The silence after the door clicked shut was a thing with weight. Inde sat on the edge of Riley's bed, her fingers pressed into the mattress on either side of her thighs, the gray Henley slipping further off her shoulder as she breathed. She could still feel the ghost of his kiss on her knuckles, the way his lips had lingered there like a promise he didn't know how to speak out loud.

The apartment smelled like him—laundry detergent and something clean, something warm. The morning light had shifted, no longer catching her hair the way it had when he looked back at her from the doorway. Now it fell flat across the floorboards, a stripe of dust-moted gold that ended at the foot of the bed.

She looked down at herself. His Henley. Her bare legs. A faint chill on her skin from the shower they'd shared, the memory of steam and his hands—careful, reverent—still pressed into her like a bruise she didn't want to heal.

Twenty minutes. Maybe twenty-five. She'd watched the door for a long time after he left, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to fade entirely before she let herself breathe. Then she'd stood, walked to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water she didn't drink, and set it on the counter. The glass sat there now, untouched, a small monument to the fact that she was alone in his space.

She was about to reach for her phone when she heard it.

Three quick raps.

Her heart stuttered. She knew that rhythm. The urgency of it. The way the second rap came before the first had finished ringing off the wood.

Inde stood slowly, her bare feet pressing against the cool floor. The Henley fell to mid-thigh, the hem brushing her skin as she crossed the living room. She didn't call out. She didn't ask who it was. She already knew.

The peephole showed a familiar face—sharp cheekbones, a sleek black bob tucked behind one ear, an audition bag slung over one shoulder. The mascara under her right eye was smudged, a dark crescent that looked like it had been wiped at once and then left.

Jessica.

Inde's hand found the lock. She turned it. The latch clicked. She pulled the door open.

Jessica stood in the hallway, her eyes red-rimmed, her posture held together by sheer force of will. She looked at Inde—at the Henley, the bare legs, the damp hair—and something flickered across her face. Recognition. Acceptance. A small, wounded thing that she swallowed before it could take shape.

"He left already, didn't he."

It wasn't a question.

Inde stepped aside. The space between them was a breath long, then another. Jessica crossed the threshold, her heeled boots clicking against the floor, and Inde closed the door behind her, the latch falling into place with a sound that felt louder than it should have.

Jessica's eyes swept the apartment. They moved over the couch where they'd all played strip poker last night, the coffee table with the scattered cards still sitting there from the abandoned game, the kitchen counter where the untouched glass of water sat. She was looking for something—proof, maybe. Or permission. The way her gaze lingered on the bedroom door, still ajar, told Inde she'd found what she was looking for.

Inde stayed by the door, her arms crossing over her chest, then uncrossing. She didn't know what to do with her hands. The Henley suddenly felt too thin.

"How was the audition?" Inde asked. Her voice came out softer than she'd meant it to.

Jessica dropped her bag on the kitchen counter. It landed with a dull thud, the zipper catching the light. She stood there for a moment, her back to Inde, her shoulders rising and falling with a breath that seemed to cost her something.

"I got the role."

The words hung in the air. Inde watched the back of Jessica's head, the way her hand came up to tuck her hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture she'd seen a hundred times in the group but never from this angle, never without an audience.

"That's—" Inde started, but Jessica turned around before she could finish.

Her eyes were wet. Not crying, but close. The smudged mascara made her look younger, more raw, less like the actress who could fill a room with her presence and more like a girl who had just survived something important.

"I was going to tell him."

The words landed between them, heavy and unguarded. Jessica's voice cracked on the last word, and she pressed her lips together, as if she could push the sound back in. Her hand stayed at her ear, her fingers gripping the lobe like it was an anchor.

Inde didn't move. She stood by the door, the Henley's hem brushing her thighs, her damp hair still dripping onto the collar. The silence stretched, filled with the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a lawnmower somewhere outside the window.

Jessica's eyes went to the half-empty coffee mug on the counter. Riley's mug. The one he'd used this morning before Inde had made him eggs. She picked it up, wrapped her fingers around the ceramic, and held it like she was testing its weight.

"He made coffee," Inde said. "Before I got here. I made more when I came in."

Jessica nodded. She set the mug down, her fingers lingering on the rim. "He always makes coffee in the morning. Even if he's not going to drink it. Even if he's just going to let it get cold."

Inde watched her. There was something careful in the way Jessica moved, the way she touched things in the apartment as if she were memorizing them. She picked up the deck of cards from the coffee table, shuffled them once, then set them back down, exactly where they'd been. The gesture was automatic, almost unconscious.

"He'll be back by six," Inde said quietly.

Jessica's hand stopped moving. She didn't turn around. "You hope? Or you know?"

The question landed like a stone in still water. The ripples spread outward, touching everything in the room—the coffee mug, the cards, the Henley on Inde's body, the bed Inde had slept in, the shower they'd shared. The truth of what Inde and Riley had, the depth of it, suddenly felt like something that had to be named or it would weigh too much to carry.

"I know," Inde said.

Jessica turned. Her eyes met Inde's. There was no accusation in them, no jealousy. Just a raw, tired honesty that made Inde's chest tighten.

"Good." Jessica's voice was barely a whisper. "He deserves someone who knows."

She let go of the cards. The top one, the ace of spades, sat face-up. Jessica looked at it, then away. Her hand found the strap of her audition bag and gripped it, the leather creaking under her fingers.

Inde stepped forward. The distance between them shrank, the kitchen island the only thing between their bodies. She didn't know what she was doing—reaching, maybe. Or offering. The Henley shifted as she moved, and she saw Jessica's eyes flicker to the collar, the exposed collarbone, the bare skin.

