Work Text:
Caitlyn Kiramman's luggage consisted of precisely three suitcases, each arranged by size and labeled in her neat, looping script. The largest held her clothes, meticulously folded and organized by color. The middle one contained her textbooks, already alphabetized. The smallest—locked—held things she didn’t care to explain.
The dorm room smelled like old carpet and the ghost of too many cheap air fresheners. Caitlyn wrinkled her nose and adjusted the strap of her designer bag higher on her shoulder. She’d just begun inspecting the bed frame for structural integrity when the door slammed open behind her.
Vi’s combat boots hit the floor with a thud that made Caitlyn turn, one eyebrow arched. The other girl dropped a duffel bag that looked like it had survived a war, then grinned, sharp and unapologetic. "You gonna move, Princess, or am I supposed to crawl under your shit to get to my side?"
Caitlyn’s grip tightened on the bedpost. She’d been warned about this—random roommate assignments were a gamble. But this? This was worse than bad luck. This was a disaster in a tank top and fingerless gloves. "If by 'shit' you mean my properly stored belongings," she said coolly, "then yes."
Vi snorted, kicking her duffel toward the other bed—the one Caitlyn had already dismissed as too creaky. "Properly stored," she mimicked, rolling her shoulders until her knuckles cracked. "Bet you iron your socks too." She didn’t wait for an answer, just yanked open the mini-fridge under her desk and pulled out a beer, popping the cap off with her teeth.
The sound made Caitlyn flinch. She watched, horrified, as Vi took a long swig, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Relax, cupcake," Vi said, catching her stare. "I don’t bite." A pause. "Unless you ask nice."
Caitlyn’s cheeks burned, but she refused to look away. "Charming," she deadpanned. She turned back to her unpacking, but not before noticing the way Vi’s grin faltered—just for a second—before she took another defiant gulp.
The next hour passed in silence thick enough to choke on. Caitlyn lined her textbooks up with military precision, while Vi draped herself over her bed like a stray cat, scrolling through her phone with one hand and occasionally flicking bottle caps into the trash. Every metallic *ping* made Caitlyn’s jaw tighten. She reached for her headphones—only to find Vi suddenly standing too close, holding out a dented can of energy drink. "You look like you’re about to snap a pencil in half," Vi said, tilting her head. "Relax. I don’t actually plan on ruining yourlife."
Vi continues to antagonize Caitlyn with careless behavior and teasing jabs, including drinking beer and mocking her uptight habits. Caitlyn remains visibly irritated but refuses to engage, though she notices brief flickers of uncertainty in Vi’s bravado. Their mutual tension simmers until Vi abruptly offers an energy drink, claiming she doesn’t actually intend to make Caitlyn’s life miserable.
Caitlyn hesitated, then took the can. Their fingers brushed—brief, electric—and Vi’s smirk softened into something almost genuine. Almost. The moment shattered when Vi’s phone buzzed, screen lighting up with a message Caitlyn couldn’t help but catch: *Still alive with the rich girl?* Vi rolled her eyes and shoved the phone into her pocket, but not before Caitlyn saw the way her thumb lingered over the reply.
That night, Caitlyn lay stiff beneath her sheets, listening to Vi’s steady breathing across the room. She told herself she was cataloging annoyances: the way Vi kicked off her boots without untying them, how she’d left her half-finished drink sweating on the desk. But then Vi murmured something in her sleep—a name, maybe—and Caitlyn found herself straining to hear. The realization hit like a punch: she wanted to know. And that was infinitely worse than hating her.
Morning sunlight bled through the blinds, catching on the dust motes between their beds. Caitlyn was already dressed—blazer buttoned, hair pinned—when Vi groaned awake, hair sticking up in violent pink tufts. "Jesus," Vi croaked, squinting at Caitlyn’s outfit. "You rob a bank or something?" Caitlyn opened her mouth to retort, but Vi was already stumbling past her toward the shower, close enough that Caitlyn caught the scent of cheap soap and something warmer underneath. The door slammed shut, leaving Caitlyn gripping her messenger bag too tight.
Their first class together was Philosophy 101. Caitlyn chose a seat near the front; Vi slumped into the back row. When the professor paired them for debates, Vi leaned across the desk, eyes glinting. "Bet I can make you lose your cool before this hour’s up," she whispered. Caitlyn’s pulse jumped—not at the challenge, but at the way Vi’s knee bumped hers under the table. Deliberate? Accident? She couldn’t tell, and that was the problem.
