Archive of Our Own

A whole damn week.

A whole week of silence.

Well, her silence.

Lightning had called.

Lightning had texted.

Lightning had even sent that half-voice-note she never uses, the one where she sounds like she’s being held at gunpoint by her own emotions.

And every time the screen lit up, Vanille had stared right at it… then flipped the phone over and thrown it somewhere inconvenient. A drawer. The laundry basket. Once, the refrigerator.

Fine.

Maybe that wasn’t healthy.

Maybe she overdid the whole “teach her a lesson” thing.

Except… apparently justice felt a lot like anxiety and crying in the shower. But Etro, it was her BIRTHDAY. 

What was she supposed to do—say thank you when Lightning suddenly remembered the morning after?

Yes, surprise surprise.

Lightning forgot.

Then apologized.

Then showed up.

Yes, Lightning tried

And Vanille?

Vanille had gone feral with pride and iced her out like a pro.

Strong.

Dignified.

Petty in a morally justified way.

And now?

Now she was marching through the city like a woman possessed.

A week of nothing should’ve been punishment, right?

Seven days of ignoring Lightning’s calls, seven nights of flipping her phone face-down so she wouldn’t cave, seven mornings staring at unread messages like they personally offended her—surely that proved her point.

Right?

She wasn’t going to fall apart.

She wasn’t going to run back crying.

She was just… going to talk.

Break the ice.

Fix whatever the hell this was before it snapped completely.

She pushed faster, almost tripping as the wind shoved her sideways., shoulders tightening as she kept walking through the spill of neon and passing headlights, straight toward the only person she’d been avoiding and missing in the exact same breath.

Christmas loomed ahead like a deadline she refused to meet alone. Absolutely not. Every single person in her orbit was coupled up—Fang with her hook up of the month, Serah (her roommate and—ugh—Lightning’s sister) with Snow. Damn, even Hope had some guy named Noel now.

So no. She wasn’t doing the “single during the holidays” arc.

She was ending this ridiculous cold war tonight.

Lightning’s building rose in the distance, glowing against the city sky, and her heart flipped the second it came into view—a messy mixture of anxiety, longing, and something that felt suspiciously like hope.

She checked herself in a passing shop window. Hair? Smooth. Makeup? Cute. Nails? Perfect. Perfume? On lethal settings.

Hell, Lightning would regret every damn minute of the past week. And despite the fact she—Vanille—was the one marching toward Lightning’s apartment, she still had the upper hand. Lightning reached out first. Lightning called first. Vanille was simply allowing the reunion to happen on her terms.

So there was nothing humiliating about showing up.

Obviously.

Right?

Plus… at this point, years into their back-and-forth, this almost counted as tradition.

Healthy? Probably not.

Familiar? Painfully.

It was gonna be a long, long night… or so she hoped.

Because if memory served, Lightning had the next day off — which meant, by all cosmic laws and the will of Etro herself, they weren’t only about to reconcile. They were also about to get fucking laid. Because a whole week without sex? Absolutely unacceptable. Spiritually, physically, morally.

Her body agreed. Loudly.

In short, she needed a drink.

Something caffeinated. Something that would keep her awake, sharp, devastatingly hot for the dramatic reunion she was mentally choreographing.

So she took a small detour, veering toward that overpriced supermarket Lightning always dragged her into, the one with those sad, sealed plastic pre-made meals Lightning pretended were “convenient” instead of “depressing.”

Vanille rolled her eyes at the memory as she crossed the street.

Fine. Grab a Celsius. Take one deep breath. Then march into that apartment like the queen she was and reclaim her girlfriend.

Perfect plan.

What could go wrong?

She walked in, headed straight for the fridge aisle, cracked the door open, and grabbed a cold can. Easy. Then she wandered toward the organic section, skimming the nutrition label.

Her eyes grazed the line about caffeine content when she heard it.

That voice.

Her voice.

“Are you sure?”

Her stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Vanille’s head snapped up so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. She followed the sound automatically, drifting down the aisle until she stopped behind one of those massive wooden fruit displays — the pyramid ones overflowing with shiny apples like they’re auditioning for a movie.

And there she was.

Lightning Farron.

Hand hovering uncertainly over a piece of organic kale.

Kale.

Lightning.

In the same frame.

Vanille’s brain nearly blue-screened. Lightning didn’t eat green things. She was a “protein or death” kind of woman.

But the kale wasn’t the problem.

The problem was the woman beside her.

No, the hand of that woman, resting right on Lightning’s wrist, soft and familiar and guiding.

Insisting.

Smiling.

Touching.

“Yes, you should take it,” the woman said, voice warm enough to melt chocolate with marshmallows and all. “It’ll go perfectly with the quinoa.”

Lightning hesitated, but the woman added two more vegetables to the cart with the casual confidence of someone who did this with her often.

Vanille’s eye twitched.

What… what was this?

Was she inside a lesbian cooking show? Had she accidentally walked into Housewives of Eden, with her girlfriend co-staring an episode?

Vanille leaned a bit to the side, peeking fully at the stranger.

The woman was gorgeous.

Not regular “cute girl at the supermarket” gorgeous, nope.

This one looked like she’d stepped straight out of a botanical painting.

A nymph.

A forest spirit.

A Whole Foods model.

Long glossy chestnut braid falling over one shoulder, thick and perfect and unfair. The kind of braid that took time and intention and probably some artisanal leave-in conditioner Lightning definitely didn’t own.

Her skin glowed like she moisturized with moon nectar or whatever expensive hippie women use.

Her sweater was oversized in that curated, rich-girl way: cozy but clearly designer, soft creams and sage greens that made her look like the human embodiment of chamomile tea. A thin gold necklace glimmered at her collarbone. Minimal makeup, but her eyelashes were basically flirting with everyone within a five-foot radius.

She radiated warmth. Kindness. Safety. “I bake muffins for my friends,” energy.

And that was the problem.

She had that sweet, soft, nurturing vibe.

That aura that tugged at Lightning like gravity, the same softness Lightning grew up with in her mother, the same quiet kindness Serah carried.

Exactly the type Vanille didn’t want near her emotional constipated girlfriend.

The kind Lightning would instinctively want to protect.

The kind she’d shield from everything without even thinking.

The kind who slipped under her armor without trying.

Eventually, Lightning exhaled hard through her nose and muttered:

“…Fine.”

And placed the kale in the cart.

Vanille almost dropped her Celsius.

Lightning Farron. Agreeing to kale.

The world was ending.

The woman beamed.

“See?” she said gently. “It’s great for iron absorption. And antioxidants. Oh! And anti-inflammatory support—your joints will thank you.”

Lightning nodded.

NODDED.

Vanille had spent literal years trying to get Lightning to eat anything green, and the only thing Lightning ever said was “I’m fine” or “Protein is enough” or, Vanille’s personal favorite, “Stop trying to feed me leaves.”

But Miss Whole Foods whispers one sentence about inflammation and she was all ears.

Could this get worse?

It could.

It absolutely could.

And, of course, it did.

Vanille trailed them — silently, pathetically — into the next aisle, hiding behind the gluten free pasta display.

The woman reached for a plant-based organic meal, placed it gently into Lightning’s cart, and said:

“You really shouldn’t drink regular milk. Think about all the environmental impact.”

Lightning didn’t even flinch.

She blinked — thoughtful, almost curious — like the concept of dairy ethics was finally clicking in her brain.

Vanille felt her soul leave her body.

The woman continued, her tone sweet but firm, “There are better options. Cleaner for you and for the world.” She added a carton some plant based milk to the cart with casual confidence. “Here. I’ll cook something tonight you’ll actually enjoy. You won’t even notice the missing protein.”

Lightning gave the smallest, softest smile — the kind Vanille saw maybe once every lunar cycle — and a quick, quiet laugh followed, barely there but real.

