Morning sifts in through the blinds like soft gold, warm enough to paint the edge of the bookshelf and the frame of the old concert poster. The apartment is quiet in that new-day way, radiator clicking, a bird outside practicing one note over and over, the soft snore of the refrigerator. Scottie blinks awake to the familiar weight of Adrian's arm around her waist and the even rise-and-fall of his chest against her back. His breath tickles the crown of her head. For a few long seconds she does nothing but listen to the rhythm: there, steady; here, safe.

She slides out of his hold with the care of a bomb tech, grinning when his fingers open and close once, reflexively reaching.

"I'm not leaving," She whispers, not sure if he can hear it. He murmurs something that might be her name or might be a very dignified snore.

Coffee. Coffee feels like the right spell to keep this morning soft. On a petty little impulse that feels huge, steals his T-shirt from the chair. It's soft and warm from the night and hangs long on her frame, long, but not long enough to be polite. Pink peeks out at the hem when she moves. She glances down, bites a smile. Fine. Let him look.

In the kitchen she works the machine by muscle memory, fixes the mistake he always makes with the water line, waits out the first sputtering drip with her hip against the counter. The smell blooms, roasty, a little bitter, grounded. She pours two mugs. When she turns, her reflection in the dark window is a girl in someone else's shirt, hair messy, eyes awake in a way that isn't panic. She lets the sight land.

Back in the living room, Adrian is awake in the way cats are awake, still, but tuned to her. He's propped on an elbow, bare from the waist up, curls a little wild, blinking like sunshine is a personal compliment. His gaze finds her and... stalls. His expression goes from pleased to reverent to short-circuited, like he's watching the Aurora Borealis stride across his living room wearing his laundry.

"Oh," He says, absolutely floored, "Oh."

"Coffee," She offers, pretending she didn't notice the way his pupils just hijacked his whole face.

He nods too fast, "That's... I mean yes please, and also, wow," His eyes flicker down and then very deliberately back to hers, "You're, uh, wearing my shirt."

"Observation skills: strong," She teases, setting his mug on the coffee table. She has to bend to reach; the hem rides up; pink says hello. She hears his inhale catch.

And then, because he is him, his hand slides, playful and quick, to the waistband of her panties and gives a gentle, cheeky tug. Not mean, not rough, not sneaky, just that goofy, flustering, "is this okay?" mischief he asked permission for last night. The elastic zips a little; heat zips a lot.

"Adrian!" She yelps, the sound jumping out of her before she can catch it.

He looks both impossibly proud and instantly concerned, "Too much?"

She's blushing, and she hates and loves that he can see it.

"It's fine," She says, eyes narrowed, cheeks hot. She swats his chest, more scandal than smack, "You're incorrigible."

"Is that like encouraging but with more pants?" He asks, eyes bright, already half-laughing.

"Drink your coffee, butthead."

They curl into the couch. She tucks her legs across his lap; he settles his hands around her shins as if they're the most interesting objects in the universe. He is still shirtless because she is wearing his shirt, which he keeps registering like a personal miracle every forty seconds. The morning is friendly to them. The lamp is off; the light is gentle; the world outside is doing whatever it does without them for once.

"Meds later," He says, sipping, "But first I have a practical question that is very unsexy but also very sexy because safety is sexy."

She arches a brow, "Proceed."

"Birth control," He says plainly, "What's your situation?"

"IUD," She says, as plainly, "Had it put in last year. For two months I became an unhinged cryptid. I bled, I cried at tire commercials, I yelled at a stapler, and I had a sincere plan to adopt every animal I saw on the internet."

He nods gravely, "So... Tuesday, but with an IUD."

"Exactly," She says, laughing into her mug, "But then it calmed down and now it's... fine. Effective. Low drama."

"Great," He says, "I am also--" he wiggles his fingers to find the right word, "clean. Recently tested. Negative across the fun alphabet. I can forward you the PDF with the boring doctor font."

She kicks him gently in the thigh with the side of her foot, "I'm clean too. I get regular screenings."

He lights up like she just told him owls invented ska.