Later, Caitlyn caught Vi staring at her notes—not mocking, but curious. Vi looked away fast, but not before Caitlyn saw it: the hunger. Like Vi wanted to peel back her perfect handwriting and see what bled underneath. Caitlyn exhaled slowly. This wasn’t just dislike. This was something far more dangerous.
Days blurred into a rhythm of stolen glances and barbed comments. Vi left her sketchbook open once, filled with jagged charcoal lines that somehow looked like Caitlyn’s hands. Caitlyn pretended not to notice, but that night, she dreamed of fingers smudging graphite across her ribs.
Then came the rainstorm—the kind that rattled the windows. Vi stumbled in soaked, shivering, and Caitlyn threw her a towel without thinking. Their hands brushed again, longer this time. Vi’s breath hitched. Caitlyn’s throat went dry. Neither moved until thunder shook the building apart.
"You’re staring," Vi murmured, but her voice lacked its usual edge. Caitlyn didn’t deny it. The air between them crackled like the storm outside—unpredictable, electric. Too much. Not enough.
Vi exhaled sharply and stepped back first, shaking her head as if to clear it. Caitlyn watched a droplet of water slide down Vi’s collarbone and disappear beneath the soaked fabric of her tank top. She shouldn’t have noticed. She shouldn’t have wanted to follow it with her fingers. "You’ll catch a cold," Caitlyn said instead, tossing her own hoodie at Vi—the soft gray one she never let anyone borrow. Vi caught it midair, hesitated, then pulled it on slowly, fingers lingering on the cuffs where Caitlyn’s initials were stitched in navy thread.
Days later, Caitlyn found the hoodie folded neatly on her pillow, smelling faintly of Vi’s cheap citrus shampoo and something darker, smokier. She buried her face in it before she could stop herself. The next morning, Vi smirked at her over breakfast—Caitlyn had never cooked for anyone before, let alone plated pancakes with blueberries arranged in a mocking smile—but her smirk faltered when she spotted the gray fabric peeking from Caitlyn’s backpack. Neither mentioned it.
But that night, Caitlyn woke to the sound of Vi’s breath hitching—not in sleep, but in something raw and wounded. Without thinking, she crossed the room, hesitated, then slid into Vi’s bed. Their backs barely touched, but the heat between them was unbearable. Vi didn’t pull away. Caitlyn counted the seconds until dawn, memorizing the hitch of Vi’s ribs with every shaky inhale.
The morning after, Vi acted like nothing happened, but Caitlyn caught her staring—just once—when she thought Caitlyn wasn’t looking. Vi’s fingers twitched toward her sketchbook, then away, as if she couldn’t trust her own hands. Caitlyn pretended not to notice the way Vi’s throat worked when she reached past her for the coffee mug, deliberately slow, letting her sleeve brush Vi’s wrist.
Then came the party—some off-campus dive Vi dragged her to "to loosen you the fuck up, Kiramman." Caitlyn hated the sticky floors, the sweat-thick air, until Vi pulled her into a shadowed corner, pressed a drink into her hand, and murmured, "See? Not so bad." Vi’s lips brushed her ear on the last word, sending sparks down Caitlyn’s spine. She drank too fast, let the burn distract her from the way Vi’s thumb traced circles on her hip.
Later, stumbling back to their dorm, Vi leaned against her—too much, too warm—and Caitlyn let her. The elevator lurched; Vi’s laugh was whiskey-sweet against her neck. Caitlyn turned, just slightly, and their mouths hovered close enough to taste each other’s breath. Neither moved. The doors slid open. Vi exhaled, shaky, and stepped away first. The space between them ached.
In the days that followed, Caitlyn started noticing things: how Vi always stole the last fry but left the crust of her toast untouched, how she doodled spirals in the margins of her notes when she thought Caitlyn wasn’t looking. Once, Caitlyn caught Vi staring at her lips during a lecture, teeth sinking into her own bottom lip hard enough to leave marks. Caitlyn’s pen slipped, ink blooming across her page like a confession. Vi smirked and looked away.
