Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Met Gala was in full bloom — a symphony of strings swelling just beyond the grand staircase, the delicate clink of silver against porcelain, voices layered one atop the other like perfume in the thick, opulent air. 

Guests laughed over flutes of champagne, pausing to admire the mirrored centerpieces and the garden installation that spilled onto the grand lawn. 

Karlie lingered a second too long, still amid the motion. Her nod had been instinctive — professional, almost distant. A carefully measured signal: I see you. But Taylor’s eyes, when they met hers? That wasn’t neutral. She exhaled — slow, deliberate — and eased behind a marble column, half-shadowed, half-exposed. She wasn’t hiding, she told herself. 

Yet her heart betrayed her: a low, steady drumbeat she hadn’t felt in years. She pulled out her phone — blank screen. No relief. She put it away with a sharper motion than necessary.

Had she imagined it? That look? That moment across the room? With all the flashbulbs and the noise and the curated glances, it was easy to convince herself she’d misread it. Easy to believe that Taylor had looked through her, not at her. 

“Karlie!”

A familiar voice — one of Chanel’s publicists, effusive, polished. “Your look tonight is incredible.” Karlie smiled, smooth and warm. “Thank you. You’ve outdone yourselves with the décor.” 

She followed with small talk about the canapés and the unexpected cool breeze off the Hudson. All practiced responses. But in the back of her mind, one thread kept tugging — a glance, quick and electric. Real, maybe. 

Or not. But it stayed with her. Across the room, Taylor had vanished.

After too many perfect smiles, the group photo, and whispered appraisals of the sculptural garden — Karlie slipped into the hallway leading to the terrace. Just for a breath. She didn’t expect Taylor to be there.

Leaning on the balcony railing, Taylor cradled a half-empty glass of deep red wine. Her long black gown — Victorian-inspired, with a plunging neckline, buttoned corset bodice and pleated skirt split high enough to flash thigh-high crocodile-leather boots — caught the lantern light at every turn. 

Diamond huggie earrings and a half-moon diamond snake necklace flickered against her skin. Her hair, loose waves with a center part, framed a face lined by contentment and something else. 

Karlie stopped. Not dramatically — just... stopped. 

Taylor didn’t turn, but she didn’t leave either. “I thought you were off somewhere escaping the chaos,” She said, voice low. Karlie stepped forward. “I tried. It followed me.“ Taylor lifted her glass slightly.  

They shared a small laugh — the kind you exchange after too long, when you're not sure what's safe. The sounds of the gala faded into a distant murmur. “I wasn’t sure you’d come tonight,” Karlie admitted. “I wasn’t either,” Taylor murmured, finally turning slightly — her eyes finding Karlie’s. 

“But I saw you.”

 Karlie hesitated, something uncertain flickering behind her eyes.

“I saw you too.”

Their gaze held. Long enough to remember. Long enough to ache. “You look beautiful,” Taylor said softly. Karlie smiled. “So do you.” No hug. No theatrics. Just two women in borrowed diamonds, suspended in a pause only history could shape.

“The exhibit is stunning,” Karlie offered. Taylor gave a small nod. “I liked the orchids. Reminded me of your apartment.” Karlie laughed gently. “They never stayed alive longer than a week.” Taylor’s smile flickered. “I always meant to bring you fresh ones.”

Then the moment shifted. For a second, Taylor’s mind wandered — uninvited but vivid. She was remembering another Met Gala. Years ago.

That night. 2016.

They’d arrived together. Separately.
Publicly: best friends.
Privately: gravity.

Taylor’s hair was bleached defiance. Karlie’s dress — backless, severe, slit high enough to dare questions — looked like it had been cut from her skin.

They hadn’t touched all night. But they hadn’t needed to.

One look. One brush of fingers.

“Bathroom. Two minutes.”

The hallway had echoed under her heels. She didn't run — but she moved like she was breaking rules.

Karlie was already there. Waiting.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind them. Taylor barely managed to turn the lock before her back met the cold tile wall. Karlie was on her in an instant, pressing her body close, lips grazing Taylor’s neck with fevered urgency.

"I missed you," she whispered, her voice low and rough.

Taylor let out a breathless moan. Her lungs felt tight, her skin already on fire. She clung to Karlie’s shoulders, nails biting into bare flesh as though grounding herself. Karlie’s hands slid down, gripping Taylor’s thighs, then moved up—slow, deliberate—and gathered the hem of her silver Louis Vuitton mini dress. The metallic fabric rustled as Karlie pushed it higher, exposing smooth skin, baring need.

She lifted Taylor’s leg, wrapping it around her hip, pulling her in. Their mouths crashed together—wet, hungry, desperate. Fingers tangled in hair. Teeth caught lips. Each kiss stole air and gave back heat.

Karlie’s hand slipped beneath the waistband of Taylor’s underwear, fingertips brushing slick warmth. Taylor gasped, her head falling back against the wall, hips arching into the touch.

"God," Karlie murmured, voice thick with lust, "you’re already dripping."

Their tongues met again, a slow, teasing dance turned into something wilder. Karlie's fingers slid inside—first one, then two—curling, exploring, coaxing soft whimpers from Taylor's parted lips. She began to move, a steady rhythm building between them, echoing against the tiled walls like a secret heartbeat.

Taylor trembled, her thighs tightening around Karlie’s waist. Each thrust drove her higher. Karlie’s mouth found hers again, then her jaw, her throat, her collarbone—trailing heat in every kiss. The air was thick with their breath, their desire, the scent of sweat and arousal.

Karlie’s thumb pressed against Taylor’s clit, and she cried out, hips bucking. The rhythm quickened. Her body shuddered, overwhelmed by pleasure, spiraling.

“Say my name,” Karlie whispered against her skin.

“Karlie—” Taylor gasped, the syllables breaking on her tongue.

“I love you.”

And that did it. Taylor came undone with a strangled moan, her body shaking, nails clawing into Karlie’s back. The climax hit her like a tidal wave—loud, hot, impossible to fight. Her ears rang. Her breath caught in her throat. She buried her face in Karlie’s neck, her whole world narrowing to the sensations surging through her.

Karlie held her through it, movements slowing, tender now, helping her ride the aftershocks. Nothing existed but the heat of their bodies, the rhythm of their breath, and the pulsing echo of release.

They fixed their lipstick.
They exited separately.
They smiled for others.

Taylor let Tom Hiddleston spin her once under the chandelier, and Karlie watched from across the room — jaw tight, champagne untouched.

Far behind midnight, Taylor sat curled in the back seat of a black SUV, the city flickering past in watery reflections. The windows fogged slightly with her breath. Her head rested against the glass, but her thoughts were nowhere near the lights of Manhattan.

She had smiled for the cameras. Danced for the headlines.
Let Tom spin her like a perfect lie under the chandelier.

But Karlie’s gaze had cut through it all — sharp, stunned, still. And Taylor had felt it like gravity. Like guilt.

Her fingers fidgeted with the clasp of her coat. Then slipped beneath the collar to find the chain. The gold “K” was still there. Cold against her skin. A secret she never took off.

She didn’t tell her driver the address. Just looked up, met his eyes in the rearview, and nodded. He knew.

As they turned onto Karlie’s street, the knot in her stomach pulled tighter. Her palms were damp. Her mouth dry. And still, she knew exactly what she was about to do.

Not to fix it.
Not to explain.
But to show her. In the only way she still knew how.

Karlie had gone home alone.

Taylor hadn’t forgotten that either—the image carved into her mind like guilt: the silence of Karlie’s apartment, the way her heels clicked too sharply on the wood, the trail of jewelry dropped piece by piece like armor shed in retreat.

Taylor could picture it all—how Karlie peeled herself down to skin, hair loose, throat dry. How she hadn't touched a drink since watching Taylor laugh too loud, lean too close. Since Taylor had let his hand rest on her waist like it meant something. Since she let the room believe the lie.

She’d felt Karlie’s eyes on her that whole night. Felt the ache behind them.

But still—she’d danced. She’d smiled. She’d left her standing there.

And hours later, when the night had unraveled—

Taylor had shown up.

Wild. Flushed. Ruined.

The coat slid off her shoulders like it no longer belonged to her. Her mascara had smudged. Her lipstick had faded. She smelled like smoke and someone else’s perfume, and still—she looked only at Karlie.

She hadn’t needed words. Her body had said it all: Please. Still let me in.

She remembered unzipping the dress herself, slowly, deliberately, letting it fall like apology.
“I only bought this,” she whispered, “so you could take it off.”

But Karlie hadn’t moved. Just stood there, watching—like watching a storm roll in. Like waiting for something she already knew would hurt.

Taylor had stepped forward. Closed the distance.
And kissed her.

At first soft. Then not. Her mouth insistent, open, aching with every word she couldn’t speak. She kissed like she owed something. Like giving herself back was the only way to make it right.

They made it to the bed somehow.

Taylor remembered every inch—Karlie’s skin under her lips, her ribs, her waist, the curve of her breast. She remembered the taste of her name in Karlie’s mouth, the way her hips moved, the fists in the sheets.

She hadn’t wanted anything. Not then.

She had only wanted to give.

To worship.

To stay as long as Karlie would let her.

She remembered the way Karlie came apart—how she held on, how she begged, how she broke.
And she remembered not stopping. Not when Karlie whimpered. Not when her thighs shook. Not even when she pleaded.

Because Taylor had needed that moment—needed to feel like she could still make something right. Even if it was only with her mouth, her hands, her body bent to one truth: I love you. I’m sorry. Let me stay.

When it was over—if it was ever really over—she had crawled up beside her. Pressed her face into Karlie’s neck. Whispered into the warm skin:

“Mine.”

Not a question.
Not a plea.
Just a truth she had no right to say.

And Karlie had cried.

Taylor hadn’t asked why. She hadn’t needed to.

She just held her. Or maybe Karlie held her. She didn’t know anymore.

They’d fallen asleep like that, if sleep ever really came—wrapped in limbs and silence and songs she’d never dared to release.

That memory struck hard. Sharp. Wanting. And it vanished just as quickly, buried beneath the velvet of tonight. 

Taylor’s gaze caught on the gentle curve beneath Karlie’s gown — not obvious, but undeniable. 

Her breath paused, just for a second. "You’re glowing," she said finally, voice hushed and more honest than she meant it to be. 

Karlie gave a soft laugh. “Apparently I’m collecting Virgos.” Taylor’s grin softened. “Supermodel preschool.” 

They spoke of the boys — Levi’s endless questions and Elijah’s toddler-sized confidence. Taylor asked, “Josh home with them tonight?” Karlie nodded. “He’s home with the boys. He didn’t really feel like coming tonight.” 

Taylor smiled. “How very strategic of him.” Karlie grinned. “He knows I need reminders of who I am when I’m not covered in glitter glue.” 

Taylor let out a true laugh — warm, deep. “You’re going to be a great mom. Again.” Karlie looked at her, eyes glinting with memory. “Third time’s the charm.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying Taylor’s face. “Hey — I never said congrats. Finishing the Eras Tour in December? That’s massive.” Taylor’s lips curved, soft and proud. 

“Thanks. It still feels surreal sometimes.” Karlie smiled. “You pulled off something historic. What’s next?” Taylor hesitated. Then, quietly: “A pause. And... writing. Mostly.”

A pause settled between them again. Then — “Is Travis here tonight?” Karlie asked gently. Taylor shook her head. 

“No. He’s in Kansas City. Training, press... everything. The schedule’s brutal this time of year.” She sighed softly. “Our calendars almost never line up lately. We try to make it work — quick visits, FaceTimes at odd hours — but it’s not the same as just... being in the same place.” Karlie nodded. “And you?” Taylor’s voice was quieter now. “Everywhere else. Always moving. Always missing.” She looked away. 

“We try. But it’s like... we’re handing each other tiny pieces of ourselves. Between flights. Between shows. Between games.” 

Karlie didn’t look away. “That’s hard.” Taylor gave a small, thoughtful smile. “He’s kind. Solid.” She paused, her eyes flicking toward the skyline. “It’s just... a different rhythm. Not bad. Just... quieter.” Karlie didn’t look away. “That’s a lonely place to live.”

Taylor nodded slowly, then glanced at Karlie. “What about you? With Josh?” Karlie’s lips parted in thought. “He’s home. He’s solid. And right now, that’s enough.”

They stood like that for a moment. The quiet between them wasn’t new — it was once the language they knew best. Now it held the shape of something half-forgotten but never unloved. It was the silence of two people who had once unraveled each other slowly, and then let go without ever fully releasing.

Their hands rested near the railing — too close, maybe. When Taylor shifted slightly, her fingers brushed against the back of Karlie’s hand. It was nothing. Barely a touch. But Karlie pulled back instinctively, not abruptly, just enough. 

She reached for her glass of water and took a slow sip, the coolness grounding her. Taylor blinked, eyes wide for a moment. "Sorry — I didn’t mean to…" Karlie shook her head gently, still not looking directly at her. "I know. It’s okay." 

The air between them shimmered for a second longer. 

“You could come by sometime,” Karlie said, her voice almost careful. “Not now. But... maybe soon. If that’s not too much.” 

Taylor didn’t respond right away. 

She glanced down, then back up. "It took me a minute to even decide to come tonight," she admitted, her voice low. 

"I thought maybe it’d be too much. Or not enough.“ She gave a short, dry laugh. "The photographers. The gowns. The declarations of relevance wrapped in couture. It’s a lot.“ Her eyes flicked toward the ballroom glow. "Some nights it feels like a performance of a performance. Like we’re all just waiting for someone to say something real and no one ever does.“ 

Karlie softened, saying nothing, only nodding for her to go on. 

Taylor gave a small, self-aware smile. "I guess I just needed to see if being here still meant something.“ She paused, then added, "Maybe it does.“ 

“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” Karlie added, too quickly. Taylor looked sideways, soft and certain. “I already did.” 

The city beneath them shimmered like a held breath. And above them: borrowed light. Shared breath. No more pretending not to remember. Taylor turned toward her slightly, eyes darker now, searching.

"Do you think we'll ever talk about it? What happened?“

Karlie was quiet for a beat, then said gently, "We don’t have to open every door tonight. But we’re standing in the same room again. That counts.“

She tilted her head slightly, a quiet smile forming. “You know, I never said it, but I saw it all. The label. The fight after they sold your masters. The way you took it back. It was brave.” 

Taylor blinked, surprised by the softness in Karlie’s voice. Her gaze dropped for a second, then drifted out toward the skyline. Her voice, when it came, was barely audible.

“The label cost me everything.” 

She looked at Karlie then — just a flicker of eye contact, fleeting but unguarded. Like she didn’t mean to let it show, but couldn’t help it. Karlie didn’t say anything — just listened. 

She gave a small breath. 

“So thank you. For saying that. It means more than I can explain. ”

Their eyes met for a beat — soft, knowing. Just two women, once entangled, now careful. The space between them breathed — not empty, just quiet. Waiting. 

Taylor glanced back toward the glow of the ballroom — the noise, the lights, the curated joy — then turned again to Karlie, her voice gentler now, as if remembering how they used to move through crowded rooms together like their own orbit. 

"Would you... stay a little longer? Out here, I mean," she asked, quieter now. "It still feels like the only place not part of the performance.“

Karlie didn’t hesitate. Her smile was soft, sure. 

"I’d like that.“ So they stayed — two shadows held at the edge of the world, sharing air and everything they weren’t quite ready to say. The murmur of the gala floated out like a distant tide, blurred by the glass and the night. 

Above them, the lanterns glowed soft and steady. Below, the city kept breathing. And between them, something quiet, something unfinished, kept its place. Not vanished. Not resolved. 

But still very much there.

Chapter Text

The car ride home was quieter than it should’ve been. 

Dave, her security didn’t say much—he never did—but tonight, even the usual check-ins were replaced with silence. He opened the door for her with a professional nod, shielding her from the photographers still lingering by the service entrance. 

Flashbulbs flared against the black windows, but Taylor hardly noticed. She settled into the back seat like she was exhaling into it. The dress—still zipped, still structured—felt suddenly too tight. Her shoes were off before they even left the Met steps, her feet tucked beneath her. 

„Long way?” she asked softly. Dave nodded once. No questions. Just turned onto a slower road. 

The city slipped by in streaks of yellow and red. Horns in the distance. A motorcycle cutting between lanes. And inside, nothing but the soft hum of tired breath and the faint echo of what hadn’t been said. 

The moment with Karlie—just minutes ago—still pressed behind her eyes like an afterimage.

It had felt endless.

