Chapter Text
At 25, Ava Silva lived in opposition to what she was raised in. She has her mother's softness in the way she laughs too loudly and gives too easily, and her father's sharpness in the way she refuses to lose an argument. She hates that about herself, the calculation that slips in when she negotiates rent with a landlord, the instinct to scan a room and map power dynamics in seconds. She tells herself she's nothing like him. Sometimes she's not sure that's true.
Ava lived in a small, overstuffed apartment in downtown Brooklyn with her best friend Camila and a perpetually broken radiator. She freelances when she can, picks up shifts when she must, and measures expenses down to the dollar. Pride keeps her afloat more than money does. She does not attend corporate events. She does not wear gowns. She does not stand beside her father for photographs. Ava does the other type of work nobody recognises.
At 19, she looked through everything she could have done. Keep working at Starbucks, where the Manager always gave her these weird looks when she was working. She also could've gone back to university; hell, she even considered working under her father. Eventually, with much trouble, she bought a house in downtown Brooklyn. But instead of turning it into a home for herself, she turned it into a Youth Centre. Since her father was quite famous, she got everything arranged rather quickly.
This was where she worked with her roommate and bestfriend Camila. Helping the isolated, controlled and dismissed. She never talked down to them; she sat beside them. She stood up for kids no one listened to and intervened when things got dangerous. Her father never understood why she didn't want to follow in his footsteps and instead do social work. His lost in faith in her started rather early. Ava was a reckless, risk-motivated and clumsy child. Her father would always yell, but Ava yelled back. At 15, she had her first cigarette, and when she came home with the stink of it, her father completely lashed out, but Ava couldn't care less because the next day she did it again.
Thankfully, she didn't like it enough for it to stick.
Martin Woods was a composed and loud man. He built his company at an early age. It was what the Woods always wanted. Rich laughs, and a wealthy Family tree. When he was building his company, he met Ava's mother. Sofiá Silva. She grew up in a small town in Portugal where jobs were scarce, and wages were incredibly low. She left school early to help support her family.
Sometime, a cousin told her that she could work in a bakery, a cleaning service, or a restaurant. And that in Brooklyn, she could make real money. Money to keep. Money to spend. She saved up a lot for this trip. Eventually, when Sofia was 18, she came to Brooklyn and worked at a Portuguese bakery. The owner was kind and let her stay with her.
She sent money home every month when she could.
One evening, when Sofia was closing the bakery, a man stepped in. It was Martin Woods. She told him that they were closing soon, but he kept being persistent, and eventually, she told him, "Just because you are cute." He wasn't the same man after that. He came every day, bringing her flowers, coffee, and newspapers. And she loved that he came every day, because every day he was there, she smiled. And not soon after, they fell in love.
Not long after falling in love, they married. Of course, honouring the Portuguese tradition because Martin valued his safety. And before they had time to settle into it, Ava Silva was already on the way. Sofiá loved her daughter like nothing else in the world. She always understood Ava's outbursts. Why she acted the way she did. She also understood when Ava came home one day crying, holding the Bible in one hand and saying she had fallen in love with a girl. Her mother accepted it and told her the same night that it was okay. No adjustment needed. She just loved her daughter immensely.
Then the Accident came.
Ava was eighteen when it happened. Angry at everything. At rules, at money problems, at the feeling of being trapped. Her mother had worked a double shift and still showed up to pick her up. They argued the entire drive. "You ruined my life." "I didn't ask to be here." "I can't wait to get out of this house." Her mother went quiet after that. Not cold, just quiet. At one red light, her mother almost said something, but Ava saw it.
Yet, she didn't look over.
She stared at her phone instead.
The truck came from the left. It never slowed down. The crash crushed the driver's side. Ava remembers her own scream more than the impact because she woke up in the hospital with a concussion, broken ribs, and a shattered leg. Her mother died before the ambulance arrived.
And the last thing Ava said to her was, "Just stop talking."
Doctors told her she was lucky, that surgery saved her leg and months of rehab taught her how to walk normally again. People called her recovery strong. Resilient. What they didn't know was that she replayed the argument every night. She remembers the way her mother's hand had tightened on the steering wheel, not in anger, but in hurt.
Ava never got to say she didn't mean it.
Never got to apologise.
So she stays a little longer every time she visits her mother's grave, as if leaving too soon would mean losing her all over again. Tonight is no exception. Darkness has fully settled over the cemetery, the air cool and heavy. Ava has finished her second bottle of wine, the same one her mother used to love. At first, she poured it properly, but somewhere along the way, she stopped pretending and drank straight from the bottle. She was wearing a ridiculous black dress, the kind her mother would have adored and insisted she wear with pride. Now it's wrinkled, the hem damp from the grass.
Her mascara is smudged beneath her eyes, leaving faint black shadows on her cheeks. Her heels were abandoned hours ago, left somewhere behind her without a second thought. Curled against the gravestone, she rests her head gently against the cold marble, eyes closed, as if the stone might still carry something of her mother's warmth.
Ava was hours late to the gala her father threw, but she wasn't even sure if she was still going to go. Tonight was her mother's birthday, and Martin threw it precisely because of that reason. She could already see the banners there in that ridiculous fancy building, "In memory of Sofiá Silva." Ava's father told her it was proper that she attend. Asked for. Needed.
But everything Ava needed was to sit there in the grass, head against the gravestone, replaying a conversation that could've turned out differently if there hadn't been that damn truck. They would've made up at home. She knew this. Ava's mom was never mad long enough. And Ava wasn't either.
"You know, Dad's been a real sucker lately," Ava started. "He's been telling me to drop the whole youth centre thing to come work for him, can you believe that?" She let out a laugh. Silence. "You would've loved this dress. You'd say I finally learned how to look like a proper woman instead of a gremlin," Ava laughed finally. "I even bought the expensive wine," she held the bottle up high. "See? Growth. Maturity. Financial irresponsibility, but in a classy way."
"You'd complain that I'm drinking it wrong. 'Sip it, Ava.' I can hear you," Ava smiled faintly, but the smile didn't last long. "I miss you, Mom," she said after a while. She lay there, plucking some grass. "I didn't mean it. What I said that night. I didn't mean any of it."
"I just want my mom."
Silence. Somewhere far off, an owl called out. And Ava was lying here, possibly tipsy, and crying. Suddenly, she stood up, kissing the gravestone. "Happy Birthday, Mom." Then she took her heels and walked toward the pavement, but not without catching a last glimpse back. She put on her heels again as she approached a Taxi standing there. He looked at her, confused when he saw this woman with wide eyes and smudged mascara. "Can you take me downtown?" He nodded slowly as she went into the backseat.
Sitting there, she fixed her mascara, her face in general. Luckily, nothing stuck to the dress from the grass as she checked for anything her father might comment on. Not long after, Ava looked like a normal woman again. As if nothing had ever happened. As if she weren't tipsy and hadn't been crying her heart out.
The five-star Manhattan hotel came into view, not long after. Her father rented out the grand ballroom, all crystal chandeliers and polished marble floors. Her mother would've hated it. The invitations were embossed in gold, discreet but impossible to ignore. "In Honour of Sofiá Silva." No explanation. No details. Just the name. As CEO, he framed it as a charity gala benefiting a foundation for immigrant working mothers. Her foundation, even though she'd never had one.