Their beds always stayed separate, but the distance between them thinned. Vi started leaving her sketchbook open wider—daring Caitlyn to look. Caitlyn did. The pages were filled with her: Caitlyn’s hands gripping a coffee cup, the curve of her shoulder under thin fabric, her mouth parted mid-retort. The drawings weren’t cruel. They were hungry. Caitlyn traced one with her fingertip before snapping the book shut, heart pounding.
Then came the night Vi stumbled in late, reeking of smoke and something bitter. Caitlyn pretended to sleep as Vi stood over her bed, breath uneven. Vi’s fingers hovered near Caitlyn’s cheek—close enough to feel the heat—before curling into a fist and retreating. Caitlyn waited until Vi’s breathing evened out before opening her eyes. The ache in her chest had nothing to do with sleep.
Days passed in a rhythm of almost-touches: Vi’s elbow brushing Caitlyn’s when they reached for the same shampoo in the shower, Caitlyn’s knee pressing against Vi’s under the library table for a second too long. Neither acknowledged it, but Caitlyn noticed how Vi’s jaw clenched when she pulled away first, how her own pulse stuttered when Vi lingered.
Vi started leaving her sketchbook on Caitlyn’s desk—open to pages filled with studies of Caitlyn’s collarbone, her hands, the curve of her lips mid-sentence. Caitlyn traced the charcoal lines with her fingertips, imagining Vi’s hands smudging the edges, rough but deliberate. One afternoon, she found a new sketch: herself asleep, bathed in moonlight. Beneath it, in Vi’s jagged script: *Still waiting for you to wake up.*
The words coiled low in Caitlyn’s stomach. She closed the book gently, pressed it back where Vi would find it, and added her own note tucked between the pages: *I’ve been awake the whole time.* When Vi found it, her laugh was rough, but her fingers trembled as she tucked the paper into her pocket. Neither spoke of it—but that night, Vi didn’t pull away when Caitlyn’s fingers brushed hers in the dark.
Rain lashed the windows again two weeks later, trapping them in the dorm. Vi sprawled on Caitlyn’s bed without asking, flipping through a textbook she clearly wasn’t reading. Caitlyn watched the way Vi’s thumb kept tracing the edge of a page—nervous, restless—before she finally reached out and stilled it with her own hand. Vi froze. The air between them thickened with every ragged breath, every unspoken word. Caitlyn could count Vi’s freckles like this, could map the scar above her eyebrow.
Vi was the one who broke first, fingers twisting into Caitlyn’s shirt to drag her down. Their mouths crashed together—messy, desperate—years of tension unraveling in the space of a gasp. Caitlyn tasted energy drinks and the metallic tang of Vi’s lip ring, felt the shudder that wracked Vi’s body when she bit down just shy of too hard. They pulled apart only when the room spun, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air. Vi’s grin was shaky, her voice raw: "Took you long enough, Cupcake."
Outside, the storm raged on. Inside, Caitlyn traced the ink on Vi’s knuckles with her tongue and learned what it meant to burn slow.
Vi’s hands were everywhere and nowhere all at once—hovering at Caitlyn’s waist, skirting the hem of her shirt, retreating like she expected to be slapped away. Caitlyn caught one wrist, pressed Vi’s palm flat against her ribcage where her heart hammered, and watched Vi’s pupils swallow the blue of her irises whole. "Stop thinking," Caitlyn murmured against the hinge of Vi’s jaw. Vi’s laugh came out broken, her fingers flexing against Caitlyn’s skin like she couldn’t decide whether to push or pull.
They didn’t talk about it the next morning. Vi left for her early shift at the gym with a bruise purpling her collarbone and Caitlyn’s teeth marks on her lower lip. Caitlyn pretended not to notice how Vi’s gaze lingered on her mouth when she returned, sweat-slick and smelling like worn leather and salt. Instead, she slid a coffee across the desk—black, two sugars, the way Vi liked it—and pointedly didn’t mention the way Vi’s fingers trembled when their hands brushed.
Weeks passed in a haze of stolen moments: Vi crowding Caitlyn against the dorm fridge to steal a sip of her iced tea, Caitlyn "accidentally" leaving her scarves in Vi’s bed. The sketches in Vi’s notebook grew bolder—Caitlyn’s neck arched back, her fingers tangled in pink hair, the dip of her waist where Vi’s hands fit just right. Caitlyn would find them tucked between her textbooks, warm from Vi’s pockets, and press them to her lips when she thought no one was watching.
