ZoEmerald

CARINA MARIE DELVECCHIO EXPLAINS THE PROPER FUCKIN' READING ORDER

Okay, Literotica, sit down. Shut up. Listen close, 'cause I'm only sayin' this once and you will fuck it up if left unsupervised.

First? "Emerald."

The girl, not the color. Or maybe both, depending on how poetic you're feelin'. It's foundational, babe. That's the ache. That's the rot in the wood. You skip this? You don't understand shit. You'll be out here wonderin' who the fuck Emerald, Zoe, and Arden are instead of a bisexual fucking cataclysm.

Second? "Passwords."

Not your momma's Netflix login. We're talkin' secrets, shame, the psychic equivalent of a broken molar. This one's a descent. You'll feel it. If you don't, congratulations on being dead inside.

Third? "Simone's Week."

Now listen. You're gonna be tempted to read this earlier. Don't. That's like eatin' dessert in the middle of a funeral. This one's got some laughter and a bad edit here and there, but it's sticky. Sugar over shrapnel. Arden's out here trying to be normal and failing spectacularly. Simone tries strength. Evy is a rock. An angry, bald rock. No one leaves unscathed. (Yeah, I know it was published first. Time is an illusion caused by resistance to the Higgs Field. Get over it.)

Fourth? "Viridis Lucet."

That's Latin. I don't speak Latin, but Gianna does and she says it means "the green glows" or some mystical shit. Look, this is where shit gets weird and gorgeous. Talking cats. Memory. Maybe a little magic. Maybe not. You'll start questionin' if Arden's a real girl or a spell someone dared to kiss. You'll want to hug Emerald and then shove her into traffic. That's normal.

Fifth? "Don't Be Her."

This is Queer Pain. Emotional nudity. Revelations. You read this first, your brain will rupture like a microwaved egg. Read it last, and you'll cry, cum, and text your ex in under seven minutes. Do not, under any circumstances, invert this order unless you're tryna summon one of the minor gods of lesbian catastrophe. Sappho watches, you know. She judges.

Finally, "ZoEmerald."

This is the payoff. It all comes down to this right here. Does it end happy? I ain't sayin' Does Arden return? Can't tell ya that. Did the author re-write Zoe from that story about Naimh so they could use "ZoEmerald" as the title? Yes.

You read out of order, here's what you can expect:

-Night sweats

-Emotional vertigo

-Uncontrollable urges to lie on the floor and listen to Fiona Apple

-A vague but persistent rash

-Sudden attraction to feral women with too many keys

-Phantom taste of Zoe's sweat, which is not explainable by science. It's like lilac and limestone. I want to bottle it.

So read responsibly. Hydrate. Text someone you trust.

And for fuck's sake--

If you think you can just dip in wherever because it's 'all vibes,' I will personally show up at your house, slap the phone outta your hand, and make you start over while Lottie cries in the background.

Proceed with caution. Or don't. But if you don't, don't come cryin' to me when your soul gets cracked open like a lobster tail on date night.

Capisce?

The sun is a blade.

High, merciless, gold like judgment.

Zoe's standing barefoot on a sandstone ridge in a couture dress that might technically be a net. Swarovski crystals catch the light like lies. Her hair is a crown of mess and glory, bleached to warpaint and teased by wind. Someone smeared glitter on her collarbones like a dare. Her lips are the color of rebellion and regret.

An iguana is perched on her shoulder.

Real. Hissing. Claws curled against her skin like it owns her. She doesn't flinch.

"Hold still," the photographer mutters, voice nasal, wrist flicking like he's sketching instead of shooting. "You're wild. You're elemental. You're pain in a silk thong."

Zoe doesn't respond. Her back arches. She leans into the iguana like it's her date for the apocalypse.

This is hour seven.

No shade. No breaks. No carbs. The makeup artist's passed out twice. One of the PAs cried when they ran out of dry shampoo.

Zoe? Zoe glows.

She is the storm this desert forgot to forecast.

"Gorgeous," someone breathes. "Jesus, you're terrifying."

She doesn't hear them.

Because her phone buzzed.

The only time it has in two days.

One bar.

Enough.

She grabs it before the next shot. Ducking behind a rock like a saint escaping sainthood. The dress rides high. Her legs are dusted in highlighter and desert sand, her bralette's been replaced with gold chains and attitude.

Signal flickers.

She types fast.

ZOE:

Still alive. In hell. With lizards and heatstroke and a camera guy who called me 'ethereal but unapproachable.'

Missed you.

Tell me you didn't think I ghosted.

Tell me you're still thinking about my tongue behind the soda machine.

She hesitates.

Deletes the last line.

Adds:

ZOE:

Miss you. For real. Sorry I disappeared. The desert ate me.

Sends it.

Then adds, two seconds later:

ZOE:

Also I posed with an iguana. His name is Carlos. He scratched my tit and now we're engaged.

The bar disappears again. But the message sends.

Zoe looks out across the scorched ridges. A makeup girl is vomiting into a gift bag. Someone's drone just crashed into a cactus.

She smiles.

Because she did it. She reached out.

And if Emerald answers--

If she answers--

Maybe she won't just be weather.

Maybe she gets to be the rain.

The one you hope comes back.

Emerald. Back in Philly.

She looks down at her phone.

Nothing.

No ding. No bar of signal salvation. No smartass text with lizard emojis and horny jokes wrapped in sugar.

Just the blank screen. The silence.

And inside her, something yawns open.

Not loud. Not sharp.

Just vast.

A kind of grief with no teeth--just the slow, sticky pull of disappointment that's starting to feel familiar.

She sets the phone on the counter like it's fragile. Like it might explode, or answer her.

It doesn't.

Around her, Sunrise Griddle & Fry hums with the usual chaos--Kevin yelling about toast, Lottie dancing with the pancake batter like she's possessed, Carrie holding court in the corner like the Pope of Fuckery. But Emerald's not in it.

She's here. But not.