And then she said her name.

“Aerith…”

Of course.

Of COURSE the woman had a whimsical, fairy-garden, Etsy-crystal-shop name like that.

They started moving toward the next aisle, and for a moment Vanille thought she could hide behind another display and pretend none of this was happening. But then the woman glanced back over her shoulder, and their eyes met.

A small, gentle smile bloomed, warm, polite, almost soothing. A smile that said:

it’s okay, whoever you are.

Before she could process it, the woman turned away again, slipping back into step beside Lightning, her hand settling near the one on the cart handle with the kind of easy familiarity that made Vanille’s scalp prickle.

The Celsius in her grip cracked.

A kid nearby flinched at the sound.

“Mom… is that girl okay?”

One look at her face had the mom steering him away immediately.

“No, sweetheart. Absolutely not,” she murmured, dragging him off.

Vanille didn’t even blink. She stayed rooted there, watching the two of them wander farther down the aisle — calm, coordinated, moving together like they did this every weekend.

She was two seconds away from marching down that aisle and making a full public scene. Two seconds away from demanding answers in the middle of the organic plant base milk section. Because as far as she remembered, she and Lightning hadn’t broken up. A fight wasn’t a breakup. Silence wasn’t a breakup. Ignoring texts was petty, maybe childish — but still not a breakup. They were STILL together. They had unresolved things.

She was still Lightning’s girlfriend.

Wasn’t she?

Yet there she stood, staring at a scene that looked a lot less like a misunderstanding and a lot more like… something established.

That soft laugh earlier replayed in her mind, slicing deeper now that she’d seen the way they stood together — close, easy, almost domestic. The kind of ease Vanille thought belonged to her. The kind she’d earned through chaos and fights and makeups and trying, always trying.

Maybe Lightning hadn’t forgotten the birthday because of work or stress or being her usual emotionally allergic self.

Maybe she’d been with her.

The kale whisperer.

Vanille swallowed hard as the realization sank deeper.

Lightning had been cheating.

That was why she forgot.

That was why she disappeared.

A hot spike of anger shot straight through her chest. For a split second Vanille could see it: her own hand grabbing Lightning by the jacket, shaking her, maybe slapping some sense back into that dense, beautiful skull. And Aerith’s braid?

Oh, she had plans for that braid.

But the rage burned fast and… then collapsed under the weight of everything else.

Instead of marching over there and reenacting a telenovela fight, her body did something entirely different.

No.

Her body chose survival instinct.

She ran. Just spun on her heel and bolted, tears already blurring the organic plant base section as she sprinted past three confused shoppers and an elderly man holding oat milk.

She didn’t slow. She barely breathed. A cashier shouted something at her as she blew through the self-checkout gates.

“Ma’am! You have to pay for that—HEY!”

Vanille shoved the automatic doors open before they had time to slide, bursting into the night air with a sound that was half-sob, half-scream, heart racing.

By the time she hit the sidewalk, she was crying so hard she couldn’t tell if it was heartbreak, betrayal, or the fact she technically just shoplifted a Celsius.

The next part blurred.

A cab ride.

Some stairs.

A hallway she didn’t remember choosing.

She only realized where she’d ended up when she was already standing inside the last apartment she should’ve gone to, facing the last person she should’ve been trauma-dumping on.

Because if anyone in Eden was exhausted — emotionally, spiritually, physically exhausted — by the Lightning-and-Vanille saga, it was Fang.

The redhead sniffed hard, wiping tears on her sleeve.

“I—I can explain—”

“No need,” Fang said, already throwing her hands up. “This is it. We’re killing Lightning. There’s no other option. I’ve been telling you for YEARS this day would come.”

Vanille blinked. “Fang, wait—”

But Fang had already turned toward her closet, muttering something about signs and omens and finally being proven right, before rummaging through a drawer with disturbing enthusiasm.

“…What are you doing?”

“What I should’ve done two breakups ago,” Fang replied without missing a beat. “Where is it… where is it… aha!”

She emerged holding the old Pulsian knife their adoptive mother had given her back in middle school — the ugly, sentimental one with the carved handle and the blade that definitely wasn’t legal anywhere on Cocoon.

Vanille stared at it, eyes wide.

“Fang—”

“Oh, don’t even start,” Fang said, checking the blade like she was about to slice fruit. “I always knew Lightning would pull something like this. Always. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say she’d make me commit a felony one day? Didn’t I?”

Vanille let out a small, miserable squeak.

“Fang, I don’t think homicide is—”

“It’s not homicide,” Fang corrected, deeply insulted.

“It’s revenge. Fair revenge. Long overdue revenge.”

Oh Etro… why did Vanille open her mouth?

Why did she always open her mouth?

The ginger knew Fang was the last person she should be confiding in.

Because once upon a time—before the messy situationships, the secret hookups, the crying, the breakups that weren’t real breakups—Lightning and Fang actually got along in high school.

Eventually, their friendship hadn’t just “gone sour.”

It went straight to hell, caught fire, and never came back.

And now Vanille was feeding her fresh ammunition.

Fantastic. Add “aiding and abetting murder” to her list of sins.

But what was she supposed to do though?

Go to Serah? Again?

The girl was already living the worst sitcom imaginable — Lightning as an older sister, Vanille as a roommate,

treating their apartment like a relationship ER.

Vanille could almost hear her:

“I told you.”

Gods, she said it so often it could’ve been engraved somewhere in the walls. And Vanille?

Yeah, she never listened. Not once. She’d had a crush on Lightning since… forever. Since consciousness. Since the dawn of memory.

And she chased it like it was destiny.

A knock rattled the door.

Vanille shot upright, wiped her face with both hands, and hurried over before Fang could answer with the knife in hand. She pulled the door open, and there he stood: Hope Estheim, holding a paper bag that smelled like hot chocolate and something sugary.

Because of course he brought emotional support snacks.

Because of course he was the only one in their circle who still had patience left for her.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You sounded upset, so I—”

His voice cut off.

His eyes slid past Vanille’s shoulder, and the moment he spotted Fang standing in the living room with a knife that belonged in a museum. His whole face went blank.

“Fang. Put the knife down.”

The black haired smiled like a shark at low tide.

“Sure,” she said sweetly. “After I gut Lightning with it.”

He closed his eyes as if praying for strength. “That’s not—okay, we’re not gutting anyone tonight.”

Vanille stepped aside to let him in, and he placed the treats on the table.

“Alright,” he said, voice calm but firm. “Let’s discuss. I’m sure—” he glanced meaningfully at the knife, then at Vanille’s blotchy face, then at the emotional disaster cloud hanging over both of them “—there’s an explanation for all this.”

Fang snorted, unimpressed.

Vanille nodded far too quickly. “Right. Right. There must be a reason. A perfectly reasonable… reason.”

“You don’t look not convinced.” The young man said.

“No,” Vanille admitted, voice wobbling. “But whatever gets Fang to put the knife down, I’m willing to pretend.”

Hope sighed but didn’t deny the logic.

“So,” he said gently, folding his hands. “Start from the beginning. What exactly happened?”

Vanille inhaled, bracing for impact.

Except nothing actually impacted last night.

Just hours of crying on Fang’s couch, Hope forcing both of them to hydrate, Fang pacing with the knife and muttering “tonight’s the night,” and Vanille clinging to her waist like a weighted blanket to keep her from committing a felony.

By sunrise, she was emotionally bankrupt, dehydrated, puffy-eyed, and still very, very stupidly in love. floss.

Plenty of time, in other words, to lie awake scrolling through her phone

Perfect timing too, because she absolutely should have been studying for her college finals.

Real finals.

As in: next week.

As in: the exams she hadn’t reviewed for, touched, skimmed, or even glanced at since Halloween.

But instead of studying?

She was stress-stalking the woman she believed Lightning had cheated with.

