Hard Edges, Soft Hearts Pt. 04

The garage door groaned halfway open before Raye ducked under, already walking fast, jaw tight, fists in the pockets of her leather jacket like they were the only things keeping her from swinging.

Frankie stood in the center of the shop, hands filthy with grease, sweat darkening the collar of her tee. She didn't flinch.

Raye didn't stop walking until they were chest to chest, heat radiating off both of them like the last second before a fight breaks loose.

"You really think you deserve her?" Raye snapped.

Frankie raised a brow. "You think this is about deserving? You treated her like something you could wear until it stopped looking good in pictures."

That was the first cut.

Raye's eyes narrowed. "I gave her intensity. What do you give her? Hand-holding and sob stories?"

Frankie dropped the rag from her hands and stepped forward, shoulders squared.

"I give her quiet when she needs it. I give her room to feel without apologizing. You? You gave her fireworks and called it love -- even when it burned her."

Raye laughed, sharp and bitter. "You don't know a damn thing about me."

"I know what it looks like when someone hides cruelty behind charisma," Frankie shot back.

"And I know what she looks like after a night with you. Diminished."

That landed.

Raye shoved her, hard -- palms to Frankie's shoulders. Frankie stumbled half a step back but didn't fall.

"You don't get to judge me," Raye growled. "You were too scared to even make a move until she handed you her heart."

Frankie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand slowly.

"Maybe. But I won't throw it around like a trophy if she gives it to me."

Raye moved fast -- fast enough that for a second it looked like she'd hit her again, but Frankie caught her wrist mid-air.

Not violently.

Just enough pressure to say: That's enough.

They stood there, locked in that grip, breathing hard.

Frankie looked into Raye's eyes -- and this time, no anger, just something deeper. Sadness. Pity. Even understanding.

"You don't know how to hold love without squeezing it to death," Frankie said, voice low. "And that's why she walked away."

Raye yanked her arm back. "You think you're her savior?"

"No," Frankie said. "I think I'm her choice."

Silence.

Then Raye said nothing -- just turned, fists clenched, spine straight. Walked away like she had a blade tucked between her ribs and wasn't going to show anyone where the blood was.

Frankie watched her go.

Didn't celebrate.

Didn't breathe easy.

Just stood there, heart pounding, hand still warm from catching someone else's fury.

Part Nine: No More Edges Between Us

Avery didn't hear Frankie come up the stairs.

She was barefoot in her apartment, lights low, a record spinning softly -- Nina Simone, low and aching. She hadn't changed out of her sweater dress, sleeves pushed up as she rinsed out a wine glass in the sink. Her body felt like it had been holding something for days.

Something old. Heavy. Finally cracked open.

The knock on her door was soft. Like someone afraid of being turned away.

Avery already knew who it was.

She dried her hands slowly. Didn't rush. Walked to the door and opened it.

Frankie stood there -- hair damp from a quick shower, black tee stretched across her shoulders, hands in her pockets like she didn't know what to do with them. Her eyes searched Avery's like they were reading a map.

No dramatics. No declarations.

Just two women staring at each other like a question and an answer.

"I got your message," Frankie said.

Avery nodded. "I meant every word."

Frankie hesitated. "You still mean them?"

"I don't say things I don't want to live with," Avery said softly.

That broke something in Frankie. Not loudly. Just enough.

She stepped forward. Stopped inches away. "I don't have a script for this."

"Good," Avery whispered. "I'm tired of being performed for."

Frankie reached up, brushed a stray curl behind Avery's ear with a touch so careful it made her ache.

"You scare me," she admitted.

Avery looked up. "Why?"

"Because you make me want to be brave."

Avery smiled. Not the polished one she used for the world -- but the one that curled slowly, shyly, from deep inside.

She took Frankie's hand and led her inside.

They didn't undress quickly.

They didn't rush to touch.

They sat on the couch first, knees brushing, eyes locked, breathing synced. Then Avery leaned in, pressed her lips to Frankie's like she was writing a promise. Frankie kissed her back with a kind of reverence that made her feel not adored, but known.

It was slow. It was soft. It was honest.

Hands on skin. Breath shared like a secret. No one asking to be saved. Just two women choosing to stay. To witness.

To love -- not in firelight, not in chaos, but in the quiet.