Then came the night Vi didn’t come back. Caitlyn told herself she wasn’t waiting up, but her fingers tapped restless rhythms on her laptop keyboard until 3 AM. When the door finally creaked open, Vi reeked of whiskey and something sharper—regret, maybe. Her knuckles were split, her grin brittle. "Miss me?" she slurred, swaying until Caitlyn caught her. Up close, Caitlyn tasted copper on Vi’s breath, saw the shadow of a bruise blooming along her ribs. The anger hit first, white-hot—until Vi slumped against her, murmuring, "Kept thinking about your stupid face," and Caitlyn’s throat closed.
Morning light found them tangled in Vi’s sheets, fully clothed, Vi’s face buried in Caitlyn’s collarbone. Caitlyn traced the fresh scars on Vi’s hands, the way Vi’s breath hitched when her thumb brushed a half-healed cut. "Tell me," Caitlyn whispered. Vi went rigid, then exhaled shakily, her fingers tightening around Caitlyn’s wrist—not to push away, but to anchor herself. The story came out in jagged pieces: a back-alley fight, a debt that wasn’t hers, the way her fists remembered violence before her brain did.
Caitlyn listened, her chest aching with each confession. When Vi finally fell silent, trembling, Caitlyn pressed her lips to Vi’s scarred knuckles—once, twice—until Vi’s breathing steadied. Outside, rain began to patter against the window. Vi turned her hand palm-up, lacing their fingers together like a promise. No words. None needed. The silence between them now wasn’t the choking kind from before; it was the quiet of two people learning how to hold each other’s broken edges without cutting themselves.
Vi started showing up more—to lectures, to meals, to Caitlyn’s bed when nightmares clawed at her. One evening, Caitlyn found Vi hunched over her sketchbook, charcoal smudged across her cheekbone. She peered over Vi’s shoulder and froze: the page showed Caitlyn asleep, sunlight dappling her skin, but drawn with a tenderness that made her throat tighten. Vi stiffened, then sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, okay,” she muttered, tossing the sketchbook aside. “You win.” Caitlyn caught her wrist, pulled her close, and kissed the graphite from her fingers until Vi’s laughter vibrated against her lips.
Their first real fight came a week later—over something stupid, something neither could remember afterward. Vi stormed out, leaving the dorm door swinging in her wake. Caitlyn waited exactly seventeen minutes before following, tracing Vi’s usual haunts until she found her on the rooftop of the humanities building, kicking at loose gravel. “I’m not apologizing,” Vi growled, but her voice cracked. Caitlyn stepped into her space, pressing their foreheads together until Vi’s fists unclenched. “I know,” Caitlyn whispered. Vi kissed her like it hurt, teeth clashing, hands gripping Caitlyn’s hips hard enough to bruise. They didn’t speak on the walk back. They didn’t need to.
The semester ended in a blur of exams and stolen moments—Vi napping with her head in Caitlyn’s lap in the library, Caitlyn tracing the tattoos on Vi’s knuckles during lectures. Packing day arrived too soon. Vi watched Caitlyn fold her blazers with an unreadable expression. “So,” she said, toeing at a loose floorboard. “Guess this is it.” Caitlyn paused, then snapped her suitcase shut with finality. “No,” she said, catching Vi’s wrist and pressing a key into her palm—the spare to her apartment across town. Vi’s grin was slow, devastating. “Bold move, Cupcake.” Caitlyn kissed her before she could smirk properly. Some things were better left unsaid.
Summer burned hotter than expected. Vi’s hands left sweat-slick prints on Caitlyn’s thighs, their shared apartment smelling like sex and burnt toast. Caitlyn learned the rhythm of Vi’s nightmares—the way her breath hitched at 3 AM, the muffled curses when she jolted awake. One night, Caitlyn caught Vi’s fist mid-swing, her own grip firm but gentle. Vi’s gasp was raw. In the dark, Caitlyn pressed Vi’s palm to her own chest. “I’m here,” she whispered. Vi’s exhale shuddered against her neck. The words hung between them, fragile as the dawn light creeping through the blinds.