And also far too short. 

A glance. 

A few words. 

That unbearable tension in the air.

And then it was over. 

Dave drove the familiar route without commentary, weaving her through quiet streets until the car slid into the private garage beneath her building. He stepped out and opened her door, and Taylor murmured a quiet thanks, not even sure if he heard it. 

In the elevator, she didn’t look at her reflection. When the doors opened, she was hit with curated calm—dim lighting, lavender in the air, a faint piano note from somewhere in the smart-home system. 

The place had been prepped, of course. 

That’s what assistants were for. 

The apartment glowed softly, cool and perfect, like a showroom. 

It didn’t feel like home. 

She dropped her heels by the door and walked barefoot across the hardwood, her dress hissing faintly with each step. 

Meredith appeared in the hallway like she’d been waiting all night—her usual blend of disapproval and indifference perfectly intact. 

„Hey, Your Honor,” Taylor whispered, bending to scoop her up.

The cat gave a noncommittal chirp, which Taylor chose to interpret as acknowledgment. “She was there,” she murmured, pressing her face into Meredith’s fur. “You’d have hated it. So many sequins. And men with opinions.” Meredith blinked slowly. Her tail flicked once. Neutral, but observant. Always. 

Taylor carried her to the bedroom and set her down. 

She let the dress slip off in one motion, pooling in a shimmer on the floor. Still in her underwear, she crawled onto the bed and lay on top of the covers, eyes wide, arms crossed over her stomach. 

Meredith took her place at the edge of the mattress, but kept one eye on her. 

Watching. Judging. Loving. In her own feline way. 

And then—inevitably—she thought of Karlie. 

She hadn’t meant to. 

She’d tried not to. 

But the memory bloomed anyway, full and warm and inescapable. 

Karlie had worn black. A plunging neckline. High collar. Long sleeves. The fabric sleek and tailored, part structured velvet, part subtle shine. A deep side slit revealed high boots in a pattern Taylor couldn’t forget—reptile, shimmering under the Met’s stair lights. 

Her belly, unmistakable now, rounded beneath the fold of the gown. Glowing, proud.

Taylor had caught sight of her from across the carpet.

People had been moving. Flashbulbs going off.

And then, one beat of absolute silence. Karlie had looked at her.

Looked away.

Then looked back. 

Taylor felt the weight of that second glance all the way through her bones. That look hadn’t been for the cameras. And it hadn’t left her since. 

Her thoughts shifted—not by choice, but by muscle memory. A tide turning. A name surfacing.

Travis.

The man she was supposed to think about tonight. The one who would be back tomorrow. The one who called her “Swifty” and brought her smoothies and gave good hugs, even when they didn’t land where they used to. 

They were a thing. 

The world said so. 

Their parents said so. The schedules matched up. So did the smiles. But lately, it all felt… light. Not weightless—just thin. 

Stretched. 

They texted daily. Shared memes. Traded morning check-ins. 

But it had become scripted. Surface-level. 

Comfortable like well-worn shoes that didn’t really fit anymore. He was always in Kansas City. Always training. Traveling. Promoting. When they FaceTimed, she sometimes forgot what she meant to say. 

When they were together, the rhythm was right, but the music was missing. 

He didn’t ask about the songs she wrote late at night. 

He didn’t ask who the lyrics were for. 

He didn’t ask who she’d looked for in the crowd at the Met Gala. And she hadn’t told him.

After a few minutes, her thoughts drifted away from Travis and back to the night before the Met Gala when she had last seen and spoken to Karlie.

Flashback – Eras Tour 2023

It had been nearly two years ago now.

The night she released 1989 (Taylor’s Version) onstage. A stadium packed with 70,000 people lit up in ocean blue and ivory. The air humming with nostalgia and adrenaline.

She’d come offstage breathless, glowing, the final beat of “Karma” still echoing in her chest. The fireworks had just faded. Crew buzzed around her. Someone handed her a towel. Someone else—a glass of wine.

And then she saw them.

Karlie. And Josh.

Not in the VIP section. Not in press. Just… there. Waiting.

Karlie’s dress had been cream. Clean lines. Her face flushed but unreadable.

Taylor stopped in her tracks. Everything around her blurred.

“Karlie,” she said. Her voice was raw.

“You were incredible,” Karlie had said quietly.

“You came.”

Josh added, “Wasn’t planned. She wanted to see it.”

Taylor blinked. “Tonight?”

Karlie gave a small nod. “Tree had offered tickets. Months ago.”

Taylor turned slightly. Tree stood just behind her, calm as always, but with something steeled in her eyes.

“I did,” Tree said. “But you never replied.”

Karlie looked down. “I didn’t know if I should.”

Taylor didn’t speak. Her grip on the wineglass tightened. Not to drink—just to hold something. Her fingers curled tighter around the stem as if it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“You could’ve said something,” Tree added, a touch sharper now. “Seventy thousand people. No heads-up. That’s a risk. For everyone.”

Josh started to speak, then stopped.

Karlie gave a slow, quiet nod. “I didn’t mean to make it harder.”

Tree exhaled. The edge in her voice softened. “It’s good to see you, Karlie.”

Karlie looked up.

Taylor didn’t.

Tree turned, eyes flicking to Taylor. Not prompting. Just… looking.

Taylor kept her gaze forward, then—after a breath—said simply, “It would’ve been okay.”

She didn’t say more.

She didn’t need to.

The silence settled between all four of them. Not painful. Just too full for words.

Then Tree’s hand touched Taylor’s arm. “We need to go.”

Taylor didn’t look back. Her hand stayed on the wineglass the whole way down the hall.

The hallway had been too bright. The moment too short. The silence too loud.

Taylor hadn’t said what she wanted to say.
Hadn’t even known what that was.
Just that something inside her had twisted—sharp and unwelcome—when Tree touched her arm and led her away.

And she’d gone.

Back in her bedroom now, the memory faded into the hush of four a.m.

The ceiling above her didn’t offer answers.

She lay still, the covers untouched. 

Meredith a motionless shape beside her. 

Karlie had been there with Josh—steady, certain. Glowing. And Taylor, in contrast, had been just starting with Travis.

Still figuring out what it was.

Still learning how to laugh at the right things, touch the right places, say the right lines in interviews. 

It had all been so… recent. Too new to feel settled.

Too public to admit it wasn’t. 

So no—she hadn’t said anything to Karlie. Because how do you speak honestly when every piece of your life is arranged to look like you’re fine? 

Her hand found Meredith’s side. The warmth steadied her. 

„I should’ve said something,” she whispered. 

Another breath. „Or maybe nothing.” 

Her voice cracked, but she swallowed it down. 

Meredith flicked her tail, neutral. 

Taylor stared into the dark. 

The room felt colder now. 

Or maybe she did. 

And after a long moment, she sat up. Slow. Careful. Still barefoot. Still quiet. She got out of bed. Not to escape the past. 

Meredith didn’t follow—just watched from her curled position, like a queen giving her knight leave to wander. 

She walked across the darkened room to the dresser. Opened the top drawer. 

It stuck for a second. 

She tugged. Inside, beneath old set lists and tangled earbuds, was the box. 

Small. Pale pink. Edges slightly worn from time and avoiding. 

She opened it. 

The necklace lay in a delicate curve against the velvet inside. 

Gold chain, fine as thread. At the center: a single letter.

K. No flourish. 

No explanation. 

Just Karlie. 

Taylor lifted it out. 

The metal felt cooler than she expected. 

It settled in her palm like it had always belonged there. 

Next to it: a dried daisy, flattened under the lid. Yellowed. Intact. And under that, Polaroids. Half-faded, full of half-moments. Karlie blurry behind her in a mirror. Their feet on a dashboard. A mug. A wrist. A sunlit window. 

Taylor’s breath caught in her throat—not in sadness, but in memory. 

She sat on the edge of the bed again, the necklace loose in her hand. Meredith blinked at her slowly, still not moving. „You remember her,” Taylor murmured. “She named you ‘Your Honor.’ Said you judged her more than I did.” Meredith narrowed her eyes just enough to confirm it was still true. 

Taylor smiled faintly. Not from joy—just recognition. 

She fastened the clasp. The “K” didn’t weigh much. But Taylor could feel it. 

Like heat pressed into bone. 

Like memory stitched into the skin. 

Not just Karlie’s initial. Not just a souvenir. 

It had been a lifeline once. 

When they couldn’t say I love you, they wore each other’s letters. 

When they couldn’t sit together at events, couldn’t post photos that were too intimate, couldn’t reach for each other’s hands in the back of a town car—they wore the chain. The code. One tiny letter resting just under a collar, or between two ribs, or inside a suitcase zipped shut.

That was how they’d said:

I still see you.

I’m still yours. Even when the world said they weren’t.

Taylor sat perfectly still now, her fingers resting lightly over the charm. 

It was warm, yes—but more than that, it pulsed with a presence that hadn’t dulled with time. 

She looked down. 

Meredith hadn’t moved. Judging, yes. But not leaving. 

„I kept it,” Taylor whispered, more to herself than anyone. “That probably says more than anything.” 

She reached for her phone. 

Her thumb hovered. 

Karlie’s contact was still there. Unchanged. Just a name, no emoji, no photo, no thread of blue bubbles or green ghosts. 

She tapped it. 

The message box opened—empty. Wide. Terrifying.

She typed:

Hey. Hope you got home okay.

Deleted.

It was strange seeing you.

Deleted.

She glanced at Meredith. The cat gave her a blink so slow it was almost sarcastic. Taylor muttered, “You’re not helping.” Meredith stretched in place, making a point of turning her back. Taylor stared at the keyboard.

Typed:

You looked beautiful tonight.

Paused.

Her throat tightened.

Added:

That’s all. Hope you’re resting.

She didn’t add more. 

No confessions. 

No explanations. 

No metaphors. 

Just… that. She pressed send before she could stop herself. 

The message vanished. 

No dots. 

No reply. 

Just the weight of the necklace and the silence between them. Taylor stared at the screen until it dimmed. Then let it slide from her hand onto the comforter. 

Taylor didn’t move at first. Just sat there, her back against the headboard, hands limp in her lap, the phone quiet beside her. 

She had sent the message. That was it. There were no fireworks. No thunderclap of emotion.

No cinematic swell of relief.

Just stillness. 

Outside, the city had begun to soften. That pale steel-blue hour—when the skyline blurred into sky and everything held its breath. 

Meredith turned in a tight, practiced circle and settled against Taylor’s thigh. A deliberate movement. Not affectionate. Not distant. Just there. 

Taylor let her hand drift into the soft curve of fur, fingers brushing over warmth and rhythm. „You always liked her,” she said softly. “Even when you acted like you didn’t.” Meredith flicked an ear, clearly unbothered by past affiliations. 

Taylor let her head fall back against the wall. 

Closed her eyes for a moment. 

Opened them again. 

The K on her chest was quiet now. Like it had stopped waiting to be noticed. 

She looked toward the windows. 

The light had changed again. 

Almost morning. 

„I didn’t say too much,” she whispered into the room. 

No one answered. 

But Meredith didn’t leave. 

Taylor pulled the blanket over her bare legs. Let her body unfold slowly into the mattress. 

And for the first time in weeks, maybe longer, she didn’t replay the night. 

She didn’t write a bridge in her head. Didn’t rehearse a chorus. She just let it be. 

Her hand rested lightly over the necklace. 

Her breath evened out. And sometime between the last blink of night and the first golden thread of sunrise, Taylor fell asleep.

Not in peace.

But in quiet.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The light in the kitchen was unforgiving.

Cool, washed-out morning sun streamed through the blinds and settled across the tiles like a spotlight she hadn’t asked for. 

Karlie stood barefoot at the stove, one hand gripping the counter, the other slowly whisking eggs in a ceramic bowl. 

The motion was repetitive, hypnotic. It kept her upright.

Her stomach twisted.

The smell of the eggs—warm, faintly sulfurous—hit her harder than expected. She paused, eyes closing for a beat. 

Her grip on the whisk tightened. Breathe through it. In through the nose, out through the mouth. 

She’d read that somewhere, or maybe Taylor had once said it—years ago, backstage somewhere, when nerves were mistaken for nausea.

But this wasn’t nerves.

The weeks had started to add up—no longer early, not quite near the end. 

But her body hadn’t waited for permission. 

The baby made itself known in whispers and shifts: tender breasts, sore hips, sudden waves of dizziness, like standing too close to the edge of something. 

And mornings were still the worst. 

Especially mornings after nights like this.

She turned the stove to low and backed away, one hand on the counter, the other instinctively cradling the gentle swell below her navel. 

She felt it. 

The new weight. 

The new gravity. 

She felt it in her spine, in her sleep, in the way she couldn’t stand certain smells anymore—like eggs, or Levi’s shampoo, or Josh’s cologne, which still lingered faintly on the throw pillow on the couch, reminding her that he’d slept through Elijah’s fever and her silent unraveling.

The tofu in the other pan had started to brown. 

She grabbed a wooden spoon, stirred mechanically, then pushed the pan off the heat. 

The smell was better—earthy, neutral. Something she could keep down. Maybe.

She hadn’t meant to start the day like this.

She had wanted to linger in last night. 

Just for a minute. 

Just long enough to replay the moment on the terrace, the way Taylor had turned toward her in the glow of the lantern light, the softness in her eyes when she said “You’re glowing.”

Karlie had smiled. 

Of course she had. It’s what you do when someone sees you—really sees you—for the first time in years. 

When someone notices you not as a mother, not as a campaign face, not as someone’s wife… but as yourself.

Or maybe as someone you used to be.

She had wanted to sit in that feeling. To hold it gently. 

Instead, she had walked through the door and straight into noise—Elijah screaming, flushed and hot, arms reaching for her; Levi wide awake at midnight, half a donut still clutched in his hand; Josh pacing and sighing, saying “I don’t know what to do,” like she hadn’t left him with a full emergency contact list and bedtime notes on the fridge.

Now, the silence of the kitchen felt artificial. The calm after the storm, not before. The kind that makes you brace.

She turned back to the stove. Eggs, now cooling. Tofu, salvageable. She reached for two plates, her hand trembling just slightly. She ignored it.

A small part of her wanted to cry, but that part was quiet now. Tired. She didn’t cry often anymore. Didn’t have the time.

She sliced fruit—bananas, strawberries—and placed them with care next to the scrambled eggs. The boys liked it better that way. It looked like something from a picture book. Balanced. Sweet.

A clatter overhead—the sound of someone tumbling out of bed.

Levi.

She smiled, reflexively. That boy never walked. He exploded into a room.

A second sound followed. Not a child. A slower step. Josh.

Her stomach turned again, this time not from nausea.

Karlie set the juice glasses down gently, then leaned against the counter. Just for a second. Her free hand drifted to her belly again—protective, possessive.

The baby didn’t kick, not yet, but somehow she already felt like this little presence inside her knew. Knew what kind of night it had been. Knew the heaviness behind her smile. Knew the ache of wanting something more than survival.

“You deserve better than this,” she whispered.

The words floated out before she could catch them.

Outside, the city hummed to life. The garbage truck moaned down the street. A dog barked somewhere off-key. A new day, demanding her attention.

But Karlie stood there a moment longer. One hand on her belly. One foot already in the performance of breakfast and parenting and pretending everything was fine.

The other still lingering in the echo of a voice from last night.

“You’re glowing.”

And for the first time in weeks, she let herself wonder:
What if someone actually meant it?

She heard him before she saw him.

Levi barreled down the stairs with the wild energy of a child who treated every room like a stage. His bare feet slapped the wood, his breath came in fast little bursts, and when he burst into the kitchen, he held a green plastic dinosaur high in one hand—its tail missing, its eyes worn smooth.

“Mommy, look! Raaaaawr!” he roared, slamming it proudly onto the kitchen table, right between the two plates of eggs and fruit.

Karlie managed a smile, bending slightly toward him. “Whoa. That’s a big one. Did he sleep with you again?”

Levi nodded, beaming. “He guarded me. So Elijah’s germs don’t jump on me.”

She chuckled softly. Brutally honest, beautifully logical—the way only four-year-olds could be.

Behind him, Josh shuffled into the kitchen. Shirt rumpled, hair wild, eyes half-closed like sleep had only just let him go. He yawned—loud, performative—then stood in the middle of the room, blinking as if unsure where to start.

“Morning,” he muttered, already eyeing the coffee maker like it owed him something.

Karlie didn’t turn to face him. She reached for her glass of water instead, taking a slow sip to tame the nausea creeping up her throat. The smell of eggs and warm fruit clung to the air like a second skin. Her stomach rolled.