Something's wrong. Not catastrophic. Just... rotting. Quietly.

She told herself not to get used to Zoe. Not to hope.

But her body did it anyway. It got greedy. It started memorizing the shape of her name, the way she laughs like she's about to kiss you or kill you or both.

And now that absence has a shape, too.

It's not a knife.

It's a door.

One that just opened inside her, and won't close. A waiting thing. A hungry thing. It whispers:

"She left. Like they all do."

Emerald wipes a smear of ketchup off the counter that isn't there.

She breathes in slow.

And for the first time since the zoo--since the hug, the plush flamingo, the smile with no punchline--she wonders:

"Was I just a story she told herself? For a minute? For a day?"

The phone doesn't light up.

She doesn't check it again.

She just walks back to table seven and asks someone if they want more cream.

Sacred Sands Motel, Joshua Tree.

The shower hisses like it's trying to drown the sun.

Steam curls out in lazy swirls, spilling across cracked tile and dim motel light. Everything smells like citrus shampoo and heatstroke. The mirror's long since given up. It's fogged to the point of abstraction--only vague outlines remain. The body within is divine.

Zoe.

She's standing under the spray like it worships her. Back arched. Hands in her hair. A temple to her own survival. The bruises on her knees from kneeling in sandstone. The red line across her hip from the chain harness. A faint scratch under one tit--Carlos's signature. She didn't bleed, but she might.

Her body isn't soft, but it gives. Long legs. Small, fucking perfect tits that sit high and defiant. Ribs visible beneath taut, sun-kissed skin. A bruised peach curve to her ass, the sort of thing someone might risk a religion for. Water slides down her like it's scared to stay too long. She closes her eyes and exhales like she's been holding her breath for three days.

No music. Just the shower. Just the breath. Just her.

She emerges dripping. Her skin is nearly translucent... but the color is returning.

No towel.

No hurry.

Just steps into the room like she owns modesty and chooses not to wear it. Her bare feet slap the tile. Her skin glistens like she's been polished by heat and desire.

Wanda, her makeup girl, is sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a motel sheet and chewing an energy bar like it personally offended her. She doesn't look up.

"You see my lighter?" Wanda mutters. "The pink one with the sticker of the raccoon?"

"Nope," Zoe says, toweling off her hair without covering anything else. "Carlos might've stolen it."

"You're not funny."

"You're not stoned."

Wanda groans. Zoe grabs her phone. Still naked. Unbothered.

One bar. Just enough.

She checks.

Nothing.

No text. No heart emoji. No "where are you." No "I miss your face" or "I miss your mess." Not even a meme.

Her thumb hesitates. She almost types. Stops.

The screen goes dark in her hand.

"Okay," she whispers. A little shrug. A little lie.

"I guess I'll see her when I get back to Philly."

She tosses the phone onto the bed. Doesn't watch where it lands.

Outside, the desert hums.

Zoe stretches. Naked. Unrepentant.

And for a second, she doesn't know if she's waiting to be missed--or forgotten.

Somewhere above Joshua Tree.

It doesn't shimmer.

It doesn't pulse.

It just is.

Roughly the size of a Greyhound bus and shaped like a migraine diagram, the alien stealth-craft has been parked 800 feet above the desert floor for the past 61 hours. Perfectly still. Invisible to radar. Quiet in the way that predators are quiet.

Inside, seven beings vaguely resembling iguanas, but with longer memories and better credit scores, convene in a fluid chamber of bioluminescent mucus. They are disappointed.

"Carlos made unauthorized contact," hums the mission controller, its voice a glottal whisper that echoes inside all sentient calcium.

"She scratched his thorax," says another, visibly scandalized. "And allowed surface moisture exchange."

"Did he compromise the mission?"

"No."

There is a pause. A ripple of contemplative pheromones.

"Understood," the lead scout finally replies. "Retrieve the unit. Abort contact. Prepare reentry into the Bulk."

Carlos is transported aboard with a sound like accusatory steam venting from a machine that should know better. The ship departs with no sound. No flash. Just a fold in the sky that smooths over like a napkin crease in light.

They vanish.

The Bulk swallows them.

A thousand feet above the saguaro and the motel sign and the dirty glitter of Zoe's discarded thong on the balcony rail, something changes.

Every phone in a sixty-mile radius buzzes at once.

Wanda looks up from rummaging in her makeup bag.

"Oh fuck yes," she mutters. "Signal's back."

Zoe's phone lights up on the bed. She dives on it like a starved hyena in a fancy restaurant. Gianna would be proud.

1 New Message.

EMERALD:

where the fuck are you

Zoe turns.

Stares.

Then grins.

Not wide. Just--sharp.

The lizard-scratch across her tit still stings.

"Carlos, you little traitor," she murmurs.

And the real game begins.

Back at Sunrise Griddle & Fry.

The coffee's burnt again.

Emerald's halfway through wiping down a clean booth, trying not to feel anything at all, when her phone--long dead, long silent, long a symbol of Zoe's absence--explodes.

Not literally. But close.

A violent buzz. Then another. Then four more in rapid succession.

The screen lights up like the gods finally decided to hit "Send All."

ZOE:

still alive. in hell. with lizards and heatstroke and a camera guy who called me ethereal but unapproachable.

missed you

tell me you didn't think I ghosted

tell me you're still thinking about my kiss behind the soda machine

(i deleted that one but you deserved it)

miss you. for real. sorry i disappeared. the desert ate me

also i posed with an iguana. his name is carlos. he scratched my tit and now we're engaged.

are you still there? fuck i hope you're still there.

do not fall in love with someone else while i'm out here making art and terrible decisions.

Emerald freezes.

The rag drops from her hand. The salt shaker she was straightening topples and hits the floor with a dull clink. Kevin looks over, mouth full of toast. Carrie pauses mid-sip. Lottie, across the room, senses the seismic shift like an ax-golden retriever trained to sense psychic events.

Which she is, so there's that.