Priorities.

She had none.

Aerith.

It wasn’t a common name.

Not in Cocoon.

Not on Pulse.

Not in any known universe.

So after some deep stalking (and some light cyber-crime that Hope would absolutely disapprove of), Vanille found a trail.

A shop.

A very cute shop.

A flower shop, of all things.

And conveniently — or cruelly — it stood only two blocks from Lightning’s job.

Amazing

She was being cheated on by a woman who probably tied ribbons on bouquets and rescued sad houseplants for a living.

Vanille’s own dream job.

And now here she was, standing in front of the pastel-colored storefront.

After fixing her hair and swiping a hand under her eyes, Vanille stepped inside like this wasn’t a full-blown mission.

The bell above the door chimed politely.

Soft music floated through the air, the scent of fresh blossoms wrapped around her like a hug.

Salt in the wound? That was nothing, she was practically rolling in it.

But she needed answers.

She needed to know exactly which braid-wearing, kale-approving, almond-milk-influencing goddess Lightning had the AUDACITY to cheat with while Vanille was supposed to be memorizing an entire semester of material in six days.

And then—

there she was.

Aerith.

It was ridiculous. Absolutely unfair. The flowers in the shop seemed to arrange themselves around her on instinct, forming some natural halo effect like she’d been storyboarded by Disney. Every petal, every leaf, every soft beam of morning light cooperated. The universe adored her. Plants adored her. Probably birds too.

Vanille had no proof, but she was ninety percent sure this woman could speak to animals.

Kids hovered around her like she radiated stability.

Old ladies asked her advice about bouquets.

She answered each one with a gentle smile and a voice that felt dipped in honey and sunlight.

The perfect woman.

The perfect everything.

But did any of these people know she had just broken a home?

Destroyed a relationship?

Shattered someone’s future weekend plans?

In Vanille’s mind, a dramatic scene played out: she would point at Aerith, drag Lightning’s name into it, gasp theatrically, expose the betrayal, maybe even flip a flowerpot for emphasis—gasps erupting, children crying, someone fainting in the back—

But the fantasy evaporated instantly because Aerith herself was suddenly standing right in front of her.

“Hi there,” she said softly. “Do you need help finding something?”

Up close, Aerith was even worse.

Perfect skin, glowing, unfair.

A smile warm enough to thaw glaciers.

And that scent…

Vanille recognized it instantly.

That expensive niche brand she’d spent three months saving up for and wore only on special occasions. Here, on Aerith, the fragrance smelled effortless, like it was her natural scent and the universe had simply decided she deserved it.

Vanille had never hated and admired someone so violently at the same time.

Her tongue tried to form words, but whatever sound escaped was closer to a squeak than human speech. She reached instinctively for the nearest shelf in some doomed attempt at stability, and her elbow clipped a tiny ceramic pot. It tottered, wobbled, and then hurled itself off the edge like it wanted out of this moment as badly as she did.

The crash echoed through the shop.

“Oh—Etro—I’ll pay for that,” she blurted, dropping into a crouch even though she clearly shouldn’t have been anywhere near broken pottery in her state.

Aerith knelt too, gathering the pieces with gentle, unhurried movements. “Really, it’s okay,” she said, smiling like this was no big deal. “It happens all the time.”

It absolutely did not.

Someone like her didn’t break things. The universe probably cleared paths for her, held doors open, watered her plants, and made sure nothing shattered within a ten-foot radius.

Her tongue tried to form words, but whatever sound escaped was closer to a squeak than human speech. She reached instinctively for the nearest shelf in some doomed attempt at stability, and her elbow clipped a tiny ceramic pot. It tottered, wobbled, and then hurled itself off the edge like it wanted out of this moment as badly as she did.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Aerith asked, lifting those warm eyes. “Can I help you find something?”

“NO— I mean—no, thank you,” she managed, voice cracking in three different emotional registers. “I’m great. Wonderful. Healthy. Have a—uh—beautiful day.”

Beautiful day??

Why would she say that.

Before Aerith could respond, she shot upright, nearly collided with a hanging ivy, corrected course, and made a beeline for the exit. The bell chimed behind her like it was laughing.

Outside, cold air hit her face, but it didn’t help.

That woman… that woman was unreal. Sweet. Kind. Calm. Sparkling. Smelling like a luxury catalog. And Lightning had just—what—upgraded to her?

She cut down the sidewalk in a fast, furious walk that turned into a sprint.

Because Lightning…

Lightning fucking cheated. With a woman so nice she probably apologized to bugs before sweeping them off the sidewalk.

Her breath hitched, tears threatening again as she sped forward without watching where she was going, muttering every curse she knew under her breath and inventing new ones on the spot.

She was so wrapped in humiliation and heartbreak she didn’t register the world around her anymore, not the sidewalk, not the people, not the traffic. Just heat behind her eyes and the echo of Aerith’s perfect smile taunting her.

A block from the shop, she slammed straight into someone.

Hard.

The impact jolted her backward, and instinct kicked in as her mouth opened to apologize, to say sorry or my bad or I’m not okay, anything — but the moment she lifted her head, the words died.

Lightning.

Right there.

Right in front of her.

Looking at her like she’d been struck.

And Lightning never looked struck.

Lightning didn’t do expressive.

But now? Her eyes widened a fraction, enough to be unmistakable. Enough to tell Vanille she hadn’t expected to find her here.

“…Vanille?” Lightning said quietly, disbelief threading her voice.

The sound of her name — from that mouth — hit like a punch. Rage surged. Pain followed so sharply she felt it in her teeth. She refused to cry. Refused to give Lightning the satisfaction of seeing her break.

Because of course Lightning was headed toward the flower shop.

The taller woman took a slow step forward, hand lifting in what looked almost like instinct, an attempt to reach her, touch her, steady her.

Vanille stepped back immediately.

Her eyes blurred with tears she refused to let fall.

The palm hovered there for a second, but Vanille slapped it away before moving past Lightning without looking back.

“Fuck off.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

A dramatic exit, Vanille storming off with dignity and rage swirling behind her like a cape.

Except Lightning turned fast, catching her wrist, firm, warm, annoyingly familiar.

Vanille yanked herself free with the strength of a woman powered entirely by betrayal and coffee.

“Stay away from me,” she snapped.

Lightning actually flinched.

Lightning Farron flinched.

Practically an emotional monologue for her standards.

“Vanille—”

“No.”

She didn’t let her try again. If she heard her name in that calm, quiet tone one more time, she’d either sob or commit a crime.

So she walked away, determined, fast, chaotic… everything. 

The sidewalk blurred under her feet as she marched away, telling herself she wouldn’t look back. By the time she reached the next block, her pulse was still hammering and her breath came in quick, uneven pulls.

But something gnawed at her nerves, a faint prickle along her spine, the instinctive awareness that she wasn’t as alone as she wanted to be.

She risked a glance.

Lightning was still following her at an unhurried pace, like a horror movie villain who never chased because the ending was already decided.

Vanille whipped her head forward again, speed-walking like she was late for an exam she wasn’t going to pass anyway.

Lightning still kept coming like a psychopath who didn’t bother running because the protagonist always tripped eventually.

Running was beneath her. Running was for losers. The dramatics were pointless. She was built for pursuit… and she knew it.

Another look confirmed it.

Lightning had closed half the distance already.

Vanille’s stomach flipped. Absolutely unacceptable. She refused to get cornered on a sidewalk after the worst 15 hours of her life.

She lifted her hand toward the street.

A cab rolled up almost immediately and she  opened the door fast and slid inside, pulling it shut in one decisive motion just as Lightning reached the curb.

20 minutes later, the cab dropped her a few blocks from campus, right in front of the bar she practically lived in during exam season, a cramped, half-dive place where Fang worked as a chef  and where Vanille had, over time, befriended half the staff. Lebreau ran the place with the energy of a rockstar aunt, Gadot did whatever Gadot did.

