Work Text:
Megan woke up to Lara’s alarm screaming like it had a personal vendetta.
Not a gentle chime. Not a polite nudge. This was a full-volume, bass-boosted assault—some remix that sounded like a DJ had taken a foghorn and beef with the world and decided 7:12 a.m. was the time to express it.
Megan groaned into her pillow, face mashed, brain still buffering. Her first coherent thought was: Oh my god, Lara, shut the fuck up. Her second was: Oh.
Daniela.
Warm. Solid. Curled against her like she belonged there—not tentatively, not like she might flinch awake and bolt. Daniela’s arm was slung over Megan’s waist, fingers relaxed, her face tucked into the space just under Megan’s collarbone. Their legs were tangled in that unconscious, proprietary way that said neither of them had moved much since falling asleep.
Megan stayed very, very still.
The dorm room was washed in early-morning gray, light leaking through the blinds in soft bands that made everything feel unreal, like a screenshot from a life Megan hadn’t quite accepted was hers yet. Daniela’s hair was messy, curling against Megan’s neck. Her breathing was slow, even. Peaceful.
This—this was the part Megan usually didn’t get to have.
Her chest tightened with something warm and almost painful. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief. Or that quiet, dangerous joy that came right before her brain usually ruined things by going, okay but how long until this implodes.
Lara’s alarm screamed again, somehow louder, like it had learned nothing from the first round.
Megan squeezed her eyes shut. She gave herself permission—just this once—to not immediately pull away. She shifted slightly, enough to tuck her chin against the top of Daniela’s head, inhaling. Shampoo. Vanilla. That faint, familiar scent that had already rewired her nervous system.
Ten minutes, she told herself. Maybe fifteen. Which was, coincidentally, about as long as she could stand Lara’s god awful alarms before committing a felony.
Daniela stirred, murmuring something unintelligible. Her fingers flexed against Megan’s side, tightening briefly like she was anchoring herself.
Megan smiled before she could stop herself.
God. Okay. Fine.
Eventually, reality reasserted itself in the form of a flashing mental Post-it note: DESIGN LAB. NO REDOS. Megan groaned softly.
She shifted again, this time deliberately, brushing her thumb along Daniela’s arm. “Hey,” she murmured. “Hey, Dani.”
Daniela hummed, face scrunching. “Mmm. Five more minutes.”
“You said that last time,” Megan said gently. “And the time before that.”
“That’s because time is fake,” Daniela mumbled, eyes still closed, somehow snuggling closer to Megan. “And you’re warm.”
Megan laughed quietly, chest vibrating. “Flattering.”
Another alarm went off. Lara’s backup, apparently. The sonic equivalent of being drop-kicked out of REM sleep.
Daniela jolted upright. “Jesus Christ.”
“Good morning,” Megan said. “Welcome to hell.”
Daniela blinked, taking in the room, the light, Megan still half-curled around her. Her expression softened instantly, sleep melting into something fond. “Oh,” she said. “Right. This is much better.”
Megan felt her cheeks warm. “You’re biased.”
“Correct,” Daniela said, leaning in to kiss her jaw—lazy, brief, unceremonious. Not a grand gesture. Just affection. It landed anyway, right in Megan’s chest.
They disentangled reluctantly. The shower situation became, as it had the past few mornings, a logistical negotiation disguised as flirting.
“We should conserve water,” Daniela said innocently, already stripping her shirt off.
Megan snorted. “That’s not what you said yesterday.”
“I care about the environment,” Daniela replied solemnly, stepping into the stall.
The shower was cramped, fogging up fast, elbows bumping, shampoo getting in someone’s eyes (Megan’s). They brushed their teeth shoulder to shoulder, spitting in sync like it was muscle memory. Daniela stole Megan’s favorite hoodie—again—and Megan complained with zero actual conviction.
Lara finally emerged from her half of the room looking feral, hair sticking up, coffee already in hand. She took one look at them and made a gagging noise.
“You’re disgusting,” Lara announced. “I can feel the domesticity from here.”
“Good,” Megan said. “I hope it haunts you.”
Daniela smiled sweetly. “Morning, Lara.”
“Good morning, you menace,” Lara replied. “Congrats on successfully infiltrating Megan’s morning routine. Only took you about two weeks to finally do it.”
Megan flipped her off, grabbed her bag, and escaped with Daniela before Lara could say anything else that lodged permanently in her psyche.
Outside, the air was crisp, bright. The kind of morning that made everything feel possible in a suspicious way.
“I have time for breakfast,” Megan said as they walked. “And I’m feeling generous.”
Daniela eyed her. “Dangerous words.”
“I’ll swipe you in,” Megan said, puffing up a little. “As a gentleman.”