“Elijah still in bed?” she asked, voice neutral.

Josh shrugged. “Yeah. He woke up coughing. I gave him some water. He seemed better.”

“Did you take his temperature?”

“No. He felt cooler than last night, though. Less clingy.”

Karlie gave a slight nod. Of course he hadn’t taken his temperature. Of course he went by instinct—by less clingy as a measure of wellness.

“I’ll check on him after breakfast,” she murmured, sliding Levi’s plate closer. “Let him sleep a bit longer.”

Josh dropped onto one of the barstools. No offer to help. No glance at her. No acknowledgment of the night before. His presence filled the room like background noise—necessary, but not meaningful.

He reached for the orange juice, took a sip, then grimaced. “It’s warm. Thought we had more.”

Karlie bit her lip. Counted to three.

Instead of answering, she turned back to Levi, who was now trying to feed a strawberry to the dinosaur. “Don’t let him eat your fruit, baby,” she said gently. “You need it more than he does.”

Levi giggled. “But he’s hungry!”

“So are you.” She ruffled his curls with a tenderness that settled in her throat. “Big boys need real breakfast.”

Josh stared into his glass. Levi hummed something under his breath—it took her a moment to recognize it. Shake It Off.Mumbled, half-off key, but unmistakable.

Taylor. Always floating in the corners.

Karlie inhaled sharply.

The world kept turning like nothing was wrong. Like she hadn’t spent half the night pacing with a feverish toddler while the man across from her snored through it. Like she wasn’t carrying a third child whose father hadn’t asked her once how she felt.

There’d been one passing comment, weeks ago, when she showed him the test: “Guess we’re really doing the whole minivan thing now, huh?”

No How are you?

No We’ve got this.

A loud clatter pulled her back—Levi had dropped his spoon. 

„Oops.” 

Karlie picked it up without a word. 

The day was just beginning. And she was already exhausted. 

She slipped away from the kitchen once Levi was deep in conversation with his dinosaur, arguing about whether or not strawberries belonged in the Jurassic era. 

Josh said nothing as she passed behind him. He was busy staring into his coffee like it held answers he couldn’t face. 

The stairs creaked under her feet. Her palm trailed the banister more out of habit than need. The nausea still lingered at the edges, dull now, like a storm that had moved offshore but left the air heavy. 

Upstairs, Elijah’s door was still slightly ajar, the soft blue nightlight casting shadows across the hallway carpet. 

She pushed it open gently. 

He was curled in the center of his bed, the covers twisted around his knees, one foot sticking out, pale and warm. His stuffed bear was tucked under one chubby arm, and his curls were damp against the pillow. 

Karlie approached quietly and sat down at the edge of the mattress.

 „Elijah?” she whispered. 

He stirred, eyes blinking open—puffy, unfocused, but bright. 

“Mommy?”

His voice was soft and sticky, the vowels still round and sleepy. 

„I’m here,” she murmured, brushing a curl from his forehead. 

He felt warm, but not burning. 

„Hurts,” he mumbled, rubbing at his nose with a balled-up fist. 

“My... nosie stuck.” 

„I know, baby,” she said gently. “Still snotty, huh?” 

He nodded solemnly, eyes big. “El’phant in dere.” 

She smiled. “Feels like an elephant in your nose?” 

„Big one,” he confirmed, voice thick. 

She reached for the thermometer, kissed his temple, then tucked it under his little arm. 

He didn’t protest, just leaned against her side, one foot gently kicking at the blanket.

„You go ‘way?” he asked suddenly. 

Karlie blinked. “Last night?” 

He nodded, more of a head wobble. 

“No Mommy bed. No snuggie.” 

She sighed softly. “I went to a party. Just for a little while.” 

He frowned. “Wid cake?” 

She laughed under her breath. “No, no cake. Just silly grown-ups talking.” 

He made a face. “Boring.” 

„Very boring,” she agreed. 

The thermometer beeped. 99.1. Still warm, but better. 

Karlie exhaled slowly. 

Her hand drifted over her belly, as it had before. The number of weeks didn’t seem to matter anymore. Still, the smallest one in the house always had the biggest needs. 

Elijah tilted his head up at her, his voice quieter now. “Baby come soon?” 

„Not for a while,” she said softly, brushing her fingers down his cheek. “Still growing.” 

He patted her stomach awkwardly with his little hand. “Hi, baby,” he whispered, then looked at her again. “Baby sick, too?” 

„No, sweetheart. Baby’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He looked relieved. „Cuddle?” he asked, curling a hand into her sleeve. 

„In a minute,” she said. “But only if you want toast.” 

He shyly looked at her with his glassy eyes. “No toas’. Tummy tired.”  

She paused. 

“No toast? You don’t want breakfast?” 

He shook his head, his thumb already creeping toward his mouth. “No eat. Snuggle.” 

Karlie exhaled softly, brushing his warm cheek. “Okay. Just for a little while.” 

She helped him into a clean shirt—he let her, half limp in her arms—and then, instead of reaching for her hand like he usually did, he turned back toward the bed and tugged at her sleeve. 

„Mommy come too. Wif moosik,” he whispered. 

That ache bloomed in her chest again. 

She didn’t fight it. 

She slid into bed beside him, wrapping them both in the tangled quilt, his bear wedged between them like a guardian. Elijah nestled into her side, small hand finding the edge of her hoodie and clutching it tight. 

„Mommy, da sleepy one,” he said, thumb in mouth now. “Da moosik.” 

Karlie reached for her phone on the nightstand—the first time she’d touched it since walking in the night before. The screen lit up instantly.

There it was.

You looked beautiful tonight.
That’s all. Hope you’re resting.
— Taylor

Her breath hitched, barely audible. Simple. Thoughtful. Not heavy. But it pressed into her ribcage like a warm hand. 

Elijah nudged her with his forehead. 

“Da moosik,” he repeated, muffled by sleep. 

Karlie unlocked her phone and tapped into the playlist. The first piano notes of Enchanted (Instrumental) filled the quiet air, soft and weightless. 

Elijah sighed and melted into her, his breathing deepening. One hand rested on her stomach now—carelessly, innocently. She covered it with her own. 

The message still glowed on the screen. She stared at it.

Typed:

Thank you.

Paused. Deleted.

Typed again:

I wanted to tell you the same. But I forgot how.

Deleted.

She locked the phone and set it screen-down on the nightstand. 

Not yet. 

Right now, Elijah needed her more than the past did. 

More than the ache. 

More than the almosts. 

Her hand had traced slow, steady circles across Elijah’s back as his breath softened into sleep. 

At some point, without meaning to—without noticing—she’d followed him there. Not into full rest, but into that liminal space between waking and letting go. 

Where everything was muffled. Slower. Suspended.

Elijah’s small body was pressed close to hers, warm and heavy with trust. One of his hands still clung to her hoodie in sleep, as if even unconscious, he needed to know she was real. 

That she stayed. 

Karlie lay still beneath the quilt, her own breath quiet, her body still humming faintly from the weight of the morning, the long night before, the growing curve of the child inside her. But her mind... didn’t sleep. 

It slipped sideways. 

Out of the present. 

Away from the sound of Levi’s chatter downstairs, from the clink of Josh’s coffee cup, from the mess of half-eaten breakfast and unopened mail. 

It drifted, softly and without permission, toward something else entirely. 

The terrace.

The breeze.

The low light glinting against Taylor’s skin.

The way their hands had touched.

Taylors apology. 

Her voice had been soft, unarmored. Like someone who still carried a key she’d never meant to give back. 

And Karlie—god—Karlie had felt everything in that pause between sentences. 

In that almost-smile. 

In that look. 

Not shock. 

Not awkwardness. 

Just... recognition. 

The kind that doesn’t come often in a life like hers. The kind that never really leaves. 

Taylor’s message still sat on her phone, unread in the literal sense—but imprinted somewhere deeper. 

Karlie could still feel the vibration of it, like a string pulled taut inside her:

You looked beautiful tonight.

That’s all. Hope you’re resting.

Resting.

What a word. 

She hadn’t rested in months. Not in the real way. Not in the kind where your body doesn’t flinch at every noise, every need, every ask. Even now, curled in this bed with Elijah’s tiny foot pressed against her thigh, her mind refused to be quiet. 

It kept replaying that one look. 

That one moment. 

The way Taylor had seen her. Really seen her. Not as a mother. Not as a name in a headline. But as herself. Or the version of herself Karlie wasn’t sure she even knew anymore. And that thought scared her. More than she’d let herself admit. 

Because if someone else could still see her so clearly—

If Taylor could look at her like that, after everything—

Then what did that say about the life she was living now?

About the way Josh didn’t look up when she walked into a room.

About the way no one asked her how she was.

About the way she answered fine even when she wasn’t.

She hadn’t lied to herself, not entirely. 

She loved her boys. Fiercely. 

That love was bone-deep, non-negotiable. A fact. But sometimes, facts weren’t enough to keep you whole. And that was the part she never said out loud. 

She shifted slightly, her legs tangled in the blanket, her hand still resting over Elijah’s back—steady, anchoring. He murmured something in his sleep. A soft hum of a word she didn’t catch. Maybe her name. Maybe baby. Maybe nothing at all. 

She didn’t open her eyes. 

She stayed there, half-asleep and half-submerged, and let the ache live where it always did now—quiet and buried and sharp.

She didn’t know what she felt for Taylor.

Not exactly.

Not in a way that fit inside words.

But the feeling was there. Alive. Real. Like a held note you couldn’t place, but couldn’t stop hearing.

She wasn’t in love.

She wasn’t free.

But she also wasn’t untouched.

Not by that glance.

Not by that voice.

Not by the way Taylor had waited before sending anything, then chosen something so careful and disarming she couldn’t breathe when she read it.

You looked beautiful tonight.

She didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Not yet.

Because the truth was this:

A part of her wanted to write back.

A part of her wanted to ask, Did you mean it? Or were you just being kind?

A part of her wanted to say, I miss the way you knew me before I forgot who I was.

And a part of her…

A dangerous part of her…

Wanted more.

Karlie exhaled. 

A shuddering, silent breath. 

Somewhere, in the spaces she didn’t speak from, she was still hers. And Taylor had looked at her like she knew that.

Even now.

Even still.

And that—

that was what kept her awake, even in sleep.

Chapter Text

The crash woke her.

It wasn’t loud, not exactly. Just sudden. Sharp. The kind of sound that snapped into a quiet room and stayed there, echoing.

Taylor blinked her eyes open slowly, already knowing what it was.

Glass. Somewhere in the kitchen.

She didn’t move right away. Just lay there, one arm flung over her face, listening. A soft thud. A skittering sound across tile. And then—yes—Olivia’s unmistakable growl, low and offended.

“Benjamin…” she sighed, voice hoarse with sleep.

A beat passed. Then the sound of claws scrambling. A yowl. A dramatic feline protest.

She dragged herself upright, the blanket falling into her lap. Her phone buzzed once beside the bed—screen still dark. No new messages.

Of course not.

She hadn’t expected one.

Not really.

The floor was cold under her feet. 

She padded toward the kitchen, not even bothering with the light. 

The morning was gray enough to show her what she needed to see: a ceramic sugar jar in pieces on the floor, its lid cracked clean in two. 

Benjamin sat next to the wreckage, utterly unfazed. His tail swished once in greeting, slow and triumphant.

Taylor raised an eyebrow. “That was vintage.”

Benjamin blinked.

Olivia slinked around the island, her ears back, eyes narrow. She clearly blamed him too.

Taylor crouched, began picking up the larger pieces. Her fingers moved on autopilot—sweep, lift, discard. 

She’d glued herself together more times than she could count. Ceramic was nothing.

The silence in the apartment pressed in.

She reached for the broom. The handle felt heavier than it should have.

And still, she hadn’t checked her phone.

Not since last night. Not since she sent those simple words.

You looked beautiful tonight. That’s all. Hope you’re resting.

Nothing poetic. No loaded questions. Just a truth that had clung to her throat until she wrote it down.

But the silence that followed had been louder than any reply.

Taylor swept slowly. The glass whispered against the floor, soft and breaking still.

Benjamin rubbed against her ankle. She didn’t look down.

In her chest, something fragile pressed back.

Taylor emptied the dustpan into the bin and leaned against the counter, eyes half-closed.

The apartment smelled faintly of coffee grounds and dried eucalyptus—remnants from the last time she’d tried to make it feel like home. It wasn’t a bad smell. Just… sterile. Curated.

She opened the fridge. Closed it again.

Too early to eat. Too late to go back to bed.

Instead, she padded back into the living room and sat cross-legged on the rug, laptop in front of her, guitar still untouched in the stand. She stared at the blinking cursor in the blank document. 

It pulsed like a heartbeat. Or a dare.

Nothing came.

Not lyrics. Not melody. Not even the first line of an email she probably wasn’t going to send.

Her phone buzzed again—this time a calendar reminder. Travis should be back today. She’d promised to make dinner. Or at least order something that felt like trying.

She liked him. That wasn’t the issue.

He was warm, generous, solid in a way few people had been.

But she couldn’t talk to him about this—about the message she hadn’t received, the pause she was still caught in. The strange weight of missing someone who had slept beside someone else last night, held someone else, said Mama when called.

Taylor picked up the guitar, her fingers finding the familiar shape of G major. Then C. Then D.

Nothing new. Just muscle memory.

She played the opening bars of Invisible String, then stopped.

Too cruel.

She set the guitar down gently.

Benjamin jumped into her lap without asking.

Olivia kept her distance.

Meredith somewhere else, probably exhausted by the many questions Taylor had asked her the night before.

The morning light shifted on the floor like it was trying to escape the room.

Taylor glanced at her phone again.

Nothing.

And still, something in her stayed tuned to the space where Karlie should’ve replied.

Not with a yes. Not even with a thanks.

Just something.

Anything.

She opened the notes app, stared at the blinking cursor again.

Typed:

Do you still think about it?

Paused.

Deleted.

Typed:

What are we now?

Deleted.

Typed:

I didn’t say it to make things harder. I just—

Deleted.

She set the phone down, face down again.

This wasn’t a song.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.

But it was real.

And it was getting harder to pretend otherwise.

She had time. Not much. But enough to sit still a little longer before the day began asking things of her again.

Travis’s flight would land in the late afternoon.

He’d texted her yesterday—“So ready to see you. I’ll call when I land 💙”—and she’d replied with a heart and a thumbs-up. Easy. Familiar.

She hadn’t told him what happened at the Gala.

Not that she was hiding it—just… curating. Choosing what version of the night to share. The same way she chose which outfit to post, which lyric to tease, which silence to hold.

And this silence—this one, from Karlie—wasn't unfamiliar. It wasn’t even unexpected.

It just hurt more than she’d let herself admit.

Taylor stood up, her knees cracking, and wandered back into the bedroom. The bed was still unmade. Benjamin followed, leaping gracefully onto the duvet and curling up like a comma at the foot of the mattress.

She pulled a sweatshirt over her head and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was messy, her eyes still half-shadowed from sleep and something deeper. But her skin looked soft. Unfiltered. Present.

She wondered if Karlie looked like this this morning. Barefaced, quiet, holding a sick toddler and a thousand silent thoughts.

She wondered if Karlie had read the message and just… couldn’t answer.

Or didn’t want to.

Or wanted to too much.

Taylor sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her phone again. The screen lit up.

A text from Tree. Logistics. Nothing important.

A calendar ping: Dinner with Travis and his friends in a few days.

She hadn’t made a reservation. She hadn’t planned anything at all.

Her thumb hovered over Karlie’s contact. No photo anymore. Just the initials: K.K.

She tapped the message thread. Just her own words, still waiting.

You looked beautiful tonight.
That’s all. Hope you’re resting.

She read them again like she hadn’t written them herself.

Her fingers hovered.

Typed:

You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know.

Paused.

Deleted.

She closed the thread.

Put the phone facedown again.

It wasn’t about chasing anything. She wasn’t fifteen. This wasn’t a love song waiting to be born.

But it was something.

It had always been something.

And pretending otherwise—especially today, especially knowing Travis would be home by dinner—felt like a lie that wouldn’t stay down.

Taylor lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling.

Benjamin purred at her feet.

And Olivia, silent now, sat in the doorway, watching like she knew something no one else would say out loud.

The day dragged.

She answered emails. Read three half-finished articles. Started two songs and abandoned both. Opened Instagram, closed it. Watched three and a half episodes of Grey’s Anatomy—seasons she’d already seen twice, maybe three times. It didn’t matter.