"You came here to tell him," Inde said. It wasn't a question.

Jessica laughed—a short, broken sound. "Yeah. I was going to call, but I was already in the neighborhood. Walking past the building." She shook her head, her fingers still tight on the bag strap. "I thought I'd be okay. Standing outside. But I saw his window, and I just—" She stopped, pressed her lips together again. "I needed him to know."

"He'll want to know."

"Will he?"

Inde heard the question beneath the question: *Will he care? Will he be as happy for me as I need him to be? Will he love me?* She didn't have an answer. She only had the truth of what she knew about Riley—the way his eyes softened when he talked about his friends, the way he'd cried in this very apartment, surrounded by them, and not felt ashamed.

"Yes," Inde said. "He will."

Jessica's grip on the bag loosened. She let it slide off her shoulder, the strap pooling on the counter before the bag itself followed, sagging against the edge of the island. She stood there, her arms hanging at her sides, her head tipped slightly downward, like the weight of the day had finally caught up to her limbs.

"I've been waiting for this role for two years," she said, her voice flat. "Two years of auditions. Callbacks. Getting my hopes up. Losing them. Getting them up again. And now I have it, and I don't—" She stopped, wet her lips. "I don't know who to tell first."

Inde could have offered herself. The words were right there, on her tongue. *Tell me.* But she knew, with a certainty that settled in her chest like a stone, that wasn't what Jessica needed. She needed Riley. She needed the person who had known her before the polish sloughed off, before she was an actress with a role, before the makeup smudged and the audition ended and she was just a girl standing in a friend's apartment, holding a mug of cold coffee that wasn't hers.

Inde moved around the island. She didn't touch Jessica—not yet. She stopped a few feet away, close enough to see the way Jessica's lower lip trembled before she bit it, the way her fingers curled into her palms.

"He's at the ramen place on Fourth Street," Inde said. "With Jasmine. He told me he'd keep his phone on, in case one of you needed him."

Jessica looked up. Her eyes were wet again, but she blinked hard, forcing the tears back. "He said that?"

"He said that."

Jessica's laugh was softer this time, almost fond. "He's too good. He doesn't know how to be anything else."

Inde felt a smile tug at her own mouth. "I know."

They stood there, in the kitchen of the apartment that still smelled like Riley, the morning light fading into something harsher, more direct. The clock on the microwave blinked 4:23. Two hours and thirty-seven minutes until he came back. Or six o'clock. Or whenever the date ended and he found his way home, to her, to all of them.

Jessica reached out. Her fingers brushed the sleeve of the Henley—just a touch, light enough that Inde might have imagined it. "This is his," she said. "I've seen him wear it."

"He lets me borrow it."

"No." Jessica shook her head. "He doesn't let anyone borrow his things. He gives them up when someone asks, but he never offers. This—" She touched the fabric again, a knuckle against the collar. "This is different. He gave it to you."

Inde's throat tightened. She didn't have words for what Jessica was saying—didn't have a way to accept that kind of observation without feeling like she was taking something that wasn't hers to take. The Henley suddenly felt heavier on her shoulders, the fabric holding more meaning than it had when she'd first pulled it on that morning.

"I didn't ask for it," Inde said. The words came out smaller than she'd intended. "He just—put it on me. After the shower. Like it was the most natural thing in the world."

“You two showered together?”

“Yup.”

Jessica laughed. Then her fingers withdrew from the collar. She let her hand fall to her side, and for a moment she just stood there, her gaze fixed somewhere on the floor between them. The kitchen light caught the edge of her bob, the dark hair curving against her jaw. Her mascara had dried in that single smudge, a permanent-looking mark she hadn't bothered to fix.

"He used to do that," Jessica said. Her voice was quiet, almost distant. "Back when we first became friends. I'd stay over at his place after late rehearsals, and he'd throw a blanket on me before I could ask. Never said a word about it. Just did it." She lifted her head, met Inde's eyes. "He stopped doing that about a year ago. Started keeping his distance more. I thought it was just—him being shy. But I think now he was saving it."

Inde didn't know what to say to that. The air between them felt thin, charged with something that wasn't quite jealousy and wasn't quite sadness—a third thing, unnamed, that sat in the space the Henley had left behind.

"He's saving it for you," Jessica said. "All of it. The things he used to give away without thinking—he's been holding on to them. Waiting for someone who'd know what they meant."

Inde's hand went to the collar of the Henley without her permission. She touched the edge of the fabric where it met her collarbone, the same spot Jessica's fingers had brushed. "I don't know if I'm that person," she said. "I'm still figuring out what any of this means. The arrangement. The dates. You."

"You're here." Jessica's voice was flat, but not cold. "That's more than the rest of us have managed. You're in his apartment, wearing his shirt, waiting for him to come back. You're not running."

Inde's hand dropped from the collar. She let it fall to her side, her fingers brushing the bare skin of her thigh where the Henley ended. "Running's never been my style," she said. "Even when it probably should have been."

Something shifted in Jessica's expression. Not quite recognition—more like she was hearing something she'd suspected but never had confirmed. "What does that mean?"

Inde considered the question. The answer sat somewhere in her chest, a knot she'd been carrying long before she'd walked into Riley's apartment, long before the shower, long before the group. "It means I've stayed in places I shouldn't have. With people who didn't deserve it. I don't do that anymore." She paused. "But I also don't leave when it gets hard. I wait. I see it through."

Jessica's eyes held hers. The distance between them was a few feet, the island's edge still between their bodies, but the air felt narrower than that—like they were standing in a room that had gotten smaller while they weren't looking. "And this? The arrangement. Riley. All of us." Jessica's voice was careful, like she was testing ice. "Is this one of the things you see through?"