Vanille stumbled inside. The place wasn’t awake yet, lights low, silence lingering in the corners, but the familiar presence at the counter grounded her instantly.

Snow Villiers — Serah’s fiancé —eating a greasy burger the size of his face.

Good.

If there was one person Lightning avoided like a contagious rash, it was him.

Vanille exhaled, shoulders loosening for the first time since the flower shop. She slid deeper into the bar, scanning for Fang, who usually hovered between the kitchen doors and the counter. Lebreau noticed her first and raised a brow.

Safe.

For at least ten minutes.

“Hey, Vanille!” he beamed, waving a fry like it was a greeting card. “Didn’t know you were coming in today. Want a bite?  Extra cheese. It’s life-changing.”

Completely oblivious.

Of course.

She forced a smile, staring blankly at the mountain of grease on his plate. “I’m… good. Thanks.”

Lebreau, wiping down a glass behind the counter, narrowed her eyes. She took one slow, assessing look at Vanille’s face — the blotchy cheeks, the trembling lashes, the emotional collapse barely zipped inside her chest — and didn’t bother with subtlety.

Raising her voice toward the kitchen, she called:

“Fang! Your girl’s here!”

A clatter erupted behind the swinging doors — metal against tile, utensils dropping, someone swearing in accented Pulse dialect.

Snow finally paused mid-bite.

“Uh… are you okay?” he asked, finally noticing the tear sheen in her eyes.

Before she could answer, Fang burst out of the kitchen, apron half-tied, holding a knife she clearly forgot to put down. Her gaze locked onto Vanille like a missile acquiring a target.

All three women froze.

Vanille.

Fang.

Lebreau.

A full silent exchange, pure female telepathy.

No words needed.

Just shared glances.

Snow looked between them, utterly lost, holding his burger in midair like he wasn’t sure whether to take a bite or duck for cover.

Vanille swallowed hard, set her phone on the counter, and pushed it forward with the solemnity of someone presenting evidence at a crime scene.

The screen lit up — the flower shop’s Instagram.

Aerith. Aerith with roses. Aerith arranging bouquets.

Fang took the phone first. Her thumb swiped once. Her mouth flattened.

Swipe.

Her eye twitched.

Swipe.

Her whole expression slid into homicide.

Snow leaned in. “She’s prett—”

A fist clamped around his collar before the sentence finished.

“Snow,” Fang warned, “eat.”

He obeyed.

Lebreau squinted at the photo, gum popping. “Oh look. Green eyes. What a plot twist.” She glanced at Vanille. “Congrats, you’ve discovered Lightning’s one and only setting.”

Vanille’s groan hit the wood of the counter. “That’s not comforting.”

After conquering the chunk of meat he’d apparently been chewing since the beginning of time, Snow wiped his mouth and leaned closer. “Vanille, it doesn’t matter, seriously… relax. That girl will run for cover once she gets a taste of Lightning’s real personality. You’re the only one who can handle her without crying.”

“I am crying!” Vanille snapped, voice wobbling as she pointed at her damp lashes.

Fang didn’t even look up from the phone. “She always cries,” came the flat reply. “Baseline setting.”

A tiny gasp escaped Vanille, full of outrage, while Snow nodded along like a man agreeing with weather patterns.

Fang scrolled again and sighed. “Snow’s got a point, though. None of this matters, because Lightning’s death will be extremely painful right after my shift ends.”

Lebreau opened her mouth—probably to remind Fang that homicide was bad for business—

—but the door swung open.

And there she was.

Lightning.

Hair slightly out of place, breath uneven, the unmistakable look of someone who had, in fact, sprinted at some point. Her eyes took a quick sweep of the bar, scanning faces, tables, booths—and then landed squarely on Vanille.

Everything in her posture locked into place.

Behind the counter, Lebreau muttered, “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Setting the phone down with a clack, Fang rotated the handle of the kitchen knife she’d forgotten she was holding. “Maybe I don’t have to wait for the end of my shift after all.”

The green-eyed girl stared back at Lightning with a mix of dread, fury, and the horrifying realization that this confrontation was about to happen in front of witnesses.

Snow felt a sharp, instinctive fear for his life wash over him. Just like every time Lightning walked into a room. Serah wasn’t here to shield him from the Grim Reaper in cargo boots, so he did the only thing he could think of: tried to make himself physically smaller while offering Lightning a fry in greeting.

A peace offering.

Lightning didn’t even glance at him.

Good.

Snow considered that a narrow escape from death.

Her focus was entirely fixed on Vanille.

“Can we talk?” she asked, completely ignoring the rest of the bar as if it were background noise.

Vanille opened her mouth, ready to snap or sob or both, but Fang moved faster. A blur of muscle, apron, and pure hostility came sweeping around the counter. She planted herself right in front of Vanille, knife still in hand, and glared at Lightning like she was deciding where to strike first.

“Oh, we’re talking,” Fang said. “But it’s you and me.”

“I didn’t come here for you.” Lightning said.

A slow, predatory step forward came from Fang. “Maybe you should’ve. Might’ve saved everyone a few years of suffering.”

Still, no reaction from Lightning. Just a tiny turn of her head, a cold flick of her blue eyes, nothing more than a surgical dismissal that always sent Fang’s temper into orbit as she took a controlled step toward Vanille again.

“Vanille,” Lightning requested, voice a bit softer, “can we talk, alone?”

A blade moved into view before Vanille could answer. Fang pushed forward, blocking Lightning’s path entirely, the kitchen knife angled just enough to suggest she had zero hesitation. “She isn’t talking to you.”

A tight breath slid through Lightning’s teeth, patience slipping. “Move,” she said. “Fang, get out of the way.”

A humorless laugh left Fang. “Make me.”

“This is none of your business.” The pinkhead inhaled sharply.

“Everything involving her,” Fang shot back, “is my business.”

Lightning’s posture shifted subtly.

“Pointing a knife at me is a terrible idea,” she said. “I’ve had years of training disarming people who think they’re faster than they are. You won’t like how this ends.”

The blade wavered, not from fear, but from pure, grinding irritation.

Lightning continued, “Step back. Let Vanille handle her own life.”

A snort burst out of Fang “Right. Let her handle her own life. That coming from the woman whose little sister doesn’t even live with her because you can’t stop handling hers.”

The jab hit hard enough that Snow winced.

Lebreau muttered, “Oof,” under her breath like it was a sports match.

Vanille went completely stiff behind Fang. But she eventually reacted, fingers tightening around the chef’s arm as she begged under her breath, “Fang—please. Put the knife down. I’ll… I’ll talk to her. Okay?”

Lightning’s face shifted. The tiniest pleased look. A quiet victory.

And Fang caught it.

That alone pissed her off enough to make the knife rise a little higher.

“No,” Fang snapped. “Not lowering anything.”

Lightning’s brows lifted, the faintest trace of amusement in her expression, a dangerous little oh? that only made Fang’s blood pressure spike.

”I’m not fighting you in a bar,” she said, tone maddeningly composed. “That’s uncivilized.”

Uncivilized. 

The word alone almost took Fang out of her mortal form.

Lightning continued, “And Vanille would be even more upset if I—”

“Oh, please,” Fang snapped. “Like you care what Vanille wants. All you ever do is mess her up.”

A muscle in Lightning’s cheek twitched, a crack in the facade.

The taller pulsian saw it. Went for the throat.

“You know what? I’d rather my little sister date someone like Snow.”

“What?” The pinkhead asked, offended.

“Yeah. You heard me,” Fang said. “Snow. I’d rather Vanille date someone like him. A big, unemployed, clueless, harmless Snow-type.”

Lightning’s face went from confused to personally insulted.