Tree had texted three times: reminders, RSVPs, a quote she wanted approval on. Taylor answered them all, politely, punctually. No one would know anything was off.

Except Olivia, who barely left her post on the windowsill.

Except Benjamin, who kept nudging her ankle like he wanted something more than food.

Except Meredith, who she had only met once today with a judgmental look.

Except Taylor herself.

She glanced at the time. Travis would come soon. She hadn’t changed. Hadn’t done her hair. Hadn’t decided whether she was going to pretend to be tired, or fine, or hungry, or simply... not thinking about anyone else. Her phone buzzed again. She reached for it, assuming it was him. It wasn’t.

Karlie.

Just a name. Just a line. But her heart skipped before she even read it.

Hey.

I saw your message.

Thank you.

Taylor sat frozen, the phone suddenly heavier in her hand. It wasn’t much. But it was something. A breath. A space where there hadn’t been one. She reread it twice, her thumb hovering.

It would be so easy to say you’re welcome.

To ask how are you?

To type I miss you and then delete it again.

She didn’t answer. Not yet. Because moments like this — quiet, suspended, almost tender — had always come at a cost.

And she remembered exactly when she’d learned that.

Not on a stage. Not in a fight.

But in a Brooklyn studio, with Jack beside her and guilt wrapped tight around her chest.

The day she wrote “Getaway Car.”

The day she admitted — out loud, into a microphone — that she had left the woman she loved for the man the world preferred.

Rough Customer Studio, Brooklyn Heights – Early 2017

Rain tapped gently against the window. Inside the dim studio, the world faded away. Jack Antonoff hunched over a synth, adjusting levels, while Taylor sat cross-legged on the couch, scribbling in her notebook.

The lines on the page were more than lyrics — they were escape routes. "It’s all messed up," she murmured earlier that day. "I was with Calvin because it looked stable. Then suddenly, two weeks after we broke up, Tom steps in. MET Gala. He saw how Karlie and I looked at each other. I think he knew. And he offered himself as a distraction — publicly perfect, headline-safe.“

She hadn’t wanted it. But the label did.

Now here she was, writing the fallout into melody.

She looked up, her fingers instinctively brushing the small gold chain around her neck — a delicate "K" charm resting just above her collarbone. The necklace was one half of a pair. Karlie wore the other, with a tiny "T." It was their secret, hidden in plain sight.

"It feels like I'm on the run," she said softly. "Like I'm in a getaway car. I'm not with who I love, I'm with someone who looks good in a headline."

Jack nodded slowly. "That's a lyric. Say that again."

Taylor smiled faintly. "Getaway car."

Jack spun his stool around and hit record on a voice memo app. His fingers found a minor progression on the keys, moody and cinematic.

"I'm in a getaway car..." he sang lightly, testing the phrasing.

Taylor leaned forward, eyes lighting up. "Then... I left you in a..."

"...something...," Jack finished.

Taylor squeaked with excitement. "left you in a motel bar!"

"Put the money in a bag and I stole the keys... That was the last time you ever saw me!" she shouted in one breath, already hearing the melody in her head.

She jumped up, clapped her hands, and then slapped her thigh with a sharp smack, yelling, "AAAARRRRGGGHHH!" — a joyful scream of triumph. "Oh my god, Jack! It just came to me!"

Grinning wildly, she pulled out her phone and hit record, capturing the moment on video — Jack at the keyboard, and her, pacing, breathless, electric with energy.

Jack watched, amused, letting her run with it. This was pure Taylor — the spark, the clarity, the drama — all happening in seconds.

Taylor stopped, hand over her mouth. "That’s it. That’s the chorus."

Jack smiled, hitting stop on the recorder. "Let's track it. Right now."

She moved to the mic booth. The red light blinked on. Her voice came through the monitors, light but charged:

"It was the great escape, the prison break, the light of freedom on my face..."

Jack hit pause, laughing. "That line’s insane. Like, unreasonably good."

Taylor giggled into the mic. "Thanks, getaway driver."

Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, they were building a story that only they truly understood.

A love buried in headlines.

A truth hidden in metaphor.

And a song, born like a secret whispered behind closed doors.

A familiar voice laughed near the elevator. 

Travis. 

Taylor stood slowly. Her phone still lit in her hand. The message still there. 

“Babe?” Travis’s voice was warm, a little loud, filling the apartment like it belonged there. 

Taylor tucked her phone into her palm without locking it. 

“In here,” she called, her voice calm, neutral, practiced. 

He appeared in the doorway, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, baseball cap pushed back. Tired eyes, travel sweatshirt, that familiar easy grin. 

She stood. Smiled. Let herself be pulled into a hug. 

“You smell like airport,” she muttered into his shoulder. 

“And you smell like eucalyptus and guilt,” he teased. 

She chuckled softly, pulling back. 

“Someone broke the sugar jar.” 

“Ben?” 

“Who else.” 

He kissed her forehead. 

“I missed you.” 

“I know.” 

It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t untrue. But it wasn’t all. 

Travis dropped his bag by the door and made a beeline for the fridge. “I’m starving. Did you eat?” 

“Not really.” 

He paused. “Want me to order?” 

She shrugged. “Maybe in a bit.”

Her phone buzzed again in her hand. She glanced down.

Karlie

It was nice to hear from you. Weird, but nice.

The boys are okay today. Elijah’s still clingy.

Levi asked if you wrote Paw Patrol songs.

Taylor smiled without meaning to. A small, involuntary curve at the corner of her mouth. 

“Who’s that?” Travis asked, half-distracted with takeout menus. 

“No one.” She said it too quickly. 

He looked up. “Tree?” 

She shook her head. 

Travis raised an eyebrow. “Okay…” 

She didn’t elaborate. Her thumbs hovered.

I’m glad you read it.

Your boys sound like chaos in the best possible way.

Does the Paw Patrol thing come with royalties?

Pause.

Then she added:

Does your offer still stand?

That I get to meet them sometime?

Send.

She didn’t look at Travis as she did it. Didn’t see the way he blinked at her, the faint crease forming between his brows. 

“Who are you texting that makes you smile like that?” he asked, not joking this time. 

Taylor turned slowly, leaning against the kitchen counter, phone still in hand. “Just… an old friend.” 

Travis nodded, too quickly. “Cool.” He opened the takeout app. Started tapping. 

But the room felt tighter now. 

Like the air had shifted. 

Taylor glanced at her phone again. Still no reply. But it was early. 

Travis didn’t say anything else for a minute. Then, without looking up: “You’ve been off all day.” 

“I didn’t sleep well.” 

“You didn’t sleep much last week either.” 

Taylor said nothing. 

He placed the phone face down on the counter. “I’m just saying… if something’s going on, I’d rather know.” 

She hesitated. “I don’t know what’s going on,” she said honestly. 

He nodded. 

Not angry. 

But something pulled back. 

A space opening between them. 

“Let me know when you’re hungry,” he said. And left the room. 

Taylor stared after him. 

Then looked down at her phone again. No reply yet. Still, she didn’t regret sending it. 

For the first time in a long time, she felt like something mattered again. 

Not because it was easy. 

Not because it was safe. 

But because it was hers.

Chapter Text

Elijah had finally stopped talking. 

He was curled up on her lap now, one thumb in his mouth, the other hand clutching a corner of his blanket. A cartoon hummed quietly from the TV—muted dialogue, soft colors, too many flashing lights. 

Karlie hadn’t really been watching. 

Her laptop was still open on the coffee table, one email half-written, two tabs open to baby name lists she wasn’t serious about. 

But her eyes weren’t on the screen. 

Her phone buzzed in her hand. 

She looked down, expecting spam or a shipping notification. 

But it was her.

I’m glad you read it.

Your boys sound like chaos in the best possible way.

Does the Paw Patrol thing come with royalties?

Does your offer still stand?

That I get to meet them sometime?

Karlie blinked. The air in the room shifted. Subtly. Like something unseen had stepped into it. 

Elijah stirred and pressed his face closer into her sweater, sighing. She read the message again. And again.

It didn’t feel like flirting. It didn’t feel like pretending.

It felt like something real. Careful. Intentional.

Josh had taken Levi to visit his parents upstate—Josie and Tom, who still called her “Karline” no matter how many times she corrected them. Levi had been thrilled. Something about jelly beans and three kinds of pie.

He’d come back sticky and feral. She was sure of it.

But for now, she was alone.

And Taylor was asking to be let in. Just a little.

Karlie typed, thumb hovering as her heart picked up speed:

It does. Levi says you owe him at least two songs and a toy guitar.

Paused.

Smiled.

Typed more.

The offer still stands. If you still want it.

Send.

Immediately regretted. Then didn’t.

Because what was there to regret, really?

She looked down at Elijah, who was half-asleep, safe, warm, unaware of the fault lines under her skin.

And then she set the phone on the cushion beside her and whispered, almost to herself:

“God help me if she means it.”

The messages never turned into a full conversation.

Not exactly.

But they didn’t stop either.

Little moments. Pings of something neither of them named. Something steady.

Taylor sent a picture of a very angry Meredith.
Karlie replied with a blurry photo of Elijah mid-sneeze, captioned: Real life, uncensored.

There were days between responses sometimes. Long gaps. Work. Kids. A schedule Taylor didn’t always control and Karlie could barely manage.

But the thread stayed alive.

And that meant something.

Then, one night, Karlie sat in the hallway outside the boys’ room, phone in hand, back against the wall. She was still in her oldest sweatshirt, her hair damp from the world’s fastest shower, Elijah finally asleep beside his humidifier.

Josh was out of town for a speaking event.

The apartment was quiet.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks, she didn’t feel like she was treading water.

Her fingers hovered. Then typed:

Next Thursday.
Josh is out. Elijah’s here with me. Levi’s at school - but it’s quiet enough if you wanted to stop by.

Send.

She stared at it.

Then added:

They’ll adore you. Elijah already thinks you write Paw Patrol music.

This time, she locked her phone. Put it screen-down beside her.

And just sat there for a minute.

Breathing.

Half-terrified she’d just opened a door.

Half-hoping Taylor would step through it.

The wine was good. The food was beautiful. The laughter around the table loud and easy.

Taylor wasn’t really in it.

She smiled when expected, nodded at the right stories, complimented someone’s new jacket—cordial, attentive, photogenic. But her phone sat face-down in her lap, and every few minutes, her fingers grazed it like checking for a pulse.

Across from her, Travis was in his element. Big energy. Big stories. Big charm. The guys were loving him. His college roommate. A couple of teammates. One of their girlfriends who kept stealing fries off everyone’s plates.

Taylor excused herself to the restroom just to check it.

One new message.

Karlie.

Next Thursday.

Josh is out. Elijah’s here with me. Levi’s at school - but it’s quiet enough if you wanted to stop by.

She exhaled.

Not a big one. But enough that it made her knees feel strange.

They’ll adore you. Elijah already thinks you write Paw Patrol music.

Taylor leaned against the sink, phone in both hands.

She typed:

That sounds perfect.

I’d love to come by.

Just let me know what time works.

She stared at it. Then hit send before she could talk herself out of it.

The mirror showed too much.

She straightened her jacket, fixed her lipstick. Reentered the dining room like nothing had shifted.

But Travis knew her too well.

When she sat down again, he leaned close and murmured behind his menu, “You okay?”

She nodded. “Just tired.”

“You’ve checked your phone five times in ten minutes.”

Taylor hesitated. “It’s nothing urgent.”

“Then maybe be here?” His tone wasn’t sharp. But it landed.

She blinked. “I am here.”

“Not really.”

She felt her spine straighten. “Do we have to do this right now?”

“No,” he said, voice low, still smiling for the table. “But eventually, yeah.”

A camera flash popped outside the window. Another. Paparazzi.

Taylor reached for her water. Her hand shook slightly.

Travis leaned in again. “I don’t care if you’re distracted, Tay. But I’d like to know what’s real and what’s just habit.”

She didn’t answer.

The table was still laughing about something she’d missed.

She looked down at her lap, where her phone was buzzing again.

Karlie

You don’t have to come if it’s weird.
I mean that. I don’t want to make things harder.

Taylor read it three times.

Then looked up at Travis.

And smiled, just enough.

“Everything’s fine,” she said.

But even as she said it, she was already writing her reply.

It’s not weird.

It feels… overdue.

I’ll be there.

The noise in the restaurant swelled around her—silverware clinking, laughter bubbling, chairs scraping wood. Taylor smiled at a joke she didn’t hear, her eyes on her glass, her fingers curled tight in her lap.

Outside, more flashes.

Someone was yelling her name through the window. A car slowed in front of the building. Her security team had already formed a discreet perimeter by the door. She didn’t need to look. She felt it.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was already too loud for 7:30 a.m.

Cartoon music buzzed faintly from the living room. The kettle screamed on the stove. Levi was sprinting barefoot across the hallway, waving a green plastic dinosaur in the air like a trophy. 

Karlie stood by the counter, one hand steadying Elijah on her hip—his forehead still a little warm—and the other reaching for the toaster just as it launched two slices of toast that smelled unmistakably burnt.

Josh leaned in the doorway, half-dressed, phone in one hand, a travel mug in the other. One AirPod still in his ear, podcast running. He looked like a man heading to the gym, not someone who’d been part of a long night with two kids.

“Hey, buddy,” he called to Levi. “Bringing Rex again today?”

Levi nodded fiercely. “He guards me!”

“Love that,” Josh grinned without glancing up. “That’s how real men roll.”

Karlie grimaced at the charred toast, tossed it in the bin, and dropped in a new slice. She moved on autopilot now. She hadn’t even had her own coffee yet.

“You said you’d take Levi this morning,” she said, shifting Elijah higher on her hip. He was clingy today—warm, sleepy, silent.

Josh blinked like she’d spoken in another language. “Shit. Did I? I’ve got that early call with Singapore. No way to move it—time zones, babe.”

“What about Rachel?” he asked, half-hopeful. “Can’t she take Levi?”

Karlie straightened Elijah on her hip. “Rachel’s still in Maine, remember? She told us twice she was taking two weeks off.”

Josh winced. “Right. Damn. Forgot.”

“Which is why you were alone with them the night of the gala,” she added, voice too calm to be casual. “It wasn’t some surprise.”

He didn’t respond to that.

Just nodded once, then reached for his laptop bag. “Well, appreciate you covering. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Not a lifesaver,” she muttered as he kissed her cheek. “Just the default.”

He didn’t hear her. Or pretended not to.

“Later, dudes. Thanks again, buddy,” he called—and then the door shut behind him.

Silence.

But not the peaceful kind. The kind that buzzes behind your teeth.

Karlie exhaled slowly, kissed the top of Elijah’s curls, and turned back toward the counter.

“Mommy!” Levi suddenly appeared at her side, dinosaur clutched tight to his chest, his eyes round and bright. “I love you.”

 She stopped.

Everything inside her went still for a moment.

She knelt down so they were eye to eye. “I love you too, baby. So, so much.”

Levi threw his arms around her neck, warm and fearless. His love wasn’t hesitant. It just was.

“More than dinosaurs?” he whispered, as if it was the biggest thing he could imagine.

Karlie smiled through the ache in her chest. “Even more than dinosaurs.”

He grinned and let go, turning to zip up his backpack with a kind of four-year-old urgency only he understood.

Karlie stood up, grabbed the lunchbox, her purse, her keys. She settled Elijah’s jacket over his shoulders—and reached for Levi’s hand.

The morning was only just beginning.

But for a fleeting second, she felt grounded.

One small reminder that this chaos still had heart.

And that she was still at the center of it—whether anyone noticed or not.

The drive to Levi’s school had been short, familiar, and only mildly chaotic.

He had insisted on choosing the music—an endless loop of “We Don’t Talk About Bruno” that Karlie endured with a half-smile and a tired kind of patience. Elijah had leaned against his car seat, silent and flushed, thumb in his mouth, eyes half-lidded. The city outside the windshield blurred past in shades of gray and early spring.

When they pulled up to the Pre-K building, Levi unbuckled himself before she could stop him, launched his dinosaur into the passenger seat, then climbed over her lap to grab it again.

“Miss Kennedy said no toys, but she likes Rex,” he declared.

Karlie bent to kiss the top of his head. “Just don’t let him eat any classmates.”

He giggled and bolted toward the entrance, the backpack bouncing wildly on his shoulders. She watched him until the doors closed behind him, a flash of green dinosaur tail poking out the side of his zipper.

Then the quiet came.

