Viridis Lucet

This takes place after Simone's Week.

PHL Terminal A. 11:17 a. m.

Arden's boots hit the floor like the airport owed her money.

She walked like a problem looking for a narrative--aviators on, bag slung low, no plan, no real idea where her charger was, and still reeking of whatever cologne Simone had worn when she said "And I don't leave people waiting anymore." at Whole Foods.

The plane ride had been short, mean, full of static and a seatmate who'd tried to convert her with a pamphlet about Jesus and long denim skirts.

Now Philly air hit her lungs like a slap. Damp. Familiar. Full of exhaust and pigeons and half-remembered regret.

She paused at the SEPTA kiosk. Not for a ticket. Just to stare at her reflection in the plexiglass.

Still hot.

Still her.

Still fucked.

"Gods," she muttered, raking her fingers through her hair. "I'm a fucking cliché."

And then--out loud, to no one--

"Don't say it. Don't say her name."

She said it anyway.

"Emerald."

The word tasted like wine gone warm. Like a bandage she didn't remember wrapping.

She shouldn't want to see her.

Shouldn't need to.

But Emerald didn't say shit like "You scare me emotionally." She didn't close the door mid-cry. She didn't smell like eucalyptus and moral superiority.

Emerald was safe. Dangerous. Pathetic. Real.

Emerald wanted her. Needed her. Arden was sure of it.

Could be folded in half with a word and stay pressed flat just to be near Arden's fucking gravity.

That was better than love. That was control.

And Arden was tired of losing.

Her phone buzzed--Quinn, probably. Or Carolyn. Or chaos in another area code. She didn't check it.

Instead, she boarded the Airport Line train like she'd just made a decision she didn't believe in yet.

Because here's the secret:

Arden almost grows here.

She almost says, Maybe I need something gentler. Maybe I need to be wanted in a way that doesn't look like conquest.

She almost cries. Almost texts Simone thank you and you were right.

Almost.

Then she looks out the window, sees the skyline inching closer, and scoffs.

"Nah," she says. "Fuck that."

And somewhere across the city, on an altogether different bus, Emerald's breath catches. Not because she knows. But because some part of her--the part that still remembers Arden's voice in her ear like gospel--feels it.

The shape of her day just changed.

Again.

Toward the front of the altogether different bus, just behind the driver's booth, a girl sat so still she seemed sculpted there--dark-haired, blue-eyed, hands folded in her lap like the world owed her reverence and hadn't delivered yet.

Her name was Margeaux.

You wouldn't notice her right away. Not unless you were looking for silence. The kind of silence that hums like power before a storm. She wore layers like secrets--soft gray sweater, worn velvet skirt, boots that didn't make a sound even when she stomped.

Her lips moved.

Just a whisper. Just a breath.

"Viridis... lucet..."

The traffic light up ahead flicked from red to green half a second early.

No one noticed.

Not really.

The driver muttered something about lucky timing. A biker cursed and pedaled harder.

Margeaux exhaled.

"Motus sine impedimentum."

The next intersection obeyed.

Every time she rode this route, the bus ran smooth. Lights greening ahead of schedule, congestion parting like someone nudged reality sideways. Just a little. Just enough.

She wasn't trying to impress. Wasn't trying to be seen.

A proper wizard doesn't perform. She simply exists.

Margeaux didn't need a wand or a staff or a lineage chart pinned to her chest. Her bloodline ran back to the First Veil, through treaties carved into stone beneath rivers that don't exist anymore.

She whispered old spells the way some girls hummed Taylor Swift.

And Philadelphia listened.

The engine hummed lower as the bus coasted through another intersection, easy as breath.

She glanced around once--met Emerald's gaze for half a second--and smiled. Not warm. Not unkind. Just knowing.

Then turned her eyes back to the front. Whispered again.

"Lux... transitum."

And the city moved for her.

Just a little.

Just enough.

Emerald's mind wandered, not from some spell, but from regret.

A fuckin' flashback.

Philadelphia, Summer 2023

Emerald was eighteen.

Grief clung to her like sweat. It was in her breath, her clothes, her fuckin' shoes. Everything felt too loud, too bright. Her mother's perfume still haunted the hallway. Sometimes she heard her voice in the sink pipes. She didn't cry in public. She didn't cry at all.

She just... wandered.

Until Arden found her.

They'd met a few weeks before. Mutual friends. A rooftop party. Arden had been the loudest girl at the affair, hair the color of fire alarms, laughing like she wanted to be arrested for it. She wore eyeliner like a dare and drank tequila like a priest guzzling expired holy water.

Emerald had stared. Arden had noticed.

And now, here they were.

The apartment smelled like incense and leftover pad thai. Vinyls leaned against the wall like lazy memories. She lit a candle with a match from a bar she couldn't remember getting kicked out of. "You look like a cathedral," Arden said, half-joking. "And I'm feeling blasphemous."

Emerald didn't laugh.

She didn't say anything.

She just took off her hoodie.

Arden stepped in close.

"You okay?" she asked.

Emerald nodded. Lied.

Arden didn't press.

She kissed her instead.

It was slow at first.

Not in the way some people say "slow" to mean boring or tender or careful. It was slow like smoke--intentional, creeping, designed to fill the empty spaces before you noticed they were hollow.

Arden knew how to read a pulse. Knew when to touch and when to hover, when to bite and when to hush. She kissed like she'd been dared to, tongue just a little too greedy, hands just a little too reverent. Not possessive. Hungry. Like she thought she could fuck the sadness out of a girl if she tried hard enough. Maybe she believed it.

Emerald didn't move much at first. Let herself be touched. Let Arden take the lead, because agency felt like a hat she couldn't find in the dark. Her mother was still gone--a freshly packed absence. Emerald hadn't been able to feel anything in weeks, not even grief, not even hunger, just a background hum of wrong. But when Arden's hand slipped under her waistband, heat bloomed behind her ribs like something was trying to grow there again.