"Shit," Lottie whispers, watching Emerald's face crumple and light up and melt all at once. "She's gonna combust."

Emerald stares at the screen like it just handed her a second chance wrapped in chaos and dripping with bralette sweat.

Her breath catches.

Her chest hurts.

She feels relief so sharp it nearly floors her.

Then grief for ever having doubted.

Then stupidity for assuming silence meant goodbye.

Then panic that she might not recover from caring this much.

Then elation so pure it feels illegal.

She scrolls through Zoe's messages like they're scripture and porn all at once. Each line tighter. Wetter. Realer.

Her cheeks flush.

Her hands tremble.

She came back, she thinks.

She fuckin' came back.

And suddenly Emerald is laughing and crying and not breathing right, all at once, slumped in booth three with her face in her hands and her phone pressed to her chest like a lifeline wrapped in thirst.

Lottie appears at her side with a banana milkshake and a look of terrified reverence.

"Do I--do I call a veterinarian... I mean, an ambulance?"

Emerald gasps, smiling wet. "No. I'm okay."

"You don't look okay. You look like you're having a sexy stroke."

"Zoe texted me."

"All of them?"

"All at once."

Lottie puts a hand to her chest. "Oh my God. You're gonna ascend."

Emerald wipes her face. Looks at the screen again.

And whispers to herself, laughing now:

"Carlos, you little bastard."

Late Night. Sunrise Griddle & Fry.

The diner's half-dead.

Floor still sticky from dinner rush, AC humming like it's given up, and Lottie's disappeared into the back with a spoon and a personal vendetta against the banana pudding.

Frankie sits across from Carrie, nursing a root beer like it might forgive him. His elbows are on the table, fingers tangled in his hair. He looks like a man who's halfway through a sentence he started six months ago.

Carrie's got her legs up on the bench, tank top slouched off one shoulder, picking at the remnants of a club sandwich with existential contempt.

Frankie exhales. Not dramatically. Just... like something heavy's been sitting on his chest since 2025.

"I fucked it up," he says.

Carrie doesn't look up. "No shit." She said, "What are we talking about?"

"I mean--I really fucked it up."

"Again, shocker."

"She was good, Carrie. Like... unapologetically weird. She used to sing to her plants. Named her vibrator 'Joan Didion.' Armpits like a fucking terrarium. I loved that woman... Dani Dombrowski."

YES.

That Dani. The one with the eyebrows like mating caterpillars. The one whose underarms had their own ZIP code and possibly their own arms deal pending in Belgium. Dani "Bush for Days" Dombrowski. The original sin of Frankie from 9th Street.

The Dani who made vegan chili that tasted like war crimes.

The Dani who once shoved a cop at a protest and then apologized to the protest.

The Dani who wore overalls with nothing under them and a switchblade in the back pocket "for emotional reasons."

The Dani who rode her period like a warhorse and once said, "You ever think God made me so hairy because he knew I'd be cold and alone?"--before fucking Frankie senseless against a pool table.

Yeah. That Dani.

Carrie pops a fry in her mouth. "Yeah, Dani Dombrowski. Queen of bike chain necklaces and yoni steam pamphlets. Who the fuck didn't love that shit?"

Frankie groans into his hands.

"I was scared," he mumbles.

"Of what, exactly? Her bush? I mean, yeah, it was aggressive. Crawled across her thighs like a kudzu infestation. But it didn't vote."

"No. I mean--yes. Kind of. But no. I was scared of what it meant. To love someone like that. Someone who made me wanna be realer than I knew how to be."

Carrie finally looks up. One eyebrow cocked like a gun.

"Jesus, that's gay."

Frankie snorts. "You're not helping."

"I'm not trying to. I'm trying to see if you're about to cry into your root beer so I can take a photo for the group chat."

He shakes his head. "I kissed someone else. Luca. Some dancer from Port Richmond. It was... dumb. It was one kiss. And it meant nothing."

Carrie leans in, voice suddenly low.

"But did it feel like something?"

He pauses.

Nods.

"Yeah. It did. And that's the worst part. It felt like the first time I could admit something about myself without talking. Just... lips and heat and finally fucking breathing."

Carrie sips her iced coffee. The straw squeaks.

"And then?"

"Dani found out. Ghosted me so hard I'm not even sure I existed. I left town. Tried to start over somewhere where no one knew I was the guy who cheated on a hot queer icon with dancer dick and Catholic guilt."

Carrie laughs. "So... Pittsburgh."

"Yeah."

A beat. The hum of the overhead lights. The soft clink of a spoon dropped in the kitchen.

Frankie looks up, eyes bleary, hair messed from the hands he keeps dragging through it.

"I think I'm bi, Carr."

Carrie blinks.

"Oh, honey," she says, smiling wide, vicious and soft all at once. "You think that's news?"

Frankie laughs. It cracks like an old tile. Relief, maybe. Or just release.

"She's gonna come back, isn't she?"

Carrie shrugs. "Dani? Probably. In a cloud of patchouli and vengeance, dragging some poly woman named Sage and a pitbull named Tank. And when she does, you better be fucking ready to apologize with your whole chest and maybe some artisanal bread."

Frankie closes his eyes. Lets the diner hold him for a second.

"I miss her," he says.

Carrie nods.

"You're allowed. But if you try to write poetry about it, I will set you on fire."

Frankie grins. "Fair."

Carrie leans back, arms over her head like she just carried someone's whole emotional arc through the third act.

"Goddamn, Frankie," she mutters. "Bush for Days Dombrowski. You really do know how to pick 'em."

Later that night. Emerald's rooftop.

Philly hums below like a beast with too many teeth.

Emerald's sitting on a cracked plastic chair with a hoodie over her knees and her phone in her lap like it's sleeping. The air smells like asphalt and tomorrow's rain. She hasn't replied yet. Not because she's playing games. Not because she's mad.

Because she doesn't know what to say.

