Riley turned the deadbolt and pulled the door open. Natalie stood there, a foil tray of cookies held up like an offering, her smile bright—the kind that usually preceded a laugh or a story about her youngest charge’s latest mischief. Then her smile caught.

Her eyes moved past him, found Inde curled on the couch in nothing but the gray Henley, her bare legs tucked under her, one shoulder where the collar had slipped down. Then back to Riley. The green shirt Inde had picked. The collar still damp from the shower.

“Oh,” she said. The syllable landed soft, almost tender, like a bruise she was trying not to press.

Riley’s hand was still on the deadbolt. He let go. It clicked back into place, a sound too loud in the quiet. “Hey, Natalie.”

“Hey.” She stepped past him anyway, her sneakers quiet on the linoleum. The cookies were still warm, steam rising from a corner of the foil where she’d folded it back. She set the tray on the counter, then turned to face them both.

Inde hadn’t moved. Her dark eyes tracked Natalie, but her posture stayed loose, the Henley riding up just enough to show the hem of her shorts. She didn’t pull the collar back up.

“Jessica texted me,” Natalie said, her voice measured. “She’s on her way back with wine.” She tilted her head, a flicker of her usual warmth surfacing. “Figured we’d make a night of it. Cookies, cards, the works.” Her gaze dropped to the deck on the coffee table, slightly fanned from earlier use. Then back to Riley. “Looks like you already started something.”

Riley rubbed the back of his neck. “We were just—” He stopped. “It’s not—”

“It’s fine,” Natalie said, but her voice had gone flat. She crossed to the coffee table and picked up the deck. Her fingers flipped through it once, a practiced motion, the cards riffling under her thumb. She didn’t sit. She stood there, holding the deck, looking at Riley.

Inde shifted on the couch. The Henley slipped further, and she tugged it back into place, a slow, deliberate motion. “The date went well,” she said. Her voice was quiet, but it carried. “He told me about it. The ramen. The walk after. He came home and showered, and I was here.” She paused. “That’s the order.”

Natalie’s jaw tightened. She looked at the cards in her hand, then at Inde. “You waited.”

“I told him I would.”

The kitchen light hummed. Somewhere outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping across the living room wall before fading.

Riley took a step forward, then stopped. “Natalie, I didn’t mean to make this weird. You showed up with cookies, and I—”

“You what?” She looked at him, her eyes soft but sharp. “You thought I wouldn’t notice the shirt? The fact that she’s wearing your clothes and you just got back from a date with Jasmine?”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

“I know.” She let out a breath, and some of the tension bled out of her shoulders. “I’m not mad, Riley. I’m just…” She gestured vaguely with the deck. “Processing.”

Inde stood. The Henley fell to her mid-thigh, and she crossed to the counter, her bare feet padding on the linoleum. She picked up the foil tray, folded back the corner, and inhaled. “Chocolate chip. Still warm.”

Natalie watched her. “You like cookies?”

“I love cookies.” Inde broke off a piece and ate it, letting the chocolate melt on her tongue. “These are good. Homemade?”

“The kids helped. Well, one of them. The three-year-old. She put in twice the sugar and ate half the dough.” A small smile crept onto Natalie’s face. “They’re a little sweet, but—”

“They’re perfect.” Inde broke off another piece. “Thank you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something else—a recalibration. Riley felt it in the air, the shifting of weight, the quiet negotiation happening without words. Natalie’s fingers still held the deck, but her grip had loosened. She was looking at Inde differently now, like she was seeing something she hadn’t expected.

“Jessica’s really happy,” Natalie said. “With the audition. She told me you kept her here when she showed up crying.”

Inde shrugged. “She needed someone to hear it. I was here.”

“You made her tea.”

“It’s just tea.”

Natalie shook her head. “It’s not. You know it’s not.” She set the deck down on the counter, next to the tray, and picked up a cookie herself. She bit into it, chewed, swallowed. “Okay.”

“Okay what?” Riley asked.

“Okay, I’m done being weird about it.” She wiped a crumb from her lip. “You two are… a thing. I knew that. I just hadn’t seen it in person yet. Seeing is different.” She looked at Inde. “You’re good for him. I can tell.”

Inde’s eyes softened. “Thanks, Natalie.”

Riley let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “So we’re good?”

“We’re good.” Natalie picked up the deck again, flipping it over in her hands. “But I came here with a plan, and I’m not abandoning it.” She walked back to the coffee table, fanned the cards out on its surface, and looked at Riley. “One round. Winner decides what happens next.”

Riley blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not letting the night end with awkward silences and half-eaten cookies.” She gestured to the couch. “Sit. Both of you. We’re playing.”

Inde sat, pulling the Henley down over her knees. Riley settled beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. Natalie dealt two cards to each of them, then two to herself, the rest of the deck set aside.

“What are we playing for?” Riley asked.

Natalie looked at him, her expression unreadable. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She set it on the table, face down. “This.”

Inde leaned forward. “What is it?”

“A list I made. Dates. Activities. Things we could do together, all of us, or in different pairings. I was going to save it for game night, but…” She shrugged. “Tonight feels right.”

Riley stared at the paper. “You made a list of dates?”

“I made a list of things that might help us figure out what we’re doing. How we fit together.” She looked at Inde. “All of us. Not just you two. Not just me and him. All five of us, plus you, in whatever configuration works.” She picked up her cards. “But I’m not just handing it over. You have to win it.”

Inde picked up her cards, examined them. “And if we lose?”

Natalie smiled, but it was thin. “Then I keep the list, and we do what I say for the next game night.” She paused. “And I decide who sits next to whom.”