Inde could have given her the easy answer. *Yes.* One word. Clean and certain. But she owed Jessica more than that—owed the honesty of a woman who knew what it meant to wait, to hope, to stand in someone else's apartment wearing someone else's shirt and wonder if she belonged in any of it.

"I want it to be," Inde said. "I don't know if I'll be good at it. I don't know if I'll say the right things or handle it the way you all need me to. But I'm not going anywhere."

Jessica's fingers found the edge of the counter. She traced a line along the granite, her nail catching on a seam, the small imperfection grounding her. "That's more than I expected," she said. "When I saw you at the door. I thought—" She stopped, her jaw tightening. "I thought you'd be different. Smaller, somehow. Easier to resent."

The laugh that came out of Inde was surprised out of her—a short, honest sound. "I've been called a lot of things. Small isn't usually one of them."

Jessica's mouth curved. Not quite a smile, but close. "No. I don't imagine it is."

The clock on the microwave blinked 4:31. The numbers changed, the minutes pulling them forward whether either of them was ready or not. Inde could feel the weight of the remaining time—two hours and change until Riley walked back through the door, until the apartment filled with whoever came with him, until the quiet between them was broken by something larger than both of them.

"You should fix your mascara," Inde said. "Before the others see you."

Jessica's hand went to her face, her fingers brushing the smudge under her eye. She looked at the gray stain on her fingertips, then back at Inde. "I don't know if I want to. Let them see it. Let them know I'm human."

"They already know."

"Do they?"

Inde nodded. "They were at the poker game. They saw you take your bra off without being asked. They've seen you at your worst, same as they've seen you at your best. You don't have to perform here."

Jessica's hand stayed at her face, but her fingers softened, no longer pressing against the smudge. Her shoulders dropped, a half-inch of tension leaving her frame. "I've been performing for so long I don't know what I look like without the stage."

"You look like someone who just booked a role she's been chasing for two years." Inde's voice was steady. "You look like someone who came here to share it with a friend. That's not performance. That's just—you."

The silence that followed was different from the ones before. It wasn't heavy or charged. It was the kind of silence that happens when two people stop circling each other and stand still. The refrigerator hummed. The lawnmower had stopped somewhere outside, leaving the apartment in a deeper quiet. Inde could hear her own breathing, the faint rustle of the Henley against her skin when she shifted her weight.

Jessica's hand dropped from her face. She looked at the audition bag on the counter, then at the cards on the coffee table, then at the bedroom door, still ajar. Her gaze moved through the apartment like she was taking inventory, cataloging every detail so she could carry them with her when she left.

"I used to imagine what it would be like," Jessica said, her voice low. "If he ever chose someone. What she'd be like. What it would feel like to stand in front of her." She paused, her eyes finding Inde's again. "I thought I'd hate her."

Inde didn't flinch. She met Jessica's gaze and held it. "And now?"

Jessica's breath came out slow, deliberate. "Now I don't know what I feel. It's not hate. It's not even jealousy. It's something closer to—" She stopped, searching for the word. "Wanting to understand. Wanting to see what he sees."

Inde felt the weight of that. The vulnerability in it. Jessica had stripped herself bare in front of her—not in the way she'd done at the poker game, with clothes and laughter and the safety of a group, but in the way that mattered more. She'd let Inde see the crack in the armor, the place where the performance ended and the person began.

"He sees someone who's brave enough to show up," Inde said. "Even when she doesn't know what she'll find on the other side of the door."

Jessica's eyes glistened. She blinked hard, and this time she let the tears fall—just one, trailing down her cheek, catching the kitchen light before she wiped it away with the heel of her hand. "That's a nice way of saying I'm a mess."

"No." Inde shook her head. "It's a way of saying you're human."

Jessica let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. She pressed her palm flat against the counter, the granite cool under her skin, and stood there, letting herself be held by the moment, by the space, by the unexpected kindness of a woman she'd been ready to resent.

"Can I tell you something?" Jessica asked. "Something I haven't told anyone?"

Inde's chest tightened. "Of course."

Jessica's fingers curled against the counter, her nails pressing into the stone. "When I saw you at the door, in his shirt, with your hair still wet—I wanted to turn around. Walk back down the stairs. Pretend I hadn't come." She paused, her voice dropping. "But there was a part of me—a small part—that was glad. Because it meant he'd finally let someone in. After all this time of watching him hold everyone at arm's length, he'd finally let someone past it."

Inde didn't speak. She let the words settle, let them fill the space between them. The Henley felt different on her shoulders now—not heavier, but more significant. Like it carried not just Riley's trust, but Jessica's acceptance. Like the fabric had become a bridge between two women who had more in common than either of them had realized.

"He's going to come back," Inde said. "And when he does, you should be here. To tell him. To let him be happy for you."

Jessica's hand relaxed against the counter. She straightened, her shoulders squaring, the posture of someone who had decided to stay. "You think he'll want to see me? After I showed up at his apartment while he's on a date?"

"I think he'll want to see the person who drove across town to share her good news." Inde paused. "I think that means more to him than any date ever could."

Jessica's mouth curved again, fuller this time. A real smile, small and tentative, but real. "You're good at this," she said. "The whole—" She gestured vaguely, encompassing the apartment, the Henley, the morning that had already passed. "Being here thing. You're good at it."

Inde didn't have a response to that. She let the compliment sit, let it warm something in her chest that she hadn't realized was cold. The clock blinked 4:36. Two hours and twenty-four minutes. The afternoon stretched ahead of them, full of possibility and waiting.

"Can I make you some tea?" Inde asked. "Or coffee? He's got decent coffee."