Daniela laughed, linking their hands together. “You’re such a gentleman.”
“I try,” Megan said, cheeks warming, and meant it.
The dining hall was busy but not chaotic, sunlight bouncing off metal trays and tiled floors. They sat together, knees touching, Megan stealing bites off Daniela’s plate like she had a right to them. It felt easy. Too easy. Like they’d slipped into something without friction.
And then Sophia Laforteza appeared with her tray.
“Oh!” Sophia said brightly. “Hey!”
Daniela lit up. “Soph! Hi! Come sit.”
Megan’s stomach dropped.
Sophia slid in across from them, smiling, already mid-sentence about rehearsal schedules and Manon’s sleep habits. Megan nodded along, contributed when appropriate, laughed at the right moments.
But something had shifted.
Sophia kept glancing between them, amused. Comfortable. Like this configuration made sense.
“So,” Sophia said eventually, biting into her toast. “You guys are really cute.”
Megan felt her pulse spike.
Daniela smiled easily. “Thanks.”
Megan opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Cute. You guys. The implication sat there, heavy and obvious. Sophia wasn’t asking. She wasn’t probing. She’d already categorized them. Filed them away.
Girlfriends.
Megan’s brain kicked into high gear, a familiar hum rising under her skin. Heat crept up her neck. Her chest tightened—not in a bad way, exactly. More like standing at the edge of something high and realizing you actually wanted to jump.
She wanted that word. The simplicity of it. The permission.
But it stuck.
Sophia kept talking, oblivious, already onto another topic. Daniela nudged Megan’s foot under the table, grounding, casual. Like she hadn’t even noticed the moment—or maybe like she had and was giving Megan space.
Megan swallowed, forcing herself to breathe.
Relief. Safety. This feels good, she reminded herself. She was staying. She wasn’t running. She wasn’t undoing this just because it scared her.
Still—her heart hammered like it was bracing for impact.
She glanced at Daniela, who was laughing now, eyes bright. Her girlfriend. The word pulsed, insistent.
Not yet, Megan told herself. But soon.
Soon, maybe, she’d be brave enough to say it out loud.
The thought lingered longer than she expected, sticking to the inside of her skull like gum on a shoe. It followed her even as Sophia finished her toast and launched into something about Manon’s tendency to steal socks and then deny it with her whole chest. Megan kept up the facade: still laughed at the right moments, nodded when Daniela glanced at her like she was checking in, but part of her attention stayed snagged on that single, stupid word.
Girlfriend.
It felt heavier now that it had almost happened. Like one of the hundreds of tabs she’d opened and forgotten to close, draining battery in the background.
They cleared their trays eventually. Daniela thanked Megan for the swipe with exaggerated solemnity, hand pressed to her chest. “Truly,” she said, “a generous patron of the arts.”
Megan snorted. “You’re welcome. I accept Apple Pay and admiration.”
Sophia stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’ve gotta run. Rehearsal hell waits for no one.” She smiled at Daniela, then—briefly, knowingly—at Megan. “See you later?”
Daniela nodded. “Yeah. Text me.”
Megan watched Sophia go, that look replaying in her head. It hadn’t been invasive. It hadn’t been judgmental. It had just been… certain. Like Sophia had slotted them into a mental category without needing confirmation. Megan wondered how many people had already done the same. Lara, obviously. Yoonchae, definitely. Manon, being Daniela’s roommate, by default. Probably half Megan’s floor, at this point.
She wondered when it had stopped feeling like a secret and started feeling like a fact she just hadn’t signed off on yet.
Daniela bumped her shoulder lightly. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Megan said automatically. Then, because she was trying now—actually trying—she added, “Just thinking about some stuff.”
Daniela smiled, soft and unbothered. “You do that.”
They walked out into the cold together, Daniela’s fingers hooking into the sleeve of Megan’s jacket like it was the most natural thing in the world. Megan let her. The campus was louder now, properly awake, students streaming past with coffee cups and headphones and the haunted look of people who’d checked their syllabus that morning.
As they walked toward Tisch, Megan caught herself noticing things she hadn’t before. How Daniela slowed her steps to match hers. How people looked at them—not staring, not gawking, just registering. Two girls. Together. A unit.
Every time someone’s gaze lingered, something in Megan’s chest fluttered and clenched at the same time. She wanted that recognition. She wanted the ease of it. And she hated that wanting it made her feel exposed, like she was carrying something fragile through a crowded street.
At the Tisch entrance, Daniela stopped, turning to face her. She tugged the stolen hoodie down over her hands, rocking back on her heels. “Thanks for walking me.”
Megan shrugged, trying for casual. “I was going this way anyway.”
Daniela’s mouth curved, knowing. “Sure you were.”