The room went quiet. Riley looked at his hand—a seven and a three, mismatched. He looked at Inde. She was studying her own cards, her brow slightly furrowed.

“Dealer draws last,” Natalie said. She picked up her card from the deck, looked at it, added it to her hand. Then she set the deck back on the table. “Ante up.”

“What’s the ante?” Riley asked.

“The truth.” Natalie’s voice was soft but steady. “Each round, the loser has to answer a question. No lies, no deflections. We’re past that.”

Inde set a card on the table. “I’ll match that.”

Riley followed, his fingers brushing Inde’s as he placed his card beside hers. Her hand didn’t pull away.

The first hand was slow, tentative. Riley folded early, his nothing hand not worth contesting. Natalie won with a pair of eights, and she turned to him, her eyes carrying a question she’d been holding since she walked in.

“When you were on the date with Jasmine,” she said, “did you think about Inde at all?”

The question landed like a stone in still water. Riley felt the ripples spread through the room, through Inde’s stillness beside him, through Natalie’s unwavering gaze.

“Yes,” he said. It came out rough. “I thought about her. I thought about coming home to her. But I also thought about Jasmine. About how she laughed when I told her I’d never had ramen before. About how she held my hand across the table.” He looked at Natalie. “I was present. I swear I was. But she was there, too. In the back of my head, waiting.”

Natalie nodded slowly. She didn’t look away from him. “Good answer.”

Inde’s hand found his under the table, her fingers threading through his. She didn’t say anything, but she squeezed once, twice, and then let go.

The second hand was faster. Natalie bluffed with a pair of threes, and Inde called her, showing a low straight. Natalie set her cards down with a soft laugh. “Okay. My turn to answer.”

Inde’s voice was calm. “What’s the one thing you’re scared of in all of this?”

Natalie’s breath caught. She looked at the cards on the table, then at the folded paper, then at Inde. “That I’ll lose myself in it. That I’ll give so much to making everyone else happy that I forget what I want.” She paused. “That I’ll wake up one day and realize I’m just a supporting character in someone else’s story.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and unguarded. Riley felt it like a weight in his chest.

“That’s not going to happen,” he said.

Natalie looked at him, her eyes wet. “How do you know?”

“Because we’re all writing this together. No one’s the main character.” He reached across the table, his hand hovering over hers. “And if anyone tries to make you a sidekick, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Her voice cracked, but she was smiling now.

“I’ll win the next hand and burn that list.”

She laughed, a real laugh, the tension breaking like a wave. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Inde shuffled the cards for the next round. The metal lamp on the side table cast a warm glow over them, and the cookie tray was half-empty now, crumbs scattered on the counter. Jessica would be here soon, wine in hand, and the night would expand to include her too.

Riley looked at the two women across from him—one in his Henley, one holding a deck of cards and a folded list of possibilities. He looked at his own hands, large and capable, resting on the table.

The next hand began. Natalie dealt, her movements deliberate. Riley picked up his cards and found a pair of queens. He kept his face neutral.

Inde drew a card, then another. Her expression didn’t change.

Natalie drew, paused, then set her hand face up on the table. A full house, tens over fours.

Inde laid down her cards—a flush, diamonds. She’d drawn perfectly.

Natalie’s eyes widened. “You counted.”

“I guessed.” Inde’s voice was soft, but there was a smile in it. “Lucky hand.”

Riley folded, his queens beaten before they began. He looked at Inde, at the quiet satisfaction in her expression, and felt a warmth spread through him.

“So,” Inde said, reaching for the folded paper. “I win.”

Natalie watched her pick it up, her expression unreadable. “What are you going to do with it?”

Inde unfolded the paper. Her eyes moved across the list, scanning. Then she looked up, her dark eyes meeting Natalie’s. “I’m going to read it. Out loud. And then we’re going to decide together what happens next.”

Natalie’s breath caught. “You’re not going to take it?”

“It’s not mine to take. It’s ours.” Inde held up the paper. “You made this for all of us. That means we all get a say.”

Riley watched the shift in Natalie’s face—the surprise, the gratitude, the something vulnerable that flickered behind her eyes before she looked away.

“Okay,” Natalie said. She picked up a cookie, but didn’t eat it. “Read it.”

Inde cleared her throat. “Number one: Picnic by the lake. Everyone brings something. Blankets, food, a playlist. Sunsets after.”

Natalie nodded. “I thought we could take turns choosing music. Jasmine would fight for the aux cord, but I think we could make it work.”

Inde continued. “Number two: Board game marathon. Not poker. Something cooperative. Maybe Betrayal at House on the Hill.” She looked up. “You and Ella would get a kick out of that one.”

“She’s never played. I thought it might be fun to teach her.”

Inde’s eyes moved down the list. “Number three: A double date. You and Riley, me and—” She stopped. “Me and Jessica.”

The room went quiet. Riley felt his pulse pick up.

Natalie’s voice was careful. “You and Jessica.”

“She kissed him,” Inde said. “I know. But she also showed up here crying, and I made her tea, and we talked. She’s not a threat. She’s just… someone who’s been waiting a long time.” She looked at Riley. “And he promised he wouldn’t lose her.”

Riley nodded, his throat tight.

“A double date,” Inde repeated. “You and Riley, me and Jessica. Somewhere neutral. No Henleys, no leftover perfume from a ramen shop. Just four people figuring out how to share space.”

Natalie was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, “I think I’d like that.”

Inde folded the paper and handed it back to her. “Good. Because it’s on the list, and we’re doing it. Next game night, maybe.”

The doorbell rang.