Jessica laughed—a real laugh this time, clean and bright. "I'd kill for some tea. Something herbal. My nerves are shot."

Inde moved toward the kitchen cabinets, opening the one where Riley kept the mugs. She pulled down two—not the one he'd used that morning, but fresh ones, clean and waiting. "Chamomile okay?"

"Perfect."

Inde filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and turned the burner on. The flame caught, blue and steady, and she stood there, watching it, the Henley brushing against her thighs, the afternoon light slanting across the floor. Behind her, she heard Jessica pull out a stool from the island, the legs scraping against the tile. The sound of someone settling in. The sound of someone staying.

The steam from their mugs curled and vanished, the scent of chamomile settling into the fabric of the apartment. Inde sat on the edge of the couch, her hands wrapped around the warm ceramic, her bare feet pressed flat against the cool floor. Across the island, Jessica had folded her legs beneath her on the stool, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug in slow, absent circles.

The clock on the microwave ticked through the minutes. 4:41. 4:47. 4:52.

They didn't talk much. The silence had shifted into something companionable, a shared space that didn't need filling. Inde watched Jessica's thumb stop moving, watched her gaze drift to the bedroom door and stay there for a long beat before dropping back to the mug in her hands. She was thinking about him. About the shape of the afternoon. About what it meant to be here, in his apartment, waiting, when she could have been anywhere else.

"You don't have to stay," Inde said. Her voice came out quiet, not quite an offer and not quite a dismissal. "If it's too much. If you need to process the news on your own."

Jessica shook her head, a small motion, almost involuntary. "I don't want to be alone with it. The win. I've been alone with wins before. They feel hollow after a while." She lifted her mug, took a sip, and set it back down. "This feels like something I should share."

Inde nodded. She understood that. The way joy multiplied when it was witnessed. The way a victory could feel fragile if it only lived inside one person's chest.

More time passed. The light through the window shifted from gold to amber, deepening as the afternoon leaned toward evening. The shadows stretched across the floorboards, the dust motes catching the slanting sun in slow, drifting spirals. Inde finished her tea and set the mug on the coffee table, her fingers lingering on the rim for a moment before she let go.

At 5:48, Jessica's phone buzzed. She picked it up, her thumb swiping across the screen, her expression unreadable. "Natalie's asking if everyone's coming over tonight," she said. "She's offering to bring desserts."

Inde almost smiled. "She always offers to bring desserts."

"She's a woman of constants." Jessica typed a quick response, then set the phone down. "I told her maybe. That we'd see what happens when Riley gets back."

The weight of that phrase hung between them. *When Riley gets back.* The thing they were both orbiting, the center of the gravity they had chosen to live inside.

The clock blinked 5:52.

Both their phones buzzed at the same time.

Inde felt the vibration against her thigh, sharp and insistent. She reached for her phone, her thumb pressing the home button, and the notification hit her like a small, warm shockwave.

*Jasmine: 20+ images.*

The group chat. Inde opened it.

The first image filled her screen: Jasmine, her head tipped back in laughter, her eyes bright, one hand pressed flat against her chest. Her high puff was slightly mussed, the way it got when she'd been moving, talking, living at full volume. In the corner of the frame, Riley's shoulder, his dark navy button-up catching the overhead light of the ramen shop. He was mid-turn, mid-smile, his honey-brown eyes crinkled at the edges.

Inde's thumb moved. The next image: Jasmine and Riley, their ramen bowls in front of them, their chopsticks crossed in the frame. Jasmine had added a sticker overlay—a pair of sparkly hearts floating above their heads. The image was pure, unfiltered Jasmine. Bright. Excessive. Overflowing.

The third image: Riley's face in profile, his hand raised mid-sentence. He was telling a story, his mouth open, his eyes alive with the telling. The ramen shop's pendant lights caught the line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulder. He looked comfortable. Open. Happier than she'd seen him before, outside of the quiet moments they shared.

Inde scrolled. Four. Five. Six. Jasmine pulling a face. Riley giving a thumbs-up to the camera. A selfie of Jasmine that showed off her outfit and included Riley's blurred torso in the background, a casual marker of his presence. A shot of their empty bowls, steam still rising.

The knot in Inde's chest tightened. Not jealousy. Something closer to vertigo. The sudden, visceral reminder that he was out there, living a whole afternoon with someone else, giving someone else his full attention. She could see the arc of the date in the images—the awkward first moments, the thaw, the easy rhythm they'd found by the end. It was working. The experiment was working.

She heard Jessica's sharp inhale from across the room.

"Oh," Jessica breathed. Her phone was in her hands, her face lit by the screen, her expression caught between wonder and something more complicated. "They look..."

"Happy," Inde finished. The word came out flat, a fact.

Jessica's thumb scrolled, her eyes tracking across the images. "He doesn't look nervous."

"He doesn't," Inde agreed. She kept scrolling, reaching the tail end of the barrage. The last few images were variations of the same theme—Jasmine's smile, Riley's smile, the warm amber light of the ramen shop. The evidence of a good time. The proof that he could do this.

Inde's thumb hovered over the heart icon.

She pressed it.

The shape turned pink, a small pulse of color against the image. She scrolled to the next one and pressed again. Pink. Again. Pink. Each one a signature, an authorization. She didn't stop until she'd hearted all twenty-three images, her thumb moving with a steady, deliberate rhythm.

Across the room, she heard Jessica's phone make the same quiet click of approval. The sound of her hearting them too.

They didn't speak.

The clock blinked 5:53. 5:56. 5:59.

Inde set her phone down on the cushion beside her, face-up, the screen still lit with the last image of Jasmine and Riley side by side. She could hear her own heartbeat, steady and present. She could hear Jessica's breathing across the room, the faint rustle of fabric as she shifted her weight on the stool.