She leaned in, cupped Megan’s jaw, and kissed her—quick, warm, completely unselfconscious. Not a secret kiss. Not a hidden one. Right there, in front of God and the overly caffeinated students of NYU.
Megan’s brain short-circuited. She kissed her back before the panic could catch up, fingers brushing Daniela’s waist like she needed the contact to ground herself.
“I’ll see you later?” Daniela asked.
“Yeah,” Megan said. “Yeah. Text me when you’re done.”
“I always do.”
Daniela smiled one last time and disappeared inside.
Megan stood there for a beat longer than necessary, heart thudding, the echo of the kiss still buzzing under her skin. Then she turned and headed toward her own building, brain already spinning.
In design lab, she sat hunched over her workstation, Illustrator open, professor pacing like a predator. NO REDOS, the syllabus screamed in her memory. Megan focused hard—really hard—on kerning and alignment and color balance. She lost herself in it, briefly, the way she always did when things made sense.
And then someone behind tapped her shoulder and said, “Your girlfriend dropped this off earlier.”
Megan froze.
She turned slowly. It was a classmate—nice enough, name escaped her—holding out a pen Megan recognized immediately. Daniela’s pen. The one with the chipped end she always complained about but never replaced.
“Oh,” Megan said, voice doing something weird. “She—um. Thanks.”
The girl smiled. “No problem. She said you’d probably need it.”
Girlfriend.
Again.
Megan took the pen, fingers closing around it like it might anchor her to the floor. She nodded, muttered something that sounded like gratitude, and turned back to her screen.
Her heart was racing now, focus shattered. She stared at the lines on the screen without seeing them. The word replayed, louder each time, not accusatory—just there.
Her girlfriend. Her.
She wanted it. That was the terrifying part. It wasn’t fear holding the word back so much as the weight of letting it be true everywhere, not just in private, not just in quiet moments and dim rooms. Saying it meant committing to the version of herself who stayed, who answered texts, who let people see what she cared about.
At lunch, Yoonchae dragged her to a tiny place in Koreatown that smelled like broth and spice and comfort. Megan sat across from her, chopsticks in hand, nodding along while Yoonchae talked animatedly about an upcoming economics group project she was dreading. Halfway through, Yoonchae paused.
“So,” she said, eyes glinting. “You and Daniela.”
Megan choked slightly. “What about us?”
Yoonchae grinned. “Nothing. Just—she seems good for you.”
Megan looked down at her bowl. Steam curled up, fogging her glasses. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “She is.”
Yoonchae didn’t push. She never did. She just smiled and went back to her soup like the matter was settled.
The thing was—it felt settled. That was what kept throwing Megan off. There was no drama, no chaos, no sense of imminent collapse. Just this steady, growing sense of alignment between how she felt and how the world saw them.
Later, back in her room, working on homework with Daniela’s NYU Dance Team hoodie draped over the back of her chair, Megan caught herself smiling at nothing. She twirled the pen between her fingers, the one Daniela had dropped off, and let herself imagine saying it—casually, offhand, without bracing for impact.
My girlfriend.
The word still lodged in her throat. But now, instead of choking her, it felt like something waiting to be said.
Megan stared at the hoodie like it might blink first.
It was draped over the back of her chair, Daniela’s favorite one—soft, broken-in, the cuffs a little stretched from nervous hands and idle fidgeting. It smelled like her, faintly, which Megan tried very hard not to think about because then she’d stop doing homework entirely and just sit there spiraling about scent memory and attachment and how her brain was apparently a golden retriever now.
She turned back to her laptop. Opened the same tab she’d been pretending to work on for the last twenty minutes. Reread the same sentence three times.
Nope. Nothing stuck.
The pen rolled between her fingers again. Click. Spin. Catch. Daniela’s pen. Daniela. Of course her brain would focus in on that part. Even her stationery was emotionally charged now. Damn Pavlov and his stupid dogs.
Her phone buzzed on the desk.
Mom.
Megan stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed her.
She considered letting it ring out. Briefly. Long enough to weigh the consequences. Then she sighed and answered, flipping the camera on before she could overthink it—muscle memory from years of being the good kid who didn’t dodge calls.
“Hey,” she said.
Her mom’s face filled the screen, framed by the familiar kitchen light back home. She looked comfortable, mid-snack, hair pulled back, one eyebrow already lifting like she was taking inventory. “You look tired, Meiyok.”
“Thank you, Mom,” Megan said dryly. “I work really hard to get these designer-level eye bags.”
Her mom smiled, fond and unimpressed. “How are classes?”
Megan shrugged. “Fine. Design lab is… design lab. My professor thinks fear is a teaching tool.”
“Sounds healthy,” her mom said. “Are you eating good? You look thin in your pictures.”
