Hard Edges, Soft Hearts Pt. 03

Back in her apartment, Avery sat on the floor with a glass of wine, not bothering to turn on the lights. The glow from the streetlamps outside spilled through the blinds, striping the walls in soft gold and shadow.

She sipped slowly, her heels still on, her earrings tugging slightly at her lobes. She didn't want to take the night off her body yet -- not while it still held memory.

She closed her eyes and let her mind drift back.

The first girl she ever kissed had been wild-eyed and reckless, with pink hair and chipped black nail polish. They'd skipped class, smoked weed behind a strip mall, and dared each other into everything. When they kissed, it felt like an explosion -- fast, messy, thrilling. She remembered thinking, So this is what freedom tastes like.

But it ended in wreckage, like it always did with girls who didn't know how to land.

Years later, Raye had felt like the evolution of that -- more grounded, more magnetic, but still full of fire. Still quick to push and pull. Still selfish in the way charismatic people often are.

Avery knew Raye loved the idea of her -- the soft, femme aesthetic, the praise that came with being the one who could "tame" her. But underneath, Raye didn't ask questions. She didn't notice when Avery went quiet, when her laughter got smaller.

Then Frankie. God, Frankie.

Frankie didn't sweep in like a storm. She waited at the edges, eyes dark, hands always occupied, like she didn't know what to do with stillness. But when she listened -- really listened -- Avery felt like the only voice in the world.

Frankie didn't perform. She hesitated. She worried she wasn't enough.

That wrecked Avery in a different way.

Because the girl who always kept herself composed, always curated and polished and adored -- wanted to be undone by someone who moved slowly. Who touched like she was afraid of breaking things. Who didn't ask for her beauty, but looked like it startled her anyway.

Avery stared at the ceiling.

What she wanted -- what she'd always wanted -- wasn't about a type.

It was about being understood.

It was about not having to shape-shift into something easier to hold.

And if either of them couldn't see that... they didn't deserve her.

She reached for her phone again.

Typed, deleted.

Typed again.

This time, it was for Frankie.

"If I let you in, can you handle all of me? Not just the parts you admire. The messy parts. The scared parts. The ones I hide in public."

She stared at it. Hit send.

Then sat in silence, not waiting. Just existing.

Part Six: The Fall of the Favorite

Raye didn't check her phone obsessively. She didn't need to. That wasn't her style.

At least, not until that night.

After the fundraiser, she'd gone home, poured herself a drink, and waited. Avery always texted. Eventually. Even if they argued. Even if she left a room with fire in her eyes. There was always a "made it home" or a late-night voice memo with a half-laughed apology.

But not tonight.

She scrolled through her messages again. Nothing from Avery. Her last text hung there like a ghost:

"You okay? Want me to come over?"

Read. No reply.

She tossed her phone onto the couch and paced the length of her apartment, fingers twitching.

Frankie. It had to be Frankie.

That fucking martyr routine. The soulful looks. The whole "I'm not trying to win" while still showing up in every goddamn room Avery was in. Raye could feel it -- that shifting gravity.

The way Avery's focus tilted.

She hated it.

Worse, she feared it.

She grabbed her jacket and keys, not thinking, just moving. Drove through the quiet streets like the night owed her something. She didn't even realize where she was going until she turned onto the block where Frankie's garage sat. Closed. Dark.

But Frankie's truck was there, parked out back, angled like she'd pulled in fast.

Raye sat in her car, engine running. Eyes on that truck. She didn't know what she was hoping for -- a glimpse of Avery's silhouette behind the windows? A reason to knock on the door and demand answers?

Instead, her phone buzzed on the passenger seat.

Avery's name lit up the screen.

For a heartbeat, she felt the rush. Relief. Hope.

Until she saw the message wasn't for her.

It was a screenshot.

Avery had sent her a message meant for someone else.

Frankie.

"If I let you in, can you handle all of me? Not just the parts you admire..."

Raye stared at the screen, blood pounding in her ears.

No words. No explanation. Just silence and that text -- raw, aching, real in a way Avery had never been with her.

The woman she thought she had in her arms was already in someone else's hands.

Raye threw her head back against the seat and laughed once -- sharp and humorless.

"You picked her," she whispered into the dark.

And for the first time in years, she didn't feel like the top dog in the room.

She felt like the one left behind.

Part Seven: Hands That Hold Fire

Frankie had just finished wiping down the workbench when her phone buzzed in her back pocket.

It was late. The garage was closed, the only light coming from the old desk lamp she kept on after hours -- warm and soft, not like the fluorescents overhead. The air still smelled faintly of oil and rain from earlier.

She pulled out her phone, thumb smudged with grease, expecting a parts invoice or some spam about used tires.

But it was Avery.

"If I let you in, can you handle all of me? Not just the parts you admire. The messy parts. The scared parts. The ones I hide in public."

Frankie stared at the words.

Her hands went still. Her breath caught.

She sat down slowly on the edge of the workbench, the phone still glowing in her palm like it weighed a hundred pounds.

She read it again.

Not a game. Not a flirt. Not a tease in a bar.

It was trust, typed out in lowercase letters.

The woman she thought was unreachable -- too smooth, too sharp, too perfect -- had just cracked open her ribs and offered Frankie a piece of her heart.

Frankie wasn't used to being the one chosen. Not for the long run. People liked the idea of her -- the butch with the cool hands and the quiet strength -- but not the reality. Not the silences. Not the old hurts. Not the parts of her that flinched at soft things.

She rubbed a hand down her face.

Could she handle it?

Could she really hold someone like Avery -- someone who shimmered with so much grace it hurt to look at her too long -- and not mess it up?

She thought about Raye.

Raye would burn the house down before she'd admit someone else had won.

But Avery hadn't picked a winner. She'd picked vulnerability.

She'd picked a question -- and handed it to Frankie like a lit match.

Frankie exhaled and typed back, slowly.

"I don't have all the answers. But I've got two hands, a solid spine, and a heart that doesn't scare easily. You show me every part of you -- I'll hold it all. Mess and all."

She hesitated.

Then added:

"But only if you want me. Not to fix you. Just to see you. Fully."

She hit send.

The message hung in the air like smoke.

She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just sat in the low hum of the shop, waiting.

Not for permission.

But for a beginning.