By August, Vi’s sketchbook was filled with Caitlyn in motion—laughing over spilled coffee, scowling at her laptop, arching under Vi’s mouth. Caitlyn found it one morning, left open on the kitchen counter with a new sketch: Caitlyn, barefoot in Vi’s shirt, sunlight catching the curve of her shoulder. Beneath it, Vi’s messy scrawl: *Home looks good on you.* Caitlyn traced the words, her chest tight. Behind her, Vi cleared her throat, holding out a mug—the chipped one Caitlyn hated, now filled with her favorite tea. Their fingers brushed. No key this time. Just hands that knew where they belonged.
The storm rolled in unexpected, rattling the windows of their fourth-floor walkup. Caitlyn woke to an empty bed, the sheets still warm. She found Vi on the fire escape, rain-soaked and shivering. “Couldn’t sleep,” Vi muttered, but her eyes were red-rimmed. Caitlyn didn’t ask. Just wrapped her arms around Vi’s waist, pressing her lips to the nape of Vi’s neck where the rain tasted like salt. Vi’s breath hitched. Somewhere below, a car alarm wailed. The city pulsed around them—loud, alive, imperfect. Vi turned in Caitlyn’s arms, her smile crooked. “Still hate me?” Caitlyn kissed her instead of answering. Some questions didn’t need words.
Vi’s nightmares came less often, but harder—like earthquakes after quiet. One left her thrashing, her elbow catching Caitlyn’s ribs. Caitlyn woke gasping, her own pulse loud in her ears. Vi recoiled like she’d been burned. “I’ll sleep on the couch,” she rasped. Caitlyn caught her wrist. “No.” Vi’s hands trembled. Caitlyn pressed them to her own collarbone, counting breaths until Vi’s fingers relaxed. Dawn bled through the blinds. Neither moved.
The sketches kept coming—Caitlyn’s laugh lines, the way her nose scrunched when she read bad news. Vi left them in the coffee pot, tucked into Caitlyn’s briefcase, taped to the bathroom mirror. Caitlyn pretended not to notice how Vi’s ears turned pink when she found them. But one night, she pinned Vi against the fridge, her mouth hovering just shy of Vi’s. “You could just tell me,” Caitlyn murmured. Vi’s pulse jumped under her lips. “Where’s the fun in that?” Vi breathed, but her hands gripped Caitlyn’s hips like she was afraid she’d float away.
Fall semester began with Vi showing up to Caitlyn’s poli-sci lecture, slouched in the back row like a stray. Caitlyn’s pen stalled mid-sentence. Later, in the hallway, Vi grinned, all teeth. “Missed you.” Simple. Devastating. Caitlyn kissed her right there, between the lockers and the stunned freshmen. Vi’s laughter tasted like stolen coffee and the last of summer’s recklessness. Somewhere, a clock ticked. Neither cared.
Their old dorm room was rented to strangers now, but Caitlyn still found Vi’s initials carved into the desk when she checked—crude and permanent beneath layers of varnish. She pressed her palm over them, the wood warm from the afternoon sun. That night, Vi traced the same letters onto Caitlyn’s hipbone with her tongue, slow and deliberate. Caitlyn arched into it. Outside, leaves rustled. The world kept turning. They didn’t.
Midterms hit like a truck. Vi came home with ink-stained fingers and a new bruise on her jaw—not from fighting, but from falling asleep on her sketchbook. Caitlyn smoothed salve over the mark, her touch lingering. Vi caught her wrist. “Worried, Cupcake?” Caitlyn didn’t answer. Just kissed the bruise gently, then the corner of Vi’s mouth. Vi’s breath stuttered. The textbooks lay forgotten. Some things were more important.
Winter came early. Caitlyn woke to frost on the windows and Vi’s cold feet tangled with hers. The sketches kept coming—now on napkins, receipts, the back of Caitlyn’s hand during boring meetings. One simply read: *Still here.* Caitlyn folded it into her wallet, next to the dorm key they’d never returned. The heater groaned. Vi snored softly. Everything ached in the best way.
Vi’s birthday passed in a blur of whiskey and bad decisions. Caitlyn found her at 2 AM, swaying on the fire escape, singing off-key to the city below. “Made it another year,” Vi slurred, grinning like it hurt. Caitlyn pulled her inside, pressed her against the fridge until the laughter died in Vi’s throat. Their kisses tasted like desperation and cheap champagne. Later, Vi traced the stretch marks on Caitlyn’s thighs like they were constellations. Caitlyn pretended not to notice her shaky exhale.
