The sound that wakes Scottie isn't birds or traffic or even the neighbor's yappy dog. It's... weather. A gale-force whoooosh followed by an ominous glurk-glurk, then a high-pitched beep that can only be described as "appliance panic." For a split second she thinks Evergreen's getting its first hurricane. Then she remembers she owns a coffee maker, and she has a Vigilante.

She staggers out of the bedroom in a low-cut black tank and soft cotton pink shorts that should come with a "do not bend over" warning. The kitchen looks like a barista crime scene. Adrian stands at the counter in his socks, hair doing an optimistic curl, one hand pumping the machine's lever, the other mashing buttons in random combination like he's entering launch codes.

"Okay," He tells the coffee maker, deeply earnest, "I respect your boundaries. I just need caffeine. We can do this together. Don't be like that."

The machine beeps three times in what sounds suspiciously like rage. Water whines. Nothing happens.

"Why does it hate me?" He asks the ceiling, scandalized, "It's like it became sentient just to personally hate me."

"It did," Scottie says, voice still gravelly with sleep, "It told me."

Adrian turns, lights up, then blinks, because, yes, the shorts, "Oh. Wow. Um. Good morning." His eyes attempt to do the polite thing and fail once before he forces them north, "Those shorts are a hate crime. Against me. I mean, compliment. Just... wow."

Scottie arches a brow, walks past him with the lazy confidence of someone who knows a kitchen better than she knows herself, and taps three buttons on the machine in a precise sequence. The angry beep becomes a cheerful dee-doop. She twists the reservoir back into place, click, slides the carafe fully onto the warming plate, and lowers the lid. The pump catches, hum smooths, and rich coffee begins to stream like a long apology.

Adrian stares at her like she just spoke Parseltongue, "You're a witch."

"I pressed 'power' and 'brew' in the right order," She says, opening a cabinet, "Burn me at the stake."

She grabs two mugs without thinking, one white with a chipped rim, one heavy diner-style with a teal stripe. The teal one is Dylan's. It's always been Dylan's. She grabs the milk, gives it a shake, and pours.

Adrian, still staring at the machine as if it might bite him, says, "Seriously, though, how did you know--"

"Because it hates you, not me."

She slides the teal mug across the counter to him, takes the white one for herself. When his fingers curl around the teal ceramic, something in her stomach does a small, treacherous drop. She hadn't meant to do that. Her brain pulled the cup like a well-worn file from a drawer labeled morning. Habit is a ghost with good aim.

Adrian sips, burns his mouth, pretends he didn't, "Ow. Yum. Ow."

She watches his mouth leave a crescent on the rim. A flash: Dylan laughing into that same mug. Dylan's thumb knuckling the handle, absent, domestic. Her throat tightens. She puts her mug down a little too carefully.

Adrian is still trying on the flirt like a shirt he refuses to admit is two sizes too big, "Also, again, the shorts. They're pink. I didn't know you owned non-black. I'm thrilled for your wardrobe. And my eyes."

"Don't get attached," She says, blowing on her coffee, "They're for sleeping and threatening perverts who break into my kitchen at 7 a.m."

"I didn't break in, I whimpered in." He leans a hip against the counter and somehow manages to look both cocky and nervous, "Are you... okay?"

The truth: no. The other truth: she's vertical and caffeinating, "I'm conscious."

"That counts," He says softly, then, because he cannot leave silence alone for more than five seconds, adds, "I am very good with coffee makers that do not hate me. Which is none of them. So I'm not good with coffee makers. But I'm good with coffee as a concept."

She takes another sip. The coffee's strong and bitter and exactly right.

"We need a shower," She mutters, mostly to herself.

Adrian perks, "I mean, yeah, we could shower again, I'm pro-hygiene, I... wait."

His eyes go huge in slow motion, like a cartoon realizing he ran off a cliff.,"Do you mean... together?"

Scottie stares, "No."

"Right. Obviously. Separate showers. Different rooms. I am a feminist," He salutes with the teal mug and tries to gesture the moment into a joke, "Unless... nope. Separate. Copy."

