The morning was the kind that made you forgive the city everything—pale blue sky, a breeze that carried the smell of bread and something floral, the sun already warm on the back of his neck. Riley walked with his shoulders straight, which still felt like a decision he had to make every few minutes, and Jessica's hand was in his, her fingers laced loosely through his own, her thumb brushing his knuckle in a rhythm that matched her steps.

"Okay," she said, slowing as they passed the first row of stalls. "I need you to understand something about me."

He glanced at her. "What?"

"I take farmer's markets very seriously." She said it with the kind of gravity she usually reserved for auditions, but her eyes were doing that thing where they crinkled at the corners, and he could tell she was trying not to laugh. "This is not a casual stroll. This is a mission."

"A mission," he repeated.

"A mission." She tugged his hand, pulling him toward a stall stacked with tomatoes in wooden crates. "We're getting peaches, we're getting bread, and we're getting—" She stopped, her head tilting. "What else do people get at farmer's markets?"

"Flowers?"

"Flowers." She nodded, decisive. "We're getting flowers."

He let her pull him along, her palm warm against his, and the word *home* sat in his chest like a stone that had been there so long he'd stopped noticing it—except now it was warm, lit from inside, and he kept pressing on it like a bruise he didn't want to heal.

They passed a stall selling honey, the jars lined up in the sun like amber, and a woman with flour dusted on her apron handed him a sample of sourdough on a square of brown paper. He broke it in half and gave her the bigger piece. She ate it in two bites and made a sound that was almost indecent.

"Oh my god," she said, her mouth still full. "We're getting that."

"We're getting that."

The vendor wrapped a loaf in paper while Jessica watched, her free hand pressed to her chest like she was witnessing something sacred. When the loaf was in a paper bag and tucked under Riley's arm, she looked at him with such genuine delight that he had to look away, the heat climbing his neck.

"What?" she said.

"Nothing."

"You're blushing."

"I'm not."

"You are. You're doing the thing where your ears go red." She reached up and touched his earlobe, her fingers cool against the heat. "It's adorable."

"It's not adorable. It's a circulatory condition."

She laughed, bright and unguarded, and the sound cut through the market noise like a bell. A woman at the next stall turned to look, and then smiled at them both, and Riley realized he didn't mind being seen like this—with her hand in his, a loaf of bread under his arm, his ears red because she'd touched him.

He didn't mind it at all.

The peach stall was at the end of the row, its canvas awning striped red and white and sagging slightly in the middle, the way awnings did when they'd been through a few seasons. The peaches were arranged in pyramids, their skins a gradient of gold to deep blush, and the air around the stall was thick with that sweet, sun-warmed smell that made you want to close your eyes.

Jessica stopped in front of the crates like she'd found the holy grail.

"Okay," she said, her voice hushed. "This is it."

She released his hand, and he felt the absence immediately—a small, cold spot where her fingers had been. She stepped up to the stall and picked up a peach, turning it over in her palm. Her focus was soft, unhurried, her thumb pressing gently into the flesh near the stem, testing. She held it up to the light, and the fuzz caught the sun, glowing.

He watched her. There was something about the way she did it—the care, the patience, the way she treated a piece of fruit like it deserved her full attention. She did everything like that. The scripts she read, the lines she rehearsed, the way she'd looked at him last night when she'd said his name, like it was the most important word in the language.

The word *home* shifted in his chest, settling deeper.

She turned, the peach still in her palm, and held it out to him. Her eyes met his, and the crowd noise fell away—the vendor calling prices, the murmur of shoppers, the distant sound of a busker's guitar. It all went quiet, the way it did when she looked at him like that.

"Pick a good one for us," she said.

He reached for the peach. His fingers brushed hers, skin against skin, and she didn't pull away. She just watched him, her head tilted, that small smile on her lips that he was beginning to understand was her real one—the one she didn't perform.

He turned the peach over in his hand. It was heavier than he expected, the weight of it solid and real. The skin gave slightly under his thumb, a hint of give that meant it was ripe. He brought it up to his nose without thinking, and the smell was so sweet it almost hurt.

"Well?" she said.

"It's good." He handed it back to her. "It's a good one."

She took it, her fingers closing around his for a moment longer than necessary. "How do you know?"

"I don't know." He shrugged, the heat rising in his ears again. "It just is."

She looked at him for a long moment, and then she smiled—that real smile, the one that made her look younger, softer, like the girl she'd been before the auditions and the callbacks and the two years of loving him in silence. "I knew you'd be good at this."

"At picking peaches?"

"At picking us."

The words landed somewhere in his sternum, and he didn't know what to do with them, so he just stood there, holding her gaze, the peach in her hand between them like a small, sweet promise. The crowd moved around them, oblivious, and he felt the word *us* settle into him—new and fragile and terrifying.

"How many should we get?" he managed.

"A dozen." She said it without hesitation, already turning back to the crate. "We're going to eat peaches all week."

"That's a lot of peaches."

"We're committed to this." She picked up another one, held it to her nose, and smiled. "We're committed to the peach lifestyle."