The nightmares returned with a vengeance. Vi woke screaming once—raw, guttural—and Caitlyn held her through the aftershocks, lips pressed to Vi’s damp temple. No words. Just hands clutching fabric, heartbeats syncing in the dark. Dawn came reluctantly. Vi’s fingers twitched toward her sketchbook, then away. Caitlyn caught them, pressed them to her own lips. The page stayed blank. Some wounds didn’t need art.
Spring brought rain and reckless choices. Vi came home with split knuckles and a Polaroid—her own bloody grin, Caitlyn’s name smudged in the corner. Caitlyn bandaged her hands in silence, then pinned the photo above their bed. Vi’s laugh was rough, but her eyes shone. Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, Caitlyn licked the copper from Vi’s fingers and learned the shape of forgiveness. Some stories didn’t need endings—just mornings that kept coming.
The semester ended with Vi’s sketchbook left open on their kitchen table—a half-finished drawing of Caitlyn asleep, sunlight catching the curve of her shoulder. Beneath it, Vi had scribbled: *Still can’t get you right.* Caitlyn added her own note in the margin: *Try harder.* When Vi found it, she pressed Caitlyn against the fridge, teeth scraping her bottom lip. The sketchbook fell. Neither noticed.
Graduation came too soon. Caitlyn’s parents took photos—Vi stiff in a borrowed blazer, Caitlyn’s fingers tangled with hers just out of frame. Later, in the parking lot, Vi pressed her forehead to Caitlyn’s and whispered, “Now what?” Caitlyn kissed her instead of answering. The future could wait. Some questions tasted better unanswered.
Their new apartment had thin walls and a fire escape that groaned under their weight. Vi left sketches on the fridge—Caitlyn’s coffee mug, their tangled sheets, the way Caitlyn’s eyes crinkled when she laughed. One night, Caitlyn pinned them all to the bedroom wall, a mosaic of stolen moments. Vi watched from the doorway, knuckles white around a fresh beer. “Happy?” she asked, voice raw. Caitlyn turned, caught her wrist, pressed Vi’s palm over her own heartbeat. The answer was in the way Vi’s breath hitched—not a question anymore, but a promise.
Months bled into each other. Vi took a job at the gym downtown, came home smelling like sweat and cheap spray sanitizer. Caitlyn traced the new calluses on her hands, the way Vi’s shoulders relaxed under her touch. One evening, Vi dragged her to the rooftop, pointed at the smog-choked sunset. “Looks like your hair,” she said, grinning. Caitlyn elbowed her ribs, but later, she caught Vi sketching the comparison—her curls rendered in orange and pink, smudged at the edges like a half-remembered dream.
Winter came early. The heater broke. They slept tangled under every blanket they owned, Vi’s cold toes pressing against Caitlyn’s calves. One particularly frigid morning, Caitlyn woke to find Vi already gone—just a sketch left on her pillow: Caitlyn’s sleeping face, framed by the words *Still the prettiest thing I’ve ever ruined.* The paper was damp at the edges. Caitlyn pressed it to her lips anyway, the ink smearing like a confession.
The nightmares still came, but differently now—less fists, more trembling. Caitlyn learned to recognize the signs: Vi’s jaw clenching before bed, the way she’d stare at her hands like they weren’t hers. One particularly bad night, Caitlyn caught Vi halfway out the window, barefoot and shaking. “Just air,” Vi muttered, but her eyes were wild. Caitlyn didn’t argue. Just wrapped her arms around Vi’s waist, pressed her lips to the scar between Vi’s shoulder blades until the tremors stopped. Dawn came quietly. Neither let go.
Vi started therapy in spring. She never talked about the sessions, but Caitlyn found the sketches afterward—darker, messier, full of clenched fists and broken glass. One page was just the word *STAY* repeated until the paper tore. Caitlyn tucked it into her wallet next to the dorm key. That night, Vi traced the outline of it through the leather, her touch feather-light. “Still here,” Caitlyn whispered into the dark. Vi’s exhale was ragged, but her fingers tightened around Caitlyn’s wrist like an anchor.