Her mouth twitches despite the landmines in her chest, "You can take one after me. Towels are in the cabinet. And if you ever touch my hair without asking, I will break both your wrists."

He freezes,"I would never. I mean, I have hands, but I keep them to myself. Mostly. Unless I'm punching racists," He taps the air twice, like setting a rule in place: no hair, "Copy."

She watches the word copy settle on him for real. He means it. The tension in her shoulders drops a millimeter.

He takes another sip and winces again, "Lesson learned: mugs can retain heat."

"They can," She says dryly, and then flinches at herself because that mug. Her eyes catch on the teal stripe again and she feels the old habit load another memory. She looks away, sets her cup down with a firm clack, "I'm gonna shower before I start smashing more lamps."

"Do you need a--" He catches himself before he says hug, "I'll... be here. Not touching anything that breaks. Or your hair."

"Good plan," She turns to go, then pauses, "You sure you don't want to go first?"

His smile does that open, eager thing that punches straight through her defenses, "Oh, I want to do whatever you want me to do. Which is a weird sentence. But yeah, I'll shower after. I have a system," He lowers his voice conspiratorially, "It involves singing so the conditioner knows it's valued."

Her eyebrow goes up, "Noted."

As if the universe has been waiting for its cue, a tinny voice explodes out of Adrian's pocket:

🎵 I'm a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world 🎵

Scottie chokes on her coffee, "That's your ringtone?"

Adrian fumbles out his phone, "It's ironic. Or not. Don't judge me," He glances at the screen and winces, "It's Chris."

"Of course it is," She says, and pads down the hall.

In the bathroom, the pipes groan, then obey. Steam curls in the mirror's corners. Through the door, muffled but unmistakable, comes Adrian's side of the conversation, full of emphatic "No, I'm not telling you my location because boundaries!" followed by, "I am not hiding with your sister; I am strategically existing in her general vicinity!" and then," Well, maybe she invited me, did you ever think of that?" followed by a pause and a theatrical, "Wow, rude!"

Water pounds her shoulders, runs the grit off the night. She washes fast, face, hair, body, moving in the quick, efficient beats of someone who wants the heat and also wants out. She towel-dries without looking at her reflection too long, then armor up: ripped dark-blue jeans, combat boots, black tank, leather jacket. Hair: finger-combed, no fuss, no touching. She stares at herself once, hard. The mirror gives back a woman who looks like she knows what she's doing, or at least can bluff.

Back in the kitchen, Adrian's at the sink rinsing Dylan's mug like it's a bomb he's disarming. He's still on the phone, jammed between his shoulder and ear.

"-- no, I didn't say the shower was together, I said she showered, and then I--"

He sees Scottie, brightens, and hits end with perhaps more enthusiasm than etiquette requires, "Hey. You look like an album cover that would kill me."

"Good," She says, grabbing her mug, "So. Butterflies," She leans her hip on the counter, pins him with a look, "How many of these bug bitches are out there?"

Adrian opens his mouth with confidence and then visibly realizes he has absolutely no data.

"Conservative estimate?" He makes a sweeping gesture, "A bajillion. Liberal estimate: also a bajillion. Median: a lot," He squints, trying to math, "Murn probably has numbers. I have vibes. My vibe-based metric says: if someone is drinking maple sludge out of a mixing bowl at 3 a.m., nine times out of ten that's a Butterfly. The tenth time they're making extremely weird pancakes."

She snorts, "That's helpful. We'll put that on a pamphlet."

"Also," He adds helpfully, "if your boyfriend suddenly starts loving benches with his own face on them? Red flag."

Her face flinches before she can stop it. He sees it, curses himself without words, and backpedals gracefully into a joke, "But, like, the syrup is the giveaway. And the whole... bug-from-the-skull thing."

"No kidding," She says, dry-mouthed.

He wipes his hands on a dish towel and hangs it back perfectly (because he's noticed she likes things straight even when she's wrecked them). He keeps a careful distance; it's obvious now, the way he orients his body, inside her orbit but not touching it, waiting.