He laughed, and she glanced back at him, pleased, like she'd been trying to get that sound out of him. The vendor came over—an older man with a sun-weathered face and a canvas apron—and helped them fill a bag, his hands moving with the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times.

"You two make a good team," he said, handing Jessica the bag.

"We're practicing," she said, and she said it so easily, so naturally, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. *We're practicing.* Like they were learning something together, and the learning was the point.

Riley paid, and they moved on, her hand finding his again like it belonged there. The bag of peaches swung from her other hand, and she was humming something under her breath—a song he didn't recognize, but he liked the sound of it. He liked the way her shoulder brushed his as they walked. He liked the way the sun caught the edge of her bob, turning it almost bronze.

"What are you humming?" he asked.

"I don't know. Something from the show." She shrugged. "It's stuck in my head. The second lead has this song in act two, and I can't stop thinking about it."

"Is it good?"

"It's—" She stopped, considering. "It's sad. But it's the good kind of sad. The kind that makes you feel less alone." She looked at him, and her grip on his hand tightened slightly. "That's what good art is, I think. Someone else saying the thing you couldn't say."

"Is that what you want to do?"

"What, say the thing people can't say?" She laughed, but it was softer now, less bright. "Yeah. I think so. I want to be the person who says it."

He didn't have a response to that, so he just squeezed her hand, and they kept walking. They passed a stall selling cut flowers, buckets of sunflowers and dahlias and something small and white that smelled like honey. Jessica stopped, her eyes going wide.

"We said flowers," she said.

"We did."

She picked out a bunch of the small white ones—the woman at the stall called them stock, and said they'd last a week if you trimmed the stems—and Riley paid without being asked. She held them up to her nose, inhaling deeply, and when she lowered them, her eyes were closed.

"They smell like my grandmother's garden," she said, quiet, almost to herself.

He watched her stand there, eyes closed, flowers pressed to her face, the morning sun making a halo of her hair, and he felt something crack open in his ribs. Not painfully. Just—open. Like a window that had been stuck for years and finally gave.

She opened her eyes and caught him looking. "What?"

"Nothing." He cleared his throat. "You just—" He stopped, trying to find the words. "You look happy."

"I am happy." She said it like it was simple, like it didn't terrify her, and he wondered if it did. He wondered if she felt the same weight of it, the same fear that this was too good to be true, that the other shoe was waiting somewhere in the crowd to drop.

"Good," he said. "I'm glad."

She smiled at him, that real smile, and they kept walking. The market opened up ahead of them into a wider square, more stalls, more people. A man was selling crepes from a cart, the smell of butter and sugar drifting across the aisle. Jessica's step slowed.

"Don't even think about it," he said.

"I'm not thinking about anything."

"You're thinking about crepes."

"I'm thinking about how we've already bought bread and peaches and flowers, and how a crepe would really tie the whole morning together." She looked at him, her eyes bright. "Also, I'm hungry."

"We just ate bread."

"That was a sample. That wasn't a meal." She was already pulling him toward the cart. "This is a meal."

He let himself be pulled. It was becoming a theme—her hand in his, leading him somewhere, and him following because it felt right. They ordered two crepes—one with strawberries and cream, one with Nutella and banana—and ate them standing at a small counter, the paper wrappers warm in their hands.

She took a bite of hers and made that sound again, the one that was almost indecent, and he had to look away to keep from laughing.

"This is the best thing I've ever eaten," she said, her mouth full.

"You said that about the bread."

"I meant it both times."

He finished his crepe and watched her finish hers, the way she licked a smear of Nutella off her thumb, the way she crumpled the wrapper and looked around for a trash can. She found one and tossed it, then turned back to him with that bright, unguarded smile.

"Okay," she said. "I think we've done the market. We've done peaches, bread, flowers, and crepes. That's the full experience."

"The full experience," he repeated.

"The full experience. We can go home now." She said it easily—*home*—like it was the most natural word in the world. Like it was his apartment, his bed, his life, and she was already in it.

"Home," he said, testing it.

She looked at him, and something in her face softened. "Yeah. Home."

He opened his mouth to say something—he didn't know what, maybe that he liked the sound of it, maybe that he wanted her to keep saying it, maybe that he was terrified of how much he wanted this—but before the words could come, a voice cut through the market noise, bright and familiar and impossible to mistake.

"Well, well. Look who's here."

Riley's heart dropped into his stomach.

He turned, and there was Natalie, and behind her, Inde. Inde ran up to Riley and hugged him.

Inde's arms came around him before he could move, her body pressing close, her face finding the hollow of his shoulder. The hug was not the quick, friendly kind he'd come to expect from the group—the one-armed squeeze, the back pat, the easy release. This one lingered. Her fingers spread across his shoulder blades, her cheek pressed to his chest, and for a moment the whole market seemed to hold its breath with him.

"You look happy," she murmured, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. The words were so quiet he almost didn't catch them, meant for him alone. "Don't let her ruin it."