The guest list was powerful. Investors. Board members. Society figures. People who had never met her but now praised her resilience over champagne. Ava paid the Taxi driver and slipped out. She took a deep breath in. "Relax, Ava. You can do this," she told herself as she opened the doors. When she went inside, there were enormous arrangements of her mother's favourite flowers, white lilies and soft pink roses, placed at every table. A string quartet played the Portuguese songs she used to hum in the kitchen. Most guests assumed it was a curated ambience.
Ava and her father knew every song by heart.
Since Ava came late, the guests had already circled around, drinking champagne and talking with each other. Ava caught her father standing with some businessmen. As she walked over to the bar, a familiar voice cut through the noise behind her. "Oh my god, Ava." It was Mateo, one of her father's assistants. Martin has always been mean to him, but Ava always had a soft spot for him. It didn't take long for them to become friends. "Mateo!" When she hugged him, he hugged her back tighter. He pulled away just slightly to look at her face. "You look... like you've been crying," he observed. Ava let out a humourless breath. "Is it that obvious?" He smiled. "Only to me."
Because it was.
Mateo always caught her. Ava could hide behind the perfect mask, yet Mateo was always one to have a tell when she wasn't fine. And tonight, she wasn't. "I know," she said quietly. "I'm really glad you made it tonight, your father has been... a lot," he said. Ava's brow shot up. "Has he been drinking again?" she asked him. He shot her a look that said 'girl, it's obvious he has been,' And Ava sighed. "Have you tried saving him from any embarrassment?" He nodded. "He has been making quite a fool out of himself," he noted. Ava took a deep breath in. "On every night he could have. Why tonight," she said quietly. Mateo softened a fraction. "He's lonely. He's missing his wife, and you are missing your mom," Ava sighed. "Well, let me try to save him from more embarrassment, love you, Mateo. Let's catch up later, yeah?" He nodded, smiling as Ava walked toward her dad.
When she reached him, he was already gesturing vaguely with his hands and muttering something slurry. "Father," Ava said sharply. He looked at her then and softened a fraction. "Ava, my darling," She flinched slightly at the pet name. She introduced herself to the businessmen, since her father was in no way able to make any introductions. "Apologise for my father, the Silvas are quite known for Sarcasm," she said. The men laughed with her.
Ava was always charming, well, she could when she had to be. "Would you excuse us for just a minute? I promise we will return to the conversation in just a few." The men nodded and stepped away, leaving only her father and Ava. "What are you doing?" Ava said sharply. "You are late," he said evenly, though his words slurred slightly at the edge. Ava scoffed at him. "You are drunk. On her birthday. On a corporate fucking event," she whisper-shouted at him. "I'm not drunk," he defended himself weakly. Ava rolled her eyes. He went quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, he sounded softer. "You look just like her," Ava swallowed hard.
Silence.
She didn't say anything after that. "I'll mingle, don't fucking embarrass yourself further, I swear to god, she'll haunt you." He smiled weakly at her. Ava slipped away then, nodding politely at people she passed. She usually didn't stay long for conversation because it always revolved around when she was working for her father, or condolences on her mother's passing. When it was too much to bear, Ava fled to the balcony, champagne in hand, leaning casually against the railing. She was still thinking about her last words to her.
It was the only thing that stuck.
She could have said something else. If only she hadn't been so fucking angry at everything. She should have died with he-
"I didn't think you would show up."
Ava froze. Of course. Of course, she had to show up. Ava turned around slowly. Standing in front of her was Beatrice Young. CEO of a high-level consulting and risk advisory firm based in Manhattan.
Right. Totally forgot her.
I mean, it has been years since they last saw each other. Ava didn't think tonight would also be a reunion of exes. Or former lovers. Or whatever the fuck that was. It started way before Ava began to hate Beatrice's guts. They were never officially together. Not really. It rather started as late nights. Too much wine. Private conversations that lasted until sunrise. Casual, but not really. Ava was young way too young. And Beatrice was young too, just not as young as Ava.
Ava began circling herself more around Beatrice's firm after they had met in a bar. Desks became beds, clothes were always torn, makeup smudged, hickeys in uncomfortable places where they were too easy to catch. Beatrice was always more controlled, and Ava knew how to push each button to push Beatrice to the point of combustion. They never labelled it, which meant no promises.
Ava felt more than she admitted.
Beatrice never said what she felt.
After Ava's mother died, Martin collapsed emotionally. The firm was incredibly unstable. Beatrice stepped in professionally, sharp, capable, young and composed. She took control in board meetings, managed crises and became indispensable. And she did it flawlessly so. After Beatrice's firm was hired, she grew more and more distant. Desks became spaces between arguments, clothes stayed on. Beatrice had said it was "not appropriate" now. That they "needed boundaries."
Ava felt like she was good enough to sleep with but not good enough to stand beside publicly.
Mainly so, because all that Beatrice said was that it wasn't appropriate. What she didn't tell her was the actual reason.
So, when Beatrice saw Ava, she was distant and Formal. Always calling her "Miss Silva." There was no softness in her gaze. Just controlled eye contact. But Ava remembers the way Beatrice used to say her name after hours. The way she would worship her body. The way she used to stay after and make sure she was okay.
Ava needed her after her mother died, and the thing that Beatrice chose was professionalism. Even if Beatrice thought she was protecting Ava, or avoiding scandal, or doing the responsible thing, Ava always saw it as abandonment, and Ava hated her for it.
So really, seeing Beatrice at this event was honestly the last fucking straw.
"You scared I'll ruin your perfect composure?" Ava said, leaning back against the railing, sipping her champagne. "Still choosing violence, I see," Beatrice replied calmly, hands clasped behind her back. "Still choosing distance, I see," Ava shot back at her. Beatrice took a long look at her, eyes still distant. "You look... well," she said after some time. Ava scoffed at her. "You don't get to comment on how I look anymore." Beatrice tilted her head.
God, Ava hated how good she looked when she did that.
"What are you even doing here?" Ava asked after some time. Beatrice stepped closer, every step deliberate. "Your father invited me, and I've been quite helpful to his firm," she said evenly. Ava rolled her eyes, "Still gloating about everything," Ava said. Beatrice's jaw tightened faintly. "Why did you even follow me outside?" Beatrice hesitated, a rare thing for her. "I was going to get some air," she said evenly. "Liar."
Beatrice took a deep breath in and stepped even closer. "You don't get to call me that," She said evenly. "I know exactly when you're lying," Ava said, tapping on her glass. "You still think everything is about you." Ava let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "You followed me."
"Neither was your bed. Or your desk. I still ended up there." Beatrice's jaw flexed faintly at the memory. "You're intoxicated."
"And you're deflecting." Ava's eyes were dark, anger floating behind them. "I was making sure you didn't cause a scene." Ava drowned the last of her champagne, setting the glass down beside her. "You always did like supervising me," she said, smiling sharply now. "I have responsibilities tonight."
"And yet here you are."
Beatrice's voice dropped lower and quieter. "You shouldn't be alone right now." Ava let out a sharp laugh. "Please, that stopped mattering to you months ago." Beatrice's jaw worked. It always did when she was trying for restraint but failing miserably. "I didn't abandon you."
"No, you just rearranged your priorities," Ava shot back at her. "You're trying to hurt me," Beatrice observed quietly. "Is it working?" Ava let out a short laugh.
Beatrice looked at her then, really looked. Honestly, the only thing she felt in that moment was regret. Regret that she never told Ava the real reason. That they never worked out. That it was just sex.
That she hurt her.
"You're not being fair," she said after some time. Ava's eyes glistened now. "You don't get to talk to me about fairness, not after you made the choice you did." That stung, Ava could see in the way Beatrice's jaw worked, and her breath faintly hitched. "You think this was easy for me?" Beatrice asked her after some time. "You didn't look back." A beat. "I never stopped looking, Ava."