The messages keep flashing in her head like a strobe light:

missed you

do not fall in love with someone else

the desert ate me

carlos scratched my tit and now we're engaged

She giggles, then feels like she's been slapped. Then giggles again.

Fuck you, Zoe. Fuck you and your reptilian fiancé.

Lottie had made her a milkshake earlier and said something about "psychosexual reintegration," but Emerald hadn't listened. She just needed air. She needed space. But here on the roof, with the skyline flickering and her thighs still remembering Zoe's fucking mouth, space feels like a joke.

She unlocks her phone.

Her thumb hovers.

Do I say I missed you? Do I say I cried? Do I say I almost deleted your number then re-read your texts fifty goddamn times?

Instead, she types:

EMERALD:

Carlos better not be hotter than me.

She stares. Smiles. Deletes it.

Types:

EMERALD:

you scratched me first, you menace.

Deletes that too.

Then, after a long minute of breathing, thinking, hurting:

EMERALD:

i thought you disappeared. and i still want you anyway.

Send.

The screen goes black.

She doesn't look away. She just watches it. Like maybe this time, it'll glow back at her.

Meanwhile. Zoe. Motel.

Zoe reads the message in bed. Carlos is gone, the iguana long since collected by extraterrestrial Uber. Wanda's passed out, snoring into a pillow that smells like dry shampoo and existential dread.

Zoe stares at the glowing screen, biting her lip so hard it might leave a mark.

She reads the message five times.

Then types:

ZOE:

yeah.

same.

come find me when the sky breaks open.

She deletes it.

Types:

ZOE:

i'll be on the next flight out.

Keeps it.

Sends it.

Back in Philly, Emerald sees the reply. Her stomach flips. Her hands ache.

And suddenly, she's not on the rooftop anymore.

She's under Zoe.

Or maybe beside her. Or maybe just with her.

And the sky doesn't break.

But her rules might.

Sunrise Griddle & Fry. Afternoon shift.

The bells over the door jangle like a dare.

Emerald looks up--expecting some dad in cargo shorts, maybe the guy who always asks if they serve gluten-free bacon. Or fuckin' Frankie from over on 9th Street.

What she gets instead is Zoe.

Soaked in late-day light like a fucking omen.

Standing in the doorway in a long, slouchy raincoat--unbuttoned, of course.

Her hair's a mess of seafoam curls. Her lips are cherry-stained from something she didn't share. Her eyes are glowing--not metaphorically, but like they caught the sun off guard and kept it. And her skin?

Her skin is damp.

Not sweaty. Rained on.

Damp--like she was born from mist and just stepped out of a hidden spring with the nerve to look casual about it.

The floor under her darkens with condensation. The air tilts. Kevin drops a spatula. Lottie pokes her head out from the kitchen and immediately vanishes back like she just saw a goddess and remembered she's wearing Garfield socks.

Emerald can't move.

Zoe sees her.

And that smile--slow, wide, wrecked--unfolds across her mouth like a spell remembering how to cast itself. She walks forward. Water clings to her jeans in thin streaks, kisses the cuffs of her shirt, follows her like a rumor.

Emerald's heart punches her sternum from the inside out.

"You came," she says, stupidly. Obviously. Like she's narrating a miracle and doesn't know how else to begin.

Zoe shrugs one shoulder. "You said Carlos better not be hotter than you. I had to check."

She's close now. So close Emerald can feel the cool radiance coming off her skin, like Zoe's blood runs with glacier melt and apology.

Emerald's throat works around words that don't come. Her fingers twitch around a coffee pot she hasn't realized she's still holding.

Zoe's voice drops.

"I missed you so bad it made me ugly."

And Emerald, still half-drenched in memory and fear and her own wide-open ribcage, manages only one word:

"Hi."

Zoe reaches out--just a brush of knuckles to wrist--and somehow the spot she touches feels wet, even after she pulls away. Not sticky. Not clammy. Wet like grace. Wet like memory. Wet like a river remembering your name.

"Come with me," Zoe says. "Queen Village. I've got wine, a broken mirror, and a playlist I made before I knew I was in love with you."

Emerald blinks. The lights flicker overhead.

The condensation on the floor spreads in a perfect circle around Zoe's boots.

Zoe's fingers are still warm from the touch.

Emerald blinks once, twice, like she's rebooting her entire nervous system, then turns toward the counter, voice steadier than her pulse:

"I'm taking the rest of the day off."

There's a clatter from the back--probably a bowl hitting the floor--and then Lottie's voice cuts through the diner like a prayer wrapped in authority:

"You'd better!"

Heads turn. Kevin stares like he just witnessed the second coming of gay Jesus. Some guy in a booth mutters, "Goddamn," around a forkful of hash.

Emerald slips behind the counter like she's moving through water. Her apron hits the hook. Her fingers fumble a little over the tie. She doesn't look back at Zoe yet--doesn't dare--because if she does, she knows her knees are going to stage a rebellion.

Lottie appears at her side like a chaotic guardian angel, thrusting a to-go cup into her hands.

"It's not coffee," she whispers. "It's cold brew and sin. Go. Before I climb her like a jungle gym just to see what she smells like up close."

Emerald's laugh is breathless, shaky.

"She smells like--" she starts, then cuts herself off.

No. That's just for her.

That's between her and the water.

Zoe's by the door again, half-turned like she's trying not to look desperate, but the gleam in her eyes says she waited.

Emerald steps out from behind the counter, already tempted toward the flood.

Somewhere in Queen Village.

They're at a BYOB spot with paper menus and mood lighting that's more "your aunt's hallway" than "romantic." Vinyl booths. Local art for sale on the walls. One ceiling tile slightly sagging like it's thinking about quitting. Zoe brought a bottle of orange wine she didn't understand but liked the label.

"I thought it looked feral," she said when she pulled it out of her messenger bag. "Like me, but with more citrus."

Emerald smiled. Tucked that one away. God, she wanted to kiss her already--but it's too early in the evening to be that soft.