The lock clicked at 6:03.

The sound was unmistakable—a key turning, the bolt sliding, the familiar scrape of metal against metal. Inde's body stilled. Jessica's hand stopped moving against the rim of her mug.

The door swung open.

Riley stepped inside.

The evening light caught him from behind, a halo of amber and gold that outlined his shoulders, his hair, the line of his jaw. He was holding his keys, his fingers curled around them loosely, already reaching back to push the door closed. He was wearing the dark navy button-up she'd chosen for him, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top button undone. He was smiling. A small, private smile. The kind that didn't reach performance. The kind that was just his.

He saw them.

His smile widened. A full, unguarded thing, warm and surprised and relieved. "Hey."

The word landed like a stone in still water. The ripples spread outward, touching everything in the room—the mugs, the phone, the Henley on Inde's body, the space between Jessica's hands and the counter's edge.

Inde stood. The Henley fell to mid-thigh, the hem brushing her skin. "Hey."

Jessica stayed on the stool, her hands still wrapped around the mug, her knuckles pale against the ceramic.

Riley's eyes moved between them, catching the weight, the shift in the room's atmosphere. His smile softened. "Everything okay?"

Jessica opened her mouth. Closed it. Then, in a voice that cracked at the edges: "I got the role."

The words hung in the air for half a breath.

Then Riley's face broke open. A laugh—surprised, joyful, loud—escaped his chest. He crossed the room in three long strides, his shoes loud against the tile, his keys still in his hand. He stopped in front of Jessica, his arms open, his body already leaning toward her.

"Jess." He said her name like it was a prayer. "Jess, that's incredible."

Jessica's fingers loosened around the mug. She slid off the stool and into his arms.

The embrace was tight, full of motion. Riley's arms wrapped around her shoulders, his chin dropping to rest on top of her head, his body curving to hold her. Jessica's hands pressed flat against his back, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, her face buried in his chest. They swayed slightly, a slow, unthinking rhythm.

Inde watched.

She saw Riley's hand press against Jessica's shoulder blade, the spread of his fingers, the steadiness of his touch. She saw Jessica's breath hitch, her shoulders trembling with a release she had been holding all day. She saw the shape of two people who had known each other long before she arrived, who had history, who had a love that did not include her and did not need to.

She stayed by the couch, the Henley warm against her skin.

Riley pulled back, his hands moving to Jessica's shoulders, his eyes searching her face. "Tell me everything. The call, the callback, the reading—everything."

Jessica laughed, wet and raw. She wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand, the mascara smudging further. "I got the part. The lead. I don't have to share it. It's mine."

"That's huge." Riley's voice was soft, full of awe. "Jess, that's—that's the one. That's the role."

"I know." She laughed again, a sob hiding in the shape of it. "I know."

Riley's hands tightened on her shoulders, a brief squeeze, before he let go. He turned, his gaze finding Inde across the room.

The look that passed between them was quiet. A question. An answer. A small, shared acknowledgment that the world had changed in the hours they'd been apart.

"You told her to stay," Riley said. Not a question.

"She came here to tell you," Inde said. "She just needed someone to give her permission."

Riley crossed to her. His steps were slower now, less urgent, his hand reaching out before he reached her. His fingers found hers, a brief, warm squeeze, his honey-brown eyes holding hers with a gravity that made her breath catch.

"Thank you," he said. The words were simple. They carried everything.

Inde squeezed his hand back. "Anytime."

They stood there, the three of them, the apartment settling around them in the evening light. The clock blinked 6:05. The mugs sat empty on the counter. The key still hung in the door, waiting to be turned.

Jessica's shoulders dropped, the last of her tension releasing. She looked at Inde, then at Riley, and something shifted in her expression. Not surrender. Something rarer. A softening. A willingness to occupy the same space without armor.

"So," Jessica said, her voice steadier now. "Natalie's offering desserts. She texted."

Riley laughed, the sound light and surprised. "She did?"

"Ten minutes ago." Jessica picked up her phone, the screen still lit with the group chat. "She's got options."

Inde felt a smile tug at her mouth. She was still holding Riley's hand. She could feel his pulse against her palm, steady and warm.

"What do you say?" Riley asked. His gaze moved between them, equal and open. "Should we let her bring them?"

Inde looked at Jessica. Jessica looked at Inde. The question sat between them, small and ordinary, but weighted with something larger—the shape of the new thing they were building. A family that included all of them. A space where everyone got to stay.

"Tell her yes," Inde said. "I could use something sweet."

Jessica's thumb moved across the screen. A response sent. A yes given.

Outside, the light continued to fade. The clock ticked forward. The apartment held them, warm and waiting, as the evening began its slow descent into night.

Riley's hand was still warm in hers. Inde felt the pulse of his thumb against her knuckles, a steady rhythm that matched her own. He hadn't let go. She hadn't pulled away. The apartment's evening light painted them both in shades of amber and rust, their shadows stretching long across the floor.

Jessica set her phone down on the counter, face-up, the group chat still visible. She looked at their joined hands, and Inde saw something pass through her expression—not hurt, not longing, but a quiet acknowledgment. The shape of what she was learning to accept.

"She's bringing cheesecake," Jessica said. "And those little pastries from the bakery on Elm. The ones with the raspberry filling."

Riley's laugh was soft, almost fond. "She knows the way to my heart."

"She knows the way to everyone's heart," Inde said. A pause. "That's kind of her thing."

Riley's eyes met hers. The corner of his mouth lifted, a half-smile that held more than amusement. He was reading her, she realized. Checking. Making sure she was still here, still solid, still okay with the shape of the afternoon he'd spent with someone else.