Ava's breath hitched as she became acutely aware of how close they were standing. "You don't get to say that like it fixes anything," she said after a while. "It isn't meant to fix anything," Beatrice said, voice barely above a whisper. "Then what is it meant to do?" Ava demanded. "Tell the truth."
Ava let out a small, bitter laugh. "You don't do that. Not with me."
"I'm doing it now," Beatrice said. "So what? You watched from a distance? That's supposed to comfort me?" She asked, voice wavering slightly. "It was the only way I knew how to stay," Beatrice said quietly, hands hovering over Ava's waist, an old habit maybe. "Staying means showing up," Ava shot at her. "You were unravelling. I was not going to take advantage of that," she explained but that only made Ava angrier. "You think I'm fragile?"
"I think you were grieving. And I cared enough not to blur that line," Beatrice said immediately. A beat. Ava stepped closer. "You cared?" she asked, voice low and barely above a whisper. "You know I did," Beatrice said, voice steady, but softer this time. Ava went quiet for a bit. When she spoke, her voice cracked slightly at the end. "Say it," she demanded. Beatrice exhaled. "You mattered more than was appropriate," she said.
"You always hide behind that word," Ava whispered. "And you always pretend you don't need anyone." Ava's breath hitched faintly. That stung. Because Ava knew how badly she just needed Beatrice.
"Maybe I just needed you."
Beatrice went very still at that. For a moment, the distant sound of traffic below was louder than either of them. "You've never needed anyone," Beatrice said quietly. Ava let out a soft, humourless breath, stepping closer, close enough that there was only one inch left to fill. "That's what you tell yourself so you don't feel guilty." Beatrice's jaw worked. Her composure slipped just slightly; a flicker in her eyes, a breath that came a second too slow. "I stepped back because I respected you," she said after a moment.
"You stepped back because you were scared."
Beatrice's breath hitched subtly, but there. Ava noticed; she always did. "I was not scared," Beatrice defended herself. "You hesitate before you lie," Ava said softly. A pause stretched between them. The city wind lifted a strand of Ava's hair, and without thinking, Beatrice's hand twitched as if she might move it, yet she stopped herself halfway.
Ava saw that too.
"See? That. You always stop." Ava said. "Because if I don't..." her voice was low, yet she didn't finish the sentence, because Ava closed the last inch they had of space between them. The tension between them was palpable, charged and restrained. "If you don't what?" Ava demanded, and Beatrice exhaled through her nose, like she was forcing control back into place. "If I don't, I forget every reason I had to walk away."
That landed.
Ava's expression shifted, anger softening into something rawer. "You didn't walk away. You disappeared." Beatrice's brows furrowed slightly. "I was in the room next to yours for weeks," she said evenly. "Not with me," Ava's voice broke just slightly on the last word. She looked away first, blinking too hard. Beatrice noticed. Her hand lifted again, slower now, and this time she didn't quite stop. Her fingers hovered just shy of Ava's wrist.
Not touching.
Almost.
"You weren't in a place where I could be what you wanted," Beatrice said, her voice barely above a whisper. Ava turned back to her, eyes glassy but steady. "And you didn't ask what I wanted." The space between them felt impossibly small. Their breathing was uneven now, matching without meaning to. For just one second, it looked like Beatrice might close the distance.
Instead, she stepped back.
Only half a step.
Yet it felt enormous.
"This isn't the night," Beatrice said after a while. Ava let out a broken laugh. "It's never the night with you." The words hung between them, heavier than anything else they've said. After some time, Ava shook her head, swallowing whatever was rising in her throat. "You know what? Forget it." She stepped back fully this time, breaking the fragile proximity between them. The cool night air rushes into the space she left behind. "Enjoy your gala, Beatrice." Ava turned toward the doors. She made it three steps when Beatrice moved, before she could think better of it. Her hand closed firmly around Ava's wrist.
Ava froze.
The contact was electric, months of distance collapsing into the simple press of skin against skin. Beatrice's breath faltered at the feeling of her pulse beneath her fingers. "Don't," Beatrice said, her voice low. Ava didn't turn around immediately. "Don't what?" Beatrice stepped closer again, still holding her wrist. She was close enough that Ava could feel the warmth at her back. "Don't walk away like that," she said evenly. "You did," Ava said, her voice tight.
That landed hard.
Beatrice's grip softened then, thumb shifting slightly against Ava's skin without meaning to. "That was different," Beatrice said and Ava finally turned around. They were close, incredibly close. Beatrice's hand was still around her wrist, neither of them acknowledging it. "It didn't feel different," Ava said, as their eyes locked. The noise of the gala suddenly felt miles away. Beatrice's jaw tightened, but she didn't let go. "If you leave right now, you'll pretend this didn't matter," she said, though her voice lacked composure. "It didn't matter to you." Beatrice's breath caught again, visible this time.
"You have no idea how much it mattered."
Ava searched her face, looking for calculation, composure or distance.
She found none.
Beatrice's hands slid slightly from Ava's wrist to her palm, not laced, just touching. A question more than a claim. "I needed you steady before I let myself be selfish," Beatrice said quietly. Ava's voice softened despite herself. "And now?" The silence stretched as their hands were still joined. Beatrice stepped in that last inch. "Now I'm not certain I can keep choosing the right thing." Ava's breath stuttered, barely controlled. "You mean distance." Beatrice's thumb brushed faintly over the inside of Ava's wrist, a ghost of the intimacy they once knew.
"I mean you."
And for a moment, neither of them moved. Ava just stared at her, like she was trying to decide whether to believe it, or whether believing it would finally break something beyond repair. And then it does. Her face crumpled before she could stop it. It wasn't dramatic, nor loud; it was worse than that. Her breath shuddered. "You don't get to say that tonight," Ava said, barely there. Beatrice's hand tightened instinctively, not restraining, just steadying. Ava tried to pull away anyway, but it was weak, unfocused. The alcohol, the music inside, her mother's birthday, it all crashed into her at once.
"She would've hated this. The flowers. The stupid wine. The speeches," Ava's voice fractured. "And he's in there, drunk off his mind, pretending he built it for her." A tear slipped down her cheek as another one followed. She brushed at them angrily. "And you're holding everything together like you always do, and I can't even-" Her voice gave out completely. Beatrice stepped closer without thinking, the space between them gone again. One hand left Ava's wrist and moved to her waist, careful, hesitant, like she's asking permission without words. "Ava," she said softly.
That did it.
Ava's shoulders shook, and this time she didn't fight it. The sob was quiet but violent, like it's been trapped for months. "I can't do this without her." The admission was raw, childlike and stripped out of all the anger and bravado. Beatrice exhaled shakily, her own composure thinning. "You don't have to." Ava laughed through tears. "That's the problem. I do." Her hand fisted into the fabric of Beatrice's jacket without realising, not seductive, not strategic, just incredibly desperate.
"He looks at you like you're the strong one. Like you're the solution. And I'm just... the mess she left behind." Beatrice's other arm came around her fully now, not controlled, nor distant. Just holding her. "You are not a mess," Beatrice said evenly. "You chose him." The words were muffled against Beatrice's shoulder, yet she felt the whole weight of it. She closed her eyes briefly. "I chose stability. For all of you," she said, like it would make anything better. It didn't.
"I needed you."
