The ceiling fan clicks overhead, a steady three-beat rhythm that marks time in the dark. The transparent balloon floats between them, its surface catching the dim light from the window, turning it into something alive—a globe of trapped moonlight.
Liam's fingers rest on the crown, light enough that the latex barely dimples. Zoe's palm is flat against the equator, her hand small and precise. Chloe's breath warms the neck, a soft pulse of heat that fogs and clears on the surface.
No one speaks.
The balloon holds them in place, a third presence in the narrow bed. The latex is so thin it feels alive—pulsing with their heartbeat, or maybe that's just the blood in his ears.
Chloe's eyes are on the balloon, tracking the way the light shifts across its curve. But Liam's eyes are on her. He lifts his free hand and touches her jaw, the gesture so light the balloon doesn't even tremble.
Her breath catches.
Not the balloon's creak—that sound he's learned to read like a language—but his fingers tilting her chin, turning her face toward him. The movement is slow, deliberate, the kind of slowness that says I could stop but I won't.
Zoe watches from her side, her hand still on the balloon's equator. She doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Her honeydew eyes track the space between them, the millimeters that separate Liam's mouth from Chloe's.
He leans in.
The kiss is soft. Deliberate. His lips brush hers, and there's something on his tongue—latex and salt and the near-miss of everything that brought them here. The taste of a balloon's neck, the memory of a rubber skin against his mouth.
Chloe doesn't close her eyes. She watches him, watches the way his lashes lower, the way his hand stays light on her jaw. The balloon holds between them, a witness.
Zoe's breath comes slow.
When Liam pulls back, his fingers don't leave Chloe's chin. He stays there, inches from her, and the balloon still floats, the transparent crown catching the light like a held breath.
So does she.
Morning light cuts through the gap in the curtains, a blade of gold across the pillow. The fan is still clicking, the same three-beat rhythm, but slower now, like the room is waking up.
Chloe blinks.
The balloon is above her, but different. The transparent crown has collapsed into a puckered dimple, the surface wrinkled and slack. Overnight, the air has escaped, thread by thread, leaving a limp pouch of latex hanging from the ceiling.
She touches it. The latex is cool and slack against her fingers. No resistance. No tension. Just a skin, empty of breath.
Liam stirs beside her. His hand finds hers on the rubber, his fingers warm and clumsy with sleep.
"The date," he murmurs.
Zoe rolls over on her other side, her voice rough. "We won. He owes us."
Chloe's stomach grumbles, a low, insistent sound that breaks the quiet. Zoe's joins it a second later, and then Liam's, a trio of hunger that makes all three of them laugh, the sound surprised and raw.
"Why don't we have breakfast first?" Chloe says.
They agree without words. Zoe drags Chloe out of bed and toward the shower, her grip firm on Chloe's wrist, and for a moment the only sounds are their footsteps and the squeak of the floorboards and the click of the shower turning on.
Liam stays in bed for a long moment. The deflated balloon hangs above him, the transparent crown now a wrinkled skin. He reaches up and pulls it down, the knot still tight, the rubber cool and dead in his hand.
He gets up.
The shower is running, steam curling under the door, and he can hear the girls' voices—Zoe's low laugh, Chloe's higher response, the sound of water hitting tile.
He grabs the balloon and carries it to the desk. There's a hair dryer on the floor, plugged into the wall, and he picks it up, turns it on low. The warm air hits the latex, and slowly, the wrinkles smooth out. The rubber softens, the tension returning just enough to make it look almost alive again.
Not a balloon. A skin.
He sees the laminator on Chloe's shelf, a cheap desktop model, and a pack of plastic pouches beside it. He doesn't think. He just moves.
He flattens the balloon on the desk, smoothing out the creases with his palm. The latex is warm now, pliable. He finds a small piece of paper—a receipt, the back blank—and writes on it in small, careful letters:
Our thin walls
He places the note under the flat balloon, then slides it into the laminating pouch. The machine whirs to life, and he feeds it through, watching the plastic seal around the rubber, the note trapped inside, a fossil of a night.
The finished laminate is cool and smooth, the balloon a faint shadow inside the plastic, the note a dark line beneath it. He holds it up to the light, and for a moment, it looks like a pressed flower, a memory made solid.
The kitchenette is small, two burners and a mini-fridge, but he makes it work. Pancakes, the batter thin and a little lumpy. Bacon, the strips spitting in the pan. The smell fills the room, mixing with the steam from the shower.
When the girls come out, wrapped in towels, their hair dark with water, he's already plating the pancakes. He looks up, and something in his chest tightens—Chloe's skin flushed from the heat, Zoe's dark hair slicked back, the purple streaks standing out against the wet.
"You're up," Chloe says.
"Almost done." He gestures at the plates. "Go. Eat. I'll shower."
They don't move.
"We'll wait," Zoe says. Her voice is firm, with a small smile at the corner of her mouth.
"You don't have to—"
"We'll wait."
He showers quickly, the water hot, the steam thick. He thinks about the laminated balloon on the desk, the note inside it. Our thin walls. The words feel right.