Across the bar, Snow froze mid-bite. A piece of burger slid right out of his mouth. “Wait—me? Seriously?”

Lightning shot him a look, then snapped at Fang.

“Oh, you can hate it all you want,” Fang cut in, voice rising. “Doesn’t change the fact I’m right.”

She jerked her chin toward Snow, who flinched like she’d pointed a gun instead of a knife. “He’s your karma. You hear me? That man is the punishment the universe picked for you.” She tilted the knife just slightly, smiling. “All for screwing your best friend’s baby sister back in high school. I don’t need proof but I know you did it, you perverted piece of shit.”

“HEY!” Snow yelped, now fully alert.

“Ouch,” Lebreau muttered.

“Fang!” Vanille squeaked.

Lightning was done after that. One swift step, a clean grab at Fang’s wrist, and the knife dropped, clattering uselessly at their feet.

A clean disarm. Apparently.

Fang wasn’t stupid. And she wasn’t finished. Lightning relied on speed; Fang relied on getting close. As soon as she had it, her fist snapped up, landing hard across Lightning’s cheek. The sound echoed through the bar.

The officer stumbled back a step, head snapping to the side, hand flying to her lip as blood rose bright and immediate.

Vanille screamed, “Fang, stop!”

“HER FACE—!” Snow yelped incredulous, like someone had just shot a unicorn.

Fang shook out her hand, glaring. “That’s for the high school shit.”

Lightning straightened slowly, lip split “Is that all you got?” she asked, voice husky but dangerous.

Before Fang could reply, the sharp metallic rack cut through the bar, loud enough to lock everyone exactly where they stood.

Behind the counter, Lebreau stood with the shotgun braced casually against her hip, expression unreadable, almost bored. Like this wasn’t a crisis, just another mess that needed ending. A wordless command for everyone to calm the hell down. 

She aimed at the floor between Lightning and Fang.

“First and last warning.”

Fang blinked. “You keep a shotgun behind the bar?”

Lebreau smiled innocently “I keep two. Now back up unless you want to continue this fight in the afterlife.”

None said a word.

The tight air of hostility loosened just a little as the woman in front of them lowered her shoulders, exhaling loudly as if the fight had drained into something else entirely.

“Was all of this really necessary?” Lightning asked, looking past Fang and straight at Vanille. “I know I messed up… but how did we get here?”

The look she gave was almost pleading, a rare softness slipping through in the bruising and the blood on her lip, and the sight of it struck Vanille with a guilt she wasn’t prepared for.

Her body moved on instinct; she stepped toward Lightning before she even realized it, pulled in by that expression she had always been weak to.

“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Fang cut, hand closing around her wrist. The hold stopped her in place and dragged her back a step.

Lightning ignored her and kept her eyes on Vanille. “Do you Vanille? Just… talk to me. Please.”

The word please was so rare from her it twisted in Vanille’s chest.

She tried to step forward again, but Fang held tighter. “No. She is not going anywhere with you.”

Across the room, Lightning still looked lost, like she had walked into the bar expecting an apology and instead got punched, and emotionally crucified. The expression almost pulled Vanille in again.

Almost.

Then she remembered how they got to this point.’

The nymph with the perfect skin.

The overflowing cart of organic vegetables.

The birthday Lightning forgot.

The slow-motion supermarket betrayal that had ruined her whole week.

The softness in Vanille’s face hardened. She broke eye contact entirely, turning away as if Lightning had ceased to exist.

Lightning noticed immediately. Something in her posture went still. A small nod followed, resigned.

“Okay,” she said. “So it’s over.”

Just that. No dramatic speech.

She turned and walked out.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Fang exhaled like she’d just finished a workout. “Good. Took you long enough.”

Vanille didn’t dignify it with a response. Her chair scraped back as she stood and went straight for the bathroom, shutting the door before tears could betray her in front of an audience that included a man currently licking salt off his fingers.

❄︎ ✦ ❄︎ ✦ ❄︎

Pushing the apartment door open, Vanille stepped inside and let the quiet swallow her whole. Shoes came off somewhere near the entrance, keys abandoned on the counter. The familiar space offered no comfort tonight. Everything felt hollow in that awkward, embarrassing way that made the last twenty-four hours replay on a loop.

Her mind wandered immediately to the Christmas present hidden in her room.

The spicy one. The lingerie she’d bought after three glasses of wine. The toy Lightning would have absolutely enjoyed using on both of them.

Fantastic.

Now she had to figure out whether to return it… or launch it into the sun.

Anyway, sex should be the last thing in her head  right now… But she’d miss it. Etro help her, she really would.

At least, the apartment smelled like cranberry and cinnamon — Serah’s seasonal obsession — warm and cozy.

A Christmas tree glowed in the corner.

Perfect.

Letting out a weak groan, Vanille pressed her hands to her face and headed toward the couch, ready to throw herself onto it and drown in self-pity, when something on the coffee table caught her eye.

It was an open medical kit with bandages, alcohol, pads and gauze. As if someone had very recently patched up a wound in her living room.

She stared at it for a few seconds, trying to decide what kind of disaster it meant. Then a door creaked open down the hall.

Serah stepped out of her room wearing cozy pajama shorts, an oversized sweater, glasses slightly crooked, and a steaming mug of hot chocolate in her hands. She had the soft, tired look of someone who had been studying for hours — doing exactly what Vanille should have been doing.

“Vanille? Are you okay?” Her blue eyes blinked confused.

A simple question, but Vanille felt like crying. Again. They hadn’t talked properly all week, but of course Serah knew. How could she not? Lightning was her sister. The emotional fallout probably vibrated through their whole family tree like some kind of tragic weather front.

So instead of replying to the question, Vanille nodded toward the open medical kit on the table. “Are you okay? Did you get cut or something?”

Serah hesitated, the kind of hesitation she almost never had. Lying wasn’t her thing, and the attempt flickered across her face before she gave up entirely.

“…Lightning was here,” she said softly. “Her lip was busted pretty bad. I just cleaned it up.”

Vanille’s breath snagged. “She… came here?”

“Yeah.” Serah nodded, pushing her glasses up. “I mean… when you grow up with a big sister who constantly gets hurt because of her job, you kind of get good at patching her up.”

Vanille didn’t cry. Shouldn’t. She’d used up her daily emotional quota at Fang’s, at the bar, in the bathroom stall, and during that taxi ride where the driver kept asking if she needed a mint.

Instead, she just exhaled, long, tired, almost empty, and murmured, “Sorry about Fang. She got… carried away.”

“No. I’m sorry. For my sister. And for everything this turned into.” Serah denied.

Vanille nodded weakly.

“I just… didn’t think things between you two would end over something like this,” Serah added, voice small.

“What do you mean this?” she asked, confused.

Serah shrugged helplessly. “I mean… Lightning forgetting something important isn’t exactly new.” She lifted a finger, counting. “She forgot your six-month anniversary, your first date anniversary, that weekend trip you planned, the time you baked her a whole cake—”

The redhead winced. “Serah, please.”

“Right. Sorry. My point is… I didn’t think this specific mistake would be the one to end things.” Serah blinked, done listing.

“This specific mistake?”

Serah tilted her head. “Well… yeah?”

That did it. Vanille snatched her phone from the coffee table, unlocked it with the fury of a woman armed with evidence, and shoved the screen inches from Serah’s face.

“Really? Really, Serah? You do think this just a specific mistake? Not enough to end a five-year relationship?”

She jabbed her finger at a picture of Aerith with her radiant skin, gentle smile, braid immaculate, surrounded by flowers like the universe had Photoshopped her in.

Serah looked at the photo… but her gaze drifted back to Vanille. The “five-year relationship” part sank in faster than the beauty of the alleged homewrecker.

“Five years?” she repeated. “As in… five? As in since you were— what? Fifteen?”