Arden undressed her like she was unfolding a letter she'd been dying to read. Carefully. Curiously. With those long, nimble fingers that always looked like they belonged to a magician or a pickpocket. Her shirt was gone, then her jeans, then the plain black bra that still smelled like the detergent her mom used. Emerald flinched when it hit the floor. Arden noticed. Paused.

"You're okay," she murmured.

Soft. Not condescending.

Like a priest, if the priest smelled like cloves and heartbreak.

Then her mouth was everywhere. Hot. Confident. Kissing down Emerald's stomach, biting at her hip, murmuring something filthy that made Emerald twitch hard enough to knock her knee against the wall. Arden laughed. Kissed her knee. "Sensitive. That's hot."

Emerald's breath came in short, controlled gasps--like she was scared she might sob if she let go. And Arden knew. She didn't say anything, didn't ask, just kept kissing her thighs like worship. Slow. Warm. Patient.

Then--

"You're not broken, baby," Arden whispered, mouth pressed just beside where Emerald ached. "You're just open."

And somehow, that cracked something.

Not in a way that hurt.

In a way that spilled.

Emerald came fast and hard, shaking, eyes open wide like she was seeing stars on a ceiling that couldn't possibly hold them. Her legs trembled around Arden's shoulders, her hands clawed at the sheets, and for a moment, she wasn't drowning anymore. She was moaning. She was there.

And she was crying.

Not from pain. Not quite.

The kind of crying that leaks out because your body finally gave you permission to feel.

Arden stood at the foot of the bed like she'd just kicked in the door of heaven and lit a cigarette in the vestibule.

She peeled her shirt off without ceremony--tight black cotton that stuck to her ribs in the summer heat. Her bra was mismatched, plum lace under a punk band tank, and when that came off too, Emerald forgot how to think. Her tits were fucking perfect. Not fantasy-perfect, not airbrushed bullshit. Real. Big and natural and high enough to defy reason, tipped with dark nipples that looked like they'd been kissed hard more than once and hadn't apologized for it.

Arden's waist was cut like a dancer's, taut and angled, but with a rap sheet. Hips flared like an invitation wrapped in a dare. Emerald's eyes traced the outline of muscle over her stomach, the way her body moved like everything about her was designed for impact--choreographed violence in lipstick and denim.

She kicked off her jeans, letting them puddle around her ankles. No underwear.

There she was.

Naked. Glorious.

Confident in the way only someone who'd made a series of terrible choices and survived all of them could be.

Her pubic hair was dark, curly, and soft-looking--grown in but edged with intention. Shaved three weeks ago, maybe. Enough time for rebellion to start creeping back in. Just a little fuzz on her thighs, her underarms. Real. Honest. Sexy as fuck.

And then Emerald saw it.

A tattoo, right on the inside of Arden's left thigh.

Heisenberg.

Not Bryan Cranston-as-Heisenberg, no. The Santa Muerte shrine sketch. Crude, cursed... Hat, mustache, and glasses.

Emerald's jaw dropped.

Arden laughed. "Don't judge me. It was a phase."

"You have Walter White on your inner thigh."

"Yeah, and you're about to get his perspective."

Emerald blinked. "What the fuck does that even--"

"Come here."

She obeyed.

Crawled forward like a prayer in motion. Like something pulled by gravity instead of courage. She had never touched a woman like this. Never tasted one. Never thought she'd get to. And now here Arden was, spread open on Egyptian cotton sheets in a strange apartment, legs wide, looking down at her with the kind of smirk that launched bad decisions into legend.

Emerald started slow.

A hand on Arden's thigh, tentative. A kiss just above the inked sunglasses.

"You're trembling," Arden whispered.

"I'm not scared," Emerald lied.

"No," Arden said, voice low. "You're starving."

And Emerald was.

She kissed her way in with shaking hands and wild hunger, breathing her in like smoke and sweetness and sweat. Arden was wet already--hot and soft and slick with invitation. Emerald licked once, awkward. Then again. Slower. The taste hit her like a realization: oh. Oh. This is what I want. This is what she'd been wanting. Not in fantasy. Not in porn. Here. Now. Her.

Arden sighed, low and throaty, hips tilting in approval. "Just like that, baby. Just--fuck."

Emerald's tongue circled, then pressed, and she got the rhythm fast. She was a fast learner. She wanted Arden to remember this. Wanted Heisenberg to fog up his fucking shades.

Arden gripped the sheets, then Emerald's hair, moaning now, body tensing like a bowstring. "Don't stop," she said, panting. "Don't you--fuck--yeah, yeah, there--"

Emerald held her thighs apart, deeper now, licking, tasting, learning the shapes of Arden's desire like a language she'd always known but never spoken. It wasn't graceful. It wasn't choreographed. It was messy, humid, desperate.

It was real.

And when Arden came--loud, teeth bared, back arched like a godsdamn painting--Emerald didn't look away. She wanted to see. Wanted to own it. Her mouth wet with sex, her chin slick, her eyes wide and stunned like did I do that?

Arden fell back, breathless. "Holy fuck, Emerald."

Emerald wiped her mouth, still between her thighs, blinking up like someone who'd just looked God in the eye and licked Her.

And Heisenberg?

He looked very pleased indeed.

Afterward, she lay there, skin sticky with sweat and grief and breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Arden didn't cuddle, didn't swoon--just rolled off the bed like she'd completed a successful spell. She lit a cigarette. The match hissed. The smoke curled.

"That was nice," Arden said, like she'd just performed a card trick. She handed Emerald a glass of water. The same hand that had made her come now offered hydration, like a cosmic joke.

"You should stay the night," Arden said, already crossing the room. "But I'm gonna be up writing."

"In the morning, we'll have Eggs Monterey." she said.

"What's Eggs Monterey?" Emerald asked.

"It's where you eat scrambled eggs while jerking off to videos of Paulina Villareal." she grinned. "Now sleep."

Emerald blinked. The ceiling above the bed was plaster, cracking in the corner like it had something to confess. She curled under a blanket that smelled like too many people. Shampoo and strangers. Arden touched her shoulder--once. Light. Almost like an apology.