Riley stood, his legs unsteady. He crossed to the door, turned the deadbolt, and pulled it open. Jessica stood there, a bottle of red wine in one hand, and groceries in the other, her face flushed from the walk. She looked past him, saw Inde and Natalie on the couch, the cards, the cookies.

“I’m not late, am I?” She held up the bottle. “I grabbed the good one. The one my dad keeps for holidays.”

Riley stepped aside. “You’re right on time.”

Jessica walked in, set the wine on the counter, and put the groceries on the countertop, and looked at the scene. Her gaze lingered on Inde, on the Henley, on the easy way she sat beside Natalie. Something shifted in her expression—a question, maybe, or a hope she didn’t dare name.

“Okay,” she said. “What’d I miss?”

Natalie held up the paper. “We’re making plans. Big ones.”

Jessica raised an eyebrow. “Plans that involve wine?”

“Plans that involve all of us,” Inde said. She stood, crossed to the counter, and took the bottle from Jessica’s hand. “Plans that involve figuring out how to be a family.” She uncorked the bottle with a practiced twist, the smell of red wine blooming. “Glasses?”

Riley opened the cupboard and pulled down four. He set them on the counter, and Inde poured, the dark liquid splashing into each glass.

Jessica took hers, looked at the others, and smiled. “To plans?”

Natalie raised her glass. “To plans. And to winning the next hand.”

Inde touched her glass to Natalie’s, then to Jessica’s, then to Riley’s. “To not losing each other.”

They drank. The wine was dry, a little bitter, but it warmed on the way down.

Riley set his glass on the counter. He looked at the three women in his living room, each one carrying something different, each one choosing to stay.

Natalie picked up the deck of cards from the coffee table. She flipped through them once, the riffling sound filling the quiet. Then she looked at Riley, her eyes carrying the weight of everything she’d confessed, everything she’d offered, everything she was still scared of.

She opened her mouth to speak.

Natalie closed her mouth. The words she'd been about to speak died on her tongue, replaced by something softer as she looked at Jessica, then at the wine bottle now open on the counter.

"I was going to say we should make this a proper thing," Natalie said. "Card nights. Wine. Cookies. The four of us figuring it out." She paused. "But you're here now, so I guess the universe beat me to it."

Jessica set her grocery bag on the counter and started unpacking: a block of cheese, a box of crackers, a jar of olives. "Figure what out, exactly?"

Inde picked up her wine glass, took a slow sip. "Natalie made a list. Group dates. Activities. Ways for all of us to spend time together without it being weird." She held up the folded paper. "I won it in a poker hand, but I'm not keeping it to myself."

Jessica's hands paused over the olives. "A list. Of dates." She looked at Natalie, her expression unreadable. "You made a schedule for us?"

"Not a schedule. A—" Natalie's jaw worked. "Options. Things we could do. So no one ends up feeling left out or left behind." She set the deck of cards down. "I know how this goes. One person gets the attention, and everyone else starts counting the minutes until it's their turn. I wanted to make sure there were turns for everyone."

The kitchen light buzzed. Jessica finished unpacking the groceries, then picked up the wine glass Inde had poured for her. She took a drink, let it sit in her mouth, swallowed. "Okay. Read the rest."

Inde unfolded the paper again. Her eyes tracked down the list, past the items she'd already read aloud. "Number four: A movie night. Not in someone's apartment. The kind with a real screen, real popcorn, and the worst seats in the house because that's where the laughing happens."

Jessica snorted. "The dollar theater on Fifth. Their floors are sticky and the sound cuts out during the climax."

"That's the one," Natalie said. "I was thinking we could do a double feature. Let Jasmine pick the first one, Ella the second. Let them have a say in what we watch."

"Ella would pick a documentary about volcanos," Jessica said. "She told me once. She's obsessed with them."

Inde smiled. "Then we watch volcanos. And we laugh when the sound cuts out during the eruption." She looked back at the list. "Number five: A group dinner. Not takeout. Somewhere with cloth napkins and a wine list we pretend to understand. Everyone dresses up. Riley wears something that isn't a hoodie."

Riley touched the collar of the green shirt he was still wearing. "This isn't a hoodie."

"It's a start." Inde's eyes held his for a moment longer than necessary. Then she looked back at the paper. "Number six: A double date. Me and Jessica. You and Riley."

Jessica's glass stopped halfway to her mouth. "You already read that one."

"I'm reading it again. So you hear it." Inde's voice was even. "We're doing this. All of us. Including you."

Jessica set her glass down. Her fingers traced the rim, once, twice. "I kissed him, more than once..."

"I know."

"And you want to go on a double date with me."

"I want to see if we can be something other than two people who share a secret." Inde folded the paper, then unfolded it again, a nervous motion she seemed unaware of. "You love him. I know that too. And I'm not scared of it."

The room went quiet. Riley stood very still, his hands at his sides, not sure where to put them.

Natalie broke the silence. "There's more."

Inde looked at the list. "Number seven: A game night where we don't bet anything. No clothes, no secrets, no lists. Just the game. Winner gets bragging rights, loser buys breakfast."

"That one's for the hangover mornings," Natalie said. "The ones where we stay up too late and wake up tangled on someone's floor and need pancakes to survive."

"Number eight: A day trip. Somewhere an hour away. A hiking trail, a lake, a town with a main street and one diner. No phones. No schedules. Just us."

Jessica picked up an olive, studied it. "You put a lot of thought into this."

"I put a lot of hope into it," Natalie said. "There's a difference."