"We are responsible adults," He announces, delighted, "I knew it. We're like, if a PSA could cuddle."

"Truly the sexiest sentence," She deadpans.

He laughs and sets his mug down, then, without thinking, starts playing with her feet. It's unconscious at first: thumbs circling the arch, fingers fidgeting at her anklebone, a little press here, a little roll there. He's focused in that way he gets, half-scientist, half-kid with a new gadget. She watches his face more than his hands. Every time she shifts, his eyes flicker, fascinated, like he's discovering a new note he didn't know an instrument could make.

"Do you," She starts, and then her brain hands her the answer before he does. The fidget isn't random. It's interest. He isn't shy about it; he's just... absorbed.

"Is this okay?" He asks quickly, catching himself, hands going still, "I can stop. Or do more. Or switch to elbow massage which is my least sexy massage."

She tilts her head, thinking. Teasing him is a temptation; trusting him is the better one.

"It's okay," She says, and then, slow and deliberate, drags the ball of her foot along his thigh to his knee and back, a barely-there pressure that turns his attention incandescent.

His breath tips.

"Oh," He says again, softer this time, like the word is a secret. He doesn't lunge or lose the thread; he just... glows, eyes bouncing from her face to her ankle to her face again, reading yeses.

She keeps it playful: a tap under his chin with her toe, a slide along his forearm, a little press into his palm like she's handing him a riddle. He answers with the simplest solution, kiss to the inside of her ankle; a thumb stroke that is neither greedy nor timid. The buzz between them climbs a notch. She sips coffee and pretends to study the bookshelf while he pretends not to be completely and absolutely undone.

"Okay," He says after a minute, voice gone slightly ragged but still very much him, "so, hypothetically, if you were to, say, continue doing that while I gave an unsolicited TED Talk about how toes are the fingers of the feet--"

"Don't you dare," She says, laughing, "That is a war crime."

"I contain multitudes," He says, but he keeps the commentary to small noises and yes-please eyes.

They coast there, warm and ridiculous and dangerously fond, until her coffee is gone and his is half-full because he keeps forgetting to drink it. When she sets her mug down, she leans forward to kiss him, a morning, soft-mouth kiss that still manages to fumble his off switch. He chases it when she pulls away.

"Shower," She says, sliding her legs from his lap, "Before I smell like we never left the couch."

He's so far gone he simply nods and then, a beat later, actually processes words, "Do you need, uh, towels? A lifeguard? I can bring water to the water. I watched this porn where the actress did a very bad job at lifeguarding-- it was a bathtub, Scottie. A fucking bathtub!"

"I've showered before," She says, amused. She stands and the hem of his shirt skims the top of her thighs; his gaze goes reverent again, then he drags his eyes back up like he's reminding himself about gravity.

She takes two steps toward the bathroom, then pauses. Mischief clicks into place like a gear. She hooks her thumbs in the waistband of the pink and slides them, slow and unhurried, down her legs. His breath stops in his throat; time politely pulls over to let the moment pass. She steps out, pads back to the couch, and, without ceremony, tucks the soft bundle into the waistband of his boxers where it peeks like a secret.

His face does six different expressions in under a second and lands on "completely obliterated."

"Marry me," He says, helpless and earnest and tragic, like a knight greeting a dragon.

She barks a laugh and boops his nose with a finger, "Don't propose while my underwear is in your pants."

"So... later," He says, hopeful, "Not a no."

"Not a no," She echoes, and the words ring in the air like a toast.

She kisses his temple, quick, fond, and heads to the bathroom. He watches her go with a soft, stunned smile and then looks down at his waistband like it's a relic. He adjusts himself on the couch, picks up his mug, sets it down again, picks up the TV remote, forgets why, sets that down, then notices her feet are no longer in his lap and sighs like a poet.

From the bathroom, the water starts, steam curling into the hall. He calls out, "Do you want your own shirt back?"

"You can borrow it," She calls over the rush, "Consent pending a laundry agreement!"