Vanille opened her mouth, closed it, then made a tiny embarrassed shrug. “Okay… maybe.”

Serah’s jaw dropped. “Vanille. Do you understand Lightning could have gone to jail?”

“No she couldn’t!” Vanille snapped back. “She had literally just turned eighteen. It barely counts. And Pulse age of consent is super different and weird and— look, if we’re playing that card, Snow should be locked up too because you were—”

Serah went scarlet. “Okay, first of all, shut up.”

“I’m just saying—”

“No, I’m just saying,” Serah steamrolled, launching into a rant, “Lightning spent MONTHS calling Snow a pervert. Months! She made him sign a ‘dating agreement.’ She threatened to tase him if he brought me home past curfew. And meanwhile— meanwhile she was out here secretly hooking up with a fifteen-year-old girl who came over for study days and movie nights?!”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Vanille announced, voice tipping straight into melodrama. “Maybe I should throw her in jail. That’s where cheaters belong. Jail. Immediately.”

“Cheater?” Serah nearly dropped her mug. My sister can be forgetful, stubborn, emotionally constipated, a walking red flag—but she does not cheat.”

“Oh yeah?” A trembling finger jabbed toward the glowing screen again. “Explain this.”

“What does Aerith have to do with anything?” Squinting at the picture, Serah asked, visibly confused.

The phone slipped from shaking Vanille’s fingers, as betrayal bloomed across her face.

“Aerith? You… know her? You KNOW the woman she cheated with?!”

A frustrated groan left Serah’s mouth.

“Yes! Of course I know her! The… flower girl. The one the Corps hired as their mental-health consultant? She works part-time arranging bouquets. She’s married!”

Vanille’s face went blank.

“Mental health? Since when does Lightning believe in mental health? Or emotions? Or help?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

The question hung in the air.

Vanille’s knees buckled, and before she realized it, she was back on the couch, sinking into the cushions like gravity had doubled.

A thin whisper escaped her.

“…No.”

Serah set her mug down gently on the rug and eased onto the sofa beside her, guiding her into a sitting position, steady hands on her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Serah murmured. “She should’ve said something herself. I didn’t mean for it to come from me.”

The redhead didn’t answer.

Her gaze had drifted toward the Christmas tree — the soft gold lights flickering against ornaments, the glow catching in her eyes. Each tiny reflection seemed to replay the last twenty-four hours of emotional demolition:

The supermarket

The kale

The braid

The bar fight

The bleeding lip

The walk-away

It made no sense.

“Why wouldn’t she tell me?” she finally breathed. “Why is she even seeing someone like that? Since when does she need help at all?”

Nothing fit together.

None of it made sense.

“Why didn’t she tell me?” Vanille whispered. “Why is she even seeing a therapist? What is going on with her?” She repeated. 

Serah let out a long, careful breath.

“Well…” She rubbed her palms nervously on her thighs. “There are things that come with being in the Corps. Things she sees. Things she does. Stuff normal people shouldn’t have to carry. It builds up, even if she pretends it doesn’t.”

Vanille swallowed hard.

Serah continued, more cautiously now.

“And honestly? I shouldn’t be explaining any of this. It’s not my story. But Lightning… she has issues she’s never dealt with. Old ones. Work ones. Emotional ones.”

She hesitated before finishing.

“Maybe… maybe she didn’t want to concern you,” she said quietly. “Or she didn’t want you thinking she’s weak. You know how she is. Everything goes into that locked-up vault she calls a brain. Who knows what actually happens in that head of hers.”

Why would Lightning hide something like that from her?

Why wouldn’t she say anything?

Why would she go to someone else?

“I thought she cheated. Okay? Are—are you sure she isn’t just seeing this woman?” She knew she was being selfish, self-absorbed even. But still.



Serah shrugged as if the answer was obvious to her. 

“And… Lightning did ask me to talk to her,” she admitted, rubbing her palms over her face. “She asked. More than once. And I—”

Her voice went lower.

“I refused. Because I was jealous. And hurt. And I just… ”

Serah stayed quiet, letting her speak.

Vanille’s shoulders curled inward.

“I’m always complaining she never talks, that she keeps everything inside, that she thinks she knows everything.” A sad laugh slipped out. “And what did I do? The same thing. Exactly the same thing... I didn’t even ask.”

After a beat, Serah exhaled, fingers curling around her mug. “I can’t pretend I know everything,” she said soflty. “But maybe… instead of both of you assuming the worst about each other, you should actually talk.” She took a small sip of her chocolate, eyes steady. “Just a thought.”

After talking to Serah — after crying, ranting, spiraling, and then staring at the Christmas lights until her brain felt fried — Vanille realized she couldn’t sit in that apartment another second.

Not while everything remained twisted and wrong between them.

Not while a potential misunderstanding threatened to end something five years deep.

So she found herself here.

Standing in front of Lightning’s apartment door, heart thudding inside her chest.

She knocked before she could overthink it.

The sound felt absurdly loud in the hallway.

While she waited, she wiped her palms on her jeans and checked her reflection in the darkened peephole glass.

Hair… fine.

Eyes… still puffy.

Soul… questionable.

The lock opened.

And every rehearsed sentence she had evaporated.

Lightning stood there — in sweatpants, tank top, lip split with a thin line of dried blood. She looked tired in a way Vanille almost never saw, like the day itself had punched her and she just took it.

Her eyes widened a fraction. Which, for Lightning, was basically a scream.

They stared at each other for a long, suspended moment without a word, just taking the sight of the other in like it had been years instead of hours.

After a few seconds, the taller of the two straightened up, like she suddenly remembered how to stand in front of Vanille.

Only then did Vanille’s voice come out, soft, unsure.

“…Are you okay?”

Lightning gave the smallest nod, her expression snapping back into that familiar, composed mask — the one she used whenever she didn’t want anyone worrying. “I’m fine,” she said quietly. 

Vanille’s chest ached at that, although she honestly couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Lightning injured, physically, anyway.

“So…” the redhead swallowed, fingers twisting together. “Can I… come in?

Lightning just stepped back, creating space, gaze fixed on Vanille as she walked past her into the familiar living room.

No verbal answer.

Typical Lightning.

Vanille only made it a few steps before stopping. Something was off. Not in a dramatic, dangerous way, but just… wrong for Lightning’s apartment. Out of place. Out of character.

There was a Christmas tree.

A real one. Standing proudly in the corner, fully decorated.

Green eyes blinked.

Lightning Farron did not decorate for Christmas.

She barely tolerated holidays to begin with. The only reason a tree ever existed around her in the past was because Serah insisted, and even then Lightning decorated like she was assembling military equipment, focused, annoyed, and absolutely not sentimental about it.

Vanille had never asked for anything like that.

Not once, even though she loved Christmas too, always had. Growing up in Pulse, it was more myth than tradition, something she’d only glimpsed across borders and stories. After moving to Cocoon, she’d embraced it fully.

But this?

This was Lightning’s apartment.

The last place in all of Eden she expected to see a tree.

Yet here it was, glowing softly in the dim room, warm and steady like a heartbeat.

“…You put up a tree?”

Behind her, Lightning went still, like she was just caught in something intimate. 

Vanille lingered by the tree, fingertips brushing the nearest ornament in a soft, absent-minded touch.

Serah had explained everything… sort of.

But it still didn’t answer the basic question. The part where Lightning had kept yet another whole chunk of her life sealed.

Why did she always have to interpret Lightning instead of simply hearing her?

Five years together and she still had to play detective?

Ridiculous.

Taking a steadying breath, she let her gaze drift back toward the stoic figure behind.

“So…” Vanille murmured, voice deceptively light, “did you decorate this place… with her or without her?”

Lightning lifted her head just enough to frown.

“…Her?”

Vanille crossed her arms, eyes narrowing.