Inde read the next item, her voice slower now. "Number nine: A conversation. Not a game. Not a date. Just the five of us sitting down and saying what we're scared of. What we want. What we're willing to give." She looked up. "No cards, no wine, no distractions. Just the truth."

Natalie's breath caught. "That one's the hardest."

"That's why it's on the list." Inde set the paper down on the counter, smoothed it flat. "Everything else is practice. That one's the real thing."

Riley picked up his wine glass, set it down again without drinking. "When?"

Natalie looked at him. "When what?"

"When do we have that conversation?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswerable. Jessica bit into the olive, chewed slowly, swallowed. "Not tonight."

"No," Inde agreed. "Not tonight."

"But soon." Riley's voice was quiet, but it carried. "I don't want to wake up one day and realize we've been circling this for months."

Natalie nodded. "Soon."

The word settled into the room like a promise. Jessica picked up her wine glass and held it out. "To soon."

Inde touched her glass to Jessica's. "To soon."

Natalie followed. "To not losing each other."

Riley raised his glass last. "To the list."

They drank. The wine was dry and warm, and the cookies were almost gone, and the deck of cards sat untouched on the coffee table, waiting.

Inde set her glass down. "There's one more." She picked up the paper, her eyes scanning the last line. "Number ten: A photograph. All of us. Not posed, not perfect. Taken at the end of the first day we spend together, the five of us, doing nothing in particular. Someone's phone, a timer, a moment we don't stage." She looked up. "So we have proof that we tried."

Natalie's eyes were wet again. She didn't wipe them. "That's the last one."

"It's a good last one." Jessica set her glass down and crossed to the counter. She picked up the paper, read it herself, then handed it back to Inde. "You're really going to make this happen."

Inde folded the list carefully, creasing the edges with her thumb. "I'm going to try."

"That's more than most people do."

Riley watched the exchange, something settling in his chest. He thought about the morning, the shower, the walk home after the ramen date. He thought about Jessica's tears and Natalie's confessions and Inde's quiet hand on his back. He thought about the list, folded and worn, carrying the weight of everything they were too scared to say out loud.

"I want to do it," he said. His voice came out rougher than he'd expected. "All of it. The picnic, the movie night, the dinner with cloth napkins. The conversation." He looked at each of them in turn. "I want to try."

Natalie's smile was small, but it was real. "That's all we're asking."

Jessica reached for another cookie, then stopped, her hand hovering. "I have my callback tomorrow. For the Chekhov play."

"You'll get it," Inde said.

"You don't know that."

"I know you walked in here tonight carrying a bottle of wine and a bag of groceries because you wanted to be part of this. That's the kind of person who books a lead role." Inde paused. "And if you don't book it, you'll try again. Because that's who you are."

Jessica's hand lowered. She looked at Inde for a long moment, something unreadable passing between them. Then she picked up the cookie and bit into it, letting the chocolate dissolve on her tongue.

"You're not so bad, Martinez."

"You're not so bad yourself, Chen."

The timer on the oven clicked, the only sound in the sudden quiet. Riley looked at the three women in his living room, the cards, the wine, the cookie crumbs, the folded list. He thought about the photograph at the end of the list — the proof that they tried — and wondered if they'd look back on this night and see the beginning of something, or just another evening where they circled each other without landing.

Inde picked up the deck. She shuffled it once, the cards riffling under her thumb, then set it back down. "One more hand."

"What for?" Jessica asked.

"For the next item on the list." Inde looked at Natalie. "You said the winner of the next round decides who sits next to whom at the first group date."

Natalie's eyes widened. "That was for if I won."

"I'm modifying the rules." Inde dealt two cards to each of them, fast and even. "Winner picks the seating arrangement for the picnic. Loser buys the blankets."

Riley picked up his cards. A king and a nine, off-suit. He looked across the table at Natalie, at Jessica, at Inde's steady hands, and felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: the certainty that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He called the bet.

The hand went fast, three rounds of betting that chipped at the pretense of strategy. Natalie bluffed with a pair of twos and lost to Jessica's low straight. Jessica collected the deck, her smile sharp, and started shuffling before anyone could speak.

"Picnic seating," she said. "I get to decide."

Natalie groaned. "I'm going to end up on a blanket by myself, aren't I?"

"You'll end up exactly where you belong." Jessica's voice softened. "Next to me. We'll be the ones passing the wine and making sure everyone else is having a good time."

Natalie's protest died in her throat. She looked at Jessica, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Jessica set the deck down. "And Riley and Inde can fight over who gets the spot with the best view."

Inde's hand found Riley's under the table. "We'll share."

The room was warm, the wine half-gone, the cookies reduced to crumbs on a foil tray. Riley looked at the women around him — Inde in his Henley, Natalie with her folded list, Jessica with her sharp smile and her heart still healing — and felt the shape of something taking form.

It wasn't a solution. It wasn't an answer. It was a beginning, tentative and fragile, held together by a deck of cards and the promise of a photograph not yet taken.

Natalie picked up the list from the counter, folded it once more, and tucked it into her pocket. "We should do the picnic this weekend. Before the weather turns."

"Saturday?" Jessica asked.

"Saturday." Inde looked at Riley. "You free?"

He nodded. "That’s next week, but I'll bring blankets."

"And I'll bring the playlist," Inde said. "No aux cord fights."

"You're trusting Jasmine with a playlist?" Natalie raised an eyebrow.

"I'm trusting that we can all survive one song each. She goes first, I go last, and everyone else fights for the middle."

Jessica laughed, a real laugh, the kind that came from somewhere deep. "You've thought about this."