"Hey," He says, softening the edges, "If the number is 'too many,' I'll still stab them for you. Or with you. With is better. We can make a list. Operation: Bug Bitch Beatdown."

"You and your whiteboards," She says, and the corner of her mouth lifts, "We'll need a lot of markers."

He lights up like a kid promised fireworks, "I love markers."

The Barbie Girl theme bleats again on the counter. Adrian sighs, thumbs decline, then looks to her like, I can answer if you want me to. She shakes her head; she's grateful for the quiet.

He watches her drain the last of her coffee, "You okay if I take that shower? Separately. Respectfully."

She nods, "Towels under the sink. Don't use the fancy one, it's a lie. And don't sing anything that'll get stuck in my head or I'll smother you with your hoodie."

"I would die as I lived," He says solemnly, "Moist and humming."

"Go," She says, pointing with her mug.

He hesitates, then:

"Hey, one more thing. Teal mug is... a thing, right? If you want me to never use it again, I won't. Like, ever ever."

She swallows, surprised by the offer, the way he saw it without poking it.

"I'll... switch it out," She says, and reaches past him to drop the teal one in the back of a cabinet, replacing it with a plain black mug. It's a small ceremony. It costs more than it looks, "Problem solved."

Adrian nods like she just told him where to stand during a lightning storm, "Copy."

He pads down the hall, humming something suspiciously like Barbie Girl in a minor key (rude, but muted), and Scottie leans her hands on the counter and breathes. The apartment is clean. The coffee is gone. The day is already the kind that asks more than it gives.

From the bathroom: water, then a muffled, "Ow, hot, no, I like it, okay, ow."

She rolls her eyes and, despite everything, smiles.

When he emerges ten minutes later, hair damp and chaos-tousled, hoodie swapped for his suit, she's laced her boots and is checking her phone. No messages from Chris. Four from Denise. One from Calvin: Need to hit the heavy bag later? She types probably and pockets the phone.

"Ready?" Adrian asks, and for once the word doesn't come with a joke attached. It's earnest. It's a promise he wants to make good on.

She shrugs into her jacket, armor clicking into place, and nods, "Let's go find out how many bug bitches a bajillion is."

He grins, "Field research. My specialty."

They move for the door in step. He gets there first and opens it without fuss, then steps back to give her space to pass without brushing against him. She feels the absence of the accidental touch she's been braced to hate, and the restraint lands like respect instead of distance.

The ride to the record store feels like it could snap in half.

Adrian drives, suited up but bare-faced, the mask resting on the dash like a silent chaperone. His hands sit at ten and two, way too careful for a man who normally drives like he's in a chase scene nobody else can see. The car hums under them.

Scottie sits in the passenger seat, hair damp from her second shower, leather jacket zipped but loose. She looks out the window, chin propped against her hand. Her pink shorts are gone, traded for her armor, ripped jeans, boots, black tank. But Adrian remembers. And he keeps sneaking looks at her, as if the window reflection might tell him something the real her won't.

Neither of them talks. The tension in the car hums louder than the engine.

When they pull up to the abandoned record store, Adrian hops out fast, jogging around to open her door. He does it with a goofy little bow, but his eyes are serious. She raises a brow, mutters, "Thanks, chauffeur," and slides out. For a second, their shoulders almost brush. Neither acknowledges it.

Inside, the place still smells faintly of vinyl and mildew. The mismatched jumble of two tables sits at the center, a sad attempt at a conference room. Scottie slides into the seat between Adrian and Chris. Immediately, she can feel it, Chris's heat radiating like an angry furnace. She doesn't need to look to know his jaw is tight.

Murn stands at the head of the table, remote in hand. The TV hums to life, displaying a cheap PowerPoint.

"A year ago," Murn begins, voice clipped, "Alan Kupperberg, the billionaire CEO of Waresoft, and pop singer Vandalia perished in a plane crash. During their autopsies, small insect-like winged creatures, presumably extraterrestrial, were found in their skulls. This is when we first became aware of the butterflies."

Scottie blinks at the screen, two glossy photos, both stamped "DECEASED." Her stomach twists. So Dylan wasn't the first.

