut the ignition.

Locked the Nova.

And then--she ran.

Right into traffic.

A car honked. A delivery guy cursed. A bike messenger yelled, "YO--WATCH IT!"

Arden didn't flinch.

Didn't stop.

She leapt over a parking meter like she was born in a chase scene, boots hitting sidewalk with a slap of momentum and mission. People turned. One guy dropped his smoothie. A toddler pointed.

Emerald hadn't seen her yet.

Was still walking. Still calm.

Arden caught up just as Emerald stepped past a mural on 10th.

Grabbed her elbow--not hard, just enough to feel the heat of her.

"Hey."

Breathless. Bright-eyed.

Voice low and wicked.

Emerald spun. Eyes wide. Not scared. Not surprised.

Just--caught.

Arden didn't wait.

Didn't flirt.

Didn't circle.

Just said, quiet and sharp:

"Come with me. Today's the day."

Emerald blinked.

Tensed.

Looked her up and down like she didn't know whether to slap her or follow her.

Arden leaned in.

Her mouth so close to Emerald's ear it was a sin.

"I'm done pretending I don't want you."

She's not scared of Arden--not really. She's scared of the clarity. The brutal, unbearable clarity of being seen, wanted, chosen now, directly, completely--no fantasy, no filters, no safe distance. That's what shakes her. Because when you've built your whole self around being invisible or ignored or used up gently, being genuinely wanted is a fucking knife.

And Arden? Arden doesn't wait for hesitation. She devours it.

Emerald froze.

Arden's breath was on her neck, her hand still on her arm, fingers warm and certain. Not grabbing. Just... there. A tether.

And the words were still echoing:

"Come with me. Today's the day."

"I'm done pretending I don't want you."

Something broke loose in Emerald's chest--something quiet and deep and awful.

Not fear.

Not lust.

Just terror. The kind that says: What if she means it?

She stared at Arden. Really stared.

Red hair messy in the right places. Collarbone sharp. Smile slightly uneven like it had done damage. No makeup, no mask, no mystery. Just Arden, looking at her like she was already hers.

And for a breath--a blink--Emerald wanted to say yes.

She wanted to fall into the heat and teeth of it.

She wanted to be taken.

But her feet wouldn't move.

Her heart wouldn't fucking shut up.

Because she wasn't built for this.

She was built for longing. For fantasy. For fucking from a distance.

And Arden? Arden was real.

"I..." she said, and her voice cracked. "I can't--"

Arden's eyes sharpened. The grin faded.

"You're hesitating," she said, almost softly. But there was something dangerous underneath. Not angry. Just hurt pride sharpening into cruelty.

"Don't do that."

Emerald opened her mouth.

"I'm not him," Arden said suddenly. "Or her. Or whoever taught you to flinch when someone wants you like this."

Emerald looked down. Shame flushed her throat, hot and helpless.

But Arden had already pulled back.

A step. Two.

Then she laughed. Just once. Dry.

"Fuck," she muttered. "I should've known."

She turned. Sharp. Walked fast. Gone in seconds.

Emerald stood on the sidewalk like someone had slapped her soul and then apologized for it. The air felt too bright. Her knees didn't work.

A woman pushing a stroller brushed past, muttered something about blocking the path.

Emerald stayed where she was.

Heart still sprinting.

Body still wanting.

But the moment--the chance--that was already fading down the street.

Akrios, in a coffee shop on Mars, spat out his latte in delight.