He leans his head back on the cushion and closes his eyes, smiling up at the ceiling like it just told him a secret. He reaches into his waistband, pulls the pink bundle free like treasure, and tucks it carefully into the pocket of the hoodie on the chair, patting the fabric as if to say be good.

When she emerges, hair damp, skin dewy, still in his T-shirt, he looks at her the way he did the first time she walked into his life and wrecked his careful, compartmentalized heart: like she is a meteor and a map, both.

"Round two of coffee?" He asks, voice steadying into playful.

"Round two," She says, stealing another kiss on the way to the kitchen, the kind you take because you can.

He watches her go, hand absently rubbing the spot on his chest where she swatted him, and thinks, not for the first time, that survival is a thousand boring choices and a few miraculous ones, and right now he's thrilled to be bored with her in between the miracles.

"Also," He calls, because he can't help himself, "for the record, I'm going to be extremely respectful today, but if your feet make any sudden moves, I cannot be held responsible."

"Noted," She says, laughter in her voice, kettle already hissing, "Safety talk at noon. Wedgie policy review at one."

"Outstanding," He says, settling back, utterly, catastrophically content.

—

The Vigilante Mobile smells like leather wipes, spearmint gum, and a suspicious amount of metal polish. Adrian has cleaned it within an inch of its life and then taped a tiny plastic owl to the dash "for aerodynamics," which Scottie decides is the cutest lie she's ever heard.

The drive-in rises out of the outskirts like a lit-up postcard, string lights over the snack stand, kids throwing a foam football between pickups, the big screen flickering with pre-show trivia. It's "Backwards Night," which means a hand-painted sign announces: LAST REEL FIRST. CHOICES > OUTCOMES. Adrian parks near the back row for "optimal smooching angles but suboptimal line-of-sight for narcs."

They are teenagers tonight. Irredeemably.

They buy enough food for a sleepover camp: two hot dogs each, a bag of popcorn the size of a toddler, Red Vines, chocolate-covered raisins, Hi-C fruit punch for her, a fountain soda so large it has its own tides for him. Adrian carries the loot like a victorious raccoon. Scottie snatches a Red Vine, bites, uses it as a straw for her punch, and wiggles her eyebrows at him. He actually claps.

"You're a scientist," He says, awed.

"Mm-hmm," She says around straw-licorice, "PhD in sugar engineering."

"Doctor Scottie," He says, reverent, "Marry," He catches himself, blushing, then adds quickly, "me to your research."

She jabs him with the licorice, "Nice save."

They settle in: windows cracked, seats reclined just enough, blanket across their laps that Adrian claims is "for stealth" and Scottie claims is "so I don't freeze my butt off." The opening sequence, actually the ending, blazes across the screen: tears, triumph, the last line delivering like a door closing. Watching backwards is disorienting at first, then hypnotic. Each scene unspools toward an earlier choice, like tugging a thread and finding a sweater.

"I get it," Scottie murmurs after twenty minutes, fingers tucked in the crook of his elbow, "When you start with consequences, you can't pretend the small decisions don't matter. You see the math."

Adrian nods, face lit blue, "It's like... the movie is a dissection. In a fun way."

"Hot date talk," She says, amused, "Dissection."

"Also, your hand is warm," He confesses, quietly.

She smiles at the screen, "That's the popcorn grease."

He grins, then, like a switch in him flips to pure mischief, he bumps her knee with his, lowers his voice to conspiratorial, "What if I put my arm around you in a way that is extremely smooth?"

"I would die of shock," She says, not looking away from the film.

He very deliberately, very theatrically, drapes an arm across her shoulders. He wiggles his fingers once in triumph, then squeezes the back of her neck in a small, grounding hello that makes her feel strangely, sweetly 17.

The movie unwinds. They narrate it to each other in whispers, guessing at motivations, identifying hinge points. Scottie has a talent for ruthless empathy; Adrian has a talent for noticing the tiny prop that moves from one scene to another like a breadcrumb. He points out a blue lighter that keeps showing up; she bets five bucks it belongs to the antagonist's dead sister. They shake on it like bookies.