“Your therapist,” she said, sweet as poison. “Or—” she gestured vaguely, a little sharp, a little jealous, “your… kale mentor.”

The reaction was instant. A small shift, shoulders tightening, blue eyes dropping away from hers. That tiny dodge was all it took to drag Vanille right back into doubt.

Great. Perfect. Exactly how people looked when they were hiding something.

Serah had explained things, sure, but what if she hadn’t known the whole story? What if that woman was more than a therapist? People cheated all the time. Even the pretty married ones in flower shops.

And here Vanille was… doing it again. Spiraling.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” she asked, taking a step closer. Her voice softened, not by choice but by exhaustion. She needed an answer.

“Who said that to you?” Lightning asked.

“Does that matter? I saw you. In that overpriced supermarket you love so much. With her.” Her arms crossed, more for balance than attitude. “And now you’re doing that thing where you look away, and suddenly I’m supposed to believe I made it all up.”

“She’s a therapist. Fine. What about it?”

Vanille stared, unconvinced. “It didn’t look like ‘that’s all.’”

Still nothing. Still that infuriating calm.

So she kept going.

Hands flew up as frustration spilled out. “Come on. The grocery cart? The vegetables? You smiling at something she said? You never smile to people. And this morning you magically show up at her flower shop? How am I supposed to interpret that?”

Another pause. Another wall.

A breath slipped from her, thin and tired. “You know what? Never mind.” One step back. And another. Her feet were already turning toward the door. “I shouldn’t have come here if you’re just going to stand there and stare at me.”

She’d barely made it to the door when fingers closed around her wrist, stopping her mid-stride.

“You really think I’d do that to you?” Lightning asked.

Her wrist stayed caught in that steady hold, and the question hung between them.

“I don’t want to think that,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to believe you’d ever do something like that to me. But can you blame me for being… thrown off? Everything stacked on top of everything.”

Vanille turned, lifted her free hand, gesturing helplessly.

“My birthday was a disaster. I waited for you for hours, trying to convince myself you’d walk in any minute.” Her voice dipped, not accusing—just tired. “And when I finally decide to stop being stubborn and talk to you… I walk into a supermarket and see you looking comfortable with someone else.”

A small cough came from Lightning.. “I wasn’t comfortable,” she muttered. “And you didn’t tell me you were coming over.”

“That’s exactly it,” Vanille said, turning enough to face her. “I was trying to surprise you. Turns out I’m the one who got surprised.”

The hand around her wrist loosened, not letting go, just… waiting. 

Maybe she was overreacting.

Maybe she wasn’t.

Hard to tell when this woman gave her so little to work with.

Eventually, her gaze slid to the hand near Lightning’s pocket, and the urge hit her fully formed.

“Your phone.”

The words left her mouth as she lifted her hand, palm facing up.

Lightning looked at the gesture like it didn’t belong in her living room. “…What?”

“I want your phone,” Vanille said, steady on the outside, even though her heart felt like it had lodged somewhere in her throat.

A flicker of disbelief crossed the taller woman’s face. “Vanille—”

She knew exactly what this looked like. People in normal relationships didn’t ask for this. It screamed mistrust, jealousy, all the things she never wanted to admit she felt.

But the past week hadn’t been normal. Nothing about this had been normal. And her brain, already raw from spiraling, wasn’t ready to accept another unknown.

So, her hand stayed up anyway.

“You heard me,” she said, more confident now. “Give it to me.”

A long breath left Lightning, shoulders dipping just slightly. Then she reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, unlocked it with her thumb, and placed it in her open hand.

Vanille stared at it for a second before actually closing her fingers around it.

Every possible nightmare ran through her head at once — messages, calls, photos, names she didn’t want to see. And gods help Lightning if she found something.

Or worse… if she found nothing.

Because that would mean she deleted them.

Which would mean there was something to hide.

So she scrolled.

Lightning stayed there, silent, unreadable, watching without giving away a single thought.

1. Chats.

Regular threads. Coworkers. Serah. A couple group chats she always ignored. Nothing new, nothing flirty, nothing suspicious.

Which somehow made her even more suspicious.

2. Call history.

Normal. A few missed calls from Serah. One from Snow she could only assume was an accident. No mysterious late-night numbers. No long private calls.

3. Instagram.

The account Vanille had set up for her because Lightning “didn’t care about that stuff.”

A single unread DM. From Aerith.

Vanille tapped it with the delicacy of someone opening a cursed artifact.

4. Instagram messages with Aerith.

The entire thread was… painfully normal.

– Appointment confirmations

– Schedule changes

– A dry joke Lightning barely responded to

– A phone number exchange “for icommunication efficiency”

Nothing romantic. Nothing dramatic. Nothing worth the meltdown Vanille had lived through.

5. Texts with Aerith (from the transferred number).

Short messages. Time, place, availability.

And then the one line that stabbed her in the pride:

Outdoor session okay?

6. The supermarket context.

She replayed it instantly.

It wasn’t a date.

It was a therapy session.

A therapist doing her job, and Lightning actually showing up to it.

Everything inside Vanille deflated, sorta, anger, jealousy, humiliation folding into a single mortifying truth:

There was nothing.

She handed the phone back without a word, turning on her heel because if she stayed one more second, she’d burst into tears purely from shame. Her steps were quick, uneven, desperate to reach the door before Lightning saw her face.

Fingers closed around her wrist again.

“What now?” The voice behind her was low, tired, bare. “Did you want to find something? Was that the plan? Give yourself an excuse to walk away?”

Vanille shook her head hard. “No. That’s not— No.”

“Then what?” Lightning’s grip stayed firm, not forceful. “Because this—” She gestured slightly with the phone. “—isn’t nothing, Vanille. You don’t ask for a phone unless you’ve already decided something terrible is true.”

“It’s not okay!” Vanille burst out, spinning halfway to face her. “Normal couples don’t do this. Normal couples don’t forget birthdays and then check each other’s phones like lunatics.”

Lightning blinked, taken aback by the word lunatics, but Vanille kept going.

“Normal couples don’t spiral at the sight of a pretty woman. Normal couples don’t assume the worst because they can’t—” Her breath faltered. “Because they can’t talk. Because everything feels like guessing. Because I never know what’s going on in your head!”

Silence stretched.

Lightning listened, eyes searching for something to say. It took her too long to even breathe like she was forming a sentence.

Vanille nodded before she could speak. “Right. Exactly. And tell me—how was I supposed to know you were seeing a therapist? Why didn’t you trust me with that?” Her voice softened but stayed firm. “Fine. You wanted an expert. I’m not asking you to make our relationship your therapy. But we could’ve talked. We could’ve shared things. We’re supposed to rely on each other. That’s what normal couples do. Normal couples don’t just fuck and fight and have fun. They communicate.”

Lightning’s eyelid twitched. “Communicate what, Vanille? What is there to tell?”

“You needed someone to listen to you,” Vanille said. “To understand you. Maybe even…” Her voice dipped, hesitant but honest. “To protect you...”

A scoff cut the air instantly, almost offended.

“Protect me,” she echoed, a quiet, incredulous huff escaping her. “Please.”

“What’s so awful about that?” Vanille whispered, genuinely hurt. “Protected, yes. Is that… embarrassing for you?”

She closed the distance before she talked herself out of it, hands lifting to hold that stubborn face—careful, soft.

Lightning’s hands immediately came up, closing around her wrists. Not pushing her away.… eyes avoiding hers.

“I can’t,” she muttered. “I’m not allowed to be like that. That’s not what people expect from me. I can’t be weak. Especially not in front of you.  What would that make me, huh?”

Finally—finally—something real cracked through that impossible shell.

Vanille tightened her hands just a bit, guiding those blue eyes to meet hers.

“You really think I wanted you because you’re some untouchable force?” A small, breathy laugh escaped her. “Sure, when I was fifteen, all that tough-girl mystery was… yeah, it did things to me.”

