Jamie's crap is everywhere.
It's not even dramatic--no cathartic storm of shattered dishes or torn-up photos--just... presence. Half-unpacked boxes lining the hallway, a sweater flung over the back of every chair, a colony of mismatched mugs gathering by the sink like they're planning an uprising. Her shoes are never where shoes go. Her makeup has taken the bathroom hostage. Her bras hang like morbid garlands across the doorknobs. She's been in Alex's apartment exactly six days and it already feels like she's slowly bleeding into the walls.
Alex doesn't say anything. Not really. Not beyond one or two raised eyebrows when she nearly breaks her neck on a rogue curling iron cord.
Because she gets it.
Jamie left Alton. Jamie left everything. A wedding dress she never wore still stuffed in a garment bag in her mom's attic. A future that smelled like new leather furniture and 401k plans. A man who loved her with spreadsheets and stability and a kind of golden retriever sweetness that had slowly, relentlessly drained her like a leaky tire.
So, no--Alex doesn't say anything about the clutter. About the box of jammed-up eyeshadow palettes now living on her kitchen counter. About the wine-stained pillowcases or the avocado pit growing roots in a shot glass on the windowsill. She just adjusts.
And watches.
Jamie's not fine. She's functional. She's still got that same easy laugh, that breezy way of sitting with one leg tucked under her like she's in a 90s sitcom. She still swipes through her phone with performative disdain like she can't believe how many people are posting vacation photos in March.
But the sparkle's off. Like someone dimmed her at the switch.
They cook together most nights now--nothing fancy. Eggs and toast at 9 p.m. Pasta with way too much garlic. Alex pretends not to notice when Jamie accidentally doubles the wine every time a recipe calls for it.
It's not exactly domestic bliss. More like domestic improv.
"Did I really bring all this shit?" Jamie says one night, standing in front of a stack of boxes labeled Bedroom Stuff in blocky, permanent marker. Her hands are on her hips, but not in a power pose. She looks like she might cry, or fall asleep, or maybe go for a run in traffic.
"You brought five sets of throw pillows," Alex replies from the couch, not looking up from her laptop. "I didn't even know people owned four."
"I was nesting," Jamie mutters, walking over to collapse beside her. "Like a giant, anxious bird."
"Alton's bird," Alex says.
Jamie lets out a groan and thumps her head against Alex's shoulder. "Fuck you."
But it's fond. It's grateful. It's tired.
They sit there for a while, shoulder-to-shoulder. Not touching, not really--but not not touching either. There's always been something casual between them, some long stretch of almosts and could-haves. They kissed once, freshman year, because they were drunk and curious and on the same couch watching Practical Magic. Jamie had laughed into it. Alex had wanted to try again. They never talked about it.
Now Jamie's ex-almost-husband is a ghost in her voicemail and Alex is the one holding the remote.
"Do you ever think about how weird this is?" Jamie says suddenly, shifting to tuck her feet under her thighs. "Like. I was supposed to be married right now. I was supposed to be on my honeymoon."
"Now you're planning where to put your Funko Pops."
"They're collectible."
"They're ugly."
Jamie smacks her.
Alex grins. "You made the right call, J."
There's a beat. Just long enough to breathe in.
Jamie's voice is soft when she says, "You sure?"
"I'm not the one who had to live with him. But you're you again, kinda. And you're here. So yeah. I'm sure."
Jamie nods slowly. She doesn't say thank you. She doesn't need to.
They fall into the new rhythm like it was always waiting. Mornings with too much coffee. Nights with reruns. Sideways conversations about sex and grief and the things they used to dream about when they were nineteen and bulletproof. Alex starts folding Jamie's laundry without being asked.
It's not romantic. But it's something. Warm. Close. Coded.
And slowly, there's touch again. Not the performative, girl-best-friends kind, but real, almost guilty touches. Jamie's fingers brushing the curve of Alex's back when she squeezes by in the hallway. Alex tugging a loose curl out of Jamie's ponytail and tucking it behind her ear. Long hugs that linger just a half-second too long. Bare feet pressed against each other under the coffee table.
It's a pressure building under everything else. A pulse they're pretending not to feel.
Jamie kept stealing Alex's hoodies, despite the fact that her tits stretched the fabric like sin. After a few nights, they stopped smelling like Alex and started smelling like something new. Something warm. Something Jamie.
One night, they fall asleep on the couch during a thunderstorm. Jamie wakes up tangled in Alex's arm, the sound of rain and breath and heartbeat pressed tight against her spine. She doesn't move. Doesn't speak.
She closes her eyes.
Just for now.
Alex finds it on a Tuesday. She's looking for a spatula.
That's the whole reason she opens the box in the corner of the pantry--a weird place for a box labeled "Guest Bathroom + Random." It's been sitting there like a little cardboard tombstone for a week, untouched and slightly damp at the bottom because someone spilled something and didn't clean it up. Alex blames Jamie's oat milk.
Inside: two bottles of conditioner, three unopened candles (Target brand), a cracked travel hairdryer, a tangled silk robe, and--
Oh.
Hello.
She doesn't pull it out, doesn't touch it, because that feels somehow criminal. It's just there--coiled among bath bombs and a single purple vibrator like a relic from another life. Like something holy and deeply embarrassing.
Pink. Slightly translucent. Gummy-soft, with a kind of innocent curve that felt like a lie. Harness still looped through, the straps tangled like they'd been yanked off in a hurry. Nestled in a Ziploc like it was cooling off between sets.
Alex stares at it for a beat too long. Not shocked. Not even surprised. Jamie always felt like the kind of girl who took charge in bed, who knew what she wanted, knew what she was doing. Alton was probably the kind of guy who blinked twice if someone said "clit" out loud, and maybe--just maybe--this particular piece of silicone got more action than he ever deserved.
Still, it's... a moment.
Alex slides the box closed without a word. Grabs a wooden spoon instead. She stirs the pasta like the heat rising in her chest is just steam. Like her fingers aren't trembling. Like she isn't imagining Jamie in that stupid harness, cocky as hell, laughing while she pins Alex down and says, "What, you thought I brought all those throw pillows for decoration?"
That night, Jamie walks into the kitchen barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, holding a bowl of cereal like it's dessert.