Elijah hadn’t said a word. He was half-asleep, thumb still tucked in tight.

The drive back felt heavier.

Less traffic. Less noise. More space to think.

Karlie parked the car, killed the engine, and sat for a second longer than she needed to. Her hand rested on the steering wheel, her head tilted toward the window. Elijah breathed softly behind her, and for once, she didn’t rush.

Eventually, she opened the door, unbuckled him gently, and carried him inside.

The apartment felt too clean and too cluttered all at once.

Toys still littered the floor from last night—tiny plastic kitchen utensils, a sock that wasn’t hers, a Batman cape Levi had declared essential for bedtime. She stepped over them, Elijah now resting his head on her shoulder like a sack of warm flour.

He didn’t protest when she lowered him onto the couch. His eyelids fluttered. She covered him with the soft gray throw blanket, tucked the bear beside him, and kissed his forehead once. He turned toward her in sleep. Her chest tightened.

Karlie moved into the kitchen and started the coffee.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t even quiet—someone was jackhammering across the street—but it was a pause. A moment between roles. Between being needed.

She wiped down the counter. Opened a window. Lit a candle. Tidied up the couch cushions, not for perfection, but for something like peace.

Today wasn’t about performance.

It was about making space.

She poured herself a mug, black, sat down with it cradled between both hands, and let the silence fill the room.

Taylor would be here soon.

And that—just that—made the quiet feel different.

Taylor checked the donut box for the third time.

They were still warm. Assorted, just like the guy behind the counter had recommended. A couple with sprinkles. One that looked vaguely like a dinosaur. She didn’t know if Elijah or Levi had preferences, but she figured bright colors and sugar were a safe bet.

The guitar case leaned beside her in the car—soft black leather, well-worn at the seams. She hadn’t planned on bringing it. Had almost left it by the door. But something in her had said: bring it anyway.

She glanced at the case again, lips twitching slightly.

Levi thinks I write Paw Patrol songs.

Karlie had said it in a text, casually, almost as a joke. But it had stuck with her. The idea that in one little boy’s head, she was a kind of hero. A bringer of songs and fun. It had been a long time since anyone had seen her that simply.

So yeah.

She brought the guitar.

Not to perform. Not really.

But when she’d left her apartment, hands fidgeting, nerves louder than her playlist, it had felt like something to hold onto.

The SUV moved steadily through lower Manhattan traffic, tinted windows shielding her from the blur of morning pedestrians and honking taxis. Her driver didn’t speak unless spoken to. Her security detail followed in a second car, as they always did.

This was normal. Her normal.

And still, her palms felt damp.

She stared out the window, jaw tight.

There was no script for today.

No press cycle. No performance. No safety net of “just friends.” Not anymore. Not after the Met. Not after the message. Not after Karlie had written back.

She wanted to.

She really wanted to.

A reunion?

A reconnection?

A test?

She didn’t know.

She wasn’t even sure it mattered.

Because no matter what it turned into—friendship, something careful, something cautious—she needed Karlie. In a way she hadn’t been able to admit out loud. In a way she didn’t know how to name.

Connected.

Seen.

Understood in a way no one else in her life had ever quite managed.

 Travis had flown back to Kansas City the morning after the restaurant—after a fight that started quiet and ended sharp. He hadn’t said when he’d be back. And Taylor hadn’t asked.

She hadn’t cried.

She’d just sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the spot where his bag had been.

Feeling… nothing.

Not until Karlie’s message lit up her screen again.

 The guitar shifted slightly as the car turned a corner. She steadied it with one hand.

“Two minutes out,” her driver said quietly.

Taylor nodded, adjusting her sleeves, then looked down at the box in her lap like it might give her courage.

“You’re not walking into fire,” she told herself under her breath. “It’s just Karlie.”

But that wasn’t true.

It was Karlie.

And that was the whole reason her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

The SUV turned onto a quieter street in the West Village, where brownstones lined the sidewalks and spring branches brushed against old brick like something out of a memory.

Taylor looked out the window, and her breath caught just a little.

Not because she saw Karlie’s place—not yet.

But because something about the street, the rhythm of the houses, the iron gates and ivy, pulled her backward.

There had been another gate, once.

Not here. Not now. But in her mind, always.

Karlie’s garden gate—back then. Back when everything had to be hidden. When she’d slip through it at night with her hoodie pulled low and her heart in her throat. When everything between them was too real and too dangerous to name.

 She hadn’t thought about that gate in months. Maybe years.

But it had been the place. Where she felt like herself. Where someone waited who saw her—not as a pop machine, not as a brand, not as Republic Records' most profitable investment—but as Taylor. Just Taylor.

Now, at least, she didn’t have to sneak through the side entrance anymore.

Still, the feeling wasn’t gone.

It was just dressed differently. Quieter. Older.

But no less sharp.

The SUV turned off the main road and slowed as it rolled into a quiet cobblestone street in the West Village—one of those blocks where townhouses stood shoulder to shoulder like old friends, and the ivy-covered facades seemed to whisper.

Taylor looked up from the donut box as they approached the address Karlie had sent.

The house was narrow but proud, with a soft red-brick face and dark-painted trim. Ivy climbed the side, clipped just enough to look effortless. A single pot of lavender sat by the black door. The curtains were linen. The stoop clean. Not staged—lived in.

Her chest tightened.

It was beautiful.

And it was hard not to wonder:

Whose taste is this?

Did the navy-blue door have more of Karlie’s quiet confidence, her eye for calm elegance and warmth? Or did the matte-black accents feel like Josh—cool, curated, intentional?

Even the flower pot—was that Karlie’s? Or a designer’s choice? Josh liked to outsource everything.

Taylor leaned slightly forward in her seat, squinting at the details.

There was charm here. A soul behind the lines.

She couldn’t say why, but she wanted it to be Karlie’s.

All hers.

The SUV slipped down into the private garage entrance beneath the townhouse. As they entered the quiet, concrete space, the light changed—dimmer, cooler, tucked away from the world. Taylor’s breath caught. It reminded her of sneaking in back then, through alleys, through side gates, when being seen meant something dangerous.

The door on the far wall opened before her driver could even get out.

And there he was.

“Miss Swift,” the security guard said with a smile. “Been a long time.”

Taylor blinked, then grinned. “No way. Marty?”

He nodded. Same buzzed hair. Same steady calm. He’d been on both their teams, back in the day. But seeing him here—now—tethered to Karlie’s world, not hers, stirred something deep in her ribs.

“You’re expected,” he said gently. “She told me to send you straight up.”

Taylor shifted the guitar case in her hand, her voice quieter. “She still keeps you around?”

“Guess I never left,” Marty said. “Some people don’t need a crowd. Just someone who stays.”

Her throat tightened.

He smiled again, then stepped aside and gestured toward the elevator. “I already called it.”

She nodded, heart thudding.

And then the gold doors opened.

Taylor stepped inside, donuts in one hand, guitar in the other.

The gold doors closed with a soft sigh.

Taylor stood still in the center of the elevator, guitar in one hand, donut box balanced in the other. The silence pressed in—not heavy, but full. Her breath moved carefully, like it didn’t want to disturb anything too soon.

The lift hummed gently upward—just one floor, maybe two.

A short ride.

But her pulse made it feel longer.

 A reunion? A reconnection? A test?

She didn’t know. She didn’t care.

She was here. That was enough.

The elevator slowed.

A beat.

A breath.

A heartbeat.

Ding.

The doors slid open.

And Taylor looked up—

Straight into a pair of ocean blue eyes.

Chapter Text

The elevator doors part, and the first thing Karlie sees are Taylor’s eyes—cool blue, steady, impossible to read. Her expression doesn’t move, but her gaze holds Karlie like a thread pulled taut. No words. Just that look. Karlie stand in the doorway, every instinct telling her this moment matters.”

And suddenly everything else fell away.

Donuts in one hand. A guitar case in the other. Her gray coat slightly wrinkled at the cuffs, like she’d been gripping it too tightly in the car. Hair pulled back loose and familiar.

She didn’t speak. Neither of them. For a second that felt stretched across years.

Taylor just stood there, looking like someone who knew exactly what this moment could mean—and still wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be in it.

Karlie hadn’t seen her like this in so long.

Not just recently—not the Met Gala version of her, in soft gold and confidence, offering compliments like olive branches.

No cameras. No curated light. No bodyguards in a backstage hallway.

Just her.

She could still hear it—Taylor standing in front of her, saying, ‘You’re glowing.’”

And Karlie had smiled back like the ground wasn’t moving beneath her feet.

It was the first time in years they’d truly spoken.

The time before that had been different.

A hallway. A concert. Almost two years ago.

Taylor had been breathless from the stage.

Karlie had stood beside Josh. Uninvited. Unannounced.

They’d said words—polite ones. Not few.

Taylor’s hand had stayed clenched around a wineglass until she disappeared down the corridor with Tree.

It hadn’t been closure.

It hadn’t been a beginning either.

Just one more moment they hadn’t known what to do with.

And before that?

Nothing.

Now here Taylor stood.

In Karlie’s elevator.

In her building.

Karlie’s chest tightened, gently, precisely.

Just friends, she reminded herself.

That was the line.

The only version of this that could exist.

She had a husband.

Two boys.

A third child on the way.

A life built carefully, choice by choice, even if not every piece fit the way she'd once dreamed.

But Taylor smelled the same.

That familiar, impossible blend of sandalwood and something sharp and green—like memory and rain. It filled the hallway like a secret. One Karlie hadn’t remembered missing until it was there again.

Taylor shifted the box in her hands, her voice soft. “I didn’t know if I should knock.”

“You didn’t have to,” Karlie said, softer than she meant to.

Behind her, Elijah shifted slightly on the couch, a small sigh curling into the stillness.

Taylor’s eyes flicked past her. “He okay?”

“Better,” Karlie said, her voice steadying. “Still tired.”

Taylor gave a small nod, then lifted the box a little. “I brought donuts. And one with a dinosaur. Just in case.”

Karlie’s lips twitched. “You remembered Levi.”

Taylor tilted her head. “Didn’t dare forget.”

They hadn’t stopped texting since the Gala.

Not after Taylor’s first message.

Not even after Karlie offered a day.

If anything, it had picked up after that.

Softly. Quietly. Like they both remembered how.

Karlie had shared photos of Elijah asleep in a laundry basket, of Levi hiding stickers inside the piano.

Taylor had replied with shots of Olivia glaring from atop the fridge, Benjamin mid-pounce, and one of Meredith curled inside a shoebox, captioned:

 “This house is ruled by hate and fur.”

Then later:

“Meredith sleeps in the closet now. It’s her protest.”

They hadn’t talked about the past.

Not directly.

But they talked.

About the boys. About breakfast disasters.

About insomnia and music and how weird it was to have time again.

Taylor never mentioned Travis.

Karlie never asked.

And somehow, nothing felt forced.

Not flirtation.

Not apology.

Just presence.

Now, with Taylor standing in her entryway, guitar in hand and eyes scanning the space like it might dissolve, Karlie realized:

It hadn’t been small talk.

Not really.

It had been the beginning of a new language.

Karlie still didn’t know what to do with her hands.

Her breath.

Her heart.

They were just standing there, a moment longer than people usually should.

Karlie wanted to hug her.

And didn’t.

And couldn’t.

So instead, she stepped back.

 Careful. Measured.

“Come in,” she said.

And Taylor did.

Taylor stepped inside, careful like the floor might crack under her.

Karlie reached out, gently lifting the donut box from her hands. Their fingers brushed—brief, unspoken—and Taylor let go too fast, like she hadn’t expected the contact to feel like anything.

“Thanks for these,” Karlie said softly, holding the box with both hands. “He’s gonna freak out when he sees the dinosaur.”

Taylor smiled—nervous, almost guilty. “I wasn’t sure which kind of sprinkles.”

“You remembered sprinkles. That’s enough.”

Karlie motioned toward the living room. “He’s still asleep.”

Taylor followed her glance and nodded. Her voice dropped instinctively. “Sorry. I’ll whisper.”

Karlie chuckled under her breath. “You don’t have to whisper. Just… soft Taylor mode.”

Taylor’s brows lifted. “Is that like folklore Taylor or cardigan Taylor?”

Karlie was already walking toward the kitchen. “Probably more like ‘don’t wake the toddler’ Taylor.”

Taylor hesitated in the doorway before finally stepping in. She rested the guitar case gently beside the counter like it was something sacred.

Karlie was already opening cabinets. “Coffee?”

“God, yes.”

“I don’t have fancy syrup, but there’s oat milk, and I can fake a caramel latte if you don’t judge me.”

Taylor smiled faintly. “If it’s got caffeine and mild identity issues, I’ll take it.”

Karlie smirked. “So… like you.”

Taylor gasped, mock-offended. “Wow. You’re meaner than I remember.”

“No, just more tired.”

Karlie stirred milk into her mug, then glanced sideways. “Marty let you up?”

Taylor nodded, a soft flicker in her expression. “Called me Miss Swift. Like no time had passed.”

“Marty doesn’t change.”

“He said something,” Taylor added, voice lowering. “That some people don’t need a crowd. Just someone who stays.”

Karlie’s spoon paused mid-stir.

 “He meant you,” Taylor said. “Or… us.”

From the living room came a small sigh. Elijah shifted, turning deeper into sleep, the blanket rustling around his legs.

Karlie watched the motion for a second, then looked down into her coffee. “Sometimes it’s not about who stays. It’s about who notices when you’ve gone quiet.”

Taylor’s grip on her mug tightened slightly. “He always noticed.”

“So did you,” Karlie murmured.

A quiet settled between them—not uncomfortable. Just full.

Taylor’s gaze drifted. “You always had coffee like this. Big mugs. Half-drizzled oat milk. You were drinking it before it was cool.”

Karlie smiled. “The barista at Levi’s preschool calls me a hipster mom. I take it as a compliment.”

“You should.”

They stood there for a long second. Two breaths. Maybe three.

Then Taylor looked around—the counter, the open space, the slightly askew magnet alphabet on the fridge.

“You kept the charm,” she said. “Of the house. It still feels like you. Not like… curated you. Like you-you.”

Karlie stirred her own coffee. “Some things are still mine.”

Another breath. Another heartbeat. Elijah shifted again in the next room.

Taylor glanced that way and softened. “He really sleeps through all this?”

“Long night. He always needs me nearby when he’s sick.”

“That must be a lot.”

“It is,” Karlie said, but there was no bitterness in her voice. “But it’s also the one thing that’s fully mine.”

Taylor didn’t respond at first. She just… looked.

At Karlie. At the kitchen. At everything that hadn’t changed.

“I like your house,” she said finally. “It’s not perfect. It’s lived-in. It feels like you.”

Karlie’s voice was quieter now. “It was never Josh’s style.”

Taylor met her eyes. “No. It wasn’t.”

Karlie’s phone buzzed once against the counter.

She didn’t check right away. Then it buzzed again—sharper this time.

Josh.

 She unlocked it.

Running late. Something came up at the office.

Can you grab Levi?

Sorry.

No punctuation. Just assumption.

Karlie let the screen go dark, setting it face down on the counter.

Taylor tilted her head. “Everything okay?”

“Josh was supposed to pick up Levi and take him to his parents’ house for a visit with Grandma and Grandpa.,”

Karlie said. “Work emergency.”

Taylor straightened a little. “Do you need to leave?”

Karlie shook her head. “No. Levi’s in Pre-K until three. We’ve got a little time.”

Taylor’s smile was tentative. “Then maybe I don’t have to go just yet.”

Karlie nodded, glancing toward the couch, where Elijah was still fast asleep.

“Want to sit?” she offered. “It’s not much, but... I made it livable.”

Taylor followed her toward the living room, settling slowly on the edge of the couch, near but not too close.

The sunlight had softened. The noise of the city was a distant hum now, muted by the thick windows and the stillness between them.

For the next hour and change, they talked.

Nothing deep.

But nothing empty, either.

They eased into it—soft exchanges, half-laughed stories, the way people do when they’re testing a space that used to be theirs.

Karlie told stories—about Levi pretending to be a dinosaur in the grocery store and trying to “roar” his way into getting extra snacks, about Elijah’s obsession with lining up rubber ducks in perfect rows before falling asleep.

Taylor offered slices of her strange world—unfinished lyrics, midnight cereal habits, the escalating cold war between Meredith, Olivia, and Benjamin.

“I still can’t believe Benjamin turned out to be the chaos agent,” Karlie said with a grin. “I’ve only seen him on Instagram. He always looked so chill… like a round little Buddha.”