His arms stayed frozen at his sides. He could feel the warmth of her through his shirt, the faint scent of something clean and floral in her hair, and he didn't know what to do with his hands—didn't know if he was allowed to return the hug, didn't know if that would make it worse. So he just stood there, his palms open and empty, while Inde's fingers tightened on his back.

Across the small space between them, Jessica watched. Her hand was still wrapped around the bag of peaches, the stems of the stock flowers poking out of the paper, and her face had gone very still. It wasn't anger. It wasn't hurt. It was something closer to a held breath—a pause, a question she was waiting to see answered before she let herself feel whatever came next.

Inde pulled back. Her smile was bright and false, the kind she wore when she wanted no one to see underneath. "It's so good to see you both," she said, and her voice was warm, genuine, the smile almost reaching her eyes. Almost.

"Hey, Inde." Riley's voice came out rough. He cleared his throat. "We, uh—we were just getting crepes."

"I saw." Her gaze flicked to the paper wrapper still in his hand, the smear of Nutella on the edge. "Looks like you had the full experience."

The words landed wrong. He couldn't tell if she meant them as a joke or something else, and the uncertainty sat in his stomach like a stone. Jessica stepped forward, her hand finding his—a small, deliberate claim that he felt in his bones.

"Natalie," Jessica said, her voice easy, practiced. "Inde. Good to see you both." She held up the bag of peaches. "We're doing the market thing. Very responsible. Lots of produce."

Natalie's smile was knowing, her eyes tracking the joined hands. She'd seen them at the market, seen the way they held on to each other, and there was something in her expression that Riley couldn't quite read—not disapproval, not approval, just a careful watchfulness.

"We were just getting coffee," Natalie said. "Inde wanted to try that new stand by the entrance." She glanced at Inde, who was still looking at Riley with that bright, false smile. "Right?"

"Right." Inde's voice was steady. "The one with the cold brew." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture Riley had never seen her make before—and looked at the flowers in Jessica's hand. "Those are pretty. What are they?"

"Stock," Jessica said. "They smell like my grandmother's garden."

"That's nice." Inde's smile flickered, just for a second, before she smoothed it back into place. "Well. We should let you get back to your—" She gestured vaguely at the bag of peaches, the flowers, the crepe wrapper. "Your morning."

"You could join us," Riley heard himself say, and the words were out before he could stop them. Both women looked at him. Jessica's grip on his hand tightened. But she smiled, she was happy he was doing this.

"We've got coffee," Inde said, and there was something in her voice that made him wish he hadn't spoken. "But thanks. I’ll text you later Riley!”

She turned, and Natalie followed, and Riley watched them go—watched the way Inde's ponytail swung against her back, the way her shoulders were set just a little too straight. She didn't look back.

The space where she'd been felt suddenly too large. Jessica's hand was still in his, warm and real, and he held on to it like a lifeline.

"That was—" he started.

"Fine," Jessica said. "That was fine." She said it too quickly, her voice too bright. "She's your friend. She was being friendly."

"She hugged me."

"She did." Jessica's thumb moved over his knuckles, a small, steadying rhythm. "And you stood there like a statue, which was very noble of you, by the way."

He looked at her, expecting to find something sharp in her eyes, but she was smiling—a real smile, small but genuine. "I didn't know what to do," he admitted.

"I know." She squeezed his hand. "That's why it was noble."

They stood there for a moment, the market noise swelling around them, and Riley felt the word *us* settle back into his chest, a little more fragile than before but still there. Still holding.

"Should we go home?" Jessica asked, and the word *home* was softer now, like she was testing it, seeing if it still fit.

"Yeah," he said. "Let's go home."

They started walking, her hand in his, the bag of peaches swinging between them. He could still feel the ghost of Inde's arms around him, the whisper of her breath against his ear, and he tried to shake it off, tried to focus on the warmth of Jessica's palm, the weight of the loaf of bread under his arm.

The market was thinning now, the morning rush giving way to mid-morning lull. A vendor was packing up his crates, and the busker had stopped playing, his guitar case open and empty on the ground. The air still smelled like fried dough and peaches, but it felt different now—less golden, more gray at the edges.

They passed the flower stall, and Jessica slowed, her eyes on the buckets of dahlias. She didn't say anything, just looked, and Riley felt the weight of the moment pressing on him.

"Do you want more flowers?" he asked.

"No." She shook her head. "We have flowers." She looked at him, and her smile was tired but real. "We have a lot of things."

He didn't know what to say to that, so he just squeezed her hand, and they kept walking. The car was parked a few blocks away, in the shade of a big oak tree, and the heat of the morning had already started to build. The windows were warm when he opened the door, and he set the bread and flowers on the back seat while Jessica climbed in beside him.

She buckled her seatbelt and sat back, the bag of peaches in her lap. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The engine turned over, and Riley pulled out of the spot, the market shrinking in the rearview mirror.

"She said something to you," Jessica said quietly. "When she hugged you. She said something."

Riley's hands tightened on the wheel. He could feel her eyes on him, patient, waiting, and he knew he could lie—could say it was nothing, could say she just said hi. But the word *us* was still settling in his chest, and he didn't want to start it with a lie.