"Since then," Murn continues, "we've found the creatures in a handful of high-profile politicians, celebrities, and titans of industry. They enter the human body through one of its orifices and burrow through to the brain where they then are in control of the body."

The next slide clicks over. Two crude animations play: one butterfly sliding down a throat, another awkwardly waddling toward a cartoon butt.

Chris points, "They go through the butt?"

"I think that's just some, uh... creativity on the part of whomever did the animation," Murn says flatly.

Economos sighs, "The butt is an orifice, okay?"

"That means they'd have to crawl through poop," Adrian cuts in, scandalized, "Just 'cause they're aliens doesn't make them gross. Bigotry."

Scottie hides a smirk behind her hand.

Chris leans back, "Superman's an alien. He's got a poop fetish."

Adrian jerks toward him, "What?"

"Get the fսck out of here," Adebayo groans.

"Oh yeah," Chris presses, smirking, "He uber-liebes the old scheisse, as I understand it."

Harcourt glares, "Where do you get this nonsense?"

"Google," Chris says smugly.

"Well, it's not true."

"You know more than Google?" Chris shoots back, "Well, congratulations."

Murn pinches the bridge of his nose, "The butterflies' unique genetic structure and chemistry interact with the hosts' bodies, giving them strength far beyond that of a human being."

The next slide: a chimp on one side, a human silhouette on the other with a butterfly inside.

"And what's the chimp for?" Adebayo asks.

"Chimpanzees have four times the strength of human beings, so they're both strong," Economos explains.

Chris snorts, "Yeah, and we're supposed to get that just by looking at this, Dye-Beard?"

Scottie groans, "Your jealousy over his ability to grow a beard is obvious. Stop hiding your sad, sad feelings and just man up."

Adrian leans forward, earnest, "I thought that man and the chimp were friends. I was thinking they were about to go on an adventure together."

Scottie turns to him, eyes softening, "Oh, sweetie."

Chris whips his head around, "Why does he get the nice voice?!"

"Because he's nice, butt brains!" Scottie fires back.

Chris sputters, "Don't call me butt brains, butt brains!"

"Did you just steal my insult?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Princess Peach, I didn't realize you owned the word butt brains!"

Murn cuts them off, voice sharp, "As I was saying..." The slide changes, "This viscous amber fluid has been found on the premises of all the dead butterflies. Lab studies show the fluid's genetic structure is dissimilar to anything on this planet. The fluid seems to be the butterflies' only food source. Which makes what Leota discovered last night potentially significant. This was on the bulletin board in the Goff home. Leota noticed that this is also where Annie Sturphausen was employed."

The slide explodes onto the screen with a tacky effect. Chris bursts into laughter, "You fսcking suck at PowerPoint, Dye-Beard!"

"Oh my god, stop calling him that!" Scottie says, exasperated.

Economos rubs his temples, "Yeah, well, you can do it next time. It's not like I enjoy doing this."

"Yeah, you do!" Chris shoots back, "It's amazing, the incredible amount of time you put into this presentation, and how incredibly shitty it still is!"

"Okay, Peacemaker, shut up," Murn snaps.

Economos bristles, "Dude, I didn't mean to put your father in prison."

Chris slams his palms onto the table so hard the pens rattle, "Then why'd you put him there, you fat fսck?"

"Because I couldn't think of anybody else!"

"What about Ariana Grande, or Drake? Brad Pitt? Doug the Pug? Khloe Kardashian, the Red Tiger from Voltron, Fran Tarkenton, Joe Montana, Joe Mantegna, Eddie Murphy, Michael Jordan, Michael B. Jordan, BTS? Eugene Levy? John Lovitz?"

"Fuck, dude, half--"

"Shut the fսck up and listen, man! I'm giving you a list of people you could've done. Danny DeVito, Will Ferrell, Howard Stern, Baba Booey, RobinOphelia Quivers, Alice Cooper, Ozzy Osbourne, Sharon Osbourne. Bill Cosby, he just got out, he's got time on his hands! Amy Winehouse!"

"Dude, Amy Winehouse is fսcking dead!" Economos explodes.