Then she turned away.

Sat at a desk littered with old coffee cups and incense stubs.

Opened her laptop.

Started typing like nothing else mattered.

And Emerald?

She lay there in strange bed, in a strange apartment, naked and raw and very aware that the sex had been the only real thing in the room.

It had been good.

Too good.

Dangerously good.

But now it was over.

And so was Arden.

Emerald drifted into sleep with her body still pulsing and her soul already bracing.

She didn't know yet that she'd be alone in the morning.

But some part of her--some dark, grieving, too-smart part--already did.

9:07 a. m.

She woke alone, sunlight scalding her eyelids. Arden's leather jacket still hung off a dining-chair back, but Arden herself had vanished. Emerald stretched, winced at the ache in her thighs, smiled despite it, and padded naked toward the smell of fresh coffee--hoping for a lazy Sunday sort of morning.

Instead, she met her.

A stranger stood frozen in the kitchen doorway: late twenties, sharp bob, blazer over workout leggings, a tote bag with MoMA in block letters. Keys dangled from her still-extended hand. Her eyes flicked from Emerald's naked breasts to the sheets dragged half-off the bed to Arden's ash smear on the rug.

"Um," the woman managed. "Who the hell are you?"

Emerald's pulse spiked. "I--uh--Arden said this was her place?"

The woman's expression did a full sunrise of outrage. "Arden? The redhead who watches my cat sometimes? Again?"

There was no cat in sight--probably traumatized, hiding under a mid-century credenza.

Emerald snatched a throw blanket off the sofa, clutching it to her chest. Heat rushed her cheeks; her grief felt suddenly stupid, her choices stupider. "I'm--Emerald. I'm so sorry."

The tenant planted hands on hips. "She breaks in, screws whoever, and leaves them here? That's her idea of house-sitting?"

Emerald's throat closed. She tasted last night's whiskey and humiliation. "I didn't know. She said--"

"She always says something," the woman snapped, exhaling hard. Then her voice softened a notch. "You look... wrecked. Did she even give you water? Breakfast?"

Emerald shook her head. Tears stung, sudden and mortifying. She wasn't crying over Arden--she was crying over Mom, over another abandonment laid on top of the first like fresh bruises on old bone.

The woman sighed, anger deflating into resigned compassion. "Bathroom's down the hall. There's a clean robe on the door. I'll get you coffee. Then we're calling you a ride home, okay?"

Emerald nodded, shame and gratitude warring in her chest.

9:52 a. m.

Robed, caffeinated, phone buzzing with a Lyft ETA, Emerald sat on the pristine sofa while the tenant--Mara, she said--tidied evidence of Arden's tornado. Mara didn't pry, didn't scold further. She just hummed under her breath and tucked a granola bar into Emerald's tote like a mom at a school field trip.

At the door, Emerald faltered. "You should press charges."

Mara huffed a laugh. "Against Arden, or against my terrible taste in friends?" She squeezed Emerald's arm gently. "Whatever she mined out of you, take it back. Don't let her keep it."

The Lyft beeped. Emerald managed a shaky smile, stepped into humid Philly morning air, and realized the ache between her legs was nothing compared to the void under her ribs--but at least now she understood its shape.

Three Hours Later -- a string of texts

HEY

sry about the exit had to chase a vibe.

u r incredible.

Emerald deleted it without saving the number. Then she blocked every unknown call for months, but the ghost of those texts kept ringing whenever she let herself hope.

That was the day Arden's gravity became Emerald's orbit. A one-night solar flare that burned a permanent silhouette on her heart--proof you can be abandoned twice at once: first by the dying, then by the living.

And Arden? She kept roaming constellation to constellation, never noticing the scorched worlds in her wake--until 2025, Sunrise Griddle & Fry, when one of them finally set herself free.

2025, because of course.

The bus sighed to a stop in front of Sunrise Griddle & Fry, the vinyl awning sagging slightly, the neon OPEN sign flickering like it had doubts. Emerald stepped down like the concrete might reject her. Hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands. Mouth neutral. Eyes already bracing.

She hated this. This liminal moment between transport and destination. The crossing of thresholds. The forced optimism of doors. The uncertainty of arrival.

She pushed through.

Bell above the door jingled. The place smelled like fry oil and burnt toast and the ghosts of a thousand bad dates.

"Morning, sunshine!"

Lottie.

Lottie was already waving one hand in the air like she was hailing a cab in 1955. Her apron was crooked. Her hair was too blonde and too high. Her nametag said "Hi, I'm LOTTIE :)" and the smiley face was drawn with a Sharpie that bled like it was weeping joy.

She bounded--bounded--over to Emerald like someone had said her name three times and given her a treat. She was a tail-wag in human form.

"Oh my gods, you made it in EARLY! I was worried you'd ghost me, and then I'd have to do the booths alone and probably die in a tragic syrup accident."

Emerald blinked. "I--uh. Yeah."

"Anyway!" Lottie spun on her heel like a fucking dance break. "We're slow for now, which means it's the perfect time to learn the register. I mean, it's possessed or cursed or whatever, but I have a system. Just don't touch the F2 key. Ever. F2 is where hope goes to die."

She grinned. Emerald's stomach did something unfamiliar. Not quite dread. Not quite nausea.

Lottie was glowing. Unironically. Like she'd been kissed by the morning and hadn't stopped smiling since.

She handed Emerald a fresh apron. It was still warm from the dryer.

"C'mon," she said, "I'll show you how to load the coffee. It's important. This place runs on caffeine and divine punishment."

Emerald stared.

Lottie beamed.

She was tall-ish, tan, built like she'd done sports once and then replaced them with enthusiasm. Brown eyes danced. Her ponytail bounced when she walked. Everything about her said I'm happy you're here and I will remember your birthday even if you tell me not to.

Emerald tried to hate it. Really.

But Lottie was impossible to resent.

It was like trying to yell at a golden retriever for knocking over a vase. She was already licking your face and apologizing with her whole body.