"She said I look happy," he said. "And to not let anyone ruin it."

Jessica was quiet for a long moment. The road slid by, the trees casting shifting shadows across the windshield. "That's—" She stopped. "That's not mean."

"No."

"That's almost—" She stopped again, and he could hear her thinking, could feel the weight of her consideration. "That's almost kind."

"I think it was." He glanced at her. "I think she was trying to be kind."

Jessica's fingers found his on the gearshift, her touch light and warm. "I think you're right." She was quiet for another moment, then: "I think I owe her a thank you."

He didn't have a response to that, so he just kept driving, her hand on his, the bag of peaches heavy in her lap. The city slid past the windows—the coffee shops and bookstores and laundromats that made up the blocks between the market and home—and the word *home* felt less fragile now, more like a place he could actually stand in.

They pulled into the parking lot of his building, and he cut the engine. For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence was thick, full of everything they hadn't said.

"I'm glad we went," Jessica said finally. "Even with—" She gestured vaguely. "Even with the complication."

"Me too." He turned to look at her, and she was watching him with those dark, expressive eyes, the ones that seemed to be performing even when she was just sitting in a car. But there was something real underneath now, something he was learning to recognize. "I'm glad we got peaches."

She laughed, a small, surprised sound. "That's what you're taking from this?"

"The peaches are good." He shrugged. "The peaches are solid."

She laughed again, and the sound was brighter this time, and he felt something in his chest loosen. She unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned over, pressing her lips to his cheek—a quick, warm kiss that lingered just a second longer than necessary.

"Thank you," she said, her voice soft. "For not letting it ruin anything."

He looked at her, her face close to his, the morning light catching the edge of her bob, and he felt the word *home* settle into him like a stone dropped in still water. "I wouldn't let it," he said. "I wouldn't let anything."

She smiled—that real smile, the one that made her look younger, softer—and then she pulled back, reaching for the bag of peaches. "Come on," she said. "Let's go put these in a bowl and pretend we're the kind of people who eat fruit."

He followed her out of the car, the bread under his arm, the flowers in his hand, and the morning stretched open in front of them, full of peaches and possibility and the quiet, terrifying work of being chosen.

The apartment was cool and dim when they stepped inside, the curtains still drawn from the night before. Jessica set the peaches on the counter and went to open the window, letting in a slice of gold light. The flowers went into a mason jar she found under the sink, the stems trimmed with a pair of scissors from the drawer.

Riley watched her move through his kitchen like she belonged there—like she'd always belonged there—and the word *home* pressed against his ribs, insistent and warm. She caught him looking and tilted her head.

"What?"

"Nothing." He set the bread on the counter. "Just—" He stopped, trying to find the words. "Just glad you're here."

She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, her face pressed to his chest, her body fitting against his like it was made for it. He held her, his arms coming up around her, and for a moment the world outside the apartment didn't exist—no Inde, no Natalie, no knowing smiles or whispered warnings. Just Jessica, warm in his arms, her breath even against his shirt.

"I'm glad I'm here too," she said, her voice muffled. "I'm glad I'm here with you."

He pressed his lips to the top of her hair, and the word *home* cracked open in his chest, flooding him with warmth. The peaches sat in a bowl on the counter, the flowers glowed in their mason jar, and the morning light spilled across the floor like a promise he was still learning to keep.

Riley's phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibration cutting through the warmth of the kitchen like a cold thread. He pulled it out, and the screen lit up with a name he'd been trying not to think about for the last twenty minutes.

Inde.

Not a text. A call.

He stared at it for a beat too long, and Jessica's arms loosened around him. She pulled back just enough to look at his face, her dark eyes tracking down to the phone in his hand.

"Who is it?" she asked, and her voice was careful, the way it got when she was trying not to perform.

"Inde." He held up the phone like it might explain itself. "She said she'd text."

Jessica's face didn't change. She just looked at the phone, then at him, and then she stepped back, her hands sliding off his waist. The absence of her was immediate, a cold ring where her arms had been.

"Take it," she said.

"I can—"

"Riley." She smiled, and it was real, the one she didn't perform. "Take the call. I'll put the peaches in a bowl."

She turned toward the counter, and he watched her go, her back straight, her hands reaching for the bag of peaches with the kind of deliberate calm that meant she was giving him space on purpose. Not because she wanted to, but because she trusted him.

He pressed the answer button and raised the phone to his ear. "Hey."

"Riley." Inde's voice came through the speaker, close and warm, like she was standing right beside him instead of wherever she'd gone after the market. "I'm glad you picked up."

He walked toward the window, the one Jessica had opened, and leaned a shoulder against the frame. The gold light spilled across the floor, catching the mason jar of stock flowers. "Yeah. I was—we just got back."

"I know." A pause. "I saw you leave."

There was something in her voice he couldn't quite place. Not sadness. Not anger. Something quieter, more careful. He waited for her to fill the silence, but she didn't, and the pause stretched long enough that he could hear Jessica behind him, the soft clink of peaches going into a ceramic bowl.