“Yes,” Megan lied automatically—then caught herself. She exhaled. “Mostly. But I did get kimchi stew with Yoonchae today.”
“That counts,” her mom said. “Good but cheap food. Very college of you.”
They talked about nothing for a bit. Food. Weather. Her mom’s coworker who wouldn’t stop microwaving fish in the breakroom and apparently felt no shame about it. Low stakes. Easy. Megan felt herself sink back into her chair, shoulders loosening, the way they always did when the conversation stayed safely in the shallow end.
Then her mom’s gaze flicked slightly to the side of the screen.
“Is that a new hoodie?” she asked.
Megan froze.
She glanced over her shoulder. The hoodie was right there—Daniela’s hoodie—draped over the back of her chair like it had every right to exist. Soft. Familiar. Loud.
“Oh,” Megan said. The word came out too fast, pitched wrong. “Uh. Yeah.”
“It’s cute,” her mom said. “Where’d you get it from?”
There it was.
The moment stretched, thin and bright and terrifying, like standing under fluorescent lights waiting for a verdict. Megan’s brain went very quiet all at once—not empty, just… muted. Like someone had turned the volume knob down on the room.
The word rose up anyway. Immediate. Unavoidable.
My girlfriend.
It felt right. Too right. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place with that deeply satisfying, deeply alarming sense of finality. Like something that had always been shaped for that exact space.
Her mouth opened.
And then—nothing.
Her brain snagged on the weight of it. On how saying it out loud wouldn’t just name Daniela, but would also name Megan. Would commit her to being someone who said things and stood by them. Someone who didn’t keep exits marked in their peripheral vision.
So instead, she swallowed and said, “A friend.”
The word landed wrong the second it left her mouth. Flat. Inaccurate. Like she’d mislabeled a file and now it was lost somewhere in the system, unsearchable.
Her mom nodded, unbothered, already moving on. “Well, it looks warm. You’ve always been bad at dressing for the cold. I think growing up in Hawaii spoiled you.”
Megan laughed, but the sound felt delayed, like it had to travel farther to reach her throat. She nodded along, murmured agreement, said love you when appropriate. The rest of the call passed in a blur—promises to eat something green, to sleep more, to not let fear-based pedagogy ruin her life.
At some point, her mom squinted at the screen. “You just spaced out, didn’t you?”
Megan blinked. Once. Twice. The room snapped back into focus.
“What?” she asked.
Her mom smiled knowingly. “You went all glassy-eyed. I lost you for a second.”
Megan rubbed her face with her hand. “Sorry. Long day.”
“Mmhmm,” her mom said. “Get some sleep tonight. Please, Mei Mei? You always do that thing where you run on fumes and then act surprised when you crash.”
“Working on it,” Megan said, which wasn’t a lie. Just… optimistic.
They hung up a minute later.
When the screen went dark, Megan stayed staring at her reflection for a second longer than necessary. Her own face looked back at her—familiar, a little tired, a little softer than it had been a few months ago.
Friend.
The word echoed now, louder in the quiet. It didn’t feel neutral. It felt like absence. Like something she’d reached for and then pulled her hand back from at the last second.
She dropped her phone onto the desk and leaned back, eyes closing.
God. Okay. That hurt.
Not fear-hurt. Not panic-hurt. Just… loss. The kind that came from not saying something you wanted to say, not because you couldn’t, but because you’d talked yourself out of it at the last second.
Avoiding it hadn’t made her feel safer.
It had just made her feel… lonely, in a very specific way.
Megan exhaled slowly, opening her eyes again. The hoodie was still there. Waiting. She reached out and tugged it into her lap without really thinking, bunching the fabric in her hands.
The realization settled quietly, heavy and undeniable.
She wanted the word.
Not because anyone asked. Not because Daniela demanded it. Not because the world had already decided for her.
She wanted it because it made things line up. Because it made the story coherent. Because it felt like choosing instead of drifting.
Her phone buzzed again.
Daniela: you alive over there?
Megan snorted despite herself and typed back.
Megan: barely. my professors are trying to kill me with homework
Daniela: tragic. i just got back. you want me to come over later?
Megan stared at the message. Felt that familiar warmth bloom, steady and grounding.
Megan: yeah. i’d like that
She set the phone down and went back to her work, focus coming easier now—not because the problem was solved, but because she’d named it, at least to herself.
A little while later, the door opened softly.
Megan didn’t look up right away. She clocked it anyway—the quiet slide of the latch, the familiar scuff of shoes kicked off without ceremony. Daniela had a very specific way of entering rooms, like she didn’t want to announce herself but also didn’t expect to be ignored.
“Hey,” Daniela said.
Megan hummed in response, eyes still on her screen, cursor blinking accusingly in the middle of a half-finished sentence.