Now they're halfway through appetizers--fries with truffle oil and a charred radicchio salad that Zoe keeps poking like it insulted her.

"So, wait," Emerald says. "You really did a shoot with a live tarantula? On purpose?"

Zoe snorts. "On purpose is generous. It crawled on my ass and they yelled 'keep still, keep still, it's working!' like I was being painted by fucking Caravaggio."

"Cara... who?" Emerald asks.

Mistake.

ZOE JANE ILLIOPOULOS EXPLAINS MICHELANGELO MERISI DA CARAVAGGIO TO EMERALD MARGARET JONES

"Okay, so, Caravaggio. Right? Listen. He was a slut and a genius and a fucking problem--like, the original hot mess express with a paintbrush. Think knives, Catholic trauma, and light so dramatic it makes your soul do jazz hands.

Like--he painted these biblical scenes, yeah? But they're all, like, violently human. Nobody's floating on clouds or doing holy fingers. His angels have dirt under their nails. His saints look like they just got kicked out of a bar. The light's coming in like God forgot how to dim the spotlight, and everyone's staring at it like they owe him money.

And the bodies, baby. Fuck. The man understood flesh. Sinew, bruises, necks about to snap, lips parted like they just gasped something scandalous. Even the holy stuff looks like foreplay. Especially the holy stuff.

Also, fun fact--he was a murderer. Like, not metaphorically. He legit killed a guy over a tennis match or a sex debt or both, depending on which gossiping nun you ask. Then he went on the run and painted his own severed head into half a dozen martyr scenes like, 'Oops, my bad, here's my repentance in chiaroscuro.'

He was messy. He was brilliant. He was probably bi. Definitely dramatic. If he were alive now, he'd have an OnlyFans and a burner Twitter where he threatens the pope while posting thirst traps in blood-splattered linen.

You'd hate him.

You'd wanna fuck him.

You'd cry during The Calling of Saint Matthew and then ask him why everyone looks like they just found out their rent's due in salvation."

A beat.

"What? No, I'm not saying I see myself in him.... I'm saying if I was a 17th-century Italian man with rage issues and an oil palette, you'd already be on your knees and lit like divine punishment."

Another beat.

"And yeah, the spider on my ass? That was my Saint Sebastian moment. Except hotter. And with fewer arrows."

Emerald laughs, a low thing, breathy and startled. She leans forward. "Did you keep the photos?"

"I burned the proof sheets," Zoe says, flipping a fry in the air and catching it with her mouth. "One time, the spider winked at me. I swear."

Conversation bumps along like that. Not bad. Just... tentative. Stilted, maybe. Like both of them are tiptoeing around something they can't name yet.

Zoe talks about the shoot in Iceland where her nipples froze. Emerald talks about a regular who tried to tip her in weed. Zoe asks if hoagies are a sex thing in Philly or just emotionally manipulative sandwiches. Emerald says both. Probably.

Then--Interruption Number One.

A girl in a puffer jacket materializes beside the booth, wide-eyed and trembling like she's approaching a dragon that might give her fashion advice.

"Oh my God. Zoe Jane? I love your stuff. I saw you at the World Suicide Ball campaign. You owned that bodysuit. Can I--can I--?"

Zoe puts on the smile. The practiced one. Glossy, soft, vaguely tired. "Of course," she says. "Let's do it quick."

The girl snaps a selfie. Emerald picks at her salad, quiet.

"I'm on a date," Zoe says after the flash. Not cruel. Just enough. The girl nods and vanishes like a pop-up window dismissed.

Emerald doesn't say anything. Zoe sips the wine.

"So," Zoe offers. "You still seeing your therapist who looks like that guy from M*A*S*H*?"

Emerald blinks. "You remembered that?"

"I remember all your weird jokes. They haunt me."

A smile. Small. Real. The conversation limps back to life.

Main course arrives. Mushroom risotto for Emerald. Duck legs for Zoe. She's being polite--she's trying to eat normal. But fame's a leak. It gets in the cracks.

Interruption Number Two comes in the form of a bachelorette party at a nearby table. One of them recognizes Zoe, shrieks, and sends an emissary.

"Hi! Sorry, I hate to be that person, but my friend is obsessed with you and it's her last weekend of being free--"

Zoe does the thing again. Smile. Pose. Emerald takes a long sip of wine and pretends to read the chalkboard specials on the wall.

They leave. Zoe mutters, "Sorry," into her napkin. "Didn't expect that at a place with $13 risotto."

Emerald shrugs. "It's fine."

"It's not."

"No, it's really--"

Zoe interrupts. "I'm trying not to be that version of me tonight. The one that only exists in photos. I wanted to be... I don't know. A girl who brings weird wine and eats duck legs and makes you laugh."

Emerald meets her eyes.

"You're doing okay."

Zoe smiles, crooked this time. Earnest. A little wrecked.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They finish their meals. The plates go cold from the pauses in their laughter. Zoe tells a story about her aunt getting arrested for fighting a mime. Emerald counters with the time she accidentally sexted her mom. Dessert is a shared piece of olive oil cake with whipped cream and something floral they both hate.

Outside, the air smells like old brick and wet pavement. Neither of them makes a move.

"So..." Zoe says. "Wanna walk with me?"

Emerald bites her lip. "Only if you promise not to get recognized by a raccoon next."

"I make no promises," Zoe says, and holds out her hand.

Emerald takes it.

Light. Lame. Interrupted.

Still kind of perfect.

Night on South Street.

The concrete still radiates heat like it's got an attitude. Neon spills from tattoo shops and smoke shops and stores that haven't sold a single CD since 2007. Somewhere, a guy in a cape is playing Wonderwall on an electric violin. It's loud and stupid and perfect.

Zoe and Emerald walk close but not touching, just enough tension between their bodies to register on seismographs. There's a low-level buzz coming off them--like static or lust or the kind of closeness that makes other people feel like voyeurs without knowing why.

And that's when Dani Dombrowski looks up from her beer.