Their first anniversary arrived unannounced. Vi came home with grease-stained hands and a motorcycle part Caitlyn didn’t recognize. “Fixed it,” she said, like that explained the oil smeared across her cheek. Caitlyn kissed her anyway, tasting gasoline and determination. Later, Vi’s sketchbook lay open on the kitchen counter—a wobbly rendition of their first meeting, Caitlyn’s perfect posture, Vi’s smirk too wide to be real. Beneath it, Vi had written: *Worst first impression. Best mistake.* Caitlyn added her own note: *Do it again.*
Summer storms rolled in, violent and sudden. They woke to thunder shaking the windows, rain lashing the fire escape. Vi laughed into Caitlyn’s neck, her breath warm. “Still hate me?” she murmured, fingers tracing the old scar on Caitlyn’s hip. Caitlyn caught her hand, pressed Vi’s palm to her own chest where the heartbeat was steady, sure. Outside, lightning flashed. Inside, Vi’s smile was slow, real. No answer needed.
Therapy sketches piled up—less shattered glass, more sunlight through blinds. Caitlyn found one tucked in her work bag: a crude self-portrait, Vi’s face half-hidden behind her own hands, fingers spread just enough to show one eye, clear and steady. Beneath it: *Still learning how to look.* Caitlyn pinned it to the fridge, right next to the grocery list. That night, Vi traced the edge of it with a grease-stained fingertip, her throat working. Caitlyn kissed the silence away.
Vi’s nightmares came less like tsunamis now, more like tides—predictable, manageable. One left her gasping but still, her fingers clutching Caitlyn’s wrist like a lifeline. Caitlyn counted her own breaths until Vi’s matched. Dawn painted the room in grays. Vi’s voice was rough: “Still here.” Caitlyn turned her wrist, laced their fingers. “I know.”
Fall came with a chill. Vi brought home a stray cat, all ribs and defiance. It hissed at Caitlyn, then curled up in Vi’s lap like it belonged there. Vi grinned, scratching behind its ears. “Looks like you,” she said. Caitlyn threw a sock at her head. Later, she found Vi asleep on the couch, the cat purring on her chest, a sketchbook open beside them—a half-finished drawing of Caitlyn’s scowl, the cat’s tail curled around her ankle like a claim. Caitlyn tucked the blanket around them both, her chest tight. Some things didn’t need lines.
Vi’s therapy sketches grew softer—fewer clenched fists, more open palms. One page showed Caitlyn’s hand reaching out, fingers slightly curled, the paper smudged where Vi had erased and redrawn the gesture a dozen times. Caitlyn found it tucked under her pillow, the edges frayed from handling. That night, she took Vi’s scarred hand in hers, pressed it flat against her own sternum, and held it there until Vi’s breathing steadied. No words. Just the quiet certainty of skin on skin.
The cat—now named “Misfit”—developed a habit of knocking over Vi’s coffee mugs. Caitlyn pretended to scold it, but Vi caught her sneaking it treats under the table. “Traitor,” Vi muttered, but her smile was fond. One rainy afternoon, Caitlyn came home to find Vi asleep on the floor, Misfit sprawled across her chest, both of them bathed in the gray light of the TV. The sight lodged in Caitlyn’s throat. She took a photo, then slipped it into Vi’s sketchbook with a note: *Still the softest thing I’ve ever seen.*
Winter arrived with a record-breaking cold snap. The pipes froze. They slept in front of the space heater, wrapped in every blanket they owned, Misfit burrowed between them. Vi’s fingers found Caitlyn’s in the dark, their chilled skin warming slowly. “Still hate me?” Vi whispered, her breath ghosting over Caitlyn’s lips. Caitlyn kissed her instead of answering. Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the cat purred. Some silences were warmer than words.
Vi’s therapy sketches began appearing everywhere—taped to bathroom mirrors, slipped into Caitlyn’s coat pockets. One showed Caitlyn mid-laugh, Misfit tangled in her hair. Caitlyn found it pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a cupcake. She traced the lines with her fingertip, her throat tight. Behind her, Vi cleared her throat, holding out a mug—chipped, steaming, perfect. Their fingers brushed. No words. Just steam curling between them like confession.
Spring thaw brought mud and revelations. Vi came home with ink-stained fingers and a new tattoo—Caitlyn’s initials hidden in the whorls of her knuckles. Caitlyn caught her wrist, turned her hand over, pressed her lips to the fresh ink. Vi’s breath hitched. The cat yowled for dinner. Neither moved. Some marks were meant to stay.