Daniela crossed the room, hair still damp, cheeks flushed from exertion. Hoodie-less. Exposed. A crime, frankly. She leaned against the edge of the desk and watched Megan for a second longer than necessary.
“You’ve been quieter today,” she said.
Megan shrugged without looking up. “Have I?”
“Yeah,” Daniela said. “Like… thoughtful quiet. Not spiral quiet.”
Megan snorted. “Wow. High praise.”
Daniela smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She tilted her head, studying Megan’s face like she was reading a familiar text with a new annotation. “You okay?”
Megan almost said yes.
The word was right there—preloaded, reflexive. A muscle memory response honed over years. Yes meant end of conversation. Yes meant no follow-ups. Yes meant she didn’t have to articulate something that still felt half-formed and sharp around the edges.
Instead, she exhaled and set the pen down. It rolled once, stilled.
“I talked to my mom,” she said.
Daniela nodded immediately, no commentary. Waiting, but not hovering. Megan appreciated that more than she ever said out loud.
“She asked about the hoodie,” Megan went on, gesturing vaguely behind her. “Asked where I got it.”
Daniela’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes sharpened. Not alarm. Not hope. Just an awareness.
“Oh,” she said.
Megan stared at her hands. Her fingers were still faintly ink-stained, pen marks she hadn’t bothered to wash off. “And I didn’t say it.”
There it was. The dangling thread.
Daniela waited a beat. “Say what?”
Her voice was gentle enough that Megan almost resented it. Almost wished she’d sound disappointed or frustrated—something easier to react to.
Megan swallowed. Her heart was beating faster now, but it wasn’t panic. It felt more like anticipation. Like standing at the edge of a pool and knowing the water would be cold but good once you were in.
“I keep wanting to call you my girlfriend,” she said. “And I kinda have been. All day. But only in my head.”
The words landed cleanly in the space between them. No joke to cushion them. No qualifier to soften the impact.
“And then,” Megan continued, “I freak myself out about wanting that.”
Daniela didn’t interrupt. Didn’t smile. Didn’t reassure. She stayed exactly where she was, hands loose at her sides, eyes steady and open.
“I didn’t say it,” Megan said. “And it sucked. Like… worse than I thought it would. Like failing a test I’d actually studied for.”
She finally looked up.
Her chest felt tight now—not collapsing, just full. Overfull.
“I’m not asking for anything,” she added quickly, the words tumbling out on instinct. “I’m not trying to—like—fast-forward or label or—” She cut herself off, huffing a breath. “I just wanted to be honest about where my head’s at. To show you that I’m… that I’m trying.”
Daniela was quiet for a moment.
Then she smiled—not big, not teasing. Just soft. Real.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
Something in Megan’s chest loosened, subtle but immediate. Like a knot she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying had finally given a little.
Daniela reached out, fingers brushing Megan’s wrist—light, grounding, unmistakably deliberate. “For what it’s worth,” she added, “I don’t take that as you pressuring me.”
Megan let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Daniela said. “I hear it as… you wanting me.”
The word settled warmly, without demand. Without expectation.
Megan nodded. “Yeah.”
They stayed like that for a moment—no rush, no pretense. Just the truth sitting between them, unarmed. Manageable. Wanted.
Daniela glanced at the hoodie draped over the chair, then back at Megan. “Does it bother you,” she asked carefully, “that other people are already saying it?”
Megan winced, then shrugged. “A little. Not because it’s wrong. Just because it feels like they skipped a step I’m still trying to take.”
Daniela hummed thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”
“You don’t sound mad,” Megan said.
“I’m not,” Daniela replied easily. “I’d be mad if you pretended you didn’t feel it at all.”
Megan smiled weakly. “Yeah. That checks out.”
Daniela shifted closer, leaning her hip against the desk now, their knees almost brushing. “You don’t owe anything to anyone,” she said. “Not your mom. Not your friends. Not even me.”
Megan looked at her. Really looked. The familiar curve of her mouth, the steady warmth in her eyes, the way she never crowded Megan even when standing this close.
“You don’t mind waiting?” Megan asked.
Daniela met her gaze without hesitation. “I don’t mind you choosing it.”
That landed harder than Megan expected—not like a weight, but like something finally clicking into place. Like a chair sliding under her at the exact moment her legs were getting tired.
She nodded, throat tight. “Okay.”
Daniela smiled again, softer this time. “When you’re ready, I’ll be here.”
The word was still waiting.
Except—Megan felt it then, sudden and unmistakable. Not hovering at the edge anymore. Not pacing. Not tapping its foot impatiently.
Ready.
Megan laughed under her breath, a breathless little sound that surprised them both. She dragged a hand down her face, fingers catching in her hair, like she needed something to do with all the energy flooding her system.