Taylor raised a brow. “He’s still round. But don’t be fooled—he’s pure mischief.”

Karlie laughed. “I feel like I know him anyway.”

Taylor smiled. “If he ever meets you, he’ll probably adopt you.”

A brief, fond silence settled between them.

Then Karlie, half-laughing, said, “It’s strange—I think I remember more about your cats than I do most of the guests at my wedding.”

There was a pause.

Small.

But sharp.

Taylor blinked—just once—but it was enough. The faintest shift behind her eyes, like a muscle flinching before pain.

Karlie caught it immediately.

Her smile faded. “I… sorry. That was—thoughtless.”

Taylor shook her head quickly, brushing it off. “No, it’s—don’t worry.”

But the room went still for a beat longer.

“I wasn’t trying to bring that up,” Karlie added, voice quieter.

“I know,” Taylor said. And this time she met her eyes.

There was something honest there. Not anger. Not regret. Just… old gravity. The kind that still pulled.

Karlie exhaled slowly, then offered a smile, this one soft and a little shy. “Okay. Tell me something less awkward. Like—was the baguette speech at Gigi’s party as legendary as I remember?”

 Taylor blinked, then laughed. “You mean the one where I stood in a bathtub and quoted Rumi?”

“And Lana Del Rey. While holding carbs.”

“I maintain it was inspiring.”

“You made Bella cry,” Karlie said, laughing again.

Taylor grinned. “She cries at everything.”

They laughed loud enough that Karlie slapped a hand over her mouth too late. this time

And that’s when Elijah stirred.

A tiny noise. A stretch. Then:

“Maaamaaa…”

 Karlie shifted toward him immediately.

Elijah blinked awake, curls in every direction, one foot already kicking free of the blanket. He rubbed his eyes with a fist, then squinted across the room—

Right at Taylor.

He stared.

Then pointed. “Dat?”

Karlie smiled. “That’s Taylor, sweetheart.”

He processed for a second. Then, very seriously: “Dat Tay?”

Taylor nodded, lowering her voice. “Hi, Elijah.”

He blinked again, then brightened. “Moosik!”

And—without warning—he launched into his signature chaos:

“Cause da pwayas gonna pway pway pway—

An’ da hatas gonna hay hay hay!”

Taylor laughed, a sound full of delight and disbelief. “Oh my god.”

“He loves that song,” Karlie said, brushing a curl back from his forehead. 

Elijah grinned, wobbled to his feet, then plopped dramatically beside Taylor on the couch.

He looked at her with total confidence. “Tay pway moosik now?”

Taylor blinked, gently setting her coffee aside. “I brought the guitar…”

She glanced toward the hallway, where it leaned against the wall near the door.

“But I forgot my voice today.” She murmured, brushing her thumb gently over the back of his hand.

Elijah’s face fell just slightly.

“But,” she added gently, “you wanna know a secret?”

Elijah’s eyes widened.

“I will wrote something for both of you. A little song. It’s silly. And next time, when you and your big brother are both there—I’ll play it. Deal?”

Elijah nodded solemnly. “Big Tay Tay tar song?”

Taylor grinned. “Big Tay Tay tar song.”

Karlie leaned back, watching them. Her two-year-old, giggling now. 

And something about it—this ordinary, clumsy little moment—felt more like peace than she’d known in weeks.

Taylor looked at Elijah, then at Karlie. “He’s… incredible.”

Karlie nodded, arms folded loosely around her knees. “He’s exhausting.”

Taylor smiled. “He’s also a tiny you.”

Karlie rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

Because maybe that was true.

And maybe, right now, it didn’t scare her.

Taylor glanced toward Karlie, a smile tucked in the corner of her mouth.

“Next time,” she said, her voice low but sure. “Come to me.”

Karlie blinked. “You mean…?”

“My place,” Taylor said gently. “If you’re up for it. Bring them. If you want.”

She didn’t press. Didn’t push.

Just… offered.

Karlie looked at Elijah—now draped across Taylors lap, murmuring something unintelligible about donuts and dinosaurs—and then back at Taylor.

“I’d like that,” she said quietly.

Taylor nodded, her expression unreadable but warm. “Good.”

Then silence again—comfortable now, not filled with unsaid things, but held gently between two people relearning the space between them.

The clock on the wall ticked past 2:50.

Taylor glanced up, startled. “Wait—already?”

Karlie nodded. “I’ve got to go soon. Pick-up’s at three.”

Taylor stepped back slightly. “I didn’t mean to stay so long.”

Karlie gave a soft, honest smile. “I’m glad you did.”

They both stood slowly. Elijah stirred on the couch, sleepy but aware. His curls were even wilder now, his cheeks flushed.

He pushed himself upright, standing in sock feet, and blinked at Taylor.

Then, with slow determination, he padded over to her, stopping right in front of her knees like he was on a mission.

“Bye Tay Tay,” he said, voice thick and low.

Taylor crouched down to him. “Bye, little man.”

He reached out and pointed to her guitar case. “Song. Fo’ me an’ Wevi.”

She placed her hand gently over his. “I remember. I promise.”

He gave a short, satisfied nod. “Pwomise,” he repeated, like sealing a deal.

Elijah blinked once. Then, in that solemn, important way that only very small children can muster, he took a step forward and wrapped his arms around Taylors shoulders.

A tight, wobbly-limbed hug.

Taylor stilled. Then bent, gently - arms circling him back. She let her hand rest on his back, just for a moment longer than necessary.

“You’re kind of my favourite person today,” she whispered near his ear.

Elijah pulled back just enough to look at her, wide-eyed. “You too.“

Karlie watched them with something soft and aching in her expression.

Taylor stands again and walks over to her guitar case, angled toward the door.

And paused.

She looked at Karlie.

Karlie looked back.

Neither moved at first.

But then Karlie stepped in.

Just one step.

That was all it took.

Taylor met her halfway.

Their arms folded around each other—not hesitantly this time, not carefully.

Fully.

Karlie’s cheek pressed to Taylor’s shoulder, her fingers clutching the back of her sweater like she didn’t know how to let go. Taylor’s hand curled around Karlie’s spine—familiar, instinctual, like the muscle memory of someone you once knew better than yourself.

It was not a quick hug.

It was not polite.

It was years.

It was absence.

It was something neither of them had named—something that had waited in silence and showed up now, all at once.

Karlie’s voice broke first, low and against Taylor’s collarbone.

 “It’s been so long.”

Taylor’s breath hitched. “I know.”

Karlie pulled back just enough to look at her. Their eyes met—ocean blue and aquamarine, both fuller than before, both carrying more than they could say.

“You’ll text me?” Karlie asked, and it wasn’t casual.

Taylor nodded. “I will.”

Karlie opened the door.

And still… neither of them looked away for a long moment.

Taylor finally stepped out into the hall, the door clicking shut behind her.

But something stayed.

Something lived in the silence between their shoulders.

Like a held note.

Like a start.- take the words for what they are.

Karlie stood in the kitchen, barefoot, hair still damp from a late shower. Elijah had gone down easily — too easily, really — his body warm and heavy against her chest as she rocked him, humming absently into the dark.

Now, the lull was unsettling.

She stared at the half-full glass of water on the counter. The coffee mug Taylor had used was still in the sink. She hadn’t washed it. Not yet.

Karlie didn’t really know why.

Maybe because it felt like erasing something.

She reached for her phone, more out of habit than need.

 No new messages.

No response from Josh, either — just that earlier message, short and practical, letting her know he couldn’t pick Levi up from school after all. Last-minute meeting. Again.

Levi had come home moody. He’d barely said a word after school, and by dinner, the sugar crash had hit hard.

She hadn’t minded the drive. It had given her a few more quiet minutes to sit with the weight of the afternoon.

Now, though, the quiet pressed in.

She leaned against the counter, the wood cool under her fingertips, and let herself breathe.

It had been hours. But Taylor’s laugh still echoed through the space. Elijah’s delighted voice still tugged at the air like static. The living room still smelled like the faint sweetness of the donuts Taylor brought.

Karlie exhaled.

Picked up her phone again.

She didn’t plan to write.

But her thumb hovered.

And then:

Did you make it home okay?

A beat passed.

Then another.

Still, she hit send.

There was more she wanted to say — about the day, about Elijah, about what it felt like to see her there again, in the space, with them — but none of the words felt right.

So instead, she stood in her kitchen, barefoot and quiet, and waited.

Not just for a reply.

But for the feeling that this wasn’t all just something she’d imagined.

The reply came ten minutes later.

Short. Quiet. Careful.

Made it back.

Thanks again for today.

It meant more than I thought it would.

 Karlie’s breath caught. Not from surprise—but from relief.

The kind that softens the edges of something sharp.

She ran a thumb over the edge of the countertop.

Typed:

It meant a lot to me too.

Elijah’s still singing. You’ve made a fan for life.

She watched the dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

I’ll hold you to that second visit.

A smile touched Karlie’s mouth—real, unguarded.

She hesitated. Then:

You can.

Just… maybe give me a few days to exhale first.

The reply came quick:

Deal.

And that was it.

Not enough to fill the silence.

But enough to warm it.

Karlie set the phone down.

Stepped away from the light.

And finally—slowly—let herself sit.

Not on a to-do list.

Not in obligation.

Just in this.

This quiet. This weight. This thing she wasn’t ready to name yet.

 Something had shifted.

 And whether it was beginning again—or finally settling into the truth of what had always been—she didn’t know.

Not yet.

But for the first time in a long time, she wanted to find out.

The sofa cradled her gently, the fabric cool against her cheek.

Karlie hadn’t meant to fall asleep—she never really did these days, not without trying. But exhaustion had caught her slowly, wrapped around her like a quiet tide.

One hand rested protectively over the soft curve of her stomach. The other still held her phone, now asleep too, the screen dark.

The apartment had dimmed around her. The dishwasher hummed softly. A siren echoed somewhere in the distance, more presence than sound.

In the hush, her thoughts wandered.

To Taylor.

Again.

To her voice, low and hesitant. To the way she had smiled at Elijah—genuinely, like the world had paused just for them.

To the hug that still lingered in her body. Her arms. Her breath.

Karlie shifted slightly in her sleep.

And her mind drifted—

The Vogue shoot, 2012.

A bright, chaotic room. Stylists with clipboards. Lenses. Glitter dust in the air.

Karlie had been all bone structure and polish. Sharp lines. Half-listening.

Taylor had arrived late. Windblown. Smiling like she didn’t care.

She carried her own bag. Wore too much eyeliner. Said hi like it mattered.

Karlie had thought: She’s smaller than I imagined.

But brighter.

Full of something warm.

 She remembered how Taylor complimented the lighting girl’s boots. How she asked questions no one else thought to ask.

 They had shared a laugh before their first photo together was even taken.

The kind of laugh that starts something.

Even then—it had begun.

The key in the door startled her.

Karlie blinked awake, heart thudding for a second too long.

She sat up slowly. Rubbed her temple.

The hand on her belly lingered.

She heard the bag hit the floor. The keys. The too-loud voice.

Josh.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll send it tonight,” he said into his phone as he came in. “No, tell him I’m not waiting on that draft. He’s late again.”

He spotted her. Gave a half-smile.

Then kept walking.

She stood. “Hey.”

He ended the call. Let out a breath.

Then, distracted, “Hey,” back.

He moved into the kitchen, opened the fridge, didn’t look at her again.

“Did you make anything?”

Karlie’s jaw tightened. “Hi. Nice to see you too.”

Josh walked past, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. Dry. Automatic.

Found the leftovers. Popped the container open.

“I had a day,” he said, almost to himself.

She didn’t answer.

She just watched him eat over the sink.

And in her chest, something settled. Something sad. Something still.

Because today—someone else had seen her.

Really seen her.

 And it hadn’t been the man she married.

 Josh turned on the tap, rinsed the fork he’d used, then washed his hands like he was scrubbing the day off his skin. His movements were brisk, mechanical, like he was already somewhere else. He leaned forward, drying them on a towel without looking up.

Then—almost as an afterthought—his eyes flicked to her.

To her belly.

“Everything okay in there?” he asked, a vague smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Still cooking?”

Karlie nodded, her hand instinctively resting on the slight curve beneath her shirt. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

He crossed the short space between them and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. It was warmer than before, but still not rooted in the moment. Not really.

“And the boys?” he asked, already reaching for his laptop bag.

She hesitated.

“Elijah asked for you before bed. He wanted to show you his ducks all lined up,” she said softly. “And Levi… he had a drawing. For you. From class. He waited until the last minute to take it out of his backpack. Said it had to be a surprise.”

Josh gave a tired huff of a laugh, not quite a smile. “Yeah? That’s cute. I’ll check it out tomorrow. Tomorrow’s another day.”

It wasn’t cruel. But it wasn’t care, either.

It was filler.

He shifted the strap of his laptop bag across his shoulder and turned toward the hallway. “I’ve got a call in ten. Should only be an hour. Don’t wait up.”

She didn’t move. Just stood there in the center of the kitchen, the space stretching around her like a held breath.

The fridge hummed again. The dishwasher clicked off in the background.

And the silence…

It wasn’t heavy.

It was hollow.

She turned her face away, barely nodding, already knowing he wouldn’t notice.

When the bedroom door closed behind him, Karlie finally exhaled.

Her hand still rested over her stomach, gentle and steady.

This child growing inside her—this fragile, new beginning—deserved more than this rhythm of almosts and absences.

 Elijah had fallen asleep curled against her, tiny fingers still clutching the hem of her shirt.

Levi had dozed in the car, sticky from cupcakes and full of stories he didn’t get to tell.

They were growing.

Fast.

And Josh... he kept missing it.

With every late night. Every unfinished sentence. Every kiss that landed on autopilot instead of intention.

And she—she was growing tired of pretending it was enough.

She sank back down onto the sofa, slowly, her body aching in places she hadn’t realized were tired.

Outside, the city breathed on.

And in her chest, something quiet began to stir.

Not rage. Not grief.

Just recognition.

That maybe the person who had shown up today and actually seen her—asked nothing, offered everything in small, quiet ways—was the only one who still knew how.

And that was a truth she couldn’t ignore much longer.

 Her fingers still circled the edge of her ring.

She didn’t know why she was doing it—just that it was easier than sitting completely still.

The kitchen had gone quiet again. Even the hum of the fridge felt like background static.

And still—her thoughts refused to land.

They circled back.

Back to the version of herself who had said yes.

To the life.

To the ring.

To Josh.

Not out of some great sweeping love story.

But out of fear.

Of exhaustion.

Of how long she and Taylor had already been holding their breath.

She remembered it too clearly.

Taylor on the floor of a hotel room in some anonymous city. Curled into herself, still in makeup from a shoot that had lasted too long. Her voice thin from too many interviews, too many nights sleeping in pieces.

Karlie had sat beside her. Quiet. Just to be near.

And Taylor, her eyes hollow with something that wasn’t just fatigue, had whispered it—not with rage, not even with accusation—just… pain.

“Do you think I want to love someone I’m not allowed to name?”

Karlie’s chest ached at the memory.

Because she had seen the truth in Taylor’s eyes that night. The ache of loving loudly in a world that only wanted it quiet.

Taylor had wanted to fight for it.

Karlie… hadn’t known how.

She hadn’t had the words. Not then.

She had been so tired of sneaking, of arranging their lives around empty hotel rooms and careful shadows and exits where no cameras waited.

She had wanted air.

A name.

 A future she could say out loud.

And Josh—he had offered her that.

Steady, certain, waiting in the wings with a quiet kind of devotion that didn’t need to be hidden.

He hadn’t asked her to disappear.

Not like the industry had.

Not like Taylor’s world, with its NDAs and unspoken rules and careful distance between truth and performance.

Josh had asked her to step forward.

And she had.

Even though it had broken something.

Even though it had broken someone.

And now, sitting here years later, in the dim warmth of her kitchen with her third child pressing gently beneath her ribs, she wasn’t sure if she had chosen right—or just chosen what hurt less at the time.

Because her heart…

Her heart hadn’t wanted to let go.

Even then.

It had just wanted a way out of the pain.

And Taylor had been all fire and feeling—beautiful and unbearable.

And Karlie hadn’t known how to hold that without burning.

She stayed seated, long after the sounds of Josh’s voice behind the door had faded.

The ring still on her finger. Still gleaming, still fixed.

Still asking a question she couldn’t quite answer.

Her other hand drifted toward the edge of the coffee table, to where her phone lay in a pool of warm lamplight.

She picked it up. Screen lit. No new notifications.

No missed calls.