"What's up?" he asked, because he didn't know what else to say.

"I have an idea." Inde's voice was steady now, the way it got when she'd made a decision. "But I need to say something first."

He waited.

"I love you." The words came out clear and unflinching, and they landed in his chest like a stone dropped in still water. "I love you so much, Riley. And I know you love Jessica. I know she loves you. I've seen the way you look at each other—the way you held her hand at the market, the way you stood there like she was the only person in the crowd, before she moved in, you looked at me the same way, and to be honest, I miss it."

He opened his mouth, but she kept going.

"I'm not calling to make this hard. I'm calling because I have an idea, and I need you to hear it without—" She stopped, and he heard her take a breath. "Without thinking I'm trying to ruin something."

"I don't think that," he said.

"Okay." A pause. "How about me, you, and Jess go on a date together?"

The words didn't compute at first. They hung in the air, strange and impossible, like a sentence in a language he almost understood. He gripped the phone tighter.

"What?"

"A date. The three of us." Her voice was calm, deliberate, like she'd rehearsed this. "C'mon, I know it might sound lackluster, but think about it—us three, the entire day together. No group, no game night, no other people. Just us. We could get coffee, walk around, talk. Actually talk. And be, lovers, obviously not me and Jess, we’re not Lesbian but, for you..."

He turned to look at Jessica. She was at the counter, her hands stilling on a peach, her head tilted just slightly—the way she listened when she was trying not to show how much she was listening. She hadn't looked up, but he knew she could hear his side of the conversation, and he knew she was holding her breath.

"Inde—" he started.

"I know it's a lot," she said quickly. "I know it's not what anyone expected. But I've been thinking about it since the market, since I saw you two together, and I keep coming back to the same thing: I don't want to lose you. I don't want to lose either of you. And I don't want to pretend that what we have doesn't matter just because it's complicated."

He heard her voice crack, just slightly, on the last word. The sound of it—the small, human break in her careful composure—made something in his chest twist.

"I love you," she said again. "And I love Jess. I love the way she makes you smile, the way you look at her like she hung the moon. And I want to be part of that. I want to be part of whatever you two are building. Not as a third wheel—as part of it."

He didn't know what to say. The word *us* was still settling in his chest from the market, fragile and new, and now Inde was asking him to make it bigger, to stretch it until it held three people instead of two.

He looked at Jessica again. She had turned now, a peach in her hand, her dark eyes fixed on him. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't frowning. She was just watching, waiting, her whole body still in a way that told him she was giving him this moment, letting him decide.

"Can I think about it?" he asked, and his voice came out rougher than he meant it to.

"Of course." Inde's voice was soft now, the edge gone. "I just wanted you to know it's an option. That I'm—" She paused. "That I'm willing to try. For you. For us."

He heard her take a breath, and then she said, quieter, "Think about it, Riley. And talk to Jess. I meant what I said—I don't want to lose either of you."

"I will," he said. "I'll—yeah. I'll think about it."

"Okay." A pause. "I'll text you later. Maybe we can figure out a day."

"Okay."

"Okay." She said it like she was steadying herself. "Bye, Riley."

"Bye, Inde."

The line went dead. He lowered the phone, staring at the dark screen, and the kitchen felt suddenly too quiet. The peaches sat in the bowl, the flowers glowed in their mason jar, and Jessica was still watching him, a peach in her hand, her face unreadable.

"So," she said, her voice light, careful. "That sounded intense."

He turned to face her fully. "She has an idea."

"An idea." Jessica set the peach down on the counter, her movements slow and deliberate. "What kind of idea?"

He took a breath. The words felt too big to say out loud, too strange, but he said them anyway because she'd asked and because he didn't want to start this with a lie.

"She wants us to go on a date together. The three of us."

Jessica's hands stilled on the counter. For a long moment, she didn't move, didn't speak. Then she picked up the peach again, turning it over in her palm, her thumb pressing into the flesh near the stem the way she had at the market.

"A date," she repeated.

"Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair. "I know it's—I know it's a lot. I told her I'd think about it."

"You told her you'd think about it."

"Yeah."

She looked at him, and there was something in her eyes he couldn't quite read. Not jealousy. Not hurt. Something closer to wonder, like she was turning the idea over in her mind, testing its weight.

"What did she say?" she asked. "Exactly. What did she say?"

He tried to remember, the words coming back to him in fragments. "She said she loves me. She said she loves you. She said she doesn't want to lose either of us, and she doesn't want to pretend that what we have doesn't matter just because it's complicated."

Jessica was quiet for a long moment. Then she set the peach down, wiped her hands on her jeans, and crossed the kitchen toward him. She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell the honeyed scent of the flowers still on her, and looked up at him.

"Do you want to go?" she asked.

The question landed somewhere in his sternum. He thought about Inde's voice on the phone, the way it had cracked when she said she didn't want to lose him. He thought about the way she'd hugged him at the market, her cheek pressed to his chest, her whisper meant for him alone. He thought about Jessica's hand in his, the way she'd said *us* like it was the most natural word in the world.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I don't know what I want."