Graduation came and went. Vi left her cap on the fire escape, tossed her gown in a dumpster. Caitlyn pretended to scold her, but her fingers lingered on Vi’s waist. That night, Vi sketched them—Caitlyn in her stolen blazer, Vi barefoot on the ledge, the city sprawled behind them like a promise. Beneath it, she wrote: *Still the best view.* Caitlyn added her own note: *Turn around.* The sketchbook fell to the floor. The city lights blinked. Some stories didn’t need endings—just mornings that kept coming.
Summer burned hot. Vi’s hands left sun-warmed prints on Caitlyn’s hips, their apartment smelling like sunscreen and spilled coffee. Caitlyn learned the rhythm of Vi’s quieter days—the way she hummed off-key while fixing the toaster, the charcoal smudges on her cheekbones after sketching. One afternoon, Vi came home with grease-stained hands and a motorcycle helmet. Caitlyn raised an eyebrow. Vi grinned, all teeth. “Road trip?” The helmet smelled like gasoline and hope. Caitlyn kissed her instead of answering.
Misfit learned to ride in a backpack, peering over Vi’s shoulder as they tore down backroads. Vi’s laughter echoed against the asphalt, raw and bright. Caitlyn clung to her waist, pressing her lips to the sun-warmed skin between Vi’s shoulder blades. At a roadside diner, Vi sketched on a napkin—Caitlyn’s wind-tangled hair, Misfit’s indignant glare. Beneath it: *Still the prettiest disaster I’ve ever seen.* Caitlyn pocketed it, her chest tight. The coffee tasted like dust and forever.
The bike broke down outside a nowhere town. They slept in a field, Misfit curled between them, the stars sprawled overhead. Vi traced constellations onto Caitlyn’s palm, her touch feather-light. “Still hate me?” she whispered. Caitlyn turned her hand, laced their fingers. The fire crackled. Some questions were better left unanswered.
Vi woke first, sketching Caitlyn’s sleeping face against the sunrise—her lashes casting shadows, lips parted just so. Caitlyn stirred, catching Vi’s wrist. The pencil rolled away. Vi’s grin was crooked. “Gotcha.” Caitlyn kissed the charcoal from her fingertips, tasting dawn and cheap coffee. The bike waited. The road stretched. Neither moved.
Misfit yowled from the helmet, paws batting at Vi’s hair. Caitlyn laughed, the sound bright in the quiet morning. Vi watched, her throat working. She pocketed the sketch unfinished. Some things couldn’t be captured—just lived.
The engine roared to life. Vi’s hand found Caitlyn’s thigh, warm through denim. The horizon blurred.
Somewhere between mile markers and gas station coffee, Caitlyn pressed her lips to the sunburned nape of Vi’s neck—once, twice—until Vi’s grip tightened on the handlebars. Misfit yowled indignantly from the backpack.
Night fell in a motel with peeling wallpaper. Vi pinned Caitlyn to the squeaky mattress, her mouth hot and insistent. Caitlyn bit her lip hard enough to taste copper. The cat fled to the windowsill, tail flicking.
Dawn found them tangled in sweat-damp sheets, Vi’s sketchbook open on the nightstand—a half-finished drawing of Caitlyn’s arched throat, the motel’s neon sign casting red light like a warning. Or a promise.
The bike waited outside, rusting in the morning dew. Vi traced the curve of Caitlyn’s bare shoulder with her thumb, her touch lighter than the sunlight creeping across the bed. "Still hate me?" she murmured, voice rough with sleep. Caitlyn caught her wrist, pressed Vi’s palm to her own sternum where the heartbeat was steady, sure. The answer was in the way Vi’s breath hitched, not a question anymore, but a truth worn smooth as river stones.
Misfit yowled from the windowsill, batting at a moth. Somewhere beyond the motel parking lot, the road stretched endless and forgiving. Vi’s fingers twined with Caitlyn’s, their scars aligning like constellations. No words. Just the quiet certainty of skin on skin, the hum of an engine waiting, the unspoken agreement that some journeys didn’t need destinations—just the open road, and the hand always reaching back.
The sketchbook stayed unfinished. The bike roared to life. The cat settled between them, purring like a promise. Some stories didn’t need endings—just mornings that kept coming, and the quiet understanding that home wasn’t a place, but the press of lips to sun-warmed knuckles, the weight of a hand anchored in yours, the road unfolding ahead like a lifetime.