Ava's voice was smaller now, simply exhausted. Beatrice's hand moved gently into Ava's hair, steady and grounding. "I know," Beatrice said, on the verge of breaking. Inside, a faint applause erupted from the ballroom, probably another speech ending. The sound felt cruel. Ava pressed her face into Beatrice's shoulder like she was trying to disappear. "I hate that you're the only one who makes this feel quieter." Beatrice swallowed hard. "Then don't hate me." Ava's fingers tightened slightly in her jacket. "I don't know how not to."
Ava's grip was still tight in Beatrice's jacket when her phone started vibrating sharply in her clutch. She ignored it at first, but it kept ringing. Ava stepped back slightly, sniffing slightly. The screen lit up between them. Jason - Youth Centre. Ava's entire body shifted. The tears didn't disappear, but they froze in place. She answered it, swiping at her face with the heel of her hand. "Jason, what's wrong?" There was shouting on the other end. Wind and a shaky breath. Ava straightened immediately, instinct overriding everything else. "Slow down. Where are you?" Her voice changed completely into steady, grounded, and protective. She stepped away from Beatrice without meaning to, already moving toward the stairwell. "Is he hurt? Did he touch you? Okay. Okay. I'm coming."
Beatrice watched the transformation happen in real time. The grief folded inward, the heartbreak shelving itself, and the daughter disappeared, and instead, the director of the youth centre stepped forward. Ava hung up and didn't hesitate. "I have to go." Her mascara was still smudged, her dress wrinkled, and her father drunk inside. Her mother's birthday gala was still in full swing. None of that mattered now, though. Beatrice stepped forward. "What happened?" Ava looked at her then. "One of my kids. He's in trouble." No explanation, nor details, just urgency. Ava started toward the exit again, this time with purpose. Beatrice reached for her, not to stop her. "Where?"
Ava hesitated for half a second. The old 'don't let her in' instinct. "Bushwick," she said then. Beatrice didn't even look back toward the ballroom. "I'll drive." Ava studied her, eyes still wet but sharp again. For a moment, it's the same choice as before: distance or not. Sirens wailed faintly somewhere in the city. And gathering that Ava had been drinking, she agreed with her. "Fine. But don't try to manage this." Beatrice met her gaze evenly. "I wouldn't dare."
As soon as they stepped onto the sidewalk, the cool night air hitting her flushed skin, Ava was already dialling Camila. She picked up on the third ring. "What. It's late, Ava," Camila muttered, her voice thick with sleep. "Something happened with Jason and Malcolm," Ava said, sliding into the passenger seat of Beatrice's car. Beatrice circled around to the driver's side without a word, got in, and buckled her seatbelt. The engine roared to life. On the other end of the line, the sound seemed to wake Camila fully. "Again?" she asked, sharper now. It wasn't the first time something had gone wrong with Jason and Malcolm. "I'm getting dressed," Camila continued, already moving, drawers opening, footsteps crossing her apartment. "Where?"
"Bushwick," Ava replied, steady despite everything. "Come fast."
"On my way."
Ava ended the call and stared straight ahead as Beatrice pulled away from the curb, the gala lights shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a while, neither of them spoke. The city blurred past in streaks of amber and white, the hum of the engine filling the space where everything else sat unsaid. Ava finally broke the silence. "Thanks for driving," she said softly. Beatrice kept her eyes on the road. "Of course," she replied, just as quiet. They stopped at a red light. After a brief hesitation, Beatrice reached over and opened the glove compartment. "There are wipes in there," she said evenly. "In case you need them. Your mascara is... rather smudged." Ava looked at her instead of the glove box. "You still keep those?" Beatrice nodded once, slow and controlled. "Yes. They're the same ones from that... one car ride." A faint flush crept up her neck despite her composure. Ava's breath caught almost imperceptibly.
That car ride.
Beatrice driving to a drugstore since she had been the reason, Ava's makeup was smudged, because Ava had a dinner with her dad afterwards. Because her lipstick had been ruined. Because she'd been so unsteady afterwards that walking in a straight line had felt ambitious. Ava looked forward again, a small, dangerous smile ghosting across her mouth. "Yeah," she murmured. "The one where I had to pretend I could walk normally." The light turned green. Beatrice's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel at the memory, her jaw setting as she guided the car forward. "I remember," she said simply. Silence.
---
Bushwick was louder than the gala ever was. Music bled from a passing car, someone was shouting half a block away, and a small crowd was breaking apart when Beatrice pulled up to the curb. Ava was out of the car before it fully stopped. She spotted Camila standing near the bodega in sweats and a hoodie, hair pulled into a rushed bun and arms crossed tightly as she scanned the streets. The second she saw Ava, relief flashed across her face. "Finally," Camila muttered, striding over. "He wouldn't listen." Camila's gaze went from Ava to Beatrice. She froze for half a second, not dramatic, just observant. Her eyebrows lifted, just slightly. Camila knew Beatrice. She knew what happened.
Jason spotted Ava next and rushed toward her. "Ava." He looked shaken, adrenaline still buzzing through him. "What happened?" Ava asked, her voice steady, already searching for Malcolm. He sat against a brick wall, jaw locked, knuckles split open and smeared with blood. There's a dark stain on his sleeve, and he looked defiant; smaller than he was trying to seem. "He wouldn't let it go," Jason said quickly. "The guy kept saying stuff." Malcolm spat onto the pavement. Ava walked over to him, kneeling slightly in front of him to be eye level.
Beatrice watched from a distance, leaning against her car. Frankly, it surprised her. Beatrice expected sharpness, Ava scolding him. She didn't expect... Steadiness. "Show me," Ava said softly. Malcolm trusted her; he always did. Ava was kind of the best friend for the older kids in the youth centre. She understood more than anyone else, and the kids got that. She took Malcolm's bleeding hand gently; she didn't shame him, nor lecture immediately. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" she asked him. "I'm fine," Malcolm said defensively. "That's not what I asked." Her voice wasn't sharp; it was grounded. He hesitated, then, quieter, "No."
Behind them, Beatrice took in the street. Exits, corners, and the man across the road who's still pretending not to film. Camila stepped closer to Ava, her voice lowered. "You brought her?" Ava kept her eyes on Malcolm. "She was driving."
"Mhm."
"They said we don't belong here," Jason suddenly blurted out. Ava's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. "They said we're charity," Malcolm added. The words hung there, ugly and raw. "I don't help you because I pity you," Ava said quietly. "I help you because you're mine." That shifted something in Malcolm's expression. There was no superiority, no condescension. "They called him a liar," Malcolm muttered. "And that required blood?" Ava asked, but he didn't answer. Sirens echoed faintly in the distance.
Beatrice then stepped closer, voice-controlled. "We likely have under three minutes." Camila nodded immediately. "Okay, boys, field trip's over. Everyone moves." Jason didn't hesitate, but his best friend stood planted. "You'd fight too," Malcolm told Ava. She didn't deny it because there was a flicker, a flash of who she used to be. "Yes," she said finally. "I would. And that's exactly why I'm telling you not to."
That landed.
A police cruiser rolled slowly past the end of the block, not quite stopping, just watching. Beatrice subtly shifts her posture, shoulders squared, calm and unthreatening. The cruiser continues driving seconds after. Camila side-eyed her. "You always this useful?"
"Frequently," Beatrice replied evenly. Ava didn't comment, but she noticed. Ava tightened her grip just enough to clean the blood off his knuckles with the inside of her dress hem without thinking. Both Camila and Beatrice saw it.