Jessica's eyes searched his face. Then she reached up and touched his cheek, her palm warm against his skin.

"I think we should do it," she said.

He blinked. "What?"

"I think we should go." Her voice was steady, sure. "Not because I'm not scared. I'm terrified. But because—" She stopped, her thumb brushing his cheekbone. "Because she loves you. And I love you. And if there's a way to make this work, to make all of us work, I want to try."

The words cracked something open in his chest, the same window that had given at the market, only wider now. He reached up and covered her hand with his, pressing it to his cheek.

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure I want to try." She smiled, and it was the real one, the one she didn't perform. "We can always figure out the details later. But I don't want to look back and wonder what would've happened if we'd said yes."

He looked at her for a long moment, the gold light catching the edge of her bob, the flowers glowing in their mason jar behind her. And then he pulled out his phone, opened the thread with Inde, and typed:

I talked to Jess. She's in. When?

The message sent, and the three dots appeared almost immediately. Inde's reply came back faster than he expected, a single line that made his chest tighten.

Tomorrow. 10 AM. The park by the pond. I'll bring coffee.

He read it twice, then looked up at Jessica, who was watching him with those dark, expressive eyes.

"She says tomorrow. Ten AM. The park by the pond."

Jessica's smile widened, small and real. "The pond."

"The pond." He felt the word settle into him, a place he knew, a place where Inde had first taken his hand. "She's bringing coffee."

"Of course she is." Jessica laughed, a soft, surprised sound. "She remembers how you take it."

He looked at his phone, at the message glowing on the screen, and then at Jessica, standing in his kitchen, the peaches in a bowl, the flowers in their jar, the morning light spilling across the floor. And he felt the word *us* stretch, wider than it had been before, until it held three people instead of two.

He typed one last message.

We'll be there.

He set the phone down on the counter, and Jessica stepped into his arms, her face pressed to his chest, her body fitting against his like it belonged there. He held her, his chin resting on the top of her head, and the morning stretched open in front of them—full of peaches and flowers and a date by the pond that would change everything.

They stood like that for a long while, the phone silent on the counter, the morning light shifting across the floor as the sun climbed higher. Jessica's breath was even against his shirt, her fingers curled into the fabric at his sides, and he let himself hold her without thinking about what came next. The word *tomorrow* sat in his chest, heavy and bright at once, a stone dropped into water that was still rippling.

"We should probably eat lunch," Jessica said eventually, her voice muffled against his chest. "Or at least acknowledge that we bought a loaf of bread and a dozen peaches and somehow didn't plan a single meal."

"We had crepes."

"That was hours ago babe.” She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her chin resting on his sternum. "I'm starving."

He laughed, the sound surprising him. "Okay. Lunch."

She stepped away, and the absence of her was a small cold ring again, but she didn't go far—just to the fridge, where she pulled out eggs and butter and a block of cheese he'd forgotten he owned. She moved through his kitchen like she'd been doing it for years, finding the whisk in the drawer he kept it in, the cast iron pan on the hook by the stove. He watched her crack eggs into a bowl with one hand, the motion practiced and easy, and he felt something settle in his chest that wasn't quite calm but was close to it.

"Cheese omelette," she said, not turning around. "I remember you said it was your favorite."

He had told her that. Weeks ago, maybe, during a game night, when the conversation had drifted to comfort food and she'd asked him a question he couldn't remember now. But she remembered. She'd filed it away, the way she filed away the things that mattered to the people she loved.

"It is," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he meant it to.

She glanced back at him, a small smile on her lips. "Good. Sit down. You're making the kitchen look small."

He sat at the small table by the window, the one that looked out onto the street, and watched her cook. The butter hissed in the pan, the eggs turned golden, and the smell of cheese filled the apartment. She slid the omelette onto a plate and brought it to him, then made one for herself, and they ate across from each other in the kind of quiet that didn't need filling.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth.

"Tomorrow." He set down his fork. "I keep thinking about the pond. The last time I was there—" He stopped, the memory surfacing: Inde's hand in his, the way she'd looked at him, the word *us* being born between them. "It was the first time I felt like I was allowed to want something."

Jessica set down her fork too. "And now?"

"Now I'm scared I want too much." He looked at her, at the way the light caught the edge of her bob, at the patience in her dark eyes. "I don't want to hurt either of you. I don't want to lose either of you. And I don't know if it's possible to have both."

She reached across the table and took his hand, her fingers warm and sure. "We're all scared, Riley. That's what makes it real." She squeezed his hand. "And we're all choosing to show up anyway. That's what makes it work."

He looked at their joined hands on the worn wooden table, the peaches in a bowl on the counter behind her, the flowers glowing in their mason jar. The word *us* stretched in his chest, wider than it had been before, until it held three people instead of two. It was terrifying. It was also the most real thing he'd ever felt.

"Okay," he said, and the word felt like a door opening. "Okay."

She smiled, that real smile, and they finished their lunch in the kind of quiet that felt like a promise being kept. Afterward, she washed the dishes while he dried, their shoulders brushing in the small kitchen, and when the last plate was put away, she took his hand and led him to the couch.