They reached the counter. Lottie slapped the register like it was a misbehaving child.

"This bastard hates me," she announced. "But I flirt with it anyway. Sometimes that works."

Emerald felt the corners of her mouth twitch.

"Now," Lottie said, clapping her hands, "do you want the official training speech or the chaotic good version?"

Emerald raised an eyebrow. "You have a speech?"

"Oh, Gods, no," Lottie said. "But I like pretending. Keeps things dramatic."

And just like that--

Emerald forgot to hate herself.

Just for a second.

Because Lottie was sunshine and static, a living, breathing exclamation point in a world full of endless commas.

And for the first time in a long while, Emerald didn't feel like an ellipsis.

Just maybe... important?

Lottie was already halfway through cleaning the coffee machine when she launched into it, armed with a towel in one hand and a kind of nuclear-level perkiness that defied physics.

"So, the regulars," she said, "you have to know them. Like, really know them. Because if you don't, they get all fussy and weird and suddenly you're the reason their eggs are wrong and their marriage failed."

Emerald blinked. "Okay."

"Okay! So--first up, Frankie from over on 9th street. He's here every weekday at 8:12 sharp. Not 8:10. Not 8:15. 8:12. He orders wheat toast, dry, and a side of judgment. Doesn't trust butter. I don't ask. He thinks you're supposed to pronounce the 'L' in salmon, and I will die before I correct him. You nod and smile and move on."

She moved to the register, punching buttons as punctuation. Emerald tried to watch, but her brain was already full of Frankie B. and his sal-mon.

"Then there's Ms. Betty. She's ninety-seven, wears a full face of makeup to order a single pancake, and once told me she slept with Frank Sinatra. I believe her. She also tips in Kennedy half-dollars, which she pulls from this terrifying black velvet coin purse that probably has spells in it."

Lottie spun back to Emerald, eyes gleaming.

"Oh! And Jorge and Manny--they sit at table six, always together, always order two black coffees and one shared plate of pancakes because they're 'cutting back.' I'm told they've been doing that for eight years. They're also fighting about whether to get a cat or a dog. Still."

Emerald tilted her head. "So... like... they're dating?"

"Oh, absolutely," Lottie said. "But don't say that out loud. They're old-school gay. Like, fight-at-the-deli gay. Jorge once threw a saltshaker at Manny's head during Pride Month. We had to comp their toast."

She refilled the creamer tray like she was defusing a bomb.

"And then--brace yourself--Noreen. If you forget her pickle? She'll make you cry. She's like if a funeral director did stand-up. Orders tuna melt, no onion, with a side of 'I miss my husband, but not that much.' I love her. I fear her. I think she's part crow."

Emerald's eyes were wide now, halfway between fascinated and alarmed.

Lottie grinned, wiped her hands on her apron, and leaned in like she was sharing a state secret.

"This place?" she whispered. "It runs on ritual and gossip. Like a coven. But with waffles."

She stepped back. "You're gonna be great."

Emerald didn't respond. Didn't know how.

No one had ever looked at her and said that like it was fact before.

She turned toward the tables, dizzy with the smell of syrup and possibility.

And from behind her, Lottie added:

"Oh--and if you ever see the guy with the raccoon tattoo on his neck? Just duck. Trust me."

The bell over the door jingled like it meant business.

Lottie didn't look up. "Oh Gods," she whispered. "Here comes trouble."

Emerald turned--and there she was.

Carina Marie Delvecchio, in full civilian drag: South Philly casual. Black tank top under a sleeveless flannel left unbuttoned, jeans clinging in all the right places, sunglasses perched in her dark, Adriatic-blessed hair like a crown of authority. Her cleavage? A local landmark. Sculptural. Mythic. The kind of tits that could topple empires if they jiggled wrong.

Emerald's brain short-circuited for a second. Just a second.

Next to her, Zach shuffled in like he was still asleep. Hoodie half-zipped, one sock visible above his sneaker, hair doing whatever the hell it wanted. He looked like he'd been dragged out of a very tender nap by something stronger than gravity--probably Carrie's elbow.

Carrie surveyed the diner like she owned it. Saw Emerald.

Grinned like she'd won a bet.

"Well, shit," she said. "Look who's got a fuckin' job."

Emerald's hands gripped the side of the register like it might float away.

"Hey, Carrie," Lottie chirped, already grabbing menus she didn't need to hand out. "Booth or counter?"

"Booth," Carrie said, not looking away from Emerald. "Let the rookie earn it."

Zach yawned like a human apology and stumbled after her.

They settled into the booth near the window. Carrie stretched out as if she'd been summoned by God and wanted to make sure He noticed.

Emerald approached slowly, pen in hand like a defensive weapon.

"Morning," she managed.

Carrie raised an eyebrow. "You say that like you're about to report a death."

"I'm just taking your order."

Carrie smirked. "Don't sound so excited, sweetheart. I'm already wet."

Zach groaned. "Jesus, Carrie."

Carrie winked at Emerald, but it was... gentler than usual. Teasing, not predatory. A flirt that paused just before the knife twist.

Emerald's face burned.

Carrie leaned forward on her elbows, cleavage practically causing an eclipse. Emerald's eyes dipped before she could stop herself.

Carrie caught it. Of course she did.

But this time, she didn't comment. Just tapped the menu with one manicured nail.

"Two black coffees. One plain bagel, toasted, butter. One egg sandwich, no cheese, on a roll. You got hot sauce?"

Emerald nodded.

"Good girl."

And not the fuck-me kind. The you're doing okay, kid kind.

Zach didn't even open his eyes. Just mumbled, "Can I get a nap?"

"You're getting breakfast," Carrie said. "Be grateful."

Emerald scribbled it down, trying not to choke on air.

Carrie leaned back again, stretching, arching, arms over her head like she was doing this on purpose. She probably was.

Then--

"You're doin' alright, Emerald," she said, quiet enough to almost be private.

Emerald blinked.

Carrie looked out the window, expression unreadable.