"You don't protect someone by ruining your own future," Ava murmured, softer now. "I didn't want him thinking I can't protect him. He's my best friend," Malcolm's voice cracked just slightly as Jason looked down at him. Ava reached up and briefly brushed Malcolm's hair back from his forehead. "You protect him by staying here," she said. "With us."
That word sat between them. Us. Beatrice felt the shape of it.
Camila clapped once. "Car. Now. Before this turns into paperwork." Jason moved first, looking back once as Malcolm hesitated, but then pushed himself off the wall. As they walked, Camila fell into step beside Ava. "You okay?" she murmured quietly. Ava nodded. "Yeah." Camila glanced at the smudged mascara, which Ava couldn't clean, then at Beatrice walking a few steps behind. "She the reason?" Ava didn't look at her. "Not now." Camila exhaled softly. Understood.
Beatrice opened the back door for the boys without comment. Malcolm paused before he got in. "You're still coming tomorrow?" he asked Ava, trying to sound indifferent. Ava met his eyes. "You know I am," she smiled softly. He nodded once and got in. As the doors shut and the street quieted again, Ava stood there for half a second, shoulders dropping now that the crisis was contained.
Beatrice watched her.
Not the angry woman from the balcony, nor the grieving daughter.
The one who showed up.
Camila stood beside her own car, arms folded as she watched Ava for a second longer. "You good?" she asked quietly. Ava nodded. "Yeah. We'll talk later," Ava smiled softly at her. "I'll follow you," Camila said, already opening her car door. "Text me if anything changes." Ava nodded and slid into the passenger seat. Beatrice pulled away from the curb, Camila's headlights falling in behind them.
For a few blocks, it was quiet.
"Sorry," Jason said as he cleared his throat from the backseat. Ava glanced at them through the rearview mirror. "For what?" Malcolm shifted uncomfortably. "You looked... nice tonight." Jason nodded quickly. "Like, really nice. Fancy nice." Ava looked down at her dress, blood at the hem, mascara still smudged faintly. "I still do," she said dryly, but they didn't laugh. Instead, Malcolm rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to mess it up," he said. "You didn't mess anything up," Ava replied. Jason hesitated. "We remembered." Ava turned slightly in her seat. "Remembered what?" Malcolm looked down at his hands then. "Your mom."
The car suddenly felt incredibly smaller.
"It's her birthday," Jason added quietly. "You always close the centre early today." Ava blinked, caught off guard. "You guys remembered?" Jason shrugged. "You make that weird cake every year."
"It's not weird," Ava said automatically. "It tastes like almonds and sadness," Malcolm muttered. A small smile broke across her face. "You remembered," she repeated softly. Malcolm nodded once. "So... sorry. For tonight." Ava studied them both for a long second. "You don't apologise for existing on a hard day," she said gently. "You apologise for throwing punches." Malcolm winced. "Sorry for the punches."
"Better."
Jason leaned forward slightly, peering toward the front seat. "So... who's that?" Beatrice kept her eyes on the road. Ava sighs faintly. "That's Beatrice."
"Good evening," Beatrice said calmly. Jason squints. "She sounds expensive." Malcolm leaned closer to the middle. "Are you like... a lawyer or something?" Jason followed suit. "No," Beatrice replied evenly. "Cop?"
"No."
"Secret Agent?"
"No."
Ava huffed a quiet laugh. "She works corporate." Both boys groan. "That's worse," Jason muttered. A flicker of something like amusement crosses Beatrice's face; a rare thing. Malcolm glances at Ava. "She helped, though." Ava nodded once. "Yeah. She did." Malcolm leaned back, studying Beatrice in the rearview mirror. "Thanks," he said awkwardly. "You're welcome," Beatrice replied. Jason watched Ava carefully; he always had a tell when something was off with her. "You okay?" Ava met his eyes in the mirror. "I'm fine." Malcolm tilted his head. "You were crying." Ava exhaled slowly. "It's allowed," she said. "Even for me."
The boy went quiet for a second, absorbing that.
Then Jason leaned forward slightly between the seats, squinting at her reflection in the mirror. "Was it because of that one woman?" he asked carefully. Ava stiffened a fraction. "What woman?"
"You know," Jason continued, snapping his fingers like he was trying to remember. "The intense one. The one you talked about when Emily got dumped." Malcolm's eyes widened in recognition. "Ohhh. The emotionally unavailable one." Ava turned in her seat slowly. "Excuse me?" Jason pointed triumphantly. "Yes. That one. The 'she alphabetises her feelings instead of having them' one." Beatrice's jaw tightened ever so slightly, though she kept her eyes on the road.
Ava pressed her lips together. "I absolutely did not say that."
"You did," Malcolm insisted. "You said she organises conflicts into bullet points." Jason nodded. "And that she drinks water like it's a competitive sport." Ava tried and failed to hide the corner of her mouth, lifting. "You two have selective memory."
"No," Malcolm said. "We have trauma memory. It sticks." Jason leaned closer. "Is that her?" he said, pointing. Ava looked forward again. "Maybe." The boys glanced at each other. Malcolm lowered his voice dramatically. "Is she the one who ghosted you?"
"I was not ghosted," Ava said quickly, and Jason tilted his head. "Strategically distanced?" From the driver's seat, Beatrice spoke smoothly. "That is a gross oversimplification." The boys froze, and Malcolm's eyebrows shot up. "Oh my God, it is her." Jason sat back slowly. "This is insane," he said as Ava dragged a hand down her face. "You two need hobbies."
"We have hobbies," Jason argued. "This is one of them." Malcolm grinned faintly. "You cried over her?"
"I did not cry over her."
"You literally just cried," Malcolm said, and Ava pointed at him. "Careful." Jason studied Beatrice in the mirror again. "So, you're the one," he said, crossing his arms. "I'm afraid I don't know what that implies," she said evenly. "It implies," Malcolm said wisely, "that you're in trouble." Ava groaned. "I cannot believe I feed you." Jason shrugged. "You also emotionally mentor us. This is part of the package."
There was a small silence, then Jason spoke again, softer now. "It's okay if it was about her." Jason was always the wise one. He had a really good future if he would stick with it. Ava didn't answer immediately. Malcolm nudged the back of her seat lightly with his knee. "Well. If she hurts you, we're fighting her."
Beatrice raised a brow slightly. "I would strongly advise against that." Jason squinted at her. "See? Threat." Ava laughed a real one this time, despite herself. "No fighting," she said. "Ever again tonight." Malcolm grinned. "No promises," he muttered. Ava twisted in her seat just enough to fix him with a look. He sighed dramatically. "Fine. Promise."
---
By the time they pulled in front of the youth centre, the neighbourhood had quieted again. Its porch light cast a soft yellow glow onto the sidewalk, and the mural along the side wall was chipped but bright. It was a messy constellation, painted hands, and the word Belong stretching across the brick in uneven letters.
It felt like Ava.
Warm, loud, imperfect and safe.
Beatrice parked at the curb as Camila pulled in behind them. Before anyone could say anything, Jason and Malcolm were already out of the car. "Inside," Ava said, not sharp, just certain. They obeyed. The front door opened and shut a little too loudly. From upstairs, a small, groggy voice called out. "Malcolm?" Malcolm groaned under his breath. "Great." Two little kids appeared at the top of the stairs in mismatched pyjamas, hair wild with sleep. "Why are you back?" one asked. "And why are there sirens?" the other added, rubbing his eyes. Ava's entire expression changed; the edge disappeared. She stepped forward, lowering her voice. "Hey. It's okay. False alarm." One of the smaller boys stomped his foot weakly. "I was asleep."
"I know," Ava said softly.