Halfway through, she ends up half in his lap without meaning to, her legs flung across his, her shoulder wedged into the curve of him, the blanket a pretense and a dare. He's a courteous lap, hands careful at her waist, checking, always checking, even when his pupils do the galaxy-thing. She turns her face up to say something clever about symbolism and instead kisses him, and the world narrows to the warm, fizzy point where their mouths meet.

Outside, engines purr. Somewhere, a baby squalls. The night smells like popcorn salt and a coming storm. Inside the Vigilante Mobile, time goes syrup-thick. They break to breathe, laugh at nothing, kiss again. His thumb strokes a line at the base of her neck that feels like yes. She climbs all the way onto him before she's made the decision with words, knees bracketing his hips, the blanket a tent over misbehavior.

"Hi," He whispers, eyes gone soft and wild at once, hands hovering like always until she folds them onto her, "You're my favorite choice."

"Shut up," She says fondly, and kisses him so he will.

They make out with the enthusiasm and lack of coordination of two people who are very into each other and very into ignoring a movie. Heat builds, humor crackles. He murmurs her name like a punch line to a joke he's been waiting years to tell. She rolls her hips, slow and deliberate, testing the line they're toeing.

That's when the flashlight hits the window: a rectangle of blinding white, then a silhouette in a fluorescent vest. Scottie freezes, forehead pressed to Adrian's, his glasses now halfway down his nose. He blinks, raises an innocent hand to shield his eyes. The employee's voice comes through the glass like a monsoon through a screen door.

"Knock it off!"

"Sorry!" They chorus, far too quickly. Scottie dissolves into giggles she can't smother. Adrian bites his lip to keep from laughing out loud, which makes him look like he absolutely did it on purpose (he did not).

The flashlight withdraws with a long-suffering sigh. Scottie drops her forehead to Adrian's shoulder and shakes until the laughter burns off, then climbs back to her own seat, both of them breathless and 100% not chastened.

They behave for the final third, mostly. Fingers graze and tangle under the blanket; shared candy passes like contraband. The last-first scene arrives: the beginning that now means ten different things. Credits crawl bottom-to-top like they're obeying the night's rules.

Adrian gives a very serious review: "Five stars, would time-travel again."

Scottie agrees.

On the drive back, the highway is a ribbon of quiet. Scottie kicks off her boots and tucks her feet under her. Adrian drives with one hand, other arm across the console, ready to hold her hand or wave at her feet should they require attention. His energy has shifted into that post-date giddiness that looks like humming without sound.

"Your movie theory was right," She says, watching the lights go by, "Choices stick."

"I love being right," He says, so modestly it's impossible to mind.

She turns her head to study him, profile carved in dashboard glow, hair in curls that refuse order, mouth soft because he feels safe. There's a thing she's been circling. She picks it up now.

"Adrian," She says, "I've never been to your place."

His hands remain steady on the wheel. Everything else about him shifts.

"Ah," He says, breezy in the way that means he's just swallowed a live bug, "My place is... very exciting. Rich with... moths. And, uh, mom."

She blinks, "Mom moths?"

"I live with my mom," He says in a rush, then adds, wincing, "It's temporary, in the cosmic sense, which is true of everything, so technically that's not a lie."

"Okay," She says, simply.

He glances at her, clearly braced for a judgment that doesn't arrive, "She's nice, in a way that could kill a man. And she... likes to ask questions while offering snacks, which is very dangerous because you say yes to both and then you're trapped in a quiche interrogation."

Scottie smiles, "That sounds terrifying."

"It is," He says, relieved she's teasing him and not flinching, "Also I--" He makes a small, helpless gesture, "I want you to see me not in a museum exhibit."

"I don't need a grand tour," She says, "I need a you," She tips her head, "If you're not comfortable taking me there yet, that's fine."

He exhales, shoulders dropping, "Thank you. I will. Later. After I hide all my... swords."

"Please don't," She says, snorting, "That's a third of your personality."

He brightens.