"I mean it," she said. "Good to see you working. You look like a person again."

It wasn't cruel. Not even teasing... but motherly?

Emerald turned, cheeks hot, and practically fled to the kitchen.

Behind her, Carrie added:

"Put the butter on after you toast the bagel. If you give me raw bread with a cold smear, I'll flip this fuckin' table."

That was more like it.

Zach yawned again.

Carrie sipped her coffee.

And Emerald, back behind the line, didn't know if she was shaking because of the pressure...

Or because she could still feel the gravity of Carrie's gaze, like heat off a monument.

Emerald stood at the coffee station trying not to have a religious experience over whipped butter.

Carrie was still in the booth, still stretching, still taking up space like she was getting paid in glances. Emerald had just leaned down to grab two saucers when her eyes betrayed her again.

They locked on Carrie's chest.

Again.

Gods, those tits.

They weren't just big. They were commanding. They led conversations. They had their own gravitational pull. They looked soft but decisive, like they could smother you and ruin your credit.

Philadelphia's Mount Rushmore.

Emerald couldn't stop staring.

Didn't even realize she was staring--until Lottie leaned over, whispering in her ear like she was passing state secrets.

"Oh my Gods," Lottie said. "You want her to pin you to the freezer door, don't you?"

Emerald jolted. "Wh--what?"

Lottie just grinned, wide and wicked, eyes sparkling like she'd caught a squirrel mid-theft.

"Pressed up close," she cooed. "Cold air blasting, nipples hard, her tits mashed against yours while she bites your neck and tells you to be a good girl or she'll put you on the griddle."

Emerald dropped a spoon.

Lottie laughed so hard she hiccupped.

"You're disgusting," Emerald whispered.

"I'm observant," Lottie said, retrieving the spoon like this was all part of the training.

Then, chipper as a girl on day three of spring break:

"Should I throw a stick or a ball or something?"

Emerald blinked, brow furrowing. "What?"

"You know." Lottie made a little tossing motion. "Like, to distract you. You're panting like a dog who saw a squirrel in yoga pants."

Emerald's mouth opened. Nothing came out. Her face was ten shades of red.

"I'm gonna die," she muttered.

"You're gonna cum," Lottie corrected, bouncing back toward the plates. "Eventually. If Carrie's even half as mean in bed as she is in life, you'll be cryin' like a puppy."

"Lottie!"

"I'm just sayin'!"

Emerald buried her face in her hands and tried to remember how to breathe.

Carrie, across the diner, glanced over--just once--lips curled in the faintest smirk, like she knew.

And maybe she did.

Lottie just whistled and prepped the egg sandwich like nothing happened.

Emerald's knees were still trembling.

And the freezer?

Was starting to look like a very dangerous place.

Emerald took a deep breath. Balanced the plates. Stepped out of the kitchen like she hadn't just been told she wanted to be pinned to the freezer and marked like produce.

She moved toward the booth with careful dignity--until she heard Carrie's voice, loud and clear:

"--I mean, three inches on a good day. And that's after encouragement. Like, emotional encouragement. Like, I gotta clap for it."

Emerald's foot paused mid-step.

Zach, eyes still half-closed, muttered, "It's average."

Carrie cackled. "Baby, it's average if the median length is 'LOL.' I've seen breath mints bigger."

Emerald turned pink instantly. She considered backing away--maybe hiding behind the pie case. But her feet betrayed her. She kept moving, one step, then another, hypnotized by the disaster.

"Like, I've fished paperclips out of the junk drawer that made me gasp more," Carrie said, slapping the table. "One time I told him to go down on me and he said, 'Why, so I can see what a real one looks like?' And I died."

Zach blinked slowly. "That was a compliment."

Emerald slid the plates onto the table with as much composure as she could fake.

Carrie looked up and beamed at her.

"Oh hey, lovebug," she said. "We're talking about Zach's microscopic dick. You in?"

"I'm working," Emerald said, trying not to smile.

Zach shrugged. "It's true. The Post Office Inspector General couldn't find my package."

Carrie gasped. "Stop. You're gonna make me cum just from your self-awareness."

Emerald choked on air. "Jesus."

Carrie tilted her head, playful and dangerous. "You don't mind, right? You've got that vibe. The 'I jerk off to mean girls' vibe. We're kind of your porn category."

Emerald opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Zach, deadpan: "It's fine. Everyone deserves to hear the truth. Carrie deserves to roast me. I'm like her comedy sidekick with a tragic penis."

Carrie leaned in like she was delivering a blessing. "He does try. I'll give him that. He's like a rescue turtle. Small. Nervous. Confused by wetness."

Emerald cracked. Couldn't help it. Laughed--full, loud, unguarded.

And once she started, they both joined in.

Zach leaned back, victorious in defeat. Carrie tossed a sugar packet at his chest. Emerald covered her face with both hands and laughed until her eyes watered.

It was stupid.

It was vulgar.

It was perfect.

For a moment, there were no shame spirals. No longing. No freezer-door fantasies.

Just a tired guy, a terrifying woman, and a sad lesbian with butter on her hand, all laughing at a dick joke like it was salvation.

The door chimed.

Just once.

And the air changed.

Not the way it does when someone important walks in. Not warmth. Not celebrity. Not noise.

It was the silence of pressure. Like a meteor breaching hull. Like vacuum. Like something just ruptured in the gravity system and everyone forgot how to breathe.

Carrie stopped mid-laugh, sugar packet still in hand.

Zach blinked, mouth open around a fresh quip that died on his tongue.

Emerald felt the hair rise on her arms like her body knew before her brain did.

And there she was.

Arden.

Standing in the doorway like she'd been conjured.

Black denim. Sleeveless tee with something profane in neon pink. Aviators perched on her forehead like she'd just fought a god and won. Her red hair was loose today--messy, defiant, falling over one eye like even it didn't want to behave. Blue eyes scanning for discounts and trouble.

She stood just inside the diner, boots planted wide, hand on her hip, like the diner had summoned her and insulted her mother. Her mouth twisted into that grin--that too-big, too-sharp, I dare you grin.