She's got that unmistakable silhouette: overalls, combat boots, pit hair braided, nose ring crooked from a protest-related injury she won't shut up about. She's leaning back in a plastic chair like she owns the sidewalk, one boot up on another seat, posture made of defiance and boredom.

She sees them. Her.

Emerald.

Zoe.

Together.

Something flickers in Dani's expression. Not shock. Not jealousy. Not even surprise.

Just... registration. Like checking a name off a list. Like recognizing a storm from the barometric pressure.

She says nothing. Just takes a sip of her beer, slow, eyes tracking them the whole way like she's watching the start of a fire she predicted.

Beside her, Sage blinks up from a plate of fries like she's forgotten where she is. She's wearing a maxi skirt made of hemp and heartbreak. Her hair's in a bun that required commitment and three kinds of oil. She glances at Dani, then at Zoe, then at Emerald.

"Friends of yours?" Sage asks, with the breezy disinterest of someone trying very hard not to care and failing so hard she's practically caring in italics.

"No," Dani says.

Then, after a beat, "Not anymore."

Sage makes a vague, condescending noise and dips a fry in ketchup like it's blood.

Zoe doesn't notice. Or pretends not to. She's in the middle of saying something dumb about the sublime eroticism of good cheese fries. Emerald laughs like she didn't notice either, but she did. She felt Dani's eyes on her skin like a pressure change.

She doesn't look back.

But she doesn't forget, either.

Dani watches them go. Drains her beer. Picks up a pen and starts writing something in the margins of a stolen menu.

She titles it:

"Witch Girls and What They Leave Behind."

Sage sighs. "Is it another poem?"

"No," Dani says, deadpan.

"It's a warning."

Beneath the table, Tank snored in blissful canine ignorance.

Zoe whips out her phone like it's just logistics, like she's checking the weather and not detonating every alarm in Emerald's nervous system.

"We going to my place, or yours?" she says, casual. Like they've done this a hundred times. Like the kiss hasn't happened yet but the question already lives in the air, sweating.

Emerald freezes.

It's not the words--it's what comes with them. The unspoken. The maybe. The all-of-this-could-be-real-if-you-let-it.

And suddenly, it's not just the zoo.

Not just the diner.

Not just walking down South Street laughing about mutant fries and dodging Sage's judgmental third eye.

It's real. Realer than it's ever been.

Her stomach flips. Her breath hitches. The whole night rewinds and fast-forwards all at once.

Zoe must feel it--something in Emerald's posture goes rigid, her jaw doing that soft clamp thing like she's locking down a panic she hasn't named yet.

So Zoe--smart, watchful, wrecked Zoe--raises both palms like she's stopping traffic.

"No pressure," she says, softer now. "I swear. We don't have to... I just didn't want to assume we were calling it. That's all."

Emerald blinks.

And maybe it's stupid, but that phrase--no pressure--feels like a key slipped under the door.

It's not flirtation.

It's not seduction.

It's not Zoe being dazzling, or chaotic, or impossible.

It's Zoe being earnest.

It's Zoe letting her choose.

Emerald exhales like she forgot how to.

"You pick," she says. Her voice is quiet. Maybe a little hoarse. "Wherever there's fewer mirrors."

Zoe's smile is barely-there. Real. Slow as moonrise.

"My place, then," she says. "Bathroom mirror's been broken for a week. I've been brushing my teeth by feel."

Emerald laughs. Too hard. Too relieved.

And Tank--because of course he's been here the whole time, under the table like an emotional support beanbag--lets out a long, contented sigh in his sleep.

As if to say: Finally.

The ride is uneventful.

Which is a lie. The car doesn't crash, the driver doesn't ask questions, there's no dramatic playlist shift to "Wicked Game." But inside the Uber, it's a fucking war zone.

Emerald's palm is slick where it's pressed to Zoe's. Fingers laced, both trying not to grip too hard, like if they hold on too tight it'll turn into something else--something loud, something inevitable. The silence stretches. Fills the gaps between their knuckles with heat and hypothetical mistakes.

Zoe glances over once. Just once. That look.

Like she knows.

Like she wants her nervous.

Like she's nervous too but better at dressing it up in smirks and skin and that little shoulder shrug that says I will absolutely destroy you if you ask me nicely.

Emerald breathes through her mouth like she's avoiding poison gas. Every nerve ending is a siren. She can feel her knees sweating. Who the fuck gets sweaty knees?

By the time they're halfway to Zoe's place, Emerald's certain of three things: She needs a shower, she needs an exorcist, and she's going to fuck this up or fuck Zoe or both, and she's not sure which one scares her more.

Zoe shifts beside her. Her thumb does a soft, slow sweep across Emerald's hand. It's nothing. It's everything.

Emerald leans her head back against the seat. Stares at the ceiling like God might intervene.

She thinks: Please don't let her taste how scared I am when she kisses me.

Then she thinks: Please let her kiss me anyway.

Then she thinks nothing at all. Because Zoe's hand tightens, and the car keeps moving, and the city outside rolls past like a dare.

Zoe's place is nicer than it should be.

Not cartoon-rich, not chandelier bullshit, but intentional. Sleek. Minimalist. A little industrial, a little too clean, like she rents it from someone with better habits. It's one of those new-build condos near Drexel, the kind with exposed beams that pretend to be gritty while the appliances cost more than tuition.

Concrete floors. Black-stained cabinets. Light fixtures that look like science experiments. No roommate in sight.

The building's secure-entry, elevator access. The air smells like money and lemon cleaner. Emerald's already spiraling by the time they hit the third floor.

Zoe unlocks the door and says, "Ignore the mess," but there isn't one. A pair of sneakers artfully collapsed near a bench. A coat draped just-so over a stool. A record player by the window. A plant that's thriving.

There's a couch so wide you could stage a breakup on it and still nap. Emerald takes one step in and feels like her socks are too loud.