"And your apartment is the best place anyway," He declares, practical now that the mortification has passed, "It has your coffee machine and your couch and your shower that I now respect from a distance even though I want to propose to it."

"Good," She says, "Because you're invited. Again."

He tries not to grin like a middle schooler who just got asked to stay late after the dance. Fails.

"Okay," He says, squeaky, then clears his throat into something cooler, "Okay. Yeah, totally. Cool."

By the time her apartment door clicks shut behind them, they are both wound tight with all the held-back.

Scottie pivots, presses Adrian into the door with hands that know exactly where they want him. He goes willingly, a grin breaking into something hungrier the second her mouth finds his.

"Hi," He whispers against her lips, as if they haven't been making out for hours, "I like you."

"I like you, too," She murmurs, kissing him harder.

She takes his wrists and pins them lightly above his head, fingers laced; he inhales through his teeth, surprised and delighted, and goes very still in that way he does when he's letting her drive. She rises onto her toes to chase his mouth, and he bends to meet her, all cooperation and longing, zero resistance.

Clothes start to go: jacket peeled, T-shirt tugged (his, which somehow makes him blush and beam at once), her fingertips skimming over the new scar on his side as if to say still here. He stutters a breath.

"You can, uh, boss me," He says, earnest and wrecked, "It's extremely educational."

"Good student," She says, smiling against his jaw.

He makes a grateful noise, "I study all night."

"Promise?" She asks, and it's not a joke even though it sounds like one.

He nods so hard his curls bounce, "Promise."

Later, when they come up for air and the door is finally allowed to breathe, he'll say something like, "I'm very happy we got kicked out by a flashlight," and she'll say, "Knock it off," and kiss him until he can't say anything at all. For now, the only outcome that matters is the one they're choosing, hands on each other, backs to the door, the future rolling toward them in the right direction for once.

—

Morning hits like a brick through a stained-glass window, pretty at the edges, messy in the middle. Scottie blinks at the ceiling, reaches to the right for familiar warmth, and gets only cool sheets and a folded piece of printer paper on the pillow.

Went to do Vigilante stuff. Don't be mad. (You can be medium-mad.) Text me if you need anything, code word OWL and I will appear like... an owl, but a sexy one. —A

She sighs, half fond, half exasperated, presses the note to her lips, and rolls out of bed. The apartment is quiet in that way that makes you hear all your thoughts at once. Phone on the counter lights up like a crime scene, missed calls stacked to the ceiling, voicemails, texts.

Denise x 12.
[ Call me. ]
[ CALL ME. ]
[ Scottie? ]

Her stomach turns. She calls.

Denise picks up on the first ring, voice already halfway to a scold, "You answer your phone for strangers and not for me now?"

"I, hey, Mama," Scottie leans against the counter, forces her voice even, "Sorry. I slept like the dead."

"Well, you're about to be dead," Denise says, heat under every word, "Your supervisor called me yesterday. You want to tell me why my phone is ringing with your boss on it telling me my child lost her job?"

Scottie closes her eyes. The words hit like a belt she saw coming, "They called you?"

"Don't dodge," Denise says, "What is going on?"

The month rushes up in pieces, blood, amber, helmets, Chris's face after the gunshot, Adrian's goofy bravery, Eagly's wings fanning her hair; the drive-in laughter; Dylan's mouth spilling not-Dylan onto the linoleum. It's too much to thread into a sentence that makes sense to a person who lives in the world.

"I messed up," Scottie says, because that part is true, "I... didn't go back. I meant to. I kept thinking I would. And then... things happened."

"What things?" Denise fires back, "Because I've got a long list of things I've lived through and none of them are reasons to stop showing up to the life you built."

The shame crawls up Scottie's throat, "I know. I know. I'm, Denise, I'm not trying to throw anything away."

"Then what are you doing?" The question lands blunt and mother-true. Denise's discipline comes wrapped in protection, always, "You worked your butt off for that degree. You wanted that job. You told me you wanted to be the person you didn't have. And now I'm hearing from a woman I've never met that you're gone."

"I still want to help people," Scottie says quietly, "Just... maybe differently."

