Hazel held the balloon between her palms like a prayer. The print showed a small fox with a red scarf, running across a field of stars, and she traced the outline with her thumb, feeling the give of the latex, the warmth of her own breath trapped inside. Ivy had wrapped them in tissue paper, tied with a ribbon, and placed them on the bed before she left. "For when I'm gone," she'd said, her voice doing something careful and soft. "So you don't feel alone."
Hazel had laughed, then kissed her, then watched her walk out the door with a briefcase and a promise to call. And now she was here, in the quiet afternoon, surrounded by a dozen balloons printed with a childhood she'd never told anyone about except Ivy, who had just known. Who had looked at her and said, "The little fox was always my favorite too," and meant it like a secret shared between them.
She blew one up slowly, feeling the latex stretch against her lips, the familiar pressure building in her chest. The fox expanded, his red scarf blooming across the curve of the balloon, and she tied it off with a practiced twist, then let it float against the ceiling. She blew another. And another. Each one a small act of devotion, a thank you for being seen.
When the doorbell rang, Hazel was in the middle of inflating a fourth, her lips wrapped around the nozzle, her hands steady on the neck. She startled, nearly let go, then caught herself and tied it off, her fingers finding the knot by muscle memory. She set the balloon on the bed beside the others and padded to the door, still in her robe, her hair loose and tangled, a flush on her cheeks from the effort of blowing.
She opened the door.
Emma stood on the porch, her hair shorter than Hazel remembered, her eyes nervous. Beside her, Zoe — not Liam's Zoe, but Hazel's Zoe, the one with the quick laugh and the sharp tongue — was gripping her own arm, looking like she might run.
"Hey," Emma said. Her voice cracked on the single syllable. "Can we talk?"
Hazel's hand tightened on the doorframe. Her first instinct was to close it, to disappear back into her room with her balloons and her fox and the memory of Ivy's mouth on hers. But the second instinct — the one that remembered long nights with these women, the one that had never quite healed — made her step back instead.
"Inside," she said. "You won't hurt me in my own home."
Emma's face crumpled, just for a second, before she nodded and stepped past Hazel into the living room. Zoe followed, her eyes darting to the balloons on the ceiling like she couldn't help herself.
They stood in the middle of the room, not touching, not sitting. Hazel closed the door and leaned against it, arms crossed, her robe slipping off one shoulder. She didn't fix it.
"We found each other," Emma said. "After you. After everything. We didn't plan it. We just — ran into each other at a bar, and we started talking about you, and then we couldn't stop." She paused, her hands twisting together. "And I realized I was an asshole. About the balloons. About all of it."
Zoe nodded, her eyes wet. "We've been seeing each other for a few months. And — I don't know how to say this without it sounding weird — but we started using balloons. Together. Because of you. Because of how you looked when you were with them."
Hazel's throat tightened. She felt something warm and dangerous building in her chest, spreading through her ribs, and she knew what it was. The same sensation that had flooded her that morning with Ivy, the same fullness that had made her nipple bead with milk. She pressed her thighs together and tried to breathe through it.
"We still hate the pop," Emma said, a quick, nervous laugh escaping her. "But we wanted to apologize. For making you feel like you couldn't be yourself. For making you feel ashamed."
Hazel blinked hard. The tenderness in her chest was unbearable now, and she could feel the dampness spreading, the milk beginning to leak despite her efforts. She uncrossed her arms and pressed a hand to her chest, hoping it would stop, hoping they wouldn't notice.
"Are you okay?" Zoe stepped closer, her head tilted. "Hazel, you're — your face is red. Are you sick?"
"I'm fine," Hazel said, her voice too high. "I just — I'm —"
She felt the wetness soak through her robe, a dark patch blooming on the fabric. Zoe's eyes dropped to it, and Hazel's stomach flipped. "It's nothing. I'm fine."
Emma took a step closer, her eyes wide. "Hazel, is that — is that milk?"
The word hung in the air. Hazel wanted to run, wanted to disappear into her room and lock the door and never come out. But her feet wouldn't move, and her chest was aching, and the milk was seeping through her robe in a steady trickle now, and both her exes were staring at her like she'd turned into something impossible.
"It's — it's a thing," Hazel managed. "That happens. When I get — overwhelmed. Emotionally. It doesn't usually — it's not —"
Zoe reached out, her fingers brushing the damp fabric. "Can I?"
Hazel should have said no. She was already shaking her head, but her body wasn't listening, and when Zoe's fingers found the edge of her robe and pulled it aside, revealing the hard, wet nipple gleaming with milk, Hazel gasped. Not from cold. From the sudden relief of being touched.
"Oh," Emma whispered, stepping closer. "Hazel, that's —"
"It's just milk," Hazel said, but her voice cracked.
"It's beautiful," Zoe said. She looked up at Hazel, her eyes dark and serious. "Can I taste it?"
Hazel's hips jerked. She wanted to say no, wanted to say this was Ivy's, this was private, this was something she'd never shared with anyone before. But Zoe's mouth was already hovering, her breath warm on Hazel's skin, and the tenderness in Hazel's chest was unbearable, and she nodded before she could stop herself.
Zoe's lips closed around Hazel's nipple. The suction was gentle, tentative, nothing like Ivy's, and still it sent a shock through Hazel's entire body. She felt the milk pull, felt Zoe's tongue work against her, felt a hand find her other breast, Emma's hand, cupping her through the robe.