"Optimus Prime, Shipwreck, Cobra Commander, the fucking cսոts from Riverdale!" Chris barrels on.

Economos throws his hands up, "All right, next time I fucking have to frame somebody, it'll be one of the thousands of people you just mentioned!"

"Yeah, tell that to my dad!" Chris yells.

"Peacemaker, shut the fսck up!" Murn barks, "Do you all want to be here till tomorrow? The point is, the raw amber fluid is potentially processed and bottled at Glan Tai Bottling Company. Glan Tai is in Little Cork, about two hours northwest of here, so you all are gonna take a field trip and see what you can find out. I'm going to stay back and deal with the White Dragon situation."

The slide explodes again. Chris can't help himself, he laughs so hard he snorts. He flips open his notebook, scrawls Eat a dick, dyebeard! in big block letters, and angles it toward Economos.

"Nice penmanship, asshоlе," Economos mutters.

Scottie rolls her eyes, snatches her own notebook, and scribbles Fuck you in sharp ink. She slides it across the table.

Chris looks between them, indignant, "What the hell, Scottie-girl? You're supposed to be on my side!"

"I am," She says sweetly, "That's why I'm telling you to shut the fuck up."

Adrian tries not to laugh and fails, snorting into his elbow. Chris shoots daggers at him.

Murn rubs his forehead like he's regretted every life choice that led him here, "If we're finished with the kindergarten routine, we have work to do."

Scottie leans back in her chair, folding her arms. Her eyes flick to Adrian, still grinning like a kid caught doodling in class, and then to Chris, still sulking with his jaw clenched. The tension doesn't ease, not even with the humor crackling like static around the table.

If anything, it sharpens.

—

They break like a huddle after Murn's briefing, papers, cables, and bad attitudes scattering across the old record shop. Chris is already zipping his duffel with theatrical zips like he's scoring a montage. Adebayo tucks backup batteries and a first-aid kit into a milk crate. Adrian methodically checks the clasps on his suit, then scoops up a handful of throwing knives and, after a beat, puts two back like he's practicing restraint.

Scottie just... stands there.

There's a pile of gear on a road case, flashlights, ear protection, a portable radio, a coil of paracord, and she can't tell which piece means you belong and which means you're in the way. She shoves her hands in her jacket pockets and rocks once on her heels.

"You know you don't have to treat him like that," Adebayo says, snapping a latch shut.

"What?" Chris looks up, genuinely baffled.

"John," She says, nodding toward Economos, who's carefully rolling HDMI cables like they're rare snakes, "You hurt his feelings. He worked hard on those graphics."

"Come on," Chris says, hands spreading in a tragicotry of innocence, "I think maybe you're discounting how funny some of the shit I was saying was."

"It's not funny calling him Dye-Beard for the thousandth time when he's told you repeatedly he doesn't like it."

"See?" Scottie chimes, patting the coil of paracord like it's a cat, "She gets it."

"That's just Peacemaker, man," Adrian offers, trying to help and making it worse. He slides a magazine into his sidearm with a gentle click, "He's always giving people nicknames. Being a bully's just part of his personality."

Chris blinks, "What?"

"Like how you used to call my brother Prince Charming," Adrian says, matter-of-fact.

"Your brother was a handsome man. That was a compliment."

"I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say I don't think he considered it a compliment that you called him Prince Charming because his penis was shaped like a scepter. He called me Thimble."

Scottie pauses mid-zip on a med pouch, "...Thimble?"

"Yeah," Adrian says, unembarrassed in that Adrian way, "I was a late bloomer. I didn't go through puberty until my mid-20s. I mean, I didn't care 'cause I don't have emotions like people do, but the other guys, after Chris came up with a nickname for them, usually based on their penises, they would just walk into the other room and sob, because that would become their name for the rest of their life."

Adebayo squints, "Why are you seeing their penises?"

"It's a locker room, dude," Chris says, incredulous, "What am I gonna do? Look at a towel?"

"So you just stare at each other's dicks and come up with names for them?"

"Yeah. My friend Veiny McVeinerstein said I was like a gypsy, but with dicks instead of palms," He stands taller, weirdly proud, "But, hey, I got bullied too."