Silence on the line. Sharp, listening silence, "Differently how?"

Scottie looks at the note on the pillow. Vigilante stuff. She thinks of the moment in the bottling plant when her body remembered what Calvin taught her and her rage remembered how to aim. Of Harcourt's tiny smile in the van. Of Chris laughing to "11th Street Kids" with blood on his sleeves.

"I can't say a lot," She says, careful, "It's not a, program. It's... there's a mess here, Mama. Bigger than social worker mess. And I can do something about it. I already am."

"Oh, Lord," Denise murmurs, equal parts prayer and warning, "I don't want to read your name in the paper because you decided to play Punisher."

"I'm not playing," Scottie says, softer, "I don't want to be a hammer. I want to be... a wall. Between kids and the thing that eats them."

Denise lets out a breath, long and weighted, "Walls still get hit first."

"I know," Scottie's hand shakes; she presses it to the countertop to stop the tremor, "I know. And, I didn't forget work to be reckless. Things... blew up. And then... Dylan," The name tastes like metal. She swallows, "I didn't tell you. I couldn't figure out how. There was a man. We were, he was, he died, Denise. He died in front of me."

Denise's voice changes at once, turning to velvet with steel in the weave, "Oh, baby."

"I'm okay," Scottie lies automatically, then corrects herself, "I will be. It was... complicated. He wasn't who I thought he was. Not for a while. That's part of the mess. I keep replaying it, trying to find the frame where I should've known."

"You stop that," Denise says, the command crisp, "You hear me? Grief likes a scapegoat and it will nominate you every time. You are not a bad woman for loving someone who wasn't what he showed you."

Tears prick; Scottie presses her knuckles to her mouth and lets two fall before she sniffs them back into order, "I hate that I didn't see it."

"You saw what was put in front of you," Denise says, "And when the truth came, you saw that, too. That's all any of us can do."

For a few seconds they breathe together across the line, the way they did by Lamar's grave more years than Scottie can count, the way they did in a kitchen where learning to dice onions became learning to tell the truth.

"Now," Denise says, business returning because it is the scaffold she knows how to build, "what are you going to do about the job?"

"I don't know," Scottie says honestly, "I don't want to crawl back with a lie. I can't give them the truth. I think... I might need to let that go."

"And do what?" Denise pushes, clearly fighting the urge to push harder, "You can be different and still have a roof and health insurance, baby."

"I know." Scottie rubs her forehead, "One thing at a time. There's, there's a team, kind of. I can talk to them. Figure out something that doesn't make you think I've joined a cult."

"I don't like teams I don't know," Denise says, the mom note ringing clear, "But I know you. Make smart choices. Not just brave ones."

Scottie nods even though Denise can't see her, "Okay."

"And this new guy?" Denise adds, like she's been holding that card since the first sentence, "You slid that in like parsley on a plate and thought I wouldn't notice."

Scottie huffs a laugh, wipes her cheeks with the heel of her hand, "He's... a weirdo."

"I gathered."

"He's good to me," Scottie says, and the simplicity of it steadies everything, "He's... unexpected. He says too much and he listens when it matters. He's got a good heart and terrible impulse control. He makes me laugh when I forget how."

Denise hums, considering, "He have a name?"

"Adrian."

Pause, "Does Adrian know you?"

Scottie thinks of last night, the tenderness, the ridiculousness, the way he asked for notes like he was fixing a recipe, not a woman, "He's trying as hard as anybody ever has."

"Okay," Denise says, satisfied enough to holster her cross-examination for now, "Bring him to dinner. Not this week. Not next. When you can look me in the eye and tell me you slept and ate and spoke to a lawyer about your employment file."

Scottie smiles despite everything, "Yes, ma'am."

"And Scottie?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm still angry you didn't call me," Denise says, gentler now that the storm has cracked, "I'm angry because I'm scared. Don't shut me out when you're drowning. We can tread water together."

The words land square on the bruise she carries like a medal.

"I won't," She says, "I promise."

"Good," Denise exhales, "Call Calvin. He'll want to yell at you and then make you lunch."