And this time, there were no sharp edges between them.

Just warmth.

Where the Fire Goes When It Has No One to Burn

Raye didn't go home right away.

She drove fast, windows down, city lights warping in her mirrors. Music up, bass too heavy, the kind of angry hip hop she hadn't listened to in years -- not since high school, when fighting was a language and silence meant you were about to lose.

Frankie had stood her ground.

That pissed her off more than anything.

Not the words, not the restraint -- but the fact that Frankie hadn't risen to the bait. Hadn't given her the chaos she needed to justify the rage burning through her chest.

So now the rage had nowhere to go.

She pulled into an empty lot behind a closed diner, slammed the door, and kicked the front tire hard enough to make her boot ring.

"Fuck," she whispered.

Not at Frankie.

Not even at Avery.

At herself.

She sat on the curb, head in her hands, breathing like a boxer who'd just lost the final round and couldn't even say it was rigged.

The truth was brutal: Avery hadn't been taken from her. She'd left. On her own. Quietly, deliberately, like someone walking out of a burning house while the fire still tried to convince her it was warmth.

Raye didn't know how to love softly. No one had ever taught her.

Her mom loved with rules. Her exes loved with threats. And Raye? She loved like a storm -- impressive, loud, and gone too fast to leave anything standing.

She had wanted Avery because Avery was beauty wrapped in composure. A prize. A reflection of how far Raye had come from the reckless girl with bruised knuckles and bad taste in women.

But Avery wasn't a trophy.

She was a mirror.

And Raye had looked into her one too many times without liking what she saw.

She pulled her phone from her pocket. Opened her text thread with Avery. Still blank after the message had been read. No reply. Just that brutal little "Seen."

She hovered her thumb over the keyboard.

Typed: "You made the right choice."

Paused. Then added:

"Don't let her make you small either. You deserve the whole sky."

Sent it.

Raye sat back, exhaling like she'd just pulled out a splinter that had been buried for months.

No closure.

No applause.

Just pain, finally made honest.

She looked up at the stars above the diner's roofline.

They were faint, half-smothered by the city.

But they were still there.

Epilogue: What Grows After the Flame

[RAYE]

Six weeks later, Raye was sweating through a sunrise boxing class she'd told herself she didn't need.

The warehouse was loud -- the thwack-thwack of gloves hitting pads, jump ropes whipping concrete, the sound of people turning pain into movement. Raye felt good here. Not happy, but grounded.

She wasn't trying to win anymore. Not with her fists, not with women. She was just trying to get quiet inside.

After class, she sat on the bench outside, water bottle sweating in her hand. Her coach -- an older butch named Lena with silver braids and an unshakable stare -- sat beside her.

"You've been showing up," Lena said, not quite praise, but close.

"Trying not to disappear," Raye muttered.

Lena tilted her head. "Some people disappear loud. You're learning how not to be one of them."

Raye didn't say anything. Just sipped her water.

Her phone buzzed. A photo from an unknown number. But she knew the face.

Avery.

Laughing in the sunlight, hair wild, leaning into someone's shoulder.

Frankie's.

The message was simple:

"We're doing okay. Hope you are too."

Raye stared at it.

Then smiled.

For real this time.

Small. Earned.

She texted back:

"I am."

Then turned off her phone and got up.

The day was waiting.

And this time, she wasn't trying to outrun it.

[AVERY & FRANKIE]

Sunday morning.

The kind where light dripped in through the windows slow and golden. Avery moved around Frankie's kitchen in one of her oversized sweaters, mug of coffee in her hand, bare legs brushing against the cabinets.

Frankie was at the stove, frying eggs like it was an act of devotion.

They weren't tangled up in each other like some breathless romance movie.

They were comfortable. Safe.

But every now and then, Avery would glance at Frankie -- and Frankie would feel it, like gravity had just shifted, soft and insistent.

"You're staring," Frankie said, without looking up.

"Just memorizing."

Frankie turned, spatula in hand. "Dangerous habit."

Avery smiled. Walked over. Slid a hand into the back pocket of Frankie's jeans. "I like danger. When it's steady."

Frankie kissed her on the forehead.

Then the lips.

And Avery melted into it like she finally understood what it meant to be held without having to perform.

There was no fire left between them.

Only warmth.

Only home.

The End