Nobody moved.

Even Lottie, halfway through a "Don't forget the--" from behind the line, fell silent. A coffee pot hissed behind her, forgotten. Lottie has never met Arden. Didn't need to. She could smell chaos rolling off of her.

Carrie's chair creaked as she leaned back.

"Well," she said. "That explains the fucking weather shift."

Arden's eyes swept the room. Casual. Like none of them mattered.

Until they landed on Emerald.

And stopped.

And something flickered.

Not softness. Not yet. But recognition. Like a hunter spotting the familiar shape of prey it almost didn't want to kill.

Emerald's throat went dry.

She stood there, not moving, apron still on, not sure if she wanted to scream or melt or run into the freezer and stay there forever.

Carrie clocked it instantly.

Shot Emerald a side glance.

Didn't speak.

Zach, still blinking: "That's Arden, right?"

"No shit," Carrie muttered.

Arden took a step forward. The floor didn't creak, but it felt like it should have.

"Miss me?" she said, voice low, all blade and glitter.

Nobody answered.

Because the air was gone.

And it wasn't coming back until she left.

Or did something worse.

Outside the diner, across the street and three rooftops up, Margeaux sat cross-legged on a tarpaper roof beside a tabby named Corbinus the Third.

She was feeding him bits of egg from a wax paper wrapper and speaking in low, coaxing tones that didn't belong to any human dialect.

"... yes, I know they're not really dragons," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "but the blue jays still have claim to the Sky Accord. That's not my ruling. Take it up with the wrens."

The cat flicked his tail once. Twice. Then let out a sharp mraaowr that carried the distinct cadence of bullshit.

Margeaux nodded solemnly. "You make a compelling counterpoint, Corbinus, but as I said before, territorial control is nine-tenths aesthetic. If the cardinals weren't such assholes, none of this would be necessary."

He licked his paw and looked deeply unimpressed.

Margeaux popped the last bite of egg into her mouth, chewed once, and tilted her head slightly.

Her gaze lifted. East. Toward the diner.

Everything in her posture went still.

The wind shifted. The pigeons on the next building suddenly took flight in a frenzied, spiraling pattern--no warning, no signal. Just gone.

The clouds dragged slower for a beat; time hesitated to process what was now happening on South Street.

Margeaux narrowed her eyes.

"Something stupid just walked into a threshold it wasn't invited to," she said.

Corbinus the Third stood up, fur bristling slightly. His tail lashed once, then twice, and he made a guttural sound from deep in his throat--disapproval in the Old Tongue.

Margeaux sighed. Brushed her hands off on her skirt.

"I know. I felt it too."

She stood. Smoothed her sweater. Slipped her fingers into the velvet pouch on her belt and muttered something in a dialect that only owls remember.

From the pouch, a tiny brass coin floated into her palm, warm and humming.

She flipped it once.

Caught it.

Didn't look at it.

Just closed her hand and whispered, "It's her again."

Corbinus made a sound halfway between a snort and a curse.

Margeaux smiled faintly, blue eyes flashing.

"She always shows up right before someone makes a mistake."

And with that, she turned. Not toward the diner. Not yet. But she started walking and the birds watched her go. A gate formed before her. It looked suspiciously like the door to Sunrise Griddle.

The door swung open just as Carrie lunged.

Zach, bless him, had both arms around her waist, feet dragging like anchors as she shouted, "Say that again, you fuckin' thrift store Medusa! I'll staple your lips to the godsdamn counter!"

Lottie was backed against the soda fountain, hands over her ears, muttering, "This is fine, this is fine, this is fine," like she could manifest an alternate reality by sheer optimism. Her ponytail bounced like it was also panicking.

Emerald was full-throated, eyes wild, apron flared like battle armor.

"You think you can just show up? After everything? After the bullshit and the ghosting and the fucking bus rides and that smile and--"

Arden, at the center of the inferno, was laughing.

Hands raised, teeth bared, no shame, no defense--just fucking delighted.

"I mean fuck, Emerald," she cackled. "You're finally hot when you're angry. You should yell more often."

A fork clanged off the wall. No one knew whose it was.

And then--

Margeaux walked in.

Like she'd been summoned.

She didn't flinch. Didn't pause. Just stepped through the door like she was entering a museum exhibit titled Philadelphia, At Its Most Unholy.

Her eyes swept the scene.

Carrie, still restrained, still snarling.

Zach, wide-eyed and whispering, "Breathe. Baby, breathe. I can't get a hernia this early."

Lottie, vibrating like a poodle during fireworks.

Emerald, red-faced, righteous, halfway to tears or violence or both.

Arden, still laughing, now leaning back like she was posing for the cover of Bitch Quarterly.

Margeaux blinked.

Tilted her head.

And said, to no one in particular:

"I leave you mortal fuckers alone for ten minutes, and the ley lines start tangling!"

She stepped over a spilled coffee mug like it wasn't trying to tell her the future.

Then, with absolute calm, turned toward Lottie.

"Breathe in through the nose," she instructed. "Out through the tail."

Lottie hiccupped. "Wh-what?"

"You're a dog. Visualize it. Now be one."

Lottie made a noise like a broken kazoo and nodded furiously.

Margeaux turned to Emerald.

"Do you need to hex her, or do you just want to?"

Emerald blinked.

Arden laughed again.

Margeaux cracked her neck once, stepped fully into the middle of the floor, and said, "Okay. We are not burning this diner down until I get a cup of coffee."

Lottie appeared with coffee, ponytail wagging. Margeaux took a sip.

The mug read WORLD'S OKAYEST SERVER in flaking blue paint, and it steamed like a peace offering. She stood calmly in the center of the diner, the only being in the room not on the verge of biting someone or peeing from adrenaline.

Arden, formerly smirking, was now silent.

Because there was a strip of glowing electrical tape sealed tight across her mouth--shimmering slightly, pulsing like it was synced to a higher frequency. It hummed if you got too close. It glowed faint lilac. It radiated shut the fuck up so bright it probably had its own weather system.