She squeezed his hand. Once. A small signal. I'm still here.

His shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, tension leaving him that she hadn't noticed he was carrying.

"The ramen was good," he said. Quiet, like he was offering a report. "We talked about her little sister. She's teaching her to do a handspring."

Inde felt a warmth spread through her chest—not jealousy, but something like relief. He was telling her. Not hiding. Not making her guess. The small, ordinary details of his afternoon, laid out in front of her like an offering.

"That sounds like Jasmine," Jessica said. She had moved to the sink, running water over her empty mug, her back to them. "She talks about her sister the way most people talk about their pets. With that same mix of pride and exhaustion."

Riley laughed. "She showed me a video. The kid nearly landed it."

"Nearly," Inde repeated. "That's the word that's going to haunt Jasmine until she nails it."

"Probably." Riley's thumb moved across the back of her hand, a slow, absent motion. "She wants to bring her to game night sometime. Her sister, I mean. Said she'd behave."

Jessica turned from the sink, drying her hands on a dish towel. "Bring a teenager to game night. That's bold. Last time we played, someone ended up in their underwear."

Inde felt her own mouth twitch. "Apparently the offer of cheesecake outweighs the risk of public humiliation."

Jessica's laugh surprised all of them—a real one, bright and clean, cutting through the last of the evening's heaviness. She tossed the towel onto the counter, her shoulders looser than they'd been all afternoon. "I think I like you," she said to Inde. "I think I actually like you."

The words landed like a small, unexpected gift. Inde didn't know what to do with them at first, so she let them sit, let them warm the space between her ribs. "I think I like you too," she said. "Even with the smudged mascara."

Jessica touched her face, her fingers brushing the dark crescent under her eye. She looked at the gray stain on her fingertips, then back at Inde. "I should probably fix this before the others get here."

"Probably," Inde agreed.

Jessica disappeared down the hall toward the bathroom. Her footsteps were lighter now, less weighted. The sound of a door closing, then the rush of water through the pipes.

Riley and Inde were alone.

He turned to face her fully, his free hand coming up to touch the collar of the Henley at her shoulder. His fingers brushed the fabric, the edge of her collarbone, the place where her skin met his shirt. "You kept it on."

"You gave it to me."

"I didn't know if you'd—" He stopped, his jaw working. "If you'd still want to wear it. After everything."

Inde looked down at the Henley, at his fingers against the gray fabric. She thought about the morning, the shower, the way he'd pulled it over her head without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world. She thought about Jessica's observation—that he didn't let people borrow his things, that he gave them away but never offered. That this was different.

"I'm not taking it off," she said. "Unless you want it back."

Riley's throat moved. "I don't want it back."

"Good."

He stepped closer. His body was warm, still carrying the heat of the afternoon, the lingering scent of the ramen shop—broth and sesame and the faint spice of chili oil. His hand moved from the collar to her jaw, his palm cupping her cheek, his thumb tracing a line along her cheekbone.

"I thought about you," he said. "At the date. Between the stories and the noodles and Jasmine laughing at my jokes, I kept thinking—Inde's at my apartment. She's wearing my shirt. She's waiting."

Inde's eyes held his. "I was."

"You are."

"I am."

His forehead touched hers. They breathed together, the space between them shrinking to nothing. The kitchen light hummed. The pipes in the walls settled. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed, a voice called out, the ordinary sounds of the world continuing without them.

Inde felt his hand steady against her jaw, the slight tremor in his fingers. He was nervous, she realized. Not about Jasmine or the arrangement or the evening to come. Nervous about her. About the weight of what he was carrying back to her.

"You don't have to say anything," she whispered. "I saw the photos. You looked happy."

He pulled back, his eyes searching hers. "I was. But I was also—" He wet his lips. "I was aware. The whole time. That I was on a date with someone who isn't you. And that I was going to come back to you. And I didn't know if that would feel wrong."

"Does it?"

He took a breath. Held it. Let it out slow. "No. It feels strange. New. Like learning a language I don't speak yet. But not wrong."

Inde nodded. That was honest. That was more than she'd expected. "Strange I can work with," she said. "Strange is just practice."

His thumb traced her cheekbone again, a slow, reverent motion. "You're really good at this."

"At what?"

"Being here. Making it feel like I'm not messing everything up."

She caught his wrist, her fingers wrapping around the bone. "You're not messing anything up. You're figuring it out. That's all anyone can do."

The water stopped in the bathroom. A moment of silence, then the soft sound of a drawer opening, someone searching for something.

Riley didn't pull away. His forehead found hers again, a brief press, a held breath. "Thank you," he said. "For being here when I got back. For keeping her here."

Inde felt the words settle into her chest, warm and permanent. "I told you I would be."

"I know." His voice was rough. "That's why I believed you."

The bathroom door opened. Jessica emerged, her face clean, the mascara smudge gone, her hair tucked neatly behind both ears. She looked lighter somehow, the raw edges of the afternoon smoothed into something more settled. Her eyes found them—Riley's hand still at Inde's jaw, their foreheads inches apart—and she paused, a small smile flickering at the corner of her mouth.

"Should I give you two a minute?" she asked, her voice carrying the first hint of humor she'd shown all afternoon.

Riley's hand dropped from Inde's face. Not fast, not guilty. Just a slow, deliberate retreat, like he was letting go of something he'd carry again later. "We're good," he said. His voice was rougher than he'd meant it to be, and he cleared his throat, a flush creeping up the back of his neck.

Jessica's smile widened. She crossed to the counter, picking up her audition bag, the strap sliding over her shoulder with a practiced motion. "I'm going to run out for a bit. Grab some groceries."