When he comes out, the girls are sitting at the small table, the plates still full, the bacon starting to cool. He sits down across from them, and for a moment, no one speaks.
Then Chloe picks up her fork.
"This is good," she says.
Liam watches the way her cheeks hollow as she chews, the way Zoe's fingers find his under the table, the way the morning light cuts across the laminate on the desk.
"This is what I thought."
The girls look up.
"I want to rent a room in a hotel." He says it fast, like it might get away if he hesitates. "Spend a weekend—maybe a week, if we have enough money and time. All three of us. A hotel room, away from campus."
Chloe's fork stops halfway to her mouth.
"A load of balloons," he continues. "Big ones. Weird ones. We buy them online, we search for the ones we want. We enjoy them freely, and we learn what each other wants with them. We learn about each other. We share about us."
Zoe's hand tightens on his under the table.
"You'd do that?" Chloe says. Her voice is small, not the way she usually sounds—bright and sharp and full of laughter. It's a voice he hasn't heard before.
"Yeah."
The word hangs in the air.
Zoe leans back in her chair, her cat-like grin spreading slow. "I like the sound of that."
Chloe's smile is fragile, like it might crack, but it holds. "A whole week. Just us and balloons."
"And each other," Liam says.
They finish breakfast in a different quiet—not the silence of tension, but of agreement. The laminate sits on the desk, and the fan clicks overhead, and the morning stretches long ahead of them.
Lectures are interminable.
The calculus professor drones about derivatives, and Liam's mind keeps drifting to the night before, to the green balloon, to the game, to the way Chloe's voice had cracked when she said she didn't know how to let someone take care of her. His pen scratches notes he won't read.
Across the hall, in the same lecture, Chloe catches his eye. She winks, quick and bright, and turns back to her notebook. Zoe is two rows ahead, her dark hair with its purple streaks bent over the desk.
The clock moves in slow motion.
When the final bell rings, they meet in the courtyard, the afternoon light warm and golden. Chloe is practically buzzing, her energy spilling out of her.
"There's a vendor in the park. He sells balloons—big ones, the kind you see at parades. I saw him on the way here."
Zoe glances at Liam, then back at Chloe. "Let's go."
The park is crowded with students and families, the grass worn and brown in patches. The vendor is near the fountain, a cart piled with mylar shapes and latex spheres, the helium tank glinting in the sun.
Chloe spots it immediately—a massive 36-inch sphere in her favorite color, a deep, vibrant purple that seems to glow in the light. It's slightly wrinkled, the surface uneven, the helium old enough that it barely tugs at its string.
"How much?" she asks.
The vendor shrugs. "Old stock. Five bucks."
She hands over the money before he can finish the sentence.
The balloon drifts up, slow and lazy, the string curling through her fingers. She pulls it down, holds it against her chest, the latex cool and smooth through her shirt.
"Look at it," she breathes. "It's perfect."
Liam opens his mouth to say something—maybe about the wrinkles, maybe about the way the latex feels under her palm—but Zoe stops him with a hand on his arm. She points at the nozzle.
It isn't closed. No knot. Just a stopper, a small plastic plug that lets helium in but not out. The kind of thing you'd use for a quick fill.
Chloe hugs the balloon tighter.
Zoe saunters toward her, her steps light, her grin sharp. "Big fan of that balloon, huh?"
Chloe laughs. "It's mine. I love it."
And then Zoe's hands are on her sides, fingers dancing, tickling.
Chloe jerks, laughing, her arms tightening around the balloon. The pressure forces the stopper out—a soft pop and the balloon begins to deflate, a long, hissing sigh of air.
Chloe freezes.
The latex collapses in her arms, the massive sphere shrinking to a wrinkled, empty pouch, the purple dull and lifeless. She holds it up, the rubber hanging limp, and pouts.
"Zoe."
Zoe takes the deflated latex from her, holding it like it's made of glass. She brings it to her mouth, her lips pursing, and Liam watches, his breath catching—
But she doesn't blow.
She stops. Grins. And runs.
Chloe's laugh is surprised and raw as she chases after her, and Liam follows, an easy smile spreading across his face. They cut across the grass, dodging picnics and dogs and children, the purple balloon flapping in Zoe's hand like a flag.
"Tonight," Zoe calls back. "My room. All three of us."
She's still laughing, the sound bright and sharp and clear. Chloe catches up to her, grabbing her arm, and they tumble onto the grass, the deflated balloon crushed between them. Liam reaches them a second later, breathless, and collapses beside them.
The sky is wide and blue above him. The grass prickles through his shirt. And both girls are laughing, one on each side, and the deflated balloon lies across Chloe's chest, a wrinkled purple promise.
"Tonight?" he echoes.
Zoe turns her head, her honeydew eyes meeting his. "Tonight. My room. I want to see what happens when we don't have to worry about walls."
Chloe's hand finds his, the latex cool between their palms.
"Okay," Liam says.
The word feels like a door opening.