Arden stared at Margeaux with eyes that promised war. She tried to say something.

The tape buzzed like a bug zapper and flared bright.

She didn't try again.

Emerald stood panting, chest heaving, still radiating fury, but now blinking in stunned, slightly horrified relief.

Carrie, still half-held by Zach, narrowed her eyes.

"Did you do that?" she asked.

Margeaux didn't look up from her mug.

"I did," she said. "You're welcome."

Carrie nodded slowly. "I like you."

Lottie had collapsed into a booth, face buried in a napkin, still shaking like she'd been electrocuted by emotions. "Can I get one of those?" she asked, muffled. "Like, for life?"

Arden made a very loud mmfffghk noise.

Margeaux finally looked at her. Calm, serene, terrifying.

"You've already said enough today," she said. "We heard it."

Arden squinted.

"You meant it."

A faint crackle rolled through the tape like thunder through aluminum foil.

"Now," Margeaux continued, sipping again, "you'll sit. You'll shut up. And if you're lucky, I won't let the tape eat your eyeliner."

That got her.

Arden flinched. Just a little.

The diner was quiet again. Charged, but calm. Like a forest after a lightning strike, everything steaming and a little too quiet.

Emerald exhaled.

Carrie finally let Zach relax, stretching her shoulders like she'd just come down from a sparring match.

"Fuckin' magic bitches," she muttered, with more respect than disdain.

Margeaux sipped again.

"Someone had to bring adult supervision."

At the far end of the diner, near the swinging kitchen door, the air shimmered.

Not visibly. Not for most.

But Margeaux saw it. Felt it. The greasy, slithering pull of something trying to vanish itself. To slip out like shame leaving a voicemail.

The back door creaked open just an inch.

And then slammed shut with the force of a pissed-off universe.

There was a metallic groan.

The hinges glowed red-hot for half a second.

And then the welds appeared--glistening molten seams stitching the frame closed, warping the handle, soldering the divine equivalent of sit the fuck down.

Everyone turned.

Even Carrie, mid-eye-roll at Arden, snapped her head toward the kitchen.

Emerald squinted. "What the--"

A sound.

Like someone clearing their throat.

Like someone who didn't want to be perceived but now had no choice.

From beside the freezer, between the mop bucket and the soda syrup crates, he emerged.

Akrios.

Minor Godling of Unspoken Regrets.

Appearing slowly, like guilt surfacing after a good day. A skinny figure in a too-big trench coat, messy hair hanging over haunted eyes, hands shoved deep into his pockets like they were hiding secrets--and they were. Dozens of them. Little regrets leaking out around his cuffs like smoke.

He winced as he became visible.

Mumbled something unintelligible.

Margeaux didn't even look.

Just said, "You stay."

He froze.

Carrie narrowed her eyes. "The fuck is that?"

Lottie whispered, "Is that a god?"

Zach, ever the realist, muttered, "We're out of bacon, right?"

Emerald stared.

Akrios looked like every bad decision she'd ever made had been turned into a guy and given a mixtape.

And he looked directly at her.

Eyes pleading. Tired. Familiar.

"Don't make me be here," he said softly. "You don't want to hear what I'd say. You already know it."

Margeaux turned.

Fixed him with a look sharp enough to shave futures.

"You don't get to bail, Akrios. You've been hitching on her ribcage since she was sixteen. Whispering in her ear every time she tries to live. You started this."

She stepped closer. Quiet. Dangerous.

"Say it. Say the regret. Say what you did."

Akrios flinched.

"I--" he tried. Voice like rust.

"I told her Arden might love her. I let her believe it when I knew it wasn't true. I didn't lie, but I let it hang. I knew she'd chase the spark instead of the fire... try to find the love she'd been missing."

Emerald stared.

Her heart tried to crawl out her throat.

Margeaux nodded.

"Good. Now sit."

And Akrios--divine, withering, immortal--sat. Cross-legged, head bowed, like a kid in trouble.

He didn't vanish. Not yet.

Margeaux wasn't done with him.

And neither, maybe, was Emerald.

Akrios sat in shame beside the mop bucket, leaking quiet sorrow into the linoleum.

Arden glared behind her magical gag like she was preparing a lawsuit.

Margeaux sipped her coffee like it contained everyone else's secrets.

And Zach, soft-spoken and rumpled, squinted toward the kitchen pass.

"... We really out of bacon?" he muttered.

Carrie whipped around, eyes blazing. "You're Jewish, babe. You shouldn't be eatin' bacon."

He grinned, lazy and unrepentant.

"You're Catholic, babe. You shouldn't be eatin' pussy."

Carrie blinked.

Paused.

Then shrugged. "Fair."

Margeaux choked on her coffee.

Lottie made a wheezing noise.

Akrios groaned into his knees.

Emerald snorted, against her will. Loud. Embarrassing. Honest.

Arden slammed a palm against the table, furious and muted, glowing tape sparking once like it was suppressing a war crime.

And for one weird, wild second, everything--the wizard, the godling, personified chaos, heartbreak, freezer fantasies and glowing gags--was just funny.

A diner.

A moment.

A breath.

Before it all exploded again.

Emerald took a step forward.

One.

The room didn't breathe.

Not even Akrios.

She stared at Arden, at the chaotic grin barely flickering behind the magic gag, and something in her chest cracked.

She didn't scream. Not right away.

She spoke.

Voice shaking, low, clenched like a fist.

"You don't get to do this. You don't get to fucking do this."

Arden raised an eyebrow, smug.

The tape sparked in warning.

Emerald's voice rose.

"I don't know what the fuck you want from me. Do you want me? Do you like me? Do you love me?"

She stepped closer, heat pouring off her.

"Because if you don't--if you're just here to play, to keep coming back every time you ruin something else and I'm still stupid enough to look at you like you're the sun breaking through my roof--then get the fuck out of my life."

Arden's smirk started to waver.

Emerald kept going, now shouting.