“Okay, so—” she started, then stopped, then started again, words spilling out faster now. “I think I’ve been ready for a while. Like. Embarrassingly long.”
Daniela’s eyebrows lifted slightly, amused but attentive. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Megan said, nodding emphatically, like she needed to convince herself too. “Probably since—god, maybe the second time we slept together? Or the first? I don’t know. Somewhere around the point where I realized I was thinking about you when you weren’t there and that felt… bad. But also good. Which was rude of you, by the way.”
Daniela laughed quietly.
“And then every time I didn’t say it, every time I ducked or ran or pretended it was casual,” Megan continued, pacing a step before stopping again, turning back to her, “it wasn’t because I didn’t want it. It was because I wanted it so much it freaked me out. Which is—stupid. I know.”
“It’s not stupid,” Daniela said gently.
“I know, I know,” Megan said quickly. “But I think—I think I’ve done enough spiraling. Enough rehearsing worst-case scenarios. Enough pretending I don’t know what I want when I very obviously do.”
She took a breath. A real one this time. Steadying.
“I want you,” she said. “And I don’t just mean physically—though, yeah, that too. Obviously. You’re incredibly hot. And that’s so not the point… But— I want you to be my girlfriend. I want to say it. Out loud. On purpose.”
Daniela went very still.
Not frozen. Just… focused. Like the world had narrowed down to this exact moment.
“Yeah?” she asked softly.
Megan nodded, heart hammering, but there was no panic this time. Just clarity. “Yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever been more ready for anything.”
Daniela’s smile broke slow and bright, like dawn creeping in through a window. She stepped fully into Megan’s space now, hands sliding up to rest lightly at her waist.
“Hi,” she said.
Megan laughed, breathless. “Hi.”
“So,” Daniela murmured, tilting her head, eyes flicking down to Megan’s mouth and back up again, “you’re saying you want to be my girlfriend?”
“Yes,” Megan said immediately. “Very much yes.”
“Good,” Daniela said. “Because I was waiting for you to say that.”
She leaned in, unhurried, giving Megan every chance to pull back.
Megan didn’t.
The kiss was slow at first—soft, exploratory, like they were relearning each other under new terms. Daniela’s mouth was warm, familiar, fitting against Megan’s like it had always belonged there. Megan’s hand came up almost unconsciously, cupping Daniela’s jaw, thumb brushing along her cheek.
It deepened naturally. Languid. Lazy. The kind of kiss that didn’t need to prove anything.
Until it did.
Daniela shifted closer, pressing in, and Megan made a low sound without realizing it. Daniela smiled into the kiss and took advantage of it, sliding one leg between Megan’s, then settling fully into her lap.
“Hey,” Megan murmured against her mouth, hands tightening reflexively at Daniela’s hips.
“Hi, girlfriend,” Daniela whispered.
That did it.
Megan stood abruptly, movement decisive, Daniela yelping softly in surprise before laughing as she wrapped her legs around Megan’s hips automatically. Megan’s hands slid under her thighs, steady and sure, as she walked them backward toward the bed.
They barely made it before Daniela was kissing her again, harder now, heat building fast. Megan sank them down onto the mattress, hovering over Daniela, caught between her legs, breath already going shallow.
Daniela’s hands slipped under Megan’s shirt, fingers cold against overheated skin, and Megan sucked in a sharp breath, forehead dropping to Daniela’s shoulder.
“Oh my god,” Megan muttered. “Your hands are freezing.”
“You love it,” Daniela said smugly, fingers splaying higher, dragging slowly.
Megan absolutely did.
She was about to say so—eloquently, probably—when the door swung open.
“Oh my god—”
Lara.
On the phone.
“—I’m just saying, Rhea, if he texts you at two in the morning—”
She stopped dead.
There was a beat. One perfect, horrifying beat where Lara took in the scene: Megan hovering between Daniela’s legs, Daniela’s leg wrapped around Megan’s waist, one hand very clearly under Megan’s shirt, both of them flushed and disheveled and very, very not innocent.
Lara turned around immediately.
“NOPE,” she said loudly, to both of them and the universe at large. “Absolutely not.”
The door closed again just as fast.
From the hallway, muffled but clear: “SORRY—wrong time—love you—GAY—”
Megan collapsed forward onto Daniela, groaning into her shoulder. “I hate my life.”
Daniela was shaking with silent laughter beneath her. “Your roommate has incredible timing.”
“I swear she has a sixth sense,” Megan muttered, lifting her head just enough to glare at the door. “Like a raccoon. Or a curse.”
Daniela reached up, brushing Megan’s hair back gently. “Worth it.”
Megan met her eyes. Smiled.