Zoe toes off her boots and flicks on a light. It's dim. Moody. Designed to make your jaw look better when you say something vulnerable.

"You hungry?" Zoe asks. "I've got hummus I'll never eat and a bottle of wine I only open for people I want to impress."

Emerald raises an eyebrow. "So... is this the emergency wine or the real deal?"

Zoe shrugs. "Emergency wine is the real deal. I'm a walking contradiction."

Emerald doesn't laugh. Not really. She just stands there--sweaty, over-aware of her armpits and breath and the way her thighs stick together. The heat from the car hasn't left her skin. It's like her body's still panicking in slow motion.

Zoe catches it. Doesn't pounce. Doesn't even move closer.

"You okay?" she asks, soft. Like she's asking the couch, not the girl.

Emerald nods.

Then lies.

"Yeah."

Then amends.

"No."

And suddenly it's honest.

Zoe walks to the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Pulls out a pitcher of water and two glasses, sets them on the counter like she's building trust out of hydration.

"Shower's down the hall," she says. "Towels under the sink. You're allowed to reset."

Emerald stares.

"You mean it?"

Zoe nods. "No pressure, remember? You smell like nerves and fry grease. Go wash off the diner. Come back when you're ready."

Emerald doesn't say thank you.

She just grabs a towel and disappears down the hallway, barefoot on expensive floors, shaking like a secret.

Zoe watches her go.

Then opens the wine anyway.

The water's too hot.

Emerald cranks the knob back, steam curling like judgment as she braces her hands against the tile and leans forward, forehead resting on wet porcelain like she's trying to disappear into it.

Her breath fogs the glass. Her chest rises too fast. Every droplet feels like it knows.

She's trying.

So hard.

Trying not to think about Mara's apartment--that spring night three years ago, on that goddamn inflatable mattress, when Arden took her shirt off and the whole world narrowed to collarbones and chaos. She remembers how Arden tasted like gin and guilt. How the window was open, and the wind kept slamming the curtain like it was trying to stop them. How afterward, Arden said, "Don't catch feelings, kid," and lit a cigarette with the matchbook from a bar she never took Emerald to.

She hasn't had sex since. Not really. Not with anyone who stayed.

Dani don't count, okay?

And now--Zoe.

Zoe, who is loud and beautiful and real. Zoe, who texts like a poem with its bra off. Zoe, who brings her wine and softness and lets her choose.

Emerald closes her eyes. Presses her fingers to her lips. Imagines kissing her.

It's vivid.

Too vivid.

Wet skin. Gold chain. That scent--citrus and shampoo and dangerous patience.

She imagines Zoe walking in. Nude. Calm. Confident. The kind of woman who never has to ask. Just knows.

Emerald imagines Zoe stepping into the shower behind her, hands warm on her waist, lips brushing the back of her neck. Emerald turns, startled, blushing already, but Zoe's looking at her like she's not afraid of anything Emerald could do wrong. Like she's already forgiven her for needing a second.

They kiss.

It's soft. Then hungry. Then desperate.

And then--

"You okay in there?"

Emerald startles.

She gasps. Knocks a shampoo bottle off the ledge. It thuds like a gavel.

Zoe's voice is outside the door. Real. Not in the shower. Not touching her. Not even in the room.

Emerald's eyes fly open.

Fuck.

It was all in her head.

Again.

Her heart's racing like she just got caught doing something shameful. She presses her palms flat to the wall and tries to breathe.

"I'm okay," she calls out, voice thinner than she meant.

"Cool," Zoe says. "No rush. Just makin' sure you didn't drown in my overpriced conditioner."

Emerald lets out a laugh that tastes like tears.

She wants to. She really does.

But she doesn't know how to unclench the part of her that expects to be left.

Doesn't know how to be naked without thinking she'll be turned into a before photo.

She rinses. Turns the water off. Stands there dripping.

Maybe tonight isn't about sex.

Maybe it's about not lying when someone asks if you're okay.

She wraps the towel around herself.

And decides to go back out anyway.

Emerald steps out of the bathroom wrapped in the towel, still damp, still flushed from more than just the heat. Her legs are bare. Her hair is a mess of steam-softened curls. She looks like the aftermath of a storm that didn't quite destroy the town.

Zoe's stretched out on the bed in a tank top and underwear, one arm behind her head, scrolling idly through her phone like she isn't watching the door with every heartbeat.

Emerald pauses. Breath caught. Then says softly:

"Can we just... lie down? Not sex. Just skin. I want to feel real tonight."

Zoe drops the phone. Sits up. Smiles like it hurts, like she's been waiting for exactly this.

"Yeah. Of course. I'm basically made of skin."

Emerald laughs--small, shy. She climbs into bed and the towel slips just enough to make the world tilt. Zoe catches a glimpse and arches an eyebrow like she's legally obligated.

"Jesus," Zoe mutters. "Are you part Rossi or something?"

Emerald blinks, confused.

Zoe grins. "Cause those are Delvecchio-level tits."

Emerald goes crimson. Covers her chest with both arms. Muffled protest noises ensue.

Zoe holds up her hands. "Hey, hey--compliment. Sacred heritage. I'm just saying, Carrie would have you canonized."

Emerald groans into the pillow. "Oh my God, shut up."

Zoe giggles and opens the blanket. Emerald slides under it, half-laughing, half-dying, all glowing.

And when she snuggles close, her cheek against Zoe's shoulder, her hand resting gently against a ribcage that finally feels safe--she exhales like she's finally stopped falling.

Zoe kisses the top of her head.

"No pressure," she whispers.

"Just you."

And Emerald?

She believes her.

Morning.

Not golden, not poetic.

Just real.

The sliver of light through the blinds is rude and gray, the kind that lands right on your eyelids and forces you to exist again. The sheets are tangled. One pillow's on the floor. There's a sock in the lamp for some reason. The room smells faintly like warm skin, citrus, and night-sweat. The air hums with breath and leftover nerves.

Emerald blinks.