"I don't need your chaos. I don't need your unfinished sentences and your text messages at 2 a. m. and your fucking smile that shows up every time I try to forget you."

Her hands shook. Her lip curled.

"You walk into places like you own them. You walk into me like I'm a motel room on the way to someone better."

Carrie gave a soft whistle. Even she wasn't gonna interrupt this.

Emerald leaned in, eyes on fire.

"So here's the deal, Arden."

The whole diner leaned forward.

"If you see me on the street? Cross it. If you see me in the store? Leave. If I'm in the godsdamn Wawa on 22nd buying string cheese and crushed by the weight of my own repression? Turn the fuck around and go to the one over by Queen Village."

Zach mumbled, "Queen Village is cool."

Carrie shushed him with a hand on his face.

Emerald's voice cracked, raw now.

"You don't get to orbit me anymore. You don't get to be the hurricane I name my trauma after. I'm done."

Arden tried to speak.

The tape buzzed.

Emerald didn't care.

"Get out of my town. Go to Ohio, Or move to fuckin' Indianapolis, Arden. They got a Wawa now. Or back to Simone. Or wherever you go when you're tired of breaking people who love you."

The last word hit Arden like a slap. But she didn't flinch.

"I don't want to see you again."

Emerald locked her green eyes on Akrios' grey.

"You. Motherfucker... You made me believe she'd change, Made me think I couldn't."

Silence.

Then. "I think I peed a little."

Everyone turned to look at Lottie. She smiled.

For once, Arden had nothing to say.

Even Margeaux set her mug down, quiet and reverent, like something holy had just been declared.

Emerald took a shaky breath.

Then turned.

And walked away.

Not to the freezer.

Not to the bathroom.

She walked out the door.

Into the street.

And didn't look back.

As the glass door swung closed behind Emerald, the diner stayed frozen.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

And then Margeaux raised her hand.

Snapped her fingers once.

Like the punctuation on a prayer.

The tape vanished.

No sparkle. No flourish. Just gone.

The air didn't shift. The light didn't change. But something did.

Arden sat still.

Jaw twitching. Lips parting just slightly.

Like she had something--everything--to say.

Some clever little deflection.

Some razorblade joke.

Some broken apology disguised as confidence.

Her breath caught.

And for once--

She said nothing.

No joke.

No excuse.

No chase.

Just silence.

Her mouth shut.

Her eyes burned.

And that silence said everything.

It said I heard her.

It said She's right.

It said I want to follow her but I won't, because she told me not to.

And under it all, for the first time in her life, it said:

I regret.

Across the diner, Akrios closed his eyes. Whispered, like a benediction, "Finally."

Margeaux picked up her mug again.

"Growth," she muttered. "Tastes like burnt coffee and shame."

Carrie nodded slowly. "Fuckin' amen."

Lottie wiped her eyes with a menu.

Zach just whispered, "We still outta bacon?"

And the moment--like all moments--passed.

But it didn't fade.

It settled.

Into bones.

Into breath.

Into the space where Arden sat still, in silence.

Not because she couldn't speak.

Because--for once--

She chose not to.

Lottie, cheeks red, ponytail lopsided, walked out of the kitchen with the triumphant energy of someone who had just wrestled a god and a grease trap and won both fights.

She had a slice of bacon in her mouth and a full plate in her hands.

She plopped it down in front of Zach like a reward.

"Don't say I never do anything for you."

Zach lit up like a kid on Christmas. "Gods bless," he whispered, already reaching for the crispy prize.

Carrie blinked.

"Wait. We had bacon this whole time?"

Lottie chewed. Swallowed. Grinned.

"I keep an emergency stash."

"Where?"

"In the prayer candles."

Carrie considered this. "That's blasphemous."

Lottie beamed. "I'm a former golden retriever. I'm allowed one miracle per shift."

Carrie leaned back in the booth, letting her arms stretch along the top like a queen surveying a newly peaceful queendom. Her gaze slid back to Margeaux, still sipping, still unbothered.

She extended her hand. "Carrie Delvecchio."

Margeaux took Carrie's hand. "Margeaux Auclair."

She studied her a long moment. A pearl of light indeed.

Then, casually--like she was asking about the weather but absolutely not--

"So... Margeaux... how you feel about Chaussons aux Pommes?"

Zach choked on bacon. Lottie blinked.

Margeaux didn't miss a beat.

Her smile was slow. Knowing.

"Let's see how dinner goes first."

Carrie's eyebrows lifted. "Oh... Okay."

Margeaux took another sip. "And I like mine warm. With the right kind of apples. Don't insult me with Red Delicious."

Carrie nodded slowly. "You're trouble."

Margeaux met her eyes. "I am. But I clean up after myself."

And across the diner, beside the mop bucket and the god of regrets, the silence held a little less weight than before.

The street outside smelled like exhaust, wet asphalt, and old hoagie wrappers sunbaked into the curb--but Philadelphia, somehow, felt softer now. Not kind. Never kind.

But closer.

Like the city had seen what happened in that diner and decided, for once, not to mock her for crying in public.

Emerald stood just outside the door, arms wrapped around herself like a jacket she didn't have. Her fingers were sticky with syrup from earlier, and she hadn't noticed until just now. She rubbed them against her apron absently, eyes fixed down the block.

A man on a bike nearly wiped out dodging a rogue Wawa bag.

Someone yelled "Yo dickhead!" from a third-story window, no one in particular.

A kid screamed with joy chasing pigeons.

The city was doing its thing.

And for the first time in what felt like ever, it didn't feel like it was doing it at her.

She didn't know where Arden had gone. Didn't care.

Not right now.

She looked down the block and felt, faintly, her mom. Not in a ghost way. Not in a magic way. Just... less far. Like if Emerald screamed into the pavement, her voice might find the right ear. Not today. But someday.

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

And then she smiled.

Tiny. Crooked. Hurt at the edges.

But real.

She wasn't healed. Not even close.

But maybe she was healing.

And that?

That was enough to take a step.

Not away.

Forward.