"I don't want to walk," he declared, clearly offended at being awake. Ava didn't argue; instead, she walked up the stairs, crouching slightly, and held her arms out. "Okay. Royal transportation, it is." He climbed into her arms immediately, clinging like a Koala. Ava lifted him easily, one arm under his legs, the other steadying his back. His head dropped against her shoulder. "You're wearing a princess dress," he murmured. "Don't expose me," Ava said quietly. "It's wrinkly," the other child announced. "Thank you for your honesty," Ava replied dryly.
She started up the stairs with the boy in her arms as Beatrice followed a step behind without hesitation, quiet, observant and taking it all in. Up close, she noticed how naturally Ava moved like this, adjusting her grip, shifting her weight so the kid was comfortable and brushing her thumb over his shoulder in slow, soothing circles. They reached the bedroom as Ava nudged the door open with her foot and lowered him carefully onto the bed. He refused to let go at first.
"You're staying," he said sleepily. "I'm right downstairs," Ava promised. "Always." He studied her for a second, then finally released his grip, giving Ava the chance to tuck him in properly. Beatrice stood quietly in the doorway, unnoticed. Ava straightened, turned and nearly ran into her.
For a second, they just looked at each other in the dim hallway light. Then Ava exhaled softly and stepped past her. Downstairs, Jason and Malcolm pretended they weren't watching. "You didn't have to carry him," Malcolm muttered as she went downstairs. "I wanted to," Ava replied simply. Jason shifted his weight. "You were really crying?" Ava leaned against the counter. "You're really nosy." Malcolm studied her. "You tell us not to bottle things up," he said quietly. She sighed. "It was a hard night." Jason nodded. "Because of your mom." Ava nodded once. "And maybe other stuff," Malcolm adds, carefully. Ava narrowed her eyes. "You two need hobbies." Jason grinned. "You're our hobby." Ava bumped his shoulder lightly. "You scare me like that again," she said, "and I'm grounding you from oxygen." Jason snorted and Malcolm shook his head. "You can't do that."
"Watch me."
Beatrice stood a few feet away, silent, watching the easy way they orbit Ava. The trust, the teasing, and the way they listen without fear. She wasn't their boss, nor their saviour. Just their person. Camila disappeared into the small supply closet and returned with the first aid kit, tossing it onto the kitchen table. "Sit," Ava told Malcolm. "I'm fine," he said immediately. "Sit."
He sat.
Ava dragged a chair closer and kneeled in front of him instead of towering over him. She took his hand carefully, turning it under the light. "You punch like you're arguing with drywall," she muttered. Malcolm winced as the antiseptic hit the split skin. "Ow." "That's the sound of consequences," she replied calmly. Jason hovered nearby. "He did land one good hit."
"I'm not rewarding him with a trophy," Ava said as Camila leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "At least aim smarter next time." Ava shot her a look. "We are not encouraging technique." Beatrice stood a little off to the side, jacket still on, watching the scene unfold, like she stepped into a world she was never formally introduced to. Malcolm glanced at her while Ava taped gauze over his knuckles. "So," he said cautiously, "you're the intense one." Ava didn't look up. "Malcolm."
"What?" he said defensively. "I'm just confirming." Beatrice's mouth twitched slightly. "I assume I should be concerned." Jason stepped closer to her, offering a paper cup from the stack near the sink. "Water?" he asked politely. Beatrice looked momentarily surprised. "Yes. Thank you," she said as he filled it from the tap and handed it to her carefully, like she might grade him on the pour. "You're welcome," he said. Camila watched this exchange with open amusement. "He's trying to impress you."
"I am not," Jason insists. "You absolutely are," Malcolm muttered. Ava shook her head as she finished the bandage. She blows lightly over Malcolm's knuckles before letting go. "There. Try not to redecorate the sidewalk tomorrow." He flexed his bandaged hand carefully while Ava threw the used wipes away. "No promises," he muttered. She flicked his forehead lightly. "Try harder."
Jason watched her closely now that the chaos had settled. The kitchen light was hard; it showed the smudged mascara and the exhaustion she hadn't quite hidden. "You look tired," he said quietly. "I am tired," she admitted. Malcolm tilted his head. "You were crying." Ava shot him a look. "We've covered this." Camila then stepped forward, taking the first aid kit from the table. "Alright. They're not bleeding. The little ones are asleep. Again. Crisis contained." She looked at Ava more closely now. "You should go home." Ava stiffened. "I'm fine."
Camila raised a brow. "You've had wine. You've cried. You got called out by teenagers. Go home." Jason nodded. "We'll survive." Malcolm nodded. "We didn't burn the place down before you got there," he said, shrugging once. "That is not the reassurance you think it is," Ava said. Camila softened. "I'll stay. I was planning to crash here anyway." Jason brightened. "Movie night?" Camila shot him a look. "Absolutely not," she replied.
Malcolm looked at Ava again, more serious now. "You don't have to be the strong one every night." Ava crossed her arms defensively. "I'm not-" "Yes, you are," Jason cut in gently. The room went quiet as Beatrice watched her carefully. Ava looked between all of them, the boys, Camila and this building she built piece by piece. "I'll come early tomorrow," she said finally. "You always do," Camila replied. Jason stood and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. He hesitated, then walked over to Beatrice and offered it. "For the drive," he said. Beatrice looked at him suprised again. "Thank you."
He nodded once, satisfied.
Malcolm gestured vaguely toward her. "You're driving her home?" Beatrice nodded once. "Yes." Malcolm studied her for a second. "Don't let her overthink." Ava scoffed. "Excuse me?" Jason pointed at her. "You spiral."
"I do not spiral."
"You alphabetise your feelings," Malcolm said. Beatrice's mouth twitched faintly. "That sounds efficient." Ava glared at both of them. "I cannot believe I raised you." "You didn't," Jason said. "We raised you, too." That landed softer than any joke. Ava exhaled, stepping forward and pulling Jason into a quick side hug. Then Malcolm, who pretended to resist but leaned into it anyway. "Lock the doors," she said automatically. "We will."
"Text me if anything moves."
"Yes, mom," Malcolm muttered. She narrowed her eyes. "I will revoke your snack privileges." He saluted as Camila stepped closer and squeezed Ava's shoulder. "Go." Ava nodded and turned toward the door, as Beatrice followed her out into the cooler night air. Behind them, the youth centre doors click shut, not chaotic now, but steady.
For a moment, neither of them spoke as they walked to the car. Ava exhaled slowly as she slid into the passenger seat. Beatrice started the engine, and the dashboard lights glowed softly, casting a faint blue across the car. They pulled away from the curb and for a few blocks, it's quiet. Ava leaned her head back against the seat. "You didn't have to stay that long," she said finally. Beatrice kept her eyes on the road. "I wasn't in a hurry to leave." Ava hummed softly. "You were good with them," Beatrice added after a moment. "They would disagree," Ava snorted faintly. "They listen to you."
"That's because I threaten their snack privileges."
Beatrice allowed the smallest smile. Ava watched the city lights slide across the windshield. "They remember everything," she said quietly. "Things you say once and forget."
"The important things tend to stay." Ava glanced sideways at her. "Is that what you do?"
"What do you mean?"
"Remember everything."
Beatrice considered that for a moment. "Yes," She said simply, and Ava studied her profile in the dim light. "That's exhausting," Ava exhaled. "Occasionally." They stopped at a red light. The silence wasn't uncomfortable now, just full. Ava wiped her under eyes with her thumb, catching the last smear of mascara. Outside, the city moved on without them, a bus hissing to a stop on the opposite side of the street and somewhere nearby, someone laughed too loudly.