"How?" Adebayo challenges.

"By kids calling me a bully all the time, and telling me I was abusive. Hey, that hurt my feelings!" He points a profound finger, "Plus, I think we're missing what's important here, and that's how much Economos sucks at PowerPoint."

"Look," Adebayo says, gentler, "just think about how you talk to him, okay?"

"What happened to the good old days where you could just non-stop fսck with somebody without them claiming to be a victim?"

Scottie rolls her eyes and gives him a few pitying pats on the shoulder, "There, there."

She drifts toward Adebayo. Behind them, Adrian leans in to Chris, voice conspiratorial, "You have to admit, it was kind of sweet how he wanted that monkey and that man to be friends."

Out in the alley, the van waits, food-truck bones painted over with government beige and stuffed with radios and racks. Adebayo and Scottie climb in first; the interior smells like warm plastic and old carpet cleaner. Harcourt's in the driver's seat already. She glances in the rearview, takes Scottie in.

"I don't know how you lived with that and didn't shoot your brains out," Harcourt says, reaching to adjust the rearview.

"Easy," Scottie says, sliding into the second row, "Because my racist, white supremacist sperm donor didn't believe in letting women shoot guns."

That lands. The van holds its breath for a second. Harcourt nods, a fraction, "Right."

Chris and Adrian tumble in a moment later. Chris calls shotgun like it's a birthright and folds himself into the passenger seat. Adrian plants next to Scottie, leaving an inch of respectful air between their elbows and tapping his knee to some internal drumline.

Harcourt turns the key; the van shudders awake. The second they're rolling, Chris jabs the radio and glam metal explodes into the cabin, high guitars, hair and hunger.

After an hour, Harcourt clicks it off with one sharp poke, "I can't take this."

"Not a fan of the Swedish metal there, eh, Harcourt?" Chris asks, wounded patriot of nonsense.

"Not especially, no."

"We could always do a Whitesnake power ballad," He offers.

"How about some jazz?" Adebayo counters, deadpan.

"Jazz?" Chris scoffs, "I'd rather listen to Vigilante's quiet farts back there than jazz."

"No, I didn't!" Adrian blurts, as if accused in court.

Chris starts making fart noises, objectively excellent ones, like he's had practice. Scottie snorts despite herself and then scowls to cancel it.

"Hey," Adrian says, seizing on an adult topic, "don't we need some sort of search warrant going into this place?"

"Anytime anyone officially starts to deal with the butterfly situation, someone higher up in the government shuts them down," Harcourt says, eyes on the road.

"Which is why this task force doesn't officially exist," Adebayo adds, "Waller is funding us by secretly diverting funds from other operations, which... leaves us on our own."

"I'm sorry," Scottie says, leaning forward between the front seats, "I don't think I'm hearing you correctly. Did you just say this task force that's dealing with a literal alien invasion has no support from any government agency, at all?"

"No," Economos says from the back, flipping a clipboard page, "You pretty much got it."

"So, it's just the six of us against an alien invasion?" Chris asks.

"And Murn," Harcourt says.

"Well, I was counting Murn, just not Dye-Beard back there 'cause he's fսcking useless."

"Dude," Adebayo warns quietly, "What'd I say?"

Chris exhales like she's personally offended rock, "Sorry, Economos. Geez."

"That sounded very sincere," Economos says, "Thank you very much."

"Yes," Harcourt says crisply, "It's just the seven of us."

"Ooh, we could do some pop metal," Chris says, brightening, and brandishes a cracked jewel case, "Poison?"

Harcourt squints at the cover, "Are those men?"

"I believe their preferred pronoun is 'long live rock,' and you are sounding awful awesome-phobic," He taps the dash like a podium, "Uh, B.T.-dubs... governmental insiders blocking your efforts sounds a lot like the deep state."

"It's not a deep state," Harcourt says, already losing the argument, "It's a collection of people... you know, deep within the government, who are... manipulating the... All right, it's kind of like a deep state."

"You guys got any Hanoi Rocks up there?" Economos asks, tentative.