Riley blinked. "What?"

"Groceries," Jessica repeated, drawing the word out like it was obvious. "Food. You know, the stuff you put in your fridge so you don't survive on ramen and takeout alone?"

"Why?" Riley asked. His brow furrowed, genuine confusion pulling at his features. "You don't have to do that."

Jessica's hand found the strap of her bag, her fingers curling into the leather. "I looked in your fridge, Thompson." She said it like it was an indictment, like she'd discovered something criminal. "You have half a jar of pickles, a block of cheese with mold on it, and what I'm pretty sure was a science experiment that used to be a carton of eggs."

Inde felt her own mouth twitch. She'd seen that fridge. She'd chosen not to open it.

"I was going to shop tomorrow," Riley said, his voice defensive in that soft way of his, the way that said he knew he was losing the argument but couldn't help trying anyway.

"Tomorrow Natalie's bringing desserts. Desserts need to be eaten with something that's not pickles and biohazards." Jessica's hand dropped from the strap. Her voice softened, the edge falling away. "Let me do this. Please."

Riley's mouth opened. Closed. He looked at Inde, a brief, searching glance, like he was checking if he was supposed to keep fighting. Inde gave a small shrug, a silent let her.

"You don't have to," Riley said again, but his voice had lost its resistance.

"I need to." Jessica's smile was small, almost private. "I need to do something normal. Something that isn't thinking about callbacks or auditions or what happens next. I need to push a cart down an aisle and pick out vegetables like a regular person."

The request sat in the air, simple and human. Riley's resistance crumbled. He nodded, a slow, accepting motion. "Okay. If you want to."

"I want to."

Jessica crossed to the door, her boots clicking against the tile. Riley moved to follow her, instinct pulling him toward the threshold. She reached the door first, her hand finding the knob, and then she stopped. She turned.

She met Riley's eyes. Then she leaned in, her hand coming up to rest on his chest for just a second, and pressed her lips to his cheek.

The kiss was quick. Warm. A brush of skin against skin, nothing more. But it landed with a weight that made the room go still. Riley's breath caught. His hand came up, half-reaching, before dropping back to his side.

"I'll be back before the others get here," Jessica said, her voice steady, her eyes holding his. "Don't let Inde eat all the pastries before I return."

She pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway, the latch clicking shut behind her. Her footsteps faded down the corridor, steady and deliberate, the sound of someone walking with purpose.

Riley stood at the door, his hand suspended in the air where he'd almost reached for her. His cheek was pink, a faint flush spreading from the spot her lips had touched, creeping up toward his ear like he couldn't control it. He turned to Inde, his eyes wide, his mouth opening and closing without sound.

Inde laughed.

It came out of her sudden and bright, a full, surprised sound that cut through the quiet of the apartment. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late—the laugh was already out, rolling through her chest, catching in her throat.

"Did she just—" Riley started, his voice cracking.

"She did." Inde's hand stayed over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. "She absolutely did."

"On the cheek." He touched the spot, his fingers pressing against the warm skin. "She kissed me on the cheek."

"She did."

"In front of you."

"I was here." Inde's laugh softened into something warmer, her hand dropping from her mouth. "I saw the whole thing."

Riley's face was the color of the ramen shop's pendant lights, a deep, spreading amber that reached the tips of his ears. He stood there, frozen, his hand still pressed to his cheek, looking like a man who had been struck by something he didn't have a name for.

"I don't know what to do with that," he said.

Inde crossed to him, her bare feet silent against the floor. She stopped in front of him, close enough to see the way his pulse jumped at his throat, the way his chest rose and fell with a breath he hadn't fully let go of. The Henley brushed against her thighs as she moved, the fabric carrying the warmth of her body, the scent of Riley's detergent mingled with her own.

"You don't have to do anything," she said. "She kissed you. You blushed. That's the whole interaction."

"But she—" He gestured vaguely at the door. "She just—"

"She's allowed to kiss you on the cheek," Inde said. Her voice was gentle, steady. "She's your friend. She just booked the biggest role of her life, and you were the first person she wanted to tell. A kiss on the cheek is practically restrained, for Jessica."

Riley's hand dropped from his face. He looked at Inde, his honey-brown eyes searching hers. "You're not upset."

It wasn't a question. It was an observation, a tentative reaching, like he was testing the ground beneath his feet.

"Should I be?" Inde asked.

"I don't know. I don't know what the rules are. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel." He ran a hand through his hair, the motion rough and frustrated. "I just went on a date with Jasmine, came home to you wearing my shirt, and got kissed by Jessica in the span of six hours. I'm having trouble keeping track of what's happening."

Inde reached up. Her hand found his jaw, her palm pressing against the warm skin, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. He stilled under her touch, his breath hitching, his eyes locked on hers.

"You're doing fine," she said. "You came home. You told me about your date. You let Jessica share her news. You blushed when she kissed you. That's all good. That's all human."

His throat moved. "What if I mess this up?"

"You will." Inde's voice was matter-of-fact, the truth of it settling between them. "You'll mess things up. So will I. So will Jasmine and Jessica and Natalie and Ella. That's what happens when six people try to build something that doesn't have a blueprint."

Riley's hand came up, his fingers wrapping around her wrist, holding her palm against his face. "How do you stay so calm about it?"

"I'm not calm," Inde said. "I'm terrified. I just hide it better than you do."

He laughed—a soft, surprised sound that escaped his chest and landed in the space between them. His grip on her wrist tightened, a small, grounding pressure. "That's not reassuring."

"It's not supposed to be. It's supposed to be honest."