"I've thought about a lot of things." Inde's gaze found Riley's, held it. "I've thought about how I don't want to wake up one day and realize I spent all my time waiting for a moment that was already here."

He didn't look away. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I know."

The lamp flickered, the bulb settling into a steadier glow. Outside, the first notes of a distant siren rose and fell, swallowed by the night.

Natalie stood, stretched, her joints popping. "I should go. Early shift tomorrow."

"I'll walk you out." Jessica grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair. "I left my car two blocks over and I don't trust the streetlights."

Inde didn't move from the couch. "I'll stay. Make sure the cookies don't go to waste."

Natalie paused at the door, her hand on the deadbolt. She looked back at Riley, then at Inde, then at the deck of cards still on the coffee table. "This is really happening, isn't it?"

Riley met her eyes. "Yeah. I think it is."

She smiled, a real smile, the kind that reached her eyes. "Good." She turned the deadbolt and pulled the door open, the cool night air rushing in. "Saturday. Noon. The lake."

"We'll be there," Inde said.

Jessica followed Natalie out, pausing to glance back at Riley. "Text me when she's gone. So I know you're not dead."

"She's not going to kill me."

"I'm not worried about her killing you. I'm worried about you forgetting to eat and passing out."

Riley laughed, the sound surprising him. "I'll text you."

The door closed. The deadbolt clicked. Riley turned to find Inde standing in the kitchen, a cookie in one hand, the list in the other. She was reading it again, her lips moving silently, the paper catching the lamp's yellow light.

"You're going to memorize it."

"I already have it memorized." She folded it and set it on the counter. "I just wanted to see if it felt different the third time."

"Does it?"

She crossed to him, close enough that he could smell the wine on her breath, the chocolate on her skin. "It feels like a map. One we're drawing as we go."

He reached out, his hand finding hers, their fingers threading together. "Then let's draw it."

She leaned in, her forehead resting against his chest, her breath warm through the fabric of his shirt. "I'm scared."

"Me too."

"But I'm here."

"I know." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips brushing her hair. "I know."

Inde's breath evened against his chest. The Henley had ridden up at the hem, and he felt the bare skin of her lower back under his fingers, warm and soft. The lamp hummed. A car passed outside, its headlights sweeping across the ceiling before fading.

"I've been thinking about something," he said. His voice came out rougher than he'd expected.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her dark eyes searched his face. "What kind of something?"

He ran his thumb along the curve of her hip, a slow, unconscious motion. "A vacation."

Her eyebrows lifted. "A vacation."

"Not like, a fancy one. I don't have that kind of money." He laughed, a short, nervous sound. "But there's this cabin my uncle used to rent. Upstate. On a lake. He took me once when I was sixteen, and I've never forgotten it." He paused, his hand stilling. "I was thinking maybe we could all go. The six of us."

Inde was quiet for a long moment. Her fingers found the collar of his shirt, tracing the edge where it met his neck. "When?"

"A month from now. Before finals start eating everyone alive. Before the weather gets too cold." He swallowed. "I know it's a lot. Coordinating schedules, finding a place that fits six people, making sure no one feels left out. But the list..." He glanced at the folded paper on the counter. "The list made me think maybe we need something to aim for. Something real. Not just game nights and poker hands."

Inde's hand moved from his collar to his jaw, her palm settling against his cheek. "You've really thought about this."

"I've thought about a lot of things tonight." He turned his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "I don't want us to spend the next month circling each other. I want us to go somewhere and just... be. No agendas. No schedules. Just the six of us figuring out how to exist in the same space without rules."

She was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read — soft, but weighted. "You'd have to rent the cabin. Buy food. Plan activities. That's a lot of pressure on you."

"I'd have help." He met her eyes. "I'd have you."

Her breath caught. She didn't look away.

"I'm serious," he said. "I can't do this alone. The dates, the arrangements, making sure everyone feels included — I'll mess it up if I try to carry it myself. But if you're there, if you're helping me figure it out..." He trailed off, his throat tight. "I think we could actually do it."

Inde was quiet for another long moment. Then she took a step back, her hand slipping from his face to his hand, and pulled him toward the couch. She sat, tugging him down beside her, close enough that their knees touched.

"Tell me about the cabin."

He blinked. "What?"

"Tell me about it. What it looked like. What you did there. Why it stuck with you." She leaned back into the cushions, her fingers still tangled with his. "I want to see it the way you remember it."

The request settled into his chest, warm and heavy. He looked at the ceiling for a moment, gathering the images. "It was small. Two bedrooms, a loft, a kitchen with a stove that smoked when you used it. The floors creaked in every corner. There was a dock that extended maybe fifteen feet into the water, and the wood was splintered in places where my uncle never got around to fixing it."

Inde's thumb traced slow circles on the back of his hand. "Go on."

"We fished in the mornings. Caught nothing most days, but we'd sit there with our lines in the water and not say a word for hours. In the afternoons, he'd let me take the rowboat out by myself, as long as I stayed within sight of the dock." A small smile touched his lips. "I'd lie in the bottom of the boat and watch the clouds move. No phone. No music. Just the sound of water against wood."

"It sounds peaceful."

"It was the first time I felt like I could breathe without someone watching me." He looked at her. "I want to share that. With all of you."

Inde's eyes softened. She lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, the same gesture he'd used on her what felt like a lifetime ago. "I think it's a good idea."

He felt something loosen in his chest. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She released his hand, reached for her phone on the coffee table. "But we should ask them. Not as a surprise. As a conversation."

He nodded, pulling out his own phone. The screen glowed, the group chat already open from earlier. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

"What do I say?"