No messages from Taylor.

But that wasn’t what she was looking for.

Her thumb hovered over the thread. Their thread.

Those short, tentative messages from days ago—careful phrases wrapped in soft humor and breathless pauses.

She didn’t know what she was doing until she opened a blank message.

The keyboard blinked up at her like an open door.

She stared at it.

And typed.

I still remember what you said that night.

Her heart thudded.

Backspace.

Typed again.

You asked if I thought you wanted to love someone you weren’t allowed to name.

Her eyes burned.

You did.

And I did too.

She held her breath.

Typed one more line.

I was scared.

 And then—

Her thumb hovered over send.

Paused.

She deleted the message without hesitation and shut the app.

Locked the phone.

Let the words stay where they always had.

Unspoken.

Unsent.

Deletet. 

Held in the quiet place between longing and fear.

She placed the phone back on the table like it was glass.

Pressed a hand to her belly again, grounding herself.

Then finally rose. Switched off the light.

The apartment darkened around her. The fridge hummed. Somewhere down the hallway, Elijah shifted in his sleep, murmured something unintelligible.

Karlie padded barefoot toward the bedroom.

She didn’t look back.

But the words stayed with her.

Not because she’d said them.

But because, in some part of her—maybe the deepest part—Taylor had already heard them. Long ago.

And maybe… still did.

Chapter Text

Taylor stood in the hallway, suitcase zipped and waiting by the door, her guitar case leaning against it like it didn’t want her to go. 

She knelt down slowly, palm outstretched.

“Okay,” she whispered, “I’m really leaving now.”

Meredith blinked up at her from the hallway rug, unamused. Olivia sat perched on the back of the couch, tail swishing, already preparing to sulk. Benjamin trotted into view last—always the most dramatic—then threw himself down at her feet like a soldier in protest.

“I’ll be back in two days,” she promised them all.

No one moved.

Taylor smiled faintly. “You guys are so good at making me feel guilty.”

Her phone buzzed again—Tree.

She grabbed her tote, keys, guitar case, gave Benjamin one last scratch behind the ears, and headed out the door.

Security was already waiting by the elevator. One of the newer guys. Quiet. Professional. She nodded to him, earbuds already in.

By the time she slid into the back of the SUV, her phone was already ringing.

Tree.

She answered.

“Hey.”

“Hey, love. You’re en route?”

“Just left.”

“You’ve got a thirty-minute window before boarding. Driver knows.”

Taylor adjusted the seatbelt. “Perfect.”

A pause.

Then: “How are you feeling about this?”

Taylor looked out the window, watched Manhattan blur past in streaks of gray and early spring.

“It’s time we talk,” she said simply.

Tree didn’t push. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Taylor didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t say what the right thing was anymore. Just what seemed necessary.

“You know I’m here if you need me,” Tree added.

“I know.”

Another pause.

Tree’s voice softened, just a fraction. “This about the dinner? Or something else?”

Taylor exhaled slowly. “It’s just… been a long week.”

Which was true.

Even if it wasn’t all of it.

She didn’t mention the townhouse. Or the coffee. Or Elijah singing her song with his tiny voice and mismatched socks.

She didn’t say anything about the moment Karlie had looked at her like she still mattered.

Some truths weren’t ready to be spoken out loud.

Tree was still talking—logistics now, updates, timing—but Taylor’s attention was already slipping.

Her fingers moved before her thoughts could catch up.

She opened their message thread.

Karlie.

Just her name on the screen made something tight in her chest shift.

She typed:

Hey,

Boarding soon. KC for two days.

Any idea when might be a good time…

I’d love to play the song for them.

She hovered for a second.

Then added:

Hope you’re okay. Really.

Send.

She didn’t reread it.

 Didn’t wait for a reply.

The car kept moving, the world rushing by.

Behind her: a quiet apartment, three cats.

Ahead: a conversation she wasn’t ready for.

And somewhere in between…

The part of her that had finally remembered how to feel.

She had just set her phone in her lap again—half-braced for silence—when it buzzed.

Taylor flinched.

Then stared.

The name lit up instantly.

Karlie.

Her breath caught.

That fast.

She hadn’t meant to check her phone again.

Not right away.

But it buzzed the moment she shifted her bag in her lap—and the name flashed like a secret she hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

Taylor’s breath caught, quiet and sharp.

She blinked.

Once.

 Then opened the thread.

They’d love that. So would I.

Want to come here again? Or we can come to you.

Levi asked this morning if you had a trampoline. I said probably not. He said you could get one.

We’re around this weekend. Let me know.

Her chest warmed so fast it almost hurt.

It was the speed of it.

The ease.

 The way Karlie didn’t hesitate—not with a maybe, not with distance, not with caution. She replied like it was natural. Like this was normal. Like they were.

Taylor felt her shoulders drop, her spine relax, her lips twitch toward something that wasn’t quite a smile yet—but close.

Closer than it had been in days.

Her fingers hovered.

And then she typed—quiet joy threaded through the words:

Tell Levi my trampoline paperwork is in progress.

Security may riot. Too bad.

Next week sounds perfect.

You three come here. I’ll be ready.

A pause.

She added:

Looking forward to it more than I probably should.

Send.

And for a long moment, she just held the phone.

Not because she was waiting.

But because something had shifted.

Karlie had replied.

Warm. Immediate. Without second-guessing.

And Taylor felt it down to her ribs.

Something old was slowly, carefully becoming new again.

Not because they’d planned it.

But because neither of them had turned away.

Not this time.

The plane touched down just after nine.

 Kansas City looked exactly like she remembered it: too flat, too wide, too quiet.

Tree had offered to come. Taylor had said no.

Security met her at the gate, quiet and professional, just as briefed. Her luggage was already loaded. The SUV was black, window-tinted, standard.

Still, everything about this trip felt too exposed.

Not because of press.

Because of him.

She stared out the window as the city passed in soft lights. Her phone sat face-down in the seat beside her.

She hadn’t messaged Travis again. Not since the night she said, We should talk.

He hadn’t replied.

Not directly.

But he’d booked the guest room at his house, had his assistant confirm the arrival, and left one short message this morning:

"Hope your flight’s smooth."

That was it.

Taylor shifted in the seat.

She should feel… something. Dread. Tension. Closure, maybe.

Instead, all she felt was the quiet thrum of Karlie’s name in her chest.

The last message.

The softness in it.

The image of Levi asking about a trampoline like it was a serious architectural investment.

Taylor smiled. A little.

Then glanced down at her hands. Folded. Still.

She missed Elijah already. His curls, his sleepy giggles. The way he’d pressed his forehead to her arm like it meant something.

She missed Karlie in the doorway, in that sweater, mug in hand, asking if she wanted oat milk or just regular.

Everything had felt close again.

And now?

Now she was on her way to a house she’d never called home, to a conversation she didn’t really want to have with a man she wasn’t sure she still knew how to be with.

The car slowed. Turned down a residential street lined with silence and polite fences.

Travis’s driveway was already lit.

She didn’t move when the car stopped.

Security stepped out first.

Taylor reached for her bag with one hand, phone with the other.

She didn’t check it.

Not yet.

Not until this was over.

Whatever this turned out to be.

The front door opened before she reached it.

Travis.

Jeans, hoodie, clean-shaven. Familiar in that curated way. Like a version of a memory she couldn’t quite call up fully.

“Hey,” he said. No smile, but no edge either.

“Hey,” Taylor answered, matching his tone. Her voice was light, even practiced. It felt distant even to her own ears.

He reached for her bag before she could stop him. “Guest room’s made up.”

“Thanks.”

They didn’t hug.

The silence stretched—just a beat too long.

Then he turned and led her through the foyer. Lights low. The smell of something woodsy, maybe eucalyptus. She wondered if that was for her, or if he’d always liked it.

Same hallway. Same walls. But everything felt newly unfamiliar.

He opened the guest room door.

“Here,” he said. “Extra towels in the bathroom. Fridge has food. I wasn’t sure what you’d want.”

Taylor nodded, stepping inside. “This is fine.”

 He paused. Looked like he might say more. Then just nodded once and added, “I’ll let you settle.”

 The door closed behind her.

Soft click. And silence.

Taylor stood in the center of the room for a long moment before moving.

The space was tidy. Neutral tones. The bed was crisply made. A water bottle and a new phone charger sat on the nightstand.

It felt like a hotel room.

It felt like being a guest in someone else’s story.

She set her bag on the armchair, shrugged out of her coat, and crossed to the window. Darkness. A streetlight. Empty sidewalks.

Her breath fogged the glass faintly as she leaned forward.

This wasn’t home.

Not even close.

And yet—this was the place she’d flown to, the one she’d chosen to face.

She turned away from the window. Sat down on the edge of the bed.

Her phone lit up in her hand.

Not Karlie.

Not yet.

But the draft she’d written before boarding still glowed on her screen.

„Looking forward to it more than I probably should.“

Taylor stared at it, thumb hovering.

Then locked the screen.

She needed to get through this before she let herself go back there. Back to Karlie’s kitchen. Back to Elijah’s smile. Back to where it felt like she could finally breathe.

But that place—the warmth, the rightness of it—was already living under her skin again.

And no matter what came next…

She wasn’t sure she could keep pretending it hadn’t changed something.

She’d made it almost to the guest room door before she turned back.

Her fingers grazed the edge of the hallway wall.

Her voice barely above a whisper.

 “Travis?”

He looked up from the sink where he was rinsing a glass. “Yeah?”

She hesitated. Then stepped back into the kitchen, slower this time. Her arms crossed, not defensively—just to hold herself.

“I didn’t just come here because of the fight.”

He dried his hands. Watched her carefully now.

“I needed to tell you something,” she added. “Before it gets weirder by not saying it.”

He leaned on the counter. “Okay.”

Taylor’s pulse ticked up. But she didn’t stop.

“I saw Karlie.”

The air shifted—subtle but sharp.

Travis blinked. “What?”

“First at the Met. It wasn’t planned. She was just… there.” Taylor’s voice stayed even. “And then later. I came over.”

“To her place?”

Taylor nodded.

Travis straightened. His shoulders tensed. “When?”

“Last week.”

“You didn’t think to tell me then?”

“I didn’t know how.”

He let out a dry laugh. “That’s convenient.”

Taylor felt her throat close slightly. “I’m not hiding anything. I just— I needed time to know what it meant.”

“What does it mean?” he snapped.

Taylor paused. “I don’t know. But it felt… important. Familiar. Good.”

That was the wrong word.

Travis stepped forward, eyes narrowing. “You know I never liked her.”

 “I know.”

 “Because I saw how you talked about her. How you lit up. How you brought her into every story.”

 Taylor looked down.

“I told you everything,” she said softly. “You asked. You wanted to know.”

“Yeah, and maybe I shouldn’t have.” His voice was rising now, but tight, contained. “You made it sound like she broke your heart.”

Taylor didn’t answer.

That silence said enough.

“Jesus, Tay.” He laughed again, but there was nothing amused in it. “So what now? You hang out again and forget the last years?”

“No,” she said quietly. “But I wanted you to know.”

He stared at her, jaw clenched.

“You’re not over her,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Taylor didn’t lie.

“I don’t know what I am,” she said.

And that was worse.

That was what made Travis step back. His mouth tight. His hands twitching at his sides.

“I flew you out here to talk,” he said. “But not to be blindsided.”

“I didn’t plan it—”

“But you let it happen.”

Taylor swallowed hard. “Because I needed to.”

He shook his head. “You know what? I can’t do this right now.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Then what are you asking?”

Taylor looked at him. Not angry. Not cruel.

Just honest.

“Time.”

“You’re not over her,” Travis said again. But this time quieter. Lower.

Taylor didn’t move.

The kitchen felt too bright now. Too open. Like every surface reflected something she didn’t want to look at. 

“I don’t think it’s about being over anything,” she said finally. “It’s not linear. You don’t just… cross a finish line and call it healed.”

He didn’t respond.

She added, carefully, “We were friends. Then more. Then nothing. But even nothing meant something.”

Travis braced both hands on the edge of the counter. “You and I built something real too, Taylor.”

“I know,” she said immediately. “I never said we didn’t.”

“You moved in here like it mattered. You flew me to Rome. You called my parents on their anniversary. You—” His voice cracked just slightly. “You looked at me like I was the one.”

Taylor looked down.

“You were,” she said quietly. “You are. In a way.”

“But not the way I thought.”

She didn’t answer.

Travis’s tone softened, but the tension in his shoulders stayed sharp. “I knew you had history with her. You were honest about that from the beginning. I respected it.”

“I never lied to you.”

“I didn’t say you did. But you left out something,” he said. “The way you still look when you talk about her.”

Taylor’s throat tightened. “She was a part of my life for a long time.”

“You wrote songs about her.”

Her breath caught.

“She was never just a friend,” he added.

Taylor took a slow, painful breath. “I didn’t come here to reignite anything, Travis.”

“But you did.” His voice dropped again, quieter now. “You opened the door.”

Taylor blinked hard. “I didn’t know what I’d feel until I saw her again.” 

“And now?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But it doesn’t make this — us — meaningless. I promise.”

He stood there, just watching her.

Something settled in his expression. Not anger.

 Resignation.

 “You know what hurts the most?” he asked.

Taylor met his eyes.

“That I gave you everything. Every part. And it still wasn’t enough to make you forget her.”

Taylor closed her eyes.

“I never wanted to forget her,” she said. “That was never the goal.”

He stepped back. One more inch between them.

“That’s what I mean.”

Travis disappeared down the hallway.

No last words. No backward glance.

Just the echo of what he’d said, hanging in the air like dust you couldn’t breathe through.

“I don’t think I can be the one you settle with while your heart still echoes someone else.”

It was too calm to feel like a wound.

But it cut just the same.

Taylor stayed still, her fingers pressed into the edge of the kitchen counter.

She didn’t cry.

She just… stood.

Then she turned. Quiet steps down the hall. She opened the guest room door.

Her suitcase was still by the chair. Her guitar leaned in the corner.

She didn’t bother with the lights.

The room was cast in that soft, blue kind of evening — the kind that held its own silence.

Taylor sat down on the bed, legs folding beneath her.

And finally let herself feel it.

Not just Travis.

But everything.

Karlie’s laugh.

Elijah’s tiny fingers.

The almosts.

The years they hadn’t spoken.

The hug.

The pull.

The guilt.

The ache.

She reached for her phone. Not to text anyone.

Just… the Notes app.

Her fingers hovered.

Then typed:

This isn’t a love triangle.

It’s a version of me who laughed. 

The kind where no one dies—

But nothing lives the same again.

She blinked. Let the sentence settle.

Typed again:

I miss the version of me who laughed without checking the door.

I think she’s still in that room.

With Karlie.

And a paper coffee cup.

And a boy singing a broken chorus.

She hit save.

Then leaned back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The silence didn’t feel sharp anymore.

Just deep.

It wasn’t clarity.

It wasn’t peace.

But it was hers.

And that, for tonight, would be enough.

Chapter Text

The light in Karlie’s office was soft and hesitant — that particular shade of New York afternoon that hung in the windows like a question. Gold filtered through the sheer curtains, brushing the white walls with warmth.

But it didn’t reach her.

Not really.

She sat at her desk, spine straight out of habit, eyes locked on the open laptop in front of her. The cursor blinked in quiet expectation, mocking her stillness.

The Vogue email sat front and center. Patient. Polished.

Subject: Cover Story Opportunity – Mother. Model. Mogul.

Angle: Balance, legacy, the next chapter.

She’d read it four times now.

Drafted a response.

A polite thank you. A soft maybe.

But her fingers wouldn’t press send.

She wasn’t sure why.

No — she was.

Her thoughts kept drifting, slipping sideways into corners of her life she wasn’t supposed to revisit. Not now. Not after everything she’d built to move forward.

But forward wasn’t always the same as right.

A door had creaked open — not wide, just enough to let the past breathe again — and something inside her had started to stir. Something old and quiet and still alive.

It had started with a voice.

Two voices, really.

Elijah’s, sweet and sticky and laced with wonder.

And Taylor’s.

Still familiar. Still warm.

God. Taylor.

She hadn’t heard from her in days. Not since Kansas City. A few scattered messages after the visit — casual, light, full of emojis and check-ins and updates on the boys. But then: quiet. Not cold. Not final. But enough.

Enough for Karlie to second-guess.

To wonder if she’d imagined that hug. That weight. That heat.

If she’d read too much into the way Taylor had held on.

Her hand moved instinctively to her belly, palm flat against the soft swell there.