Ava stared ahead, but her mind refused to stay quiet.
The hurt and anger was still there. It hadn't magically dissolved just because Beatrice had shown up or because she'd helped with Malcolm, or because she'd stood quietly in the hallway while Ava carried a half-asleep kid back to bed. If anything, it made it worse.
Because Ava couldn't understand it.
She couldn't quite fathom why Beatrice had followed her outside the gala in the first place, or why she'd driven her across the city, or why she'd stayed in that kitchen while Malcolm bled on the table and Jason handed her water like she belonged there.
Why she was still here now.
Ava glanced sideways at her. Beatrice was focused on the road ahead, hands steady on the steering wheel, posture composed as ever, as if the evening hadn't cracked something open between them. Quite frankly, it made Ava's chest tighten. "You didn't have to do any of that," Ava said after a while, her voice quieter than before. Beatrice didn't look at her. "Do what?"
"Drive me. Stay at the centre."
There was a small pause. "I wanted to," Beatrice said evenly. The answer was simple enough that it irritated her. Ava let out a small breath through her nose. "That's not really an explanation." Beatrice's eyes flicked toward her briefly, then back to the road. "Not everything I do is strategic, Ava." Ava huffed faintly. "You'll forgive me if I struggle to believe that." The corner of Beatrice's mouth moved almost imperceptibly. "Fair." The light turned green, and the car rolled forward again.
Ava leaned her head back against the seat, staring up athe dark ceiling of the car. Part of her wanted to push, to demand something clearer, something messier, something that made sense of the last few months. But another part of her was strangely relieved she didn't have to because right now, Beatrice was still here. Still driving.
The street grew quieter as they moved deeper into Ava's neighbourhood. The bright storefronts give way to older apartment buildings, dim porch lights and the occasional late-night pedestrian cutting across the intersection without looking. Ava watched the city slide past the window, arms loosely folded. Then she noticed something. Beatrice didn't ask once where to turn, nor slow down like she was searching for the right building.
She just... drove.
Two blocks later, the car turned down Ava's street without hesitation. She straightened slightly in her seat. Another turn and the familiar cracked sidewalk came into view, with the small grocery store on the corner with the flickering sign. And then, Beatrice pulled smoothly in front of Ava's building. Ava stared at the entrance for a moment before looking at her as the engine idled. "You remembered." Beatrice unbuckled her seat calmly. "Of course." Ava studied her face, confused. "That's new," she said. Beatrice tilted her head slightly "How so?" Ava gestured vaguely between them. "You usually forget things that happened between us."
The words came out more blunt than she intended.
For a second, Beatrice didn't respond; she simply switched off the engine. "I never forgot where you lived," Beatrice said finally. Ava scoffed faintly. "You forgot a lot of other things." Beatrice's gaze shifted toward the apartment building, then back to Ava. "I didn't forget them either." That answer landed somewhere deep and irritatingly sincere in Ava's chest. Ava studied her, trying to read whether this was another carefully measured response or something closer to the truth.
"Then you're better at pretending than I thought," she said as Beatrice's expression softened, just slightly. "That has been said about me." Ava let out a quiet breath, leaning forward to grab her bag from the floor. When she opened the door, the cool night air rushed in again. She paused halfway out, glancing back. "You don't have to walk me up," she said, noticing how Beatrice didn't move to start the car. "I know." Ava hesitated. The hallway light of the building flickered on as someone inside moved past the sensor. She looked at Beatrice again, something uncertain crossing her face. "You still remember the apartment too?" she asked. Beatrice met her eyes. "Yes."
Ava studied her for a second longer because that surprised her more than it should have. Because Beatrice was always the one who would catalogue a company's entire financial structure from memory, but somehow forgot the smaller, more personal things between them.
At least that's what Ava had always told herself.
Ava lingered for a moment longer, then she turned toward the building, but paused when she heard the driver's door open. She glanced back and saw that Beatrice had stepped out of the car. "You really don't have to walk me up," Ava said, one hand already pushing open the building door. "I know," Beatrice replied calmly. Ava studied her for a second, then stepped inside. The hallway light flickered on overhead, illuminating the narrow stairwell and the faded tiles on the floor. Ava heard Beatrice follow behind her. She exhaled through her nose and started up the stairs. The building was quiet this late, only the faint hum of someone's television leaking through a door down the hall. When they reached the second-floor landing, Ava slowed down, glancing back at her again.
But she couldn't quite bring herself to say something.
Instead, she pulled her keys from her bag, the metal jingling softly in the still hallway. When the door unlocked, she pushed it open and stepped inside, flicking the light on. Her apartment was small but warm. Books stacked unevenly on the coffee table, a jacket draped over the couch and a half-finished mug still sitting on the counter from that morning. Ava kicked off her heels by the door. Beatrice stepped in behind her, pausing just inside the entryway like she wasn't quite sure how far she was allowed to go. Ava glanced over her shoulder. "You can sit, you know," she said quietly, gesturing vaguely toward the couch.
Beatrice inclined her head and stepped further in. Ava dropped her bag onto the kitchen counter and leaned against it, rubbing her face with both hands. The exhaustion settled back over her shoulder now that the night had finally slowed.
The apartment settled into silence around them as Ava pushed herself off the counter and moved toward the sink, turning the tap on just enough to rinse the black mascara streaks from her fingers. The water ran for a moment longer before she turned the tap off again. Behind her, Beatrice hadn't moved much. She was standing near the couch, taking in the room with quiet attention; she gave everything.
She remembered.
That one night on her couch, where Ava was kneeling. That one time on the kitchen Counter, where Beatrice bought Ava a new vase because she broke it. The memory sent warmth low in her stomach. Ava dried her hands on a kitchen towel and glanced over her shoulder. "You're doing it again," she said softly. "Doing what?" Beatrice replied, trying to sound even, yet the memory of everything was making her sound low. "Looking around like you're cataloguing evidence." Beatrice's mouth twitched slightly. "Old habits."
Ava walked over to the couch and dropped down onto it with a tired exhale, her head falling back against the cushion. "Well, detective," she murmured, "everything's still here." Beatrice's eyes flicked briefly to the framed photograph of Ava and her mother, flour on their cheeks and laughing at something out of frame, on the shelve. She looked away quickly.
Ava noticed.
Her chest tightened for a moment, but she didn't comment on it. Instead, she gestured vaguely toward the armchair across from her. "You can sit. You hovering like that is unsettling." Beatrice complied finally, lowering herself into the chair across from the couch with the same controlled grace she does literally everything else.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Ava studied her. The anger was still there, Ava could feel it sitting just under the surface, but it was tangled with exhaustion and something softer she couldn't quite name yet. She leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. "You drove across the city tonight," she said after a moment. "You stayed with a bunch of teenagers who think you're a corporate supervillain." Beatrice raised an eyebrow faintly. "That was an accurate summary." Ava turned her head slightly to look at her. "So why?"
The question hung there, simple and impossible at once. Beatrice watched her for a long moment. "Because you needed someone tonight." Ava scoffed softly. "I had Camila and the boys. So why you?" Beatrice's voice was calm, but softer now. "Because I wanted it to be me." The answer struck something deep and unguarded, making Ava hesitate to respond. Instead, she looked away, toward the dark window, her reflection faintly visible in the glass.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter. "You make this very difficult, you know." Beatrice tilted her head slightly. "In what sense?" Ava exhaled slowly. "In the sense that I spent months being angry at you." A beat. "And now you're sitting on my couch at two in the morning after helping my kid not get arrested." The corner of Beatrice's mouth moved again. "That does complicate the narrative." Ava let out a tired laugh. "Yeah."