Chris twists around in his seat, eyes alight, "You... know Hanoi Rocks?"

Harcourt: "Who's Hanoi Rocks?"

"Only the greatest band of all time," Chris declares, "They're the original glam metal. They started it all... leather, teased hair, spandex."

"Hard to believe their contributions to culture aren't more widely heralded," Harcourt says dryly.

Adebayo leans into the bit, "I mean, so many streets in this country named after Martin Luther King Jr., but not a single Hanoi Rocks Avenue. What's up with that?"

Economos rolls up his sleeve and shoves his forearm between the seats. A modest tattoo curls there, the ink a little blown out with time.

"Lith Street Kids?" Adrian reads, squinting.

"No," Economos says, offended, "It says 11th Street Kids."

"Dude, that's one of their best songs!" Chris beams, "Where'd you get that?"

"I saw them in Finland when I was 14 during a year abroad," Economos says, tone softening with the memory, "Got this right after."

"Fսck yeah, dude. Hanoi Rocks it is. Sorry, Adebayo, no Spyro Gyra or Kenny G for you."

Harcourt, perhaps outnumbered for once, flicks to a playlist. The opening riff of "11th Street Kids" tumbles out, bright, messy, young. Chris is instantly all shoulder-shimmy and steering-wheel drum fills. Adrian joins in, off-beat but enthusiastic, snapping on the two and the five like he made up new numbers. He bumps his shoulder toward Scottie, eyes pleading. C'mon. Live a little.

She bites back a smile and declines with a tiny headshake that is 70% no and 30% maybe later. He accepts the terms like they're a signed treaty.

"Don't be like the mean lady up front," He stage-whispers, "You're sisters in spirit. Twinsies, even."

Harcourt and Scottie say in perfect unison, "No we're not."

Adrian holds up one finger, launching into the world's most earnest Venn diagram, "Okay, similarities: black tank tops."

Scottie glances down, "...Coincidence."

"Leather jackets with a past," He points at both of them without touching, "Check."

Harcourt's jaw ticks, "Thin ice."

"Deadly cheekbones," He continues, undeterred, "The kind that could open mail. Weaponized eye-rolls. Complicated feelings about authority. Deep-rooted competence masked as apathy, which is hot, no offense. Thighs that could crack walnuts. Again: respect."

"Stop talking about my thighs," Harcourt says, a thread of amusement tied to the threat.

"I'm including them in my will," He says, very sincere.

Scottie adds, "You forgot resting murder face."

"See?" Adrian crows, delighted, "Twins."

Harcourt's mouth almost curves. Almost, "If we crash, it'll be because you wouldn't shut up."

"Then I die how I lived," He says happily, "Chatty and impressed by women."

Scottie lets out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding and lets the music slide into her ribs. Through the windshield, the highway unspools, pine stands, low hills, sky the color of a bruise healing. The van rattles and hums like a stubborn animal. In the rearview, Chris watches her when he thinks she isn't looking; she catches him and doesn't look away for half a beat. Something steady passes between them, older than riffs and arguments.

Scottie tips her head back against the van's wall, feeling the recognition the moment in her shoulders. For the first time since the night everything broke in her kitchen, she can feel something else pushing up against the grief. Not relief. Not hope. Just... momentum. The sense that moving, any direction, is better than standing still.

Chris fists the air on the chorus, yelling, "We're the 11th Street Kids!" off-key and too loud.

Adrian howls harmony that is somehow worse and better at once. He leans toward Scottie, eyes bright, "Say it. Just once. For morale."

She exhales through her nose, watches the trees blur.

"Fine," She says, under her breath, barely audible, "We're the 11th Street kids."

Adrian hears it, because of course he does, and lights up like a stage.

Harcourt turns the music down a notch.

Chris opens his mouth; Scottie just slaps her palm over it without looking, like swatting a mosquito. He mmmphs into her hand, eyes offended, then, reluctantly, smiles around it.

Adrian watches the motion with the reverence of a pilgrim seeing a miracle.

"Team-building," He whispers, "Nailed it."

✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦
✦