"Copy."

"And," a softening, the mother she chose turning up the dimmer, "I love you."

"I love you more," Scottie says, and this time she doesn't hang up first.

She presses the phone to her sternum and stands there until her heartbeat slows under it. The apartment hums. The note on the pillow watches her like a joke that still works.

Then she scrolls for Ads.

" Go for Adebayo," comes the answer on the second ring, a kitchen clatter behind her, dog barking from somewhere, the electric fatigue of someone who just told the whole country a secret on TV and is now out of milk.

"Hey, Ads," Scottie says, "You got a minute?"

"For you? Always," Adebayo says, and Scottie can hear the honest part under the quip, "You okay? You sound like you ate a cactus."

"Denise found out I got fired," Scottie says, wry, "Because my old boss called her. I forgot to go back to work."

"Oof," Adebayo says, sympathy and wince in equal parts, "That's... yeah. That'll do it."

"She yelled. Then loved me. The usual," Scottie says, "I told her I might help people differently. I didn't mention bugs."

"Good choice," Adebayo says dryly, "Bugs are not a first-date reveal."

"What do I... do?" Scottie asks, hating the helplessness in her own voice and letting it be there anyway, "About any of it. Work. Life. The part where I accidentally joined a very illegal neighborhood watch."

"You didn't accidentally anything," Adebayo says, "You got drafted by reality. Happens to the best of us," She quiets for a moment, and Scottie can almost picture her leaning on a counter, phone wedged to shoulder, eyes soft and calculating at once, "Okay. Here's the boring auntie advice. Can you coast for a bit? If not, say the word and I'll Venmo you with a totally-not-embarrassing emoji note."

"I can coast," Scottie says.

"You lost a scaffolding. Build a smaller, jankier one. Mornings are for your body, run with Calvin, punch a bag. Afternoons for your head, read, paperwork, therapy if you can swing it. Evenings for chaos with the boys in spandex."

Scottie snorts, "Harcourt would set you on fire for calling her a boy."

"Harcourt would set me on fire for breathing too loud," Adebayo says, "Tell Chris about Dylan when you're ready. He's an idiot, but he's your idiot."

"I know," Scottie says, the knot in her chest tugging, "He will blame himself."

"He blames himself for the weather," Adebayo says, "Let him try. Then make him stop. That's the sibling contract, right?"

Scottie smiles into the phone, "Right."

"And finally," Adebayo adds, voice going softer, "let yourself be happy about Adrian without writing a dissertation about whether you're allowed to be. You can grieve and grin at the same time. The human heart is a duplex."

Scottie laughs, wet at the edges, "A duplex."

"With a weird roommate," Adebayo says, "Name of Trauma. Doesn't do the dishes. You still live there."

"Thank you," Scottie says, and means it more than the two words can carry.

"Always," Adebayo says, and Scottie hears the small tired smile, "Text me if you need backup with Denise. I can put on my church voice."

"Oh, God," Scottie says, delighted and horrified, "Please don't weaponize the church voice at my mother."

"Then call me before you need it," Adebayo says, "You got this, Scottie."

" How's the wife?"

" Not very happy."

" You wanna talk about it?"

" Now where's the fun in that? I'm so much happier pretending like my problems just don't exist."

They hang up. Scottie stands in the kitchen a long moment, the phone heavy and helpful in her palm.

She snaps a picture of Adrian's note and sends it to the group chat, captioned:

[ Your boy is out hooting at crime. I'm fine. Coffee achieved. ]

Harcourt reacts with a thumbs-up; Economos sends an owl gif that is definitely not an owl; Chris writes "STAY HOME" and then immediately "jk if u wanna come over I have a thing you'd like" followed by fourteen dove emojis and one hot dog.

Scottie smiles in spite of herself. She presses the phone once more to her chest, feels the steady thump behind it, and then she moves, shower, shoes, jacket, keys. The life she built changed shape when she wasn't looking. It's still hers if she keeps choosing it.

Choices over outcomes. The drive-in was right.

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