Lightning’s fingers twitched.

“But I stayed,” Vanille whispered, leaning in just enough that Lightning couldn’t escape her eyes, “because of everything else. Because you try. Because you care even when you pretend you don’t. Because you’re more than the person everyone expects you to be.”

Her thumbs brushed Lightning’s cheek without thinking.

“I’m not going to be afraid of you showing me the softer parts. I’m not running away because you’re human.” A breath. “I never needed you to be invincible.”

Lightning’s eyes lifted to her fully, and something in them finally softened. A light brush of noses followed, almost hesitant, like testing whether this closeness was still allowed.

Vanille rose onto her toes, closing the remaining space. She tilted her head and pressed a soft kiss to the center of Lightning’s brow, lingering just long enough to feel her breath ease. Another found the bridge of her nose, and finally a last one landed in the middle of those chapped lips.

“I can’t… start doing that all of a sudden,” Lightning murmured against soft lips, voice purposely huskier.“I need to be… strong,” she added after a moment. “Someone you can rely on.”

“Okay,” Vanille said. “We don’t have to flip a switch or anything. We can start with tiny stuff. I’m good at waiting.” She bumped her forehead there once, gentle. “And you don’t have to be the strong one all the time. I can do that too, you know, for both of us”

As soon as the closeness stopped feeling like restraint and started feeling like permission, Lightning leaned in and kissed her as well, sliding her slender, toned arms slid around Vanille’s waist as the kiss deepened just enough to pull a small sound from her, a quiet invitation for the soldier to move closer. Lightning answered it without hesitation, lifting her just enough so their heights met evenly, fully, without Vanille having to stretch at all.

The kiss kept going, pulling them across the living room in a slow, clumsy drift, her back brushing the sofa, Lightning bumping the edge of the table, both of them narrowly avoiding taking out the Christmas tree altogether.

Eventually, they hit the thick, puffy rug near the fake fireplace, Vanille sinking into it as Lightning followed, mouths finding each other again in warm, messy kisses. Heat gathered under their clothes; fingers tugged; Lightning’s tank top got stuck halfway over her head, leaving her trapped, annoyed, and still somehow kissing back while Vanille laughed softly against her jaw. The shirt finally hit the floor somewhere behind them.

Vanille pulled back just enough to look down at her girlfriend, hair falling forward, breath uneven.

“So,” she murmured, leaning in again, lips brushing her jaw, then her mouth, “you’ll listen to a therapist about what you should eat…”

Another kiss, longer this time.

“But when it’s me saying the exact same thing, suddenly I’m dramatic?”

It came out half-teasing, half-accusatory, the kind of complaint that had been sitting in her chest for a while. 

Lightning stared up at her, clearly recognizing it. She’d seen that look before. Years ago, when the Corps was still new and a few idiots thought it was fine to flirt right in front of Vanille, like it was nothing.

Vanille had looked the same then. Calm on the surface. Eyes bright. Questions innocent enough to pass, but Lightning knew better.

She shifted under her, eyes flicking away for a second like she was already questioning herself.

“I mean—” Lightning started, then stopped, then tried again. “She said about not running on fumes all the time.” A pause. “Apparently that includes fewer animal corpses.”

Vanille blinked.

“Animal corpses,” she repeated, flat.

Lightning winced. “That’s her wording. Mostly. Okay, fine, I might’ve paraphrased.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“So,” Vanille said slowly, leaning closer, “when I said that exact same thing, you told me protein was essential and cows would survive without my concern.”

“Right,” Lightning said, jaw shifting under the pressure of those nails, fully aware of them, fully unable to ignore them. “In my defense, you didn’t have charts.”

“All right…,” Vanille continued, still hovering there, “you liked the kale recipe?”

The question landed a little too neatly. Lightning opened her mouth, almost asked how she knew about that, then stopped herself.  “It was… fine.” A pause. “I lived.”

Not true. It had been good. Way better than she’d expected. But admitting that felt like volunteering to be interrogated for the next hour, and she’d learned a long time ago how to pick her battles.

“Why’d you even put up a Christmas tree?” Vanille asked, still watching her, clearly not done yet.

“…Seemed like something you’d want around,” Lightning murmured, voice low, almost lost between kisses.

The answer seemed to work.

The answer seemed to work.

Vanille’s fingers loosened at last, nails unclenching from Lightning’s skin as the tension drained out of her in a slow exhale.

Lightning didn’t say I put it up for you.

She didn’t have to.

To Vanille, the intent was there anyway. Quiet. Unadvertised. So Lightning—cool, guarded, offering things without ever framing them as gifts.

And honestly? If there was one way to shut  brain the fuck up, one way to kill the jealousy and the stupid spiral for good, it was fucking Lightning all night.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

Next morning Vanille blinked awake to her favorite ceiling — the one she only saw in this apartment — and for a moment she didn’t move, letting the last threads of sleep melt into a lazy awareness of where she was.

Lightning’s bed.

Her absolute favorite bed in the world.

The mattress was obscene, the kind that swallowed you whole but still held your spine in perfect alignment.

The view stretched out through floor-to-ceiling windows, all crystal panes and soft reflections. Eden rose in layered silhouettes outside, skyscrapers cutting the morning light. Hovercraft traffic hummed quietly below, distant enough to sound almost peaceful at this height.

Serah never wanted this place. Every time Vanille used to bring it up, Serah would just mutter something and change the subject. 

Vanille never fully understood it but she wasn’t Lightning’s sister. She was the girlfriend, which meant she saw the apartment through a completely different lens.

And right now, her lens was very… soft as memories of last night slipped in just long enough to make her smile into the pillow.

That was when she felt it.

An arm around her waist. Warm. Heavy. Familiar. The weight of someone still asleep, someone who usually vanished from bed long before sunrise.

Then a realization settled.

Lightning was pressed against her back, head tucked near her shoulder, breathing slow and steady. Her hand rested on Vanille’s stomach in a loose, instinctive hold, as if she’d drifted there without thinking.

Yeah.

The same woman who never lingered in bed. Most mornings she was already up before sunrise, in that spare room Serah refused to claim, working through her routines with the dedication of someone who genuinely didn’t believe in rest.

But here she was, wrapped around her like letting go wasn’t an option and that felt more intimate than anything that happened last night.

Vanille sank into that comfort for another long moment. No rush. No panic. No need to jump out of bed and pretend she had her life together.

Well—

Except she should be studying.

Her eyes flew open.

Oh gods. Finals.

Right.

Those.

She groaned quietly and burrowed deeper into the pillow. She would study later. Obviously. Responsible. No delays. Absolutely none.

Her phone buzzed.

So much for peace.

Vanille reached toward the nightstand carefully, trying not to disturb the warm weight wrapped around her. A message flashed across the screen.

Fang:

You alive?

Also did you hide the knife or should I be worried?

Vanille rolled her eyes, not sure what to type back. But after two minutes of deciding how or what to say…

Fang:

You came back with her. Right?

She hesitated only a second before firing off a full summary of last night’s enlightenment. The replies came in instantly.

Fang:

Oh for Etro’s sake.

Here we go.

Misunderstanding my ass.

Vanille bit her lip to keep from laughing and glanced over her shoulder at the sleeping figure tucked against her, arm still warm around her waist.

The woman was practically wrapped around her like a blanket.

Her phone buzzed again.

Fang:

Vanille. I swear to the gods, if you’re back together because she exists and you spiral, I’m to stab her. I promise.

Vanille typed back quickly before Fang could escalate to international threats.

Vanille:

It wasn’t her fault.

And yes. Misunderstanding.

Please don’t stab anyone today.

Another buzz.

Fang:

No promises.

Vanille threw the phone onto the pillow beside her and exhaled, sinking back into the warmth pressed against her back.