"Jesus," Emma breathed. "Zoe, she's actually —"
"I know," Zoe murmured, her mouth still on Hazel's skin. "God, it's so sweet."
Hazel's knees buckled. She reached out blindly, found the wall, found Emma's shoulder, and let herself be held up. Zoe drank from her like she was starving, and Emma's hand was working her other nipple, coaxing more milk, and Hazel's head was swimming with the wrongness and the rightness of it, the way their mouths knew her, the way their fingers found the places they'd always found.
"I want to fuck you," Emma said, her voice low and rough. "I've wanted to fuck you since the day I left. I was too proud to say it. I was too stupid."
"Then do it," Hazel heard herself say. "If you're going to apologize, do it. Show me you mean it."
Emma's mouth found hers. It was familiar and foreign, the same pressure, the same taste, but different now — softer, hungrier, edged with something like regret. Zoe's mouth had moved to Hazel's other breast, and Emma's hands were pushing the robe off her shoulders, and they were moving, stumbling toward the couch, toward the pile of blankets Hazel had left there that morning.
They fucked for an hour. It was not gentle. It was desperate and raw, the kind of sex you have when you're punishing yourself and forgiving yourself at the same time. Emma's fingers inside her, Zoe's mouth on her cunt, Hazel's own hands finding their way into their bodies, her own mouth on their skin. They knew her, all her weak spots, the places that made her gasp, the pressure that made her beg. And she knew theirs — the one who liked it rough, the one who needed slow. She gave them what they needed, and they gave it back, and somewhere in the middle of it, the milk kept flowing, staining the blankets, making everything slick and sweet and aching.
When they finally stopped, breathing hard, tangled on the couch, Zoe's face was wet. Not just from exertion. "We're sorry," she whispered. "We're so sorry. For how we treated you."
Hazel couldn't speak. She just pulled them closer, her arms around both of them, and let the tears come.
After a long silence, Emma lifted her head, her expression shifting. She looked younger suddenly, uncertain, her voice dropping into something childlike. "Hazel? Can you blow us up a balloon?"
Hazel blinked. "What?"
"Please?" Zoe echoed, her voice catching the same register. "The big ones. Like you used to. Please?"
Something in Hazel's chest loosened. She sat up, her body aching, and found the 24-inch balloons she'd left in the corner, still in their pack. She tore it open, pulled two out, and brought them to her lips. The latex was smooth and cool. She blew, slow and steady, watching them expand, watching the faces of her exes change — their eyes going round, their mouths falling open, their bodies curling toward her like children waiting for a story.
She tied them off just under full size, leaving them soft and yielding, and handed one to each of them. They took them like gifts, cradling them against their chests, their fingers pressing into the warm latex.
"Can we have some milk?" Emma asked, her voice tiny, her eyes fixed on Hazel's breasts. "Please?"
Hazel's throat tightened. She nodded, and they crawled to her, one on each side, their balloons nestled between their bodies and her hips. Emma's mouth found her left nipple, Zoe's found her right, and they began to suck, slow and rhythmic, like they had never done anything else. Hazel's hands found their hair, their shoulders, and she let her fingers trace down their bodies, finding their cunts still wet from earlier, and she began to finger them, slow and tender, as they nursed.
They hummed around her. They moaned. Their hips rolled against her hand. When they came, they bit down, not hard, just a sharp little pressure that made Hazel gasp and more milk spill into their mouths. They drank it greedily, and then they slowed, and their eyes grew heavy, and their bodies went slack against hers.
They fell asleep like that, still nursing, still clutching their balloons. Hazel lay beneath them, her arms around their waists, her fingers still inside them, and felt the slow rhythm of their breathing sync with hers. She did not sleep. She watched the light shift across the room, watched the fox balloons bob against the ceiling, and felt something in her chest settle into a new shape.
When Emma stirred, her eyes fluttering open, the blush that spread across her face was almost violent. She pulled away, her hand covering her mouth, and looked at Zoe, who was waking too, her own face burning.
"Oh god," Emma whispered. "I — we —"
"It's okay," Hazel said. Her voice was hoarse, but steady. "We're even now."
Emma stared at her. "Even?"
Hazel nodded. "You saw me. All of me. And you didn't run. That's all I needed."
Zoe's lip trembled. She reached out and gripped Hazel's hand, squeezed once, then let go. "Thank you," she said. "For letting us — for giving us —"
"Go," Hazel said. "Before it gets weird."
They laughed, wet and shaky, and they dressed in silence, and at the door Emma paused. "We'll leave you alone," she said. "We just — we wanted you to know. You were never the problem."
Hazel watched them walk down the path, their hands finding each other, their fingers interlacing. She closed the door, leaned against it, and let out a breath she'd been holding for years.
She was still in her robe, still sticky with milk and sweat and sex. She looked at the camera in the corner of the living room, the one she'd installed after the break-in, and felt a grin spread across her face. The footage was saved. The whole thing. She had blackmail material on both her exes, and she couldn't wait to show Ivy.
She pranced back to her room, her bare feet slapping against the floor, and climbed onto the bed. The fox balloons bobbed around her, their red scarves bright in the fading afternoon light. She picked one up, pressed her smile against the latex, and blew. The fox grew. And grew. Until it was full and round and perfect.
She tied it off, let it go, and watched it drift into the constellation of its siblings. Then she picked up another, her breath warm against the neck, and settled in to wait.
Ivy would be home soon. And Hazel had so much to tell her.