“Yeah,” she said. “Definitely worth it.”
…
The hotpot place is louder than Megan expected.
Not chaotic—just alive. Steam fogs the windows, voices overlap in three different languages, and the air smells like broth and spice and something vaguely comforting, like winter pretending it’s a good idea. The tables are packed close together, metal pots already simmering, chopsticks clinking against bowls in an almost rhythmic way.
Sophia had been begging them—meaning Megan and Daniela—to go on a double date with her a Manon for ages now.
Hence why Megan is here.
Hence why Sophia is vibrating.
“I’ve been wanting to come here for months,” she says, already halfway out of her coat. “They have the mala base and the mushroom broth, and apparently you can do a half-and-half situation, which is extremely important to me as a person.”
Megan snorts. “Your values are very clear.”
“Thank you.”
They’re led to a round table with a burner in the center, menus laminated and slightly sticky at the edges in a way that suggests loyalty from repeat customers. Megan slides in beside Daniela without thinking, knee brushing hers under the table. Daniela doesn’t move away. Instead, she leans closer, like that’s just where she goes now.
Manon takes her seat across from them with easy confidence, shrugging out of her coat like she belongs everywhere she stands. She has that older-sister composure—relaxed posture, sharp eyes, calm presence. The kind of person Megan instinctively assumes has her life together.
Sophia sits next to her and immediately leans in, whispering something that makes Manon’s mouth curve into a soft, unguarded smile.
Megan clocks it instantly.
Oh.
That.
She leans toward Daniela. “She looks… cool,” she murmurs, nodding subtly at Manon.
Daniela smiles into her glass. “She’s a nerd. Give it five minutes.”
Right on cue, Manon squints at the menu, then looks at Sophia, earnest. “Okay, but hypothetically—purely hypothetically—if I order too much, will you judge me?”
Sophia grins. “I will encourage you.”
Manon visibly brightens. “Perfect. Then yes, I do need three kinds of mushrooms.”
Megan laughs before she can stop herself. Daniela shoots her a smug look that says I told you so.
They order broth—half mala, half mushroom, because Sophia insists—and plates start arriving fast. Thinly sliced beef, tofu, lotus root, greens Megan can’t name but recognizes as probably good for you. Steam curls up between them, warming Megan’s face.
At the sauce bar, Daniela hesitates, staring at the options like it’s a trick question. Soy sauce. Sesame oil. Chili paste. Garlic. Scallions.
“Okay,” Daniela says quietly, overwhelmed. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Here,” Megan says automatically.
She steps in without thinking, grabs a bowl, starts assembling. Soy sauce first. A little sesame oil. Chili oil, but not too much—Daniela likes heat but not pain. Garlic. Scallions. A dash of sugar because balance matters. She hands it over like it’s nothing.
Daniela dips her pinky finger into it, tasting it, eyes widening just slightly.
“Oh,” she says. “Oh, that’s—wow.”
Megan shrugs, suddenly aware of herself. “Yeah. It’s good with everything.”
Manon watches this exchange with interest, then gives Megan a small nod of approval. Not obvious. Just enough.
Something warm settles in Megan’s chest.
They eat. They talk. Sophia goes on a passionate tangent about ranking noodles. Manon listens like it’s the most important lecture she’s ever attended, occasionally chiming in with something deeply dorky that makes Sophia light up like she’s been personally chosen.
Megan finds herself watching them more than she means to.
They’re comfortable. Easy. Not performative. Manon reaches for Sophia’s drink without asking. Sophia automatically leans into her shoulder. It’s quiet, lived-in affection. No tension. No second-guessing.
Megan feels something tug at her—not envy, exactly. More like recognition.
She glances at Daniela, who’s focused on fishing mushrooms out of the broth, tongue caught slightly between her teeth in concentration. Megan reaches over, nudges a piece of tofu toward her bowl without comment.
Daniela looks up, smiles, soft and familiar.
For a second, Megan can see it. Them, in some distant future. Not perfectly polished, not free of anxiety, but settled. Comfortable. Choosing each other in a way that doesn’t feel like work.
The thought doesn’t scare her anymore.
Sophia raises her glass. “Okay,” she says. “To good food and excellent company.”
They all clink glasses.
Daniela’s knee presses into Megan’s under the table, grounding, warm. Megan lets herself lean into it.
Later, walking out into the cold, Daniela slips her hand into Megan’s without hesitation. Megan squeezes back.
She doesn’t overthink it.
She doesn’t need to.
And when Sophia turns back, smiling at both of them, and says, “So, Dani, is your girlfriend coming to the next one too?”
Megan doesn’t pause.
“Yeah,” she says easily, smiling at Daniela like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I am.”