Inde leaned over, her shoulder pressing against his. He could smell her shampoo, something floral and clean. "Start with what you told me. The cabin. The lake. A month from now. See how they react."

He typed, deleted, typed again.

Riley: Hey. I have an idea. A cabin upstate, on a lake. For all six of us. A month from now, before finals. Long weekend. Anyone interested?

He stared at the message, his thumb pressing send before he could second-guess himself. The text appeared in the chat, blue and permanent.

Inde rested her chin on his shoulder, reading over his arm. "Good start."

"They're going to have questions."

"Let them."

The phone buzzed almost immediately.

Jasmine: A CABIN?? With a lake?? I'm in. I call the loft.

Riley laughed, the sound surprising him. "That was fast."

The phone buzzed again before he could respond.

Ella: Is there a volleyball net?

Riley snorted. "Of course that's her first question."

Inde's laugh was soft against his shoulder. "She's competitive. It's how she processes." She reached across him, her fingers brushing his as she typed.

Inde: If there isn't, we'll make one.

Ella: I'm in.

The responses came faster now, a cascade of notifications that lit up the screen in rapid succession. Natalie's was the longest, a string of practical questions—how many bathrooms, whether the kitchen was stocked, if there was a fire pit for s'mores. Jessica's was shorter, a single line that made something twist in Riley's chest.

Jessica: A whole weekend. Just us. No auditions, no callbacks, no scripts to memorize. Yeah. I need that.

Riley stared at her message, reading it twice. He thought about the wine she'd brought, the way she'd looked at Inde when she said she'd stay. He thought about the double date on Natalie's list, still waiting to happen.

Inde's hand found his. "She's in."

"Yeah." He turned his phone over, the screen darkening. "They're all in."

The weight of it settled over him, not heavy but full. Six people, a cabin, a lake. A month to figure out logistics, permission slips from jobs and families, the quiet negotiations that would happen in group chats and private messages before they ever packed a bag. He thought about the list on the counter—the photograph at the end, the proof they'd tried.

"This is really happening," he said. Not a question.

Inde shifted beside him, pulling her knees up onto the couch and turning to face him fully. The Henley slipped on her shoulder, and she tugged it back into place without looking down. "It's happening. But it's also a month away. A lot can change in a month."

He met her eyes. "Is that a warning?"

"It's a reminder." Her voice was soft but steady. "We're all saying yes tonight, but tonight is easy. The hard part is the in-between. The weeks where nothing's happening and we're all just waiting." She paused. "That's where things get complicated."

He thought about Jasmine's date, the ramen and the walk and the way she'd held his hand across the table. He thought about Jessica's kiss, the confession that still hung between them like a half-open door. He thought about Natalie's fear—that she'd lose herself in the effort of making everyone else happy—and wondered if he was headed for the same thing.

"Then we make sure it doesn't," he said. "Complicated. We check in. We talk. We don't let the silence build up until someone has to break it with a confession or a fight."

Inde's expression shifted, something vulnerable surfacing in her dark eyes. "You've been thinking about this a lot."

"I've been thinking about us. All of us. How we fit together. How we don't." He reached out, his hand finding her knee, his thumb tracing a slow circle on the denim of her shorts. "I don't want to look back on this in a year and realize we spent all our time trying to make a plan instead of living it."

"Then don't." She leaned forward, her forehead resting against his. "We have the list. We have the cabin. We have tonight." Her breath was warm on his lips. "That's enough to start."

He kissed her. Soft, slow, the kind of kiss that didn't ask for anything more than the moment itself. Her hand came up to his jaw, her fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck, and he felt the world narrow to the point where they touched.

When they broke apart, she was smiling. Small, real, the kind that reached her eyes.

"We should probably clean up," she said. "Before the cookies fossilize."

He glanced at the counter—the foil tray, the crumbs, the empty wine glasses. The folded list sat beside the deck of cards, both of them waiting for the next hand, the next decision, the next step forward.

"Yeah." He stood, offered her his hand. "Come on."

She took it, letting him pull her to her feet. They worked in easy silence: foil crumpled into the trash, glasses rinsed in the sink, the deck of cards returned to its box and set on the bookshelf. Riley wiped down the counters while Inde collected the stray cookies that had rolled off the tray, dropping them into a tupperware she found in the cupboard.

"You have a lot of tupperware for someone who doesn't cook," she said.

"Most of it's from my mom. She keeps sending me home with leftovers I never eat."

Inde held up a container with a faded label. "This one says 'beef stew, 2019.'"

"I should probably throw that out."

"Probably." She set it in the sink, then turned to face him. The Henley had ridden up again, and she tugged it down, a motion that had become habit. "I should go soon. Let you sleep."

Something tightened in his chest. "You could stay."

She looked at him, her dark eyes searching his face. "Are you asking me to?"

"I'm asking you to consider it." He crossed to her, close enough to smell the wine on her breath, the chocolate still lingering on her skin. "The couch is comfortable. I have extra blankets. And I sleep better when you're here."

The admission hung between them, raw and unguarded. Inde's breath caught, a barely audible hitch that he felt more than heard.

"I sleep better when you're here too," she said. Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "But I don't want to rush. I don't want to wake up tomorrow and feel like we skipped a step."

He nodded, even as something in him wanted to argue. "Okay. Then let's not rush." He stepped back, giving her space. "But the offer stands. Any night. Not for anything except knowing you're close."

She picked up her phone from the coffee table, the screen lighting up with a cascade of notifications from the group chat—Jasmine's voice memos, Ella's questions about the lake's fish population, Natalie's polls about meal planning. She glanced at them, then looked at Riley.