He held her gaze. The apartment settled around them, the refrigerator humming, the clock ticking toward 6:15. Somewhere in the city, Jessica was pushing a cart down a grocery aisle, picking out vegetables and probably something sweet she'd pretend she bought for everyone else. Jasmine was on her way home, her high puff still perfect, her phone full of photos she'd already posted to the group chat. Natalie was packing up desserts, her Tupperware organized by color. Ella was hesitating at her front door, wondering if she was ready for another evening of being seen.

The world was moving, full and complicated and alive. And here they were, in the quiet of Riley's apartment, his hand around her wrist, her palm against his face, learning the shape of something that didn't have a name yet.

Inde let her hand fall to his chest, her fingers spreading over the fabric of the navy button-up. "You should probably change before everyone gets here," she said. "You've been wearing that shirt all day."

Riley looked down at himself, as if remembering he was in clothes, that the afternoon had left its mark on him. "I don't know what else to wear. You picked this one."

"I'll pick another one."

He raised an eyebrow, a spark of something warmer surfacing in his expression. "You're going to dress me now?"

"Someone has to." She stepped back, her hand trailing down his arm, her fingers catching his. "Come on."

She led him toward the bedroom, her bare feet padding across the floorboards, the Henley's hem brushing her thighs with each step. Riley followed, his hand warm in hers, his steps slower, more deliberate, like he was savoring the distance between the living room and the doorframe.

The bedroom was the same as she'd left it—the sheets rumpled, the pillow still bearing the indent of her head, the lamp on the nightstand casting a low, amber glow. The closet door was open, a sliver of light catching the edge of a hanging jacket. Inde stopped in front of it, pulling Riley's hand until he stood beside her, their shoulders almost touching.

"Okay," she said, surveying the closet like a general assessing a battlefield. "Let's see what we're working with."

Riley laughed, the sound looser now, less weighted. "It's mostly the same thing. Shirts. Jeans. The Henley you're currently wearing."

"You say that like it's a problem."

"I'm saying it like I'm predictable."

Inde reached into the closet, her fingers brushing past a few options—a gray sweater, a dark green long-sleeve, a faded band tee from a band she didn't recognize. She pulled out the green one, the fabric soft and worn, and held it up against his chest.

"This one," she said. "The color works with your eyes."

Riley looked down at the shirt, then back at her. "You've seen my eyes."

"I have. They're honey-brown. The green will make them pop."

He stared at her for a long moment, something shifting in his expression—a softening, a warmth that spread from his mouth to his eyes. "You notice things like that?"

"I notice things about you," she said. "That's kind of the point."

He took the shirt from her, his fingers brushing hers in the exchange. "I notice things about you too."

"Like what?"

He paused, the green shirt crumpled in his hands, his gaze traveling over her face like he was reading a page he wanted to memorize. "The way you tilt your head when you're thinking. Your right ear. Always the right ear. And the way you press your lips together when you're about to say something you're not sure I want to hear."

Inde felt something catch in her chest. She hadn't known he saw those things. Hadn't known he was paying attention the same way she was, cataloging the small, unconscious details that made a person real. "I didn't know you noticed."

"I notice everything about you," he said, his voice low. "I just don't always know how to say it."

The air between them thickened. The closet light slanted across his face, catching the line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulder. He was still holding the green shirt, his fingers pressed into the fabric, his eyes holding hers with a gravity that made her breath catch.

"You should change," Inde said. Her voice came out quieter than she'd meant it to.

"I should." He didn't move.

"The others will be here soon."

"They will."

He still didn't move. The moment stretched, elastic and warm, the space between them filled with everything they hadn't said yet.

Then Riley's phone buzzed on the nightstand, the vibration cutting through the quiet like a blade. He blinked, the spell broken, and reached for it, his thumb swiping across the screen.

"Natalie," he said, his voice rough. "She's ten minutes out. She's asking if she should bring extra plates."

Inde smiled, the tension in her shoulders releasing into something lighter. "Tell her yes. And tell her we need forks."

Riley typed, his thumbs moving across the screen, the phone lighting up his face. When he looked up, the green shirt was still in his hands, the closet still open, the evening still waiting.

"Go change," Inde said. "I'll make sure the living room doesn't look like a crime scene."

Riley's mouth curved, a small, grateful smile. "You're really good at this."

"At what?"

"Taking care of things. Keeping everything from falling apart."

She shook her head, a soft denial. "I'm just here. That's all I'm doing."

He stepped closer. One step. Then another. The green shirt pressed between them, his body warm and solid, his eyes finding hers with a directness that made her stomach tighten. "Sometimes just being here is enough," he said. "More than enough."

He held her gaze for a breath longer. Then he turned, stepping into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

Inde stood alone in the bedroom, the closet light spilling across the floor, the sheets still rumpled, the pillow still holding the shape of her head. She could hear the shower running in the bathroom, a brief burst of water as he rinsed off the afternoon, and she realized she was touching the collar of the Henley, her fingers pressed against the fabric where his collarbone had rested against hers that morning.

She let her hand drop. She turned, her bare feet carrying her back toward the living room, where the mugs sat empty and the cards still lay scattered across the coffee table. She picked them up, shuffling them once, twice, the familiar motion grounding her as the clock ticked toward 6:22.

She was still holding the deck when Riley emerged from the bedroom, the green shirt soft against his shoulders, his hair still damp at the ends. He stopped in the doorway, his eyes finding her, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Better?" he asked.

Inde set the deck down. She crossed to him, her hand reaching out to brush the collar of the shirt, smoothing it against his chest. "Better."

His fingers caught hers, a brief, warm press. "Thank you. For staying. For all of it."

She squeezed his hand. "I told you I would."

The doorbell rang.