Sophia’s grin widens, sharp and delighted, like she’s just been handed a winning card. Manon hums beside her, the sound low and pleased, and Megan doesn’t miss the way their shoulders tilt closer together, the way Sophia’s hand slides to Manon’s lower back with casual certainty. It’s almost impressive how little subtlety they bother with.
“Guess that means we’re splitting,” Daniela says, already half-turning toward Manon. Her tone is light, practical, but there’s something pleased underneath it, something that makes Megan’s chest feel warm in a way she’s still not entirely used to. “You’ll have the apartment to yourself tonight.”
Manon lifts an eyebrow, eyes flicking between Daniela and Megan, then to Sophia, whose smile turns downright wicked.
“Tragic,” Manon says solemnly. “I’ll try to survive.”
Sophia snorts. “You’ll manage.”
Megan clocks the look they share then—quick, conspiratorial, heavy with implication—and she looks away before her face can do anything embarrassing. She doesn’t need to be a genius to know exactly what’s about to happen in that apartment, and the realization lands with an odd mix of secondhand smugness and mild awe. Good for them, honestly.
They part ways a moment later, hugs exchanged, Sophia calling out a cheerful Text us when you’re back! that makes Megan roll her eyes even as she nods. Then it’s just her and Daniela, the noise of the restaurant fading behind them as they step out into the cooler night air.
Daniela laces their fingers together without hesitation, like it’s been happening forever. Their joined hands swing lightly between them as they start toward Megan’s dorm, the sidewalk familiar beneath her feet, the campus lights casting soft halos over everything. Megan becomes acutely aware of how easy it feels—walking like this, touching like this, not bracing herself for the ground to give way.
They’re halfway down the block when Daniela glances over at her, nose wrinkling slightly in thought. “Can I tell you something without you getting mad?”
Megan’s immediate instinct is to get mad preemptively, just to be efficient, but she keeps her voice even. “That depends entirely on what it is.”
Daniela smiles, small and careful. “You smell… cleaner.”
Megan stops walking.
“Cleaner?” she repeats, a little exasperated now, pulling her hand free just long enough to plant it on her own hip. “What does that even mean? Did I smell dirty before? Because I'll have you know that I shower, like, regularly.”
Daniela laughs quickly, shaking her head, reaching out to take Megan’s hand again like she’s smoothing something ruffled. “No, no—God, no. You never smelled bad. I promise. That’s not what I meant.”
Megan squints at her, unconvinced but listening.
“It’s just,” Daniela continues, choosing her words with that familiar care, “you don’t smell like cigarettes anymore. You just smell like… cherries. And clean laundry. Like your detergent, I think.”
Something in Megan’s chest gives a small, unexpected lurch.
“Oh,” she says, the edge draining out of her voice before she can stop it.
They start walking again, slower now, their hands swinging between them. Megan becomes aware, suddenly, of the faint sweetness clinging to her clothes, the ghost of fabric softener and whatever shampoo she’d used that morning. She thinks of the hoodie Daniela is wearing, still technically hers, and wonders if it smells the same.
She hasn’t smoked since that night.
The realization settles over her gently, like something being set down rather than taken away. Two weeks ago, sitting on cold concrete with her back against the building, cigarette burning down between her fingers while she told Daniela things she’d never said out loud before. How she wanted her. How she was afraid of wanting anything at all. How cigarettes had always been easier than hope, because they asked for nothing and promised even less.
She’d meant to have one the next day. Then the next. She’d just… never gotten around to it.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Megan says finally, almost to herself.
Daniela glances at her. “Do what?”
“Stop,” Megan says. She huffs out a quiet laugh. “I just didn’t think about it. I guess I didn’t need it.”
Daniela’s thumb rubs slow circles against the back of Megan’s hand, warm and grounding. She doesn’t say anything right away, and Megan is grateful for that. She’s learned, over the past few weeks, that Daniela knows when silence is an answer in itself.
“That’s okay,” Daniela says eventually. “Either way.”
Megan nods, swallowing. The urge to reach for something—lighter, cigarette, familiar ritual—flares once, twice, more out of habit than desire, and then fades. In its place is the steady weight of Daniela’s hand in hers, the sound of their footsteps in sync, the knowledge that when they reach the dorm, Daniela will stay.
They pass under another streetlight, and Megan catches her reflection in a darkened window: faded pink bangs a little windswept, eyes bright, mouth curved into a smile she isn’t forcing. She looks like someone who has made a choice and is still standing.
When they reach the dorm steps, Megan doesn’t hesitate. She squeezes Daniela’s hand, leaning in to press a soft, unhurried kiss to her cheek, breathing her in—shampoo, faint vanilla sweetness, something unmistakably real.
Inside, the door closes behind them with a quiet click, and Megan doesn’t even think about stepping outside for air.