"I'll text you when I get home."

"I'll be up."

She crossed to the door, her bare feet padding on the linoleum. She paused with her hand on the deadbolt, turning back to look at him. "The cabin. Did you mean what you said? About wanting to share it with all of us?"

"Every word."

She smiled, that same small, real smile. "Then we'll make it happen. I'll help."

She turned the deadbolt and pulled the door open, the cool night air rushing in. She stepped through, then paused, looking back over her shoulder. "Goodnight, Riley."

"Goodnight, Inde."

The door closed. He heard her footsteps on the stairs, the soft click of the building's front door opening and closing. Then silence.

Riley stood in the middle of his living room, the lamp still burning, the tupperware of cookies on the counter, the box of cards on the bookshelf. He pulled out his phone and opened the group chat. The messages had slowed, settling into logistical back-and-forth about dates and transportation. Jasmine had sent a link to a cabin rental site—this one, she'd written, look at the deck—and Natalie had responded with a screenshot of her work schedule.

He typed, his thumbs moving before he'd fully decided what to say.

Riley: I know it's a month out and a lot can change. But I wanted to say thank you. For saying yes. For trusting me with this idea. I don't know exactly how this is going to work—the six of us in one place, no escape routes, no game nights to fall back on. But I'm glad we're going to try.

He stared at the message, his thumb hovering over send. Then he pressed it.

The responses came slowly this time. Natalie's first: a heart emoji, nothing else. Then Ella's: a thumbs-up, the kind she sent when she didn't have words but wanted to acknowledge the gesture. Jasmine's came last, a voice memo that he opened with a tap.

Her voice was softer than he expected, the usual brightness tempered into something quieter. "I'm glad too. And Riley? You're not carrying this alone. None of us are." A pause. "Goodnight, giant."

He smiled, the sound of her voice settling into his chest like a warm weight. He typed a response—goodnight, Jaz—then set his phone on the counter, facedown.

The apartment was quiet. The lamp hummed. Somewhere outside, a car passed, its engine fading into the distance. He thought about Inde walking home in the dark, her Henley and her bare feet, the list folded in her pocket. He thought about Jessica's callback tomorrow and Natalie's early shift and Jasmine's voice memo still echoing in his ear.

He picked up the wine glass from the counter—the last one, still carrying a finger of dark red at the bottom. He drank it in a single swallow, the tannins drying on his tongue, then set the glass in the sink beside the tupperware from 2019.

Tomorrow, he'd figure out the logistics. Tomorrow, he'd text Inde about the cabin, coordinate with Jasmine, check in with Jessica before her audition. Tomorrow, he'd be the version of himself that had a plan and a list and a group chat full of women who trusted him not to screw it up.

Tonight, he was just a guy in an apartment with clean countertops and a lamp still burning, carrying the weight of a future he was still learning to believe in.

He turned off the lamp. The room went dark. And in the quiet, he let himself feel the shape of it—the cabin on the lake, the six of them, the photograph at the end of the list. A future he was drawing as he went, one message, one hand, one night at a time.

The darkness had settled around him like a second skin when the knock came. Not the doorbell—a knock, three quick raps, the kind someone used when they didn't want to wake the whole building. Riley's eyes opened. He'd been sitting on the couch in the dark, his phone dark in his hand, not quite ready to move toward the bedroom.

He stood, his knees cracking in the silence. The knock came again, harder this time. He crossed to the door, his bare feet cold on the linoleum, and looked through the peephole.

Jessica stood on the other side, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, a backpack at her feet. Her car was idling in the driveway below, the headlights still on, casting two long beams across the wet asphalt. She looked up at the peephole, knowing he was there, and raised her eyebrows.

He turned the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

"Jess, what's going on?"

She didn't wait for an invitation. She stepped past him, dragging the duffel bag through the doorframe, the backpack swinging from her other hand. She dropped both just inside the entryway, the thud of canvas against linoleum loud in the quiet apartment.

"I've been evicted." She laughed, the sound hollow and sharp. She was still wearing the same clothes from earlier, her hair slightly mussed, her eyes carrying a brightness that didn't match the words coming out of her mouth.

Riley's jaw dropped. He stood there, his hand still on the doorframe, the cool night air curling around his ankles. "You're kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" She gestured at the bags. "That's my life on the floor of your entryway. Clothes, scripts, my good hair dryer, and a half-eaten bag of trail mix I found in my glove compartment." She kicked the duffel bag gently. "The rest is in storage. I paid for a month while I figure things out."

He closed the door. The deadbolt clicked into place, a sound that felt final in a way he hadn't expected. "What happened?"

She walked past him into the living room, her hands finding her hips, her gaze sweeping across the space he'd just cleaned. The tupperware of cookies on the counter. The box of cards on the bookshelf. The wine glasses drying in the rack beside the sink. "Landlord sold the building. New owner wants to renovate, turn it into luxury units, whatever that means. Gave us seventy-two hours to clear out." She laughed again, that same hollow sound. "Seventy-two hours. I've had auditions with more notice."

Riley ran a hand through his hair, the damp ends still cold from the shower. "Where were you going to go?"

"I was going to crash with Natalie, but she's got her cousin staying in her spare room. Jasmine's place is a party every night, and I have a callback tomorrow I need to be functional for. Ella's too far from the audition studio." She turned to face him, her expression shifting from brittle to something softer, more vulnerable. "And then I thought about your couch. The one I've sat on a hundred times. The one that's somehow more comfortable than my own bed."

He looked at the couch. Old, worn, the cushions slightly uneven from years of use. He'd slept on it more times than he could count, waking up with a crick in his neck and a blanket tangled around his legs. "It's not much."