The panic doesn't hit.

Not immediately.

Instead--she notices warmth. Pressure. A heartbeat close to hers.

Zoe's there. Still there.

Curled beside her, hair a wild halo against the pillow, cheek smushed like a goddess after a small brawl. One arm flopped over Emerald's waist, leg slung in dangerous territory but respectfully dormant. She's breathing slow, lips parted just enough to look tragically kissable, like an invitation written in dream-state.

And she's real.

Not a projection. Not a hallucination in a steamy shower. Not a dream conjured out of thirst and memory and near-misses.

Zoe. Is. Present.

Emerald watches her like she's stolen something. Like Zoe might dissolve if she blinks too hard.

Zoe stirs. One eye opens--just one--and she peers blearily at Emerald, voice rasped with sleep and maybe faint amusement:

"You're watching me sleep. That's either adorable or serial killer behavior."

Emerald blushes but doesn't look away.

"I'm just... surprised."

"That I snore?"

"That you stayed."

Zoe lifts her head, rests her chin on Emerald's chest. Her voice goes soft.

"Of course I stayed, dumbass. I live here."

And that lands. Hard. Quietly. Like gospel whispered into a cathedral too afraid to echo.

Emerald exhales. She lets her body sink into the bed fully for the first time. Lets Zoe's weight feel like comfort, not pressure.

She whispers:

"I think I like waking up with you more than I like the idea of you."

Zoe blinks. Smiles.

"Good. Because the real me farts when I laugh and will absolutely eat the last Pop-Tart."

They lay there a while.

Breathing in sync.

Hands finding each other again, not with urgency, but with certainty.

The night was about fear.

The morning is about staying.

Zoe shifts first. Just a twitch. A soft exhale against Emerald's collarbone, warm and accidental, like a secret escaping sleep. Her leg tightens where it's tangled between Emerald's thighs, not grinding--just there. Present. Heavy with suggestion.

Emerald doesn't open her eyes. She doesn't need to. She feels everything.

Zoe's fingers curl around her waist like they forgot they ever let go. Her breath slows, then deepens, dragging across Emerald's chest in lazy, unfiltered rhythm. A nose against her neck. A thigh that inches higher. The air between them thickens--not with urgency, but with inevitability.

There's no hurry. No spark or gasp. Just heat.

Emerald rolls--slow, quiet--until she's half over Zoe, chest brushing chest, a calf slipping between Zoe's knees. Their skin sticks where it touches, sleep-slick and warm. Zoe sighs into it, arms sliding up Emerald's back in a slow, open arc. Not grabbing. Just claiming.

Their mouths find each other without strategy. No teeth. No choreography. Just softness layered over softness, breath caught and traded like a fragile currency.

Zoe whispers something. It might be her name. Might be nonsense. It ghosts across Emerald's lips like wind from a storm that already passed.

Emerald's fingers trace down Zoe's ribs. Not possessive--grateful. The way you touch something that chose to stay.

Zoe hums. That sound--that low, fucked-out hum, barely awake and already wrecked--curls low in Emerald's belly like a memory being rewritten.

They don't speak.

They just move. Subtle. Reverent. Breathing each other in with the kind of kisses that feel like exhalations after a long-held secret. Hands on hips. Elbows brushing. Emerald's mouth at Zoe's throat. Zoe's hand on the small of her back, guiding without asking.

No rush. No goals. Just yes.

Yes to this heat.

Yes to this weight.

Yes to the mess of breath and sleep and mouths finding each other over and over, until the world tilts.

And when Emerald finally stills, curled into Zoe like a comma at the end of a long, sacred sentence, neither of them speaks. They just stay.

Skin to skin.

Heat to heat.

Alive.

"I gotta pee." they say in unison.

A beat.

Then laughter, muffled against each other's skin.

Zoe groans. "Fine, but I get the bathroom second so I can pretend I'm not human."

Emerald rolls off her, grinning. "Too late."

Sheets rustle. Toes hit the cold floor. And the spell doesn't break.

It just... stretches.

Lives.

Later.

The sun finally bothers to show up, and it finds them in the kitchen--nude but for aprons. The very expensive kind, the ones meant for cooking classes hosted by ex-models or for seducing someone who likes the smell of rosemary and ruin.

Zoe's is black, minimalist, strappy in a way that makes it somehow sluttier than being naked. Emerald's is cream-colored linen, tied badly in the back and hanging off one shoulder like it's flirting with gravity.

They're not really cooking.

They're performing breakfast. Chaos, mostly.

Zoe's flipping pancakes with one hand, coffee in the other. Emerald's attempting eggs and has already dropped a shell into the pan. There's flour on Zoe's thigh. There's a kiss-mark on Emerald's collarbone.

Emerald opens the fridge. Stares in.

"You have twelve different jars of mustard and no actual food."

Zoe shrugs. "I live a curated lifestyle."

"You're a menace."

"You knew that last night."

Emerald blushes. Grins.

"I didn't know you'd feed me and ruin me in under twelve hours."

Zoe saunters over, bare but for the apron, and reaches around her for the oat milk. Her breasts brush Emerald's arm. Intentionally. Emerald freezes. Sputters.

"You're doing that on purpose."

"You're welcome."

They eat at the island, standing. Zoe feeds her bits of pancake with her fingers. Emerald retaliates with a spoonful of hot eggs that burns Zoe's tongue.

"Payback," Emerald says sweetly. "For round three."

Zoe grins, mouth full.

"Round three was charity. I was letting you win."

"Liar. You begged."

"I narrated, thank you. There's a difference."

Emerald nearly spits out her coffee.

Outside, Philly hums.

Inside, it's just two women in overpriced aprons, naked beneath the morning, covered in crumbs, coffee steam, and the shockingly gentle aftermath of wanting.

Emerald leans in. Kisses Zoe slow.

"You gonna keep me for breakfast again tomorrow?"

Zoe pulls her closer.

"I'll keep you for dinner, too."