For a while, neither of them moved. The city hummed faintly outside the window. Somewhere in the building above them, someone walked across a creaky floorboard. Ava was still leaning back against the couch, staring toward the ceiling, but her eyes drifted back to Beatrice after a moment. "Why did you want it to be you tonight?" Her eyes narrowed slightly, not angry now, just trying to understand.
Beatrice lifted her gaze back to her. A long pause stretched between them. "Because leaving you alone that night was one of the hardest decisions I've made," she said finally. Ava blinked. "That doesn't answer the question." Beatrice exhaled slowly. "I stepped back because you were grieving. You were vulnerable. And Ava, what we had was just... sex," Beatrice paused, but Ava was already shaking her head. "No," she said sharply. "No, you don't get to say that like it explains anything." Beatrice's expression tightened slightly. "I'm explaining the context."
"It doesn't explain why you showed up and stayed again," Ava fired back, pushing herself up from the couch now. "Especially tonight. Especially on that day." She started pacing the small living room, energy spilling out now that it's finally been given somewhere to go. "You're standing there and calmly telling me it was 'just sex' doesn't suddenly make the last few years make sense." Beatrice rose slowly from the chair. "I'm not attempting to erase what happened between us," she said, voice controlled but firmer now. "That's exactly what you're doing," Ava snapped. "No."
"Yes."
The word hung sharp in the room. Ava ran a hand through her hair, frustration rising again. "Do you know how miserable I've been?" she said, her voice breaking despite the anger behind it. "Do you have any idea what it's been like?" Beatrice didn't answer. "Don't try to pretend you don't remember," Ava continued, stepping closer. "You remember everything, right?" Beatrice's jaw tightened slightly at that. "Then you remember how you used to stay," Ava said. "Every time." Her voice dropped, quieter now but no less intense. "You'd stay after. Even when we both said it was casual. You'd stay to make sure I was okay." Beatrice looked down briefly. "And the way you kissed me after. Or the way you used to worship me," Ava added, shaking her head. "Like it wasn't just... like it wasn't just sex for you."
Beatrice's composure flickered for the first time, and Ava laughed again, but there was no humour in it. "You think I didn't notice that?" The room went quiet except for Ava's uneven breathing. "I have been crying myself to sleep for the last two years," she said finally, the words coming out rough and unfiltered now. "Two years, Beatrice."
Beatrice looked back up at her.
"And then tonight you follow me outside as if nothing happened. You drive me across the city. You sit in my youth centre kitchen while Malcolm bled all over the table. And now you're sitting in my apartment telling me it was just sex." Ava spread her hands helplessly. "So explain it to me," she said, her voice trembling with anger and exhaustion. "Explain how those things can exist at the same time."
Beatrice didn't respond immediately because, for the first time since she walked into that apartment, she looked genuinely unsettled. "Because both things are true," she said quietly after a while. Ava stared at her in disbelief. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only honest one I have," Beatrice replied. Ava shook her head again, pacing a few steps away before turning back. "You don't get to show up on the worst night of the year for me and pretend this is simple," Ava said. "I'm not pretending it's simple."
"Then why are you here?" Ava demanded as Beatrice met her eyes. "Because leaving you alone tonight felt worse than the risk of you hating me for coming." Ava stared at her. For a second, it almost softened something in her expression. Almost.
"That's not fair," Ava said quietly. Beatrice didn't respond. "You don't get to walk back into my life with lines like that," Ava continued, shaking her head slowly. "You don't get to suddenly care about how I feel tonight." Beatrice looked at her then. "I never stopped-" "Don't," Ava cut in immediately. "Don't say that." Beatrice fell silent as Ava pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, pacing once across the small living room before turning back.
"You know what the worst part is?" she said, and Beatrice watched her carefully. "I fell for you." The words landed harder than the shouting did. Ava let out a small, humourless laugh. "Like an idiot. Completely, embarrassingly... head over heels." Beatrice didn't move as Ava shook her head again, her voice quieter now but far more painful. "And I kept telling myself it was fine. That I could handle it. That I knew what the deal was." She gestured vaguely between them. "Casua. No expectations. No attachments."
Her eyes lifted back to Beatrice's.
"But then you'd stay," Ava said. "You'd stay after. You'd make coffee in the morning like you lived there. You'd kiss me like it meant something." Beatrice's composure cracked just slightly. "And then you disappeared," Ava finished. The room was very quiet now as Ava's voice lowered further. "I thought maybe I imagined it," she admitted. "All of it." Beatrice's gaze dropped briefly. "But I didn't," Ava continued. "Did I?"
Beatrice didn't answer.
"I cried myself to sleep for months," she said, emitting a shaky breath. "And then for a while it got easier." She shrugged faintly. "Or maybe I just got better at pretending it didn't matter." Beatrice finally spoke then. "Ava-"
"No." Ava held up a hand. "Don't." There was too much in her voice now, too much hurt that hasn't healed yet. "You don't get to fix this tonight," she said, on the verge of breaking down completely. "I'm not trying to fix it," Beatrice said finally. "Good," Ava said, nodding once, because then she looked at the door. "You should go," she said more quietly.
The room felt smaller suddenly.
Beatrice studied her face, searching for something there, but Ava didn't look back at her now. She was staring at the floor, arms folded tightly across herself like she was holding something in place. Because, quite frankly, she was. "...Alright," Beatrice spoke after a long moment. She moved toward the door slowly, pausing once with her hand on the handle. Ava didn't look up as the door opened. Beatrice opened her mouth, but closed it again. Ava's throat tightened as the door closed behind her with a soft click.
And only when the apartment was completely silent again, Ava finally sat back down on the couch, folding forward, elbows on her knees, pressing her hands over her face. For a while, she just breathed, but then the argument echoed in her head in fragments. Ava groaned softly and dropped her hands. "This is ridiculous," she muttered to the empty apartment. She leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry again. Not tonight; she's already done enough of that.
Across the room, the framed photo of her and her mother caught the light from the street outside. Ava looked at it for a long moment. "Happy birthday," she said quietly, her voice wavering slightly. After a minute, she pushed herself up and walked to the kitchen, filling a glass with water. As she took a sip, her phone buzzed.
Camila: "Everyone alive here. Malcolm said your bandaging technique was mid." Ava snorted despite herself and typed back. "He punched someone. He gets mid." Three dots appear immediately. "You okay?" Ava stared at the message for a moment. Then she typed, "Yeah." She hesitated, then deleted it. "I'll be fine," she typed instead. Camila responded almost instantly. "Sleep. Seriously." Ava put the phone down.
She walked back into the living room and started turning off the lights one by one, the apartment dimming into soft shadows. When she reached the door, she paused, resting her hand briefly on the handle. For a second, she considered opening it again and looking down the hallway to see if Beatrice might still be there.
But she didn't.
Instead, she locked the door and leaned her forehead against it. "Idiot," she murmured to herself. Then she pushed away and walked down the short hallway toward her bedroom. She immediately got out of the dress, throwing it to the side. The bed felt too big when she climbed onto it, turning to her side and pulling the blanket up around her shoulders.
Sleep didn't come quickly.
Her mind kept replaying the look on Beatrice's face when she said that she fell for her. Eventually, exhaustion won, and just before she drifted off, one last thought slipped through. If Beatrice remembered everything, then tonight wasn't the first time she chose to come back.