"We have the rest of the day," she said, settling against him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder. "What do you want to do?"

He thought about it. The market was done, the peaches were in a bowl, and tomorrow was waiting at the pond like a held breath. But right now, in this apartment, with her warm against him and the afternoon light slanting through the window, the answer came easier than he expected.

"This," he said. "I just want this."

She looked up at him, her dark eyes soft, and then she reached for the remote, finding some old movie neither of them had seen. They watched it in pieces, talking over the quiet parts, her hand in his, his thumb tracing circles on her knuckle. The afternoon stretched out, unhurried, and the word *tomorrow* settled into something less like fear and more like anticipation.

When the movie ended, she didn't move. Her breathing had evened out, her head still on his shoulder, and he realized she'd fallen asleep. He didn't wake her. He just sat there, holding her, the light fading from gold to amber to the soft blue of early evening, and he let himself feel the weight of it—the love, the fear, the impossible hope of three people choosing each other.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table. He reached for it carefully, trying not to disturb her, and the screen lit up with a message from Inde.

I got your message. I'll be at the pond at 10. I'm nervous. Are you?

He read it twice, then typed back, one-handed, slow and deliberate.

Yeah. But I think that's okay.

The reply came almost immediately.

It is. See you tomorrow *heart emoji.

He set the phone down and looked at Jessica, asleep against him, her face soft in the dim light. Tomorrow, he would meet Inde at the pond, and Jessica would be beside him, and they would try something none of them had ever tried before. He didn't know if it would work. He didn't know if they'd come out the other side whole.

But he knew he was going to show up. And he knew, for the first time in his life, that being chosen meant choosing back.

The apartment had gone quiet in the way that only happened when someone was asleep—the refrigerator's hum seemed louder, the street sounds farther away. Riley didn't move. Jessica's weight against his shoulder had settled into something solid and warm, her breath slow and even, one hand curled loosely against his chest. The light through the window had shifted to that soft blue of early evening, and he could see the first star, faint and tentative, pinned to the paling sky.

His phone was still in his hand, the screen dark now, but he could feel the weight of Inde's words in his palm. I'm nervous. Are you? He'd told her the truth—that he was, and that it was okay. But sitting here, with Jessica asleep against him and tomorrow waiting like a door he'd already agreed to walk through, he wondered if he'd been too quick with that answer. Nervous didn't quite cover it. Nervous was a word for small things, for auditions and first dates. This was something else entirely.

He looked down at Jessica. In sleep, the performance dropped away completely. Her lips were slightly parted, her brow smooth, and she looked younger than she did awake—like the girl she'd been before the auditions and the callbacks and the two years of loving him in silence. He'd spent so long learning to read her awake, to catch the flicker of real feeling beneath the practiced ease. But asleep, she was just herself. Just Jessica. And he loved her so much it hurt somewhere behind his ribs.

His thumb moved on her shoulder without him deciding to do it, a slow, absent stroke. She stirred, a small sound escaping her, and her hand tightened on his shirt. Then her eyes opened, unfocused and soft, finding his face in the dim light.

"Hey," she said, her voice rough with sleep.

"Hey."

"How long was I out?"

"A while." He gestured vaguely at the window. "The movie ended. The sun's going down."

She blinked, orienting herself, and then her gaze landed on the phone in his hand. "Inde texted?"

"Yeah." He turned the phone over in his palm, the screen still dark. "She said she's nervous. Asked if I was."

"And what did you say?"

"I said yeah. And that I think that's okay."

Jessica was quiet for a moment. Then she sat up slowly, her hand sliding from his chest to his knee, a warm point of contact that he found himself leaning into without thinking. "That's a good answer."

"You think?"

"I think it's the truth." She squeezed his knee. "And I think that's the thing that matters most, for tomorrow. That we all show up telling the truth."

He looked at her, at the way the fading light caught the edge of her jaw, and he felt something open in his chest again—that window, wider now, letting in more air than he knew what to do with. "I'm scared," he said, and the words came out easier than he expected. "I keep thinking about what happens if it goes wrong. If we get to the pond and it's—I don't know—wrong. If we can't find the words. If we realize we're all reaching for different things."

Jessica's hand was still on his knee, warm and steady. "And what happens if it goes right?"

He blinked. The question landed somewhere unexpected, a door he hadn't thought to look behind. "I don't—I haven't let myself think about that."

"Maybe you should." Her voice was gentle, not pushing. "Because I've been thinking about it. Since you told me what she said, I've been thinking about what it looks like if this works. The three of us, figuring it out. Not as a compromise, not as something we're settling for, but as something we're building."

He turned the idea over in his hands like one of the peaches from the market, testing its weight. A future where Inde was there—not as a memory, not as a complication, but as part of the shape of his days. Where he could hold Jessica's hand and not feel like he was betraying someone else. Where the word us meant all three of them, and saying it out loud didn't feel like a confession.

"I don't know what that looks like," he admitted. "I've never—I don't have a map for this."