"It's a place to sleep. That's more than I had twenty minutes ago." She crossed to the couch and ran her hand along the back of it, testing the fabric. "I'll be out of your hair by the end of the week. I just need a few days to find something permanent."

Riley nodded, his throat tight. "Yeah. Of course. Stay as long as you need."

She looked at him, her dark eyes holding his. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. The kitchen sink leaks and the water pressure in the shower is a suggestion." He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh—I don't have an extra bed."

Jessica smiled. It was small, almost shy, a look he didn't see on her often. "I'll sleep with you, then. Inde slept with you. I can't be any worse."

Riley blinked. The words hung in the air, casual and loaded at the same time. "Jess—"

"You're thinking too hard." She crossed to him, close enough that he could smell the night air on her skin, the faint trace of the wine she'd drunk earlier. "I'm not asking for anything. I'm asking for a roof and a place to put my bag. The bed is just a bed." She paused. "Unless you make it weird."

"I'm not making it weird."

"You're making it weird right now. Your face is doing that thing where you're trying to find the right words and your mouth is just stalling."

He laughed, a short, surprised sound. "You're the same height as me, though. It might create problems."

"What kind of problems?"

"I don't know. Elbows. Knee space. The usual tall-person-in-a-small-bed problems."

She laughed, the hollow edge gone now, replaced by something warm and real. "We've survived worse. Remember that time we shared a twin mattress at Jasmine's parents' cabin because someone—" she pointed at him "—forgot to book a second room?"

He groaned. "I was nineteen and I'd never planned a group trip before."

"You slept diagonally and I ended up with my legs hanging off the foot of the bed."

"You chose the diagonal too."

"Because you took up the whole middle." She was smiling now, a real smile, the kind that reached her eyes and softened the sharp lines of her face. "We figured it out then. We'll figure it out now."

He looked at her, standing in his living room, her duffel bag still in the entryway, her hair mussed and her eyes bright with something between exhaustion and relief. She was asking for a place to sleep. Nothing more. And he trusted her enough to believe that.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."

She reached out and squeezed his arm, her fingers warm through the fabric of his shirt. "Thank you. Really."

"You said that already."

"I meant it both times."

He picked up her duffel bag, the weight of it surprising him. "What do you have in here? Bricks?"

"Scripts. Like I said. And my good hair dryer."

"Your good hair dryer."

"It's expensive. And it has a diffuser attachment."

He carried it to the bedroom, setting it at the foot of the bed. The room was small, the bed taking up most of the space, a single nightstand on one side with a lamp and a book he'd been meaning to finish for three months. Jessica followed him, her footsteps quiet on the hardwood.

She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, her gaze moving across the room. "It's cozy."

"It's small."

"Cozy." She stepped inside, running her hand along the edge of the dresser. "I like it. It feels like you."

He didn't know what that meant, or what to say to that. He busied himself with straightening the blanket, a nervous motion he didn't quite have words for.

Jessica sat on the edge of the bed, testing the mattress. "This is more comfortable than my old one."

"It's from IKEA."

"I don't care if it's from a cardboard box. It's better than the floor of a U-Haul." She lay back, her arms spread, her body sinking into the mattress. She let out a long breath, the kind that carried the weight of the day with it. "I forgot what it felt like to lie somewhere and not have to get up."

Riley stood at the foot of the bed, watching her. She looked small, somehow, despite her height. The sharp edges she carried during the day—the theatrical confidence, the quick smile, the way she filled a room—had softened into something quieter, more fragile.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked. "The eviction?"

"Not really." Her eyes were closed, her voice slurring slightly with exhaustion. "I signed the papers, packed my bags, and left. There's nothing to talk about except that I'm here now and I don't have a plan."

"You don't have to have a plan tonight."

"I know." She opened her eyes, turning her head to look at him. "But I like having one. It keeps the panic at bay."

He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that his knee brushed her hip. "Then here's a plan for tonight: you sleep. Tomorrow, you crush your callback. And then we figure out the rest."

She looked at him, something unreadable flickering in her dark eyes. "You make it sound so simple."

"It's not simple. But it's doable." He paused. "And you're not doing it alone."

Her hand found his, her fingers threading through his. She didn't say anything, but she squeezed once, twice, then let go.

They lay in the dark, the lamp still burning on the nightstand, the duffel bag at the foot of the bed. Riley stared at the ceiling, his mind racing through logistics—where she'd put her things, how long she'd stay, whether he needed to clear out a drawer for her. Beside him, Jessica's breathing had evened out, slow and steady.

He turned his head to look at her. She was on her back, her arms at her sides, her face slack with sleep. The sharp lines of her jaw had softened, and she looked younger, more vulnerable, like the nineteen-year-old who'd first sat next to him in Introduction to Theater and asked if he was lost.

He reached over and turned off the lamp. The room went dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside, casting long shadows across the ceiling.

In the quiet, he listened to her breathe. The rhythm was steady, a counterpoint to the racing of his own heart. He thought about the cabin, the list, the future he was drawing as he went. He thought about Inde walking home in the dark, the Henley still carrying his scent. He thought about Jessica, asleep in his bed, her duffel bag full of scripts and a good hair dryer, trusting him to be a safe place to land.

He closed his eyes. The bed was small, their shoulders almost touching, the warmth of her body a steady presence beside him. He let himself feel the shape of it—not a solution, not an answer, just a moment held in the dark, two people figuring out how to share space one night at a time. Then her body rolled into Riley’s. He smiled and rested his head on her’s.

He woke to the sound of water running.