"Neither do I." She smiled, small and real. "Neither does she, probably. That's the thing, Riley. None of us have done this before. We're all just showing up and hoping we figure it out together."

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "When did you get so wise?"

"I'm an actress. I'm very good at pretending I know what I'm doing." She leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek, a quick, warm kiss. "But I'm also very good at knowing when something's worth the fear."

He reached up and caught her hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "I love you," he said, and the words felt different than they had before—heavier, more solid, like they'd grown roots overnight.

"I love you too baby.” She said it simply, without performance, and then she stood, pulling him up with her. "Come on. We should eat something real. And then maybe we should figure out what we're bringing to the pond tomorrow."

"Bringing?"

"You don't show up to a date with coffee and nothing else." She was already walking toward the kitchen, her voice carrying back to him. "We need a plan. A good one. The kind that says we thought about this."

He followed her, the word plan settling into him like a new kind of promise. They stood in the kitchen together, the peaches still in the bowl, the flowers still glowing in their mason jar, and they talked about what tomorrow would look like—what time they'd leave, what they'd bring, what they'd say if the silence got too heavy. Jessica had ideas, lots of them, and he let her talk, watching the way her hands moved when she was thinking, the way she bit her lip when she was working something out.

"We should bring a blanket," she said, pulling open a drawer. "For sitting by the pond. A real one, not the ugly one you use for picnics that's got that stain."

"The plaid one?"

"The plaid one." She found a folded blanket in the hall closet and held it up. "This one. It's soft. It says 'we thought about this.'"

He laughed, the sound surprising him. "You're really taking this seriously."

"Riley." She turned to face him, the blanket in her arms, her dark eyes serious. "This is the most important date of my life. I'm taking it very seriously."

The words landed in his chest, warm and heavy. "Mine too," he said. "I think—I think it might be the most important day of my life."

She crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms around him, the blanket pressed between them, her face tilted up to his. "Then we show up for it. All three of us."

He held her, the blanket soft against his chest, the word tomorrow burning bright in his mind. And for the first time since Inde's call, he let himself believe it might actually work.

They ate dinner standing at the counter—leftover bread and cheese, peaches sliced into a bowl, the simple food tasting better than it should because they were making it together. Jessica told him about the Chekhov play, about the second lead's monologue in act two, the one that made her feel less alone. She recited a few lines for him, her voice dropping into something lower, more resonant, and he watched her transform—not into a different person, but into the person she became when she was doing the thing she loved most.

"That's beautiful," he said when she finished.

"It's a good play." She shrugged, but he could see the pleasure in her eyes. "I hope I get it. I hope I get to say those words every night."

"You will." He said it with more certainty than he felt, but he meant it. "They'd be lucky to have you."

She looked at him, and something in her face softened. "You always know what to say."

"I don't. I just—" He stopped, trying to find the words. "I just say what I mean."

She reached across the counter and took his hand. "That's the best thing anyone's ever said to me."

They stood there, hands joined over the counter, the peaches in the bowl beside them, the flowers glowing in their jar, and the word tomorrow hung between them, bright and waiting. He didn't know what would happen at the pond. He didn't know if they'd find the words, or if the silence would be too heavy, or if three people who loved each other could actually make something that held.

But he knew he was going to show up. He knew Jessica would be beside him, the blanket under her arm, her hand in his.

And he knew Inde would be there, waiting by the water, coffee in hand, ready to try.

That was the part that mattered, he thought. Not the fear, not the uncertainty—the showing up. The choosing to be there, even when you didn't know what you'd find.

The light outside had gone fully dark, the streetlamps casting pools of gold on the pavement. Jessica let go of his hand to rinse the bowls, and he watched her move through his kitchen, still marveling at the way she belonged here, the way she'd made this small space into something that felt like a life.

"We should get some sleep," she said, drying her hands on a towel. "Tomorrow's a big day."

"Yeah." He followed her toward the bedroom, the apartment settling into its nighttime quiet around them. She climbed into bed first, pulling the covers up to her chin, and he slid in beside her, the familiar warmth of her body finding him in the dark.

She turned to face him, her eyes catching the faint light from the window. "Riley?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad it's you." She reached out in the dark, her fingers finding his. "I'm glad it's us. Whatever that ends up meaning."

He held her hand, the word us expanding in his chest until it felt like it might burst. "Me too."

She was quiet for a moment, and then she said, so softly he almost missed it, "I think I'm ready to meet her at the pond."

He squeezed her hand. "I think I am too."

They lay there in the dark, hands joined, the night stretching out around them. Tomorrow would come, with its coffee and its blanket and its three people trying to figure out how to love each other. But tonight, there was just this—her hand in his, her breath slowing into sleep, the quiet certainty that whatever happened next, they would face it together.

He closed his eyes, and the word tomorrow settled into him, not as a fear but as a promise. A door opening. A path he was choosing to walk, with both of them beside him.

The last thing he saw before sleep took him was the faint glow of the stock flowers on the counter, white and small and stubbornly alive, like the thing they were all trying to build.