This baby — this tiny piece of the future — was already wrapped in questions she hadn’t known she’d ask again.

Questions she had buried. Deliberately.

But they were surfacing now. One by one.

A sharp thud down the hallway pulled her back.

Elijah’s high-pitched squeal. Rachel’s calm response.

Karlie blinked. Exhaled. Thank god for Rachel.

Her nanny had come back from vacation just in time to catch Karlie before she cracked. She didn’t say much, didn’t ask much — just showed up. Present. Steady. Something Josh hadn’t been in weeks.

Not this morning.

Not when Elijah and Levi had both fallen apart after breakfast.

Elijah had chirped something about “Tay-luh’s song,” proud and glowing.

Levi had frozen — then folded. Big, silent tears running down his face. “But I didn’t see her,” he’d whispered.

And Elijah, bless him, had cried too. Because he couldn’t stand to see his brother sad.

Karlie had knelt between them. One hand on each of their backs, soft shushing sounds. Holding space for emotions neither of them could name.

Josh had been in the kitchen. On his phone. Coffee in hand.

He hadn’t even looked up until Elijah — bright and unaware — had dropped the bomb.

“Tay-luh was here!”

It hit like a slap.

Josh had turned. Slow. Stiff. Like something inside him had locked into place.

“Taylor? Here?”

Karlie hadn’t even had time to brace herself.

She’d stammered — just a visit, just donuts, Elijah was sick, it was nothing—

But Josh’s expression said it all: Not nothing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

She hadn’t answered fast enough.

Didn’t know how to explain the way it had happened. The way it had felt.

Josh’s jaw had tensed. The mug in his hand clinked against the counter.

And then — like flipping a switch — he’d shrugged it off.

“Whatever. It’s not like it matters.”

And he’d left the room.

But it did matter.

That indifference — that practiced detachment — hurt more than his temper ever could.

And still, it had lingered. All day. In the way he didn’t kiss her goodbye. In the silence at lunch. In how he asked about the boys like they were an itemized list.

Karlie’s gaze drifted back to her screen.

The Vogue headline blinked again.

“Mother. Model. Mogul.”

But what did it mean to be all those things if she wasn’t seen?

Her fingers touched the edge of her wedding ring. A slow rotation. A ritual.

Josh had always wanted this. Her. A family. The story.

Even when they were pretending — back when he was just her public buffer, the neat version of what she was supposed to want — he’d looked at her like she was his endgame.

And she’d said yes.

Yes to the appearances.

Yes to the cover stories.

Yes to a life where she wouldn’t have to duck through back hallways or slip out hotel side doors to avoid a photo.

Yes to the safety.

 But that yes had cost her everything that once felt real.

Taylor.

The girl who had once looked at her backstage, trembling, tears caught behind a practiced smile, and whispered:

“Do you think I want to love someone I’m not allowed to name?”

 God, she’d loved her. So deeply it had scared them both.

But love hadn’t been enough. Not then. Not against the machine. Not against fear. Not when one was ready and the other was still holding her breath.

Karlie had made the safe choice.

She had chosen survival over surrender.

And it had broken everything.

Now, years later, with a baby growing under her hand and a home filled with chaos and coffee and Josh’s back always turned—

She wasn’t sure she’d chosen right.

Taylor had seen her. Even now.

Josh... tolerated her.

The ring pressed into her knuckle as she turned it again.

Balance. Legacy. The next chapter.

But what if the chapter she wanted had already started?

And what if it wasn’t the one anyone expected?

Karlie set her phone down beside the laptop, the soft glow of the message still warming the screen. Her chest felt less tight. Her shoulders a little lighter.

A quiet knock on the office door — Rachel, gently popping her head in. “They’re calm now,” she whispered. “Story time worked.”

Karlie smiled. “Thank you.”

Rachel nodded once, then disappeared back down the hall.

Karlie sat for a moment, staring out through the sheer curtains, the light outside dimming slightly — sunset coming on, soft and slow.

She picked up her phone again, absently scrolling. A photo from the park last week. Elijah with wild curls and an open-mouth grin, mid-jump. Levi trying to hide a cookie behind his back. Her boys.

 Her heart squeezed.

 And then — the screen lit up again.

Incoming FaceTime: Taylor

For a beat, Karlie didn’t move. Just stared.

Taylor’s face, frozen in thumbnail — casual, hair pulled back, a soft hoodie. No spotlight. No audience.

Just her.

Karlie’s lips parted.

Then she swiped to accept.

“Hey,” she said, voice quieter than she meant it.

Taylor smiled — real, a little nervous.

“Hi.”

And just like that —

everything opened.

The moment Karlie’s face filled the screen, something in Taylor’s chest settled.

Not in the way calm feels.

In the way right does.

Even when it’s messy. Even when it hurts.

Karlie’s hair was pulled back loosely. No makeup, just the soft pink flush of someone who’d been home all day. Her office lights cast a low gold glow across her face, familiar in a way that made Taylor ache.

“Hi,” Taylor said again, breath catching a little.

“Hey,” Karlie replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You okay?”

“I went to Kansas City,” she said, quiet now. “Travis and I talked.”

Karlie’s brows knit slightly, not in surprise, but in readiness — bracing for whatever came next.

Taylor continued, “We ended it. Officially.”

A pause.

“It wasn’t dramatic,” she added. “It just... stopped making sense. We were going in different directions. Trying to meet in the middle, but never really getting there.”

 Karlie nodded slowly. “That must’ve been hard.”

 Taylor offered the smallest smile. “It was also a relief.”

They sat in silence for a beat.

Taylor didn’t say it — not out loud:

I didn’t say your name. Not to Tree. Not to Travis. But somehow, it still felt like I did.

Because something had shifted in Kansas City. Quietly, deeply.

But this — whatever was growing between her and Karlie again — it had to stay in the light. It had to be gentle, defined.

Just friendship.

It was the only thing Taylor was allowed to have.

The only thing Karlie could give.

She had a husband.

A life.

Two children, with another on the way.

And Taylor...

She wanted what she could have. Not more. Not again.

Just what Karlie was offering.

The part of her that could still be close. Still hers, in some way.

Taylor cleared her throat gently. “I’m back in New York now.”

Karlie’s expression softened. “I’m glad.”

Taylor added, voice lightening just a little, “I’ve got three very angry cats and a song about dogs and dinosaurs that desperately needs to be performed.”

Karlie laughed. “The boys going to love that.”

Taylor smiled. “I was thinking... maybe you and the boys could come over sone. If it’s not too much.”

Karlie’s voice warmed. “They will never forgive me if we didn’t.”

Taylor didn’t say how fast everything had unraveled after Kansas City. How the quiet in Travis’s eyes had been the final sign. How the decision had felt less like a break and more like a release.

And how it had made her think—about clarity, about boundaries, about what it meant to want something without asking for more than was possible.

 Karlie let the pause stretch a little, then shifted gently, “The boys have been talking about you.”

 Taylor’s breath caught.

“Elijah’s still obsessed,” Karlie said with a small laugh. “He plays Shake It Off in the kitchen and insists on doing the dance moves. His version of them, anyway.”

Taylor smiled, chest tight. “I love him.”

“I know,” Karlie said. “And Levi’s... well, he’s been asking questions.”

Taylor’s brows lifted. “Oh?”

Karlie nodded slowly, glancing down the hallway like she could see them through the walls. “He’s trying to make sense of why Elijah met you and he didn’t. He’s four, so it’s dramatic. There were a few tears. Elijah cried too—mostly in solidarity. It was a whole thing.”

Taylor laughed, low and aching.

“I told them,” Karlie said, her voice quieter now, “that we’re going to visit you soon. That you promised a song. And that you keep your promises.”

Taylor felt something shift in her ribs. “I do.”

“I know,” Karlie said again. And her voice wrapped around the words like a memory.

Taylor pressed her thumb to her forehead, grounding herself.

“I need to say something,” she said quietly.

Karlie waited.

Taylor’s voice was careful. “ I’m not asking for more than this. I just needed you to know it matters.“

“It does. It always did.” Karlie said.

Just as the silence settled again, Karlie turned her head slightly, a muffled voice carrying from off-screen.

“Levi,” she called gently, “you want to say hi?”

There was a moment of rustling — the soft sound of small feet padding over hardwood — and then, suddenly, a mop of sandy hair appeared in the corner of the frame.

Big eyes. Shy smile. A flash of mischief.

“Hi,” came the tiny voice.

Taylor’s face lit up. Her heart did something complicated and sharp — a twist of joy laced with something older, something tender.

“Hi there,” she said, her voice softer now. “You must be Levi.”

He nodded seriously. Then without preamble: “Do you like Paw Patrol?”

 Taylor blinked once, then let out a laugh — caught off guard and completely charmed.

 “I mean,” she said, glancing at Karlie with mock accusation, “you’re just diving right into the hard questions, huh?”

Karlie was already laughing quietly, smoothing a hand over Levi’s curls as he leaned closer to the camera.

Taylor turned back to him. “Okay. Full honesty? I had to look up what Paw Patrol was. Like, I thought it was maybe a band. Or a kind of dog rescue team for real dogs.”

Karlie snorted behind him.

Taylor continued, deadpan. “I tried to watch it. Twice. For research.”

Levi tilted his head. “Research?”

“Yup,” Taylor said, serious now. “For your song. I needed to get in the zone. Get the vibe. Learn who was who. You can’t just drop a ‘Skye’ reference without knowing she’s the one who flies the helicopter.”

Karlie was shaking with silent laughter now.

“But after episode two,” Taylor added with a mock-dramatic sigh, “I had to stop. There was no murder. No monologue. No one standing in the rain whispering a tragic line while The Fray plays softly in the background. Which means, unfortunately…” — she raised her brows dramatically — “it’s not exactly Grey’s Anatomy.”

Levi blinked once. “What’s that?”

Taylor leaned in, whispered like it was the most important adult secret in the world, “A grown-up Paw Patrol. With more crying. And more surgeries.”

Karlie covered her mouth, laughing.

Levi looked unconvinced. “Chase is a police dog. He drives a truck.”

Taylor nodded, matching his seriousness. “Solid career path.”

“Rubble is my favorite,” he added, warming now. “He’s the construction pup. He builds stuff.”

Taylor smiled gently. “You know what? I think I like Rubble too. He sounds dependable.”

Levi gave a proud little nod, then whispered something to Karlie — something about “telling Elijah” — before ducking out of frame again, socks skidding faintly on the hardwood.

Karlie was still laughing when she looked back into the camera, but softer now. The kind of laugh that lived in her chest.

Taylor smiled too, but there was something else behind it — something round and quiet in her eyes.

“He’s amazing,” she said. “Really.”

Karlie nodded. “He is.”

 And for a moment, neither of them spoke.

 Taylor’s gaze lingered, her voice quieter now. “Thank you. For letting me know them.”

Karlie swallowed. “They already love you. You know that, right?”

Taylor nodded once. “I’m starting to believe it.”

Then — a beat passed — and Karlie’s expression shifted. Thoughtful. Almost hesitant.

She took a breath, then reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

“There’s something else,” she said. “I didn’t tell you before.”

Taylor’s heart ticked up slightly. “Okay.”

Karlie looked down briefly, then back into the screen.

“This baby,” she began carefully. “It wasn’t a surprise. It was IVF.”

Taylor blinked. “Oh.”

“It was a decision,” Karlie said, voice low now. “Not just medically, but... emotionally. I thought it might help bring us back. Me and Josh. That maybe if I could give us something to anchor to, we’d find our way forward again.”

Taylor said nothing at first. Just listened.

Karlie’s eyes were steady, but tired. “It hasn’t really worked. Not the way I hoped.”

Taylor’s hand moved up to her chest, her voice barely a whisper. “That’s a lot to carry.”

Karlie looked away, then back. “Some days, I wonder if I did it for him. Or just because I was afraid of what it would mean if I didn’t try one more time.”

Taylor’s breath caught. “You don’t have to justify any of it. Not to me.”

There was silence then.

The kind that held more than it said.

She swallowed.

Then spoke, her voice quieter than before.

“I just want you to be okay. Whatever that looks like. Even if it’s not what anyone expects.”

Karlie nodded. Her voice was barely there.

“I want that too.”

And somehow — even through a screen, across miles of space and years of pause — that felt like a promise too.

Chapter Text

New York City, a week later.

The knock was soft, but it still made Taylor flinch.

She wiped her hands on a dish towel — cinnamon sugar on her wrist from the second round of donuts — and crossed the living room with deliberate calm. The cats were already alert: Benjamin lounging by the speaker, Olivia perched at the window, and Meredith… Meredith had taken her usual place on the armrest, tail flicking with silent judgment.

Taylor opened the door.

There they were.

Karlie, framed by the hallway light. Elijah in her arms, curled and half-asleep on her shoulder. Levi standing just ahead of her, clutching a plastic truck in one hand and a juice box in the other, eyes wide as they swept across the space.

And for one suspended second, no one said anything.

Then: “Hi,” Karlie breathed.

“Hi,” Taylor said. Her voice caught slightly. She didn’t clear it.

“Hi Miss Taylor!” Levi added brightly, already moving past both women, juice box in the air like a scepter. “You got a lotta rooms!”

Taylor smiled, stepping aside to let them in. “Welcome to the chaos.”

The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality.

And just like that — she was back.

Not just inside Taylor’s apartment. But there. In that space that lived under her skin like it had never left.

For a moment, she didn’t move.

The scent hit her first — vanilla, clean linen, something faintly citrus. Different products, maybe, but the same warmth underneath. The same feeling. Like walking into a place that remembered her.

Elijah’s weight shifted in her arms, grounding her. Levi tugged her forward, already halfway to the living room, asking something about cats and juice and whether it was true that Taylor had a rocket in her kitchen.

But Karlie’s feet didn’t move right away.

Her eyes swept the space.

The hallway — the one she used to pad through barefoot in the middle of the night.

The framed photo on the sideboard — newer, but flanked by a daisy-shaped ceramic dish she had once picked out in a flea market in upstate New York. Taylor had insisted it was ugly. Then kept it.

The living room. Rearranged, but not unfamiliar. The same light slanting through the tall windows. The same faint hum of the city below.

And beyond the archway — the music room.

Karlie’s breath caught.

The door was open just enough for her to see the edge of the baby grand. A mess of cables. A notebook on the stool. A cat curled underneath.

She remembered Taylor sitting there in the early mornings, hoodie half-zipped, glasses slipping down her nose, mumbling melody fragments into her phone.

She remembered leaning on the doorframe, silent. Watching.

She remembered feeling like she was watching someone write a part of her own body into a song.

Even now, her chest tightened.

The memories weren’t loud — they didn’t crash. They just... settled. Soft. Steady. Inevitable.

And then Levi screamed “BOUNCE THING!” and the spell broke.

He pointed dramatically at the glass doors leading to the rooftop terrace. Beyond the clean lines of the patio furniture, nestled in the far corner of the deck, the trampoline waited — full-size, netted, and gleaming under the late morning sun.

Taylor crossed her arms, leaning casually against the back of the couch. “Maybe.”

Levi gasped audibly. “Can I go on it? Pleeeeaaaase?”

“You didn’t even say hello yet,” Karlie said, still trying to set Elijah down gently on the sofa.

“I did! I said hi! Twice!”

Taylor chuckled. “You absolutely did.”

Karlie looked over, her eyes narrowed but amused. “You bought them a trampoline?”

Taylor shrugged. “I panicked. I googled ‘how to win over small children in one afternoon.’ This seemed safer than a pony.”

Karlie laughed — unexpected. Elijah blinked at her, then climbed down and toddled straight toward Olivia, who hadn't moved.

He stopped short, tilted his head.

“Cat.”

“Yes,” Taylor said carefully, watching.

 Olivia blinked at him, slow and unbothered.

“She soft?” Elijah asked, holding out one sticky hand.

Taylor knelt beside him. “You have to ask her.”

Olivia, to everyone's surprise, took a step forward. Then another. Then bumped her head softly against Elijah’s knuckles.

He giggled like she’d told him a joke.

“She likes me!”

“She has excellent taste,” Taylor said.

Karlie looked around nervously. “This is okay?”

“They’re fine,” Taylor said. “Olivia’s the emotional one.”

And then — as if summoned — Meredith leapt gracefully from her perch and walked, slow and deliberate, across the room. She stopped two feet from Karlie, looked her directly in the eye, and sat.

Not hostile. Not welcoming.

Just watching.

Karlie didn’t move. “She remembers.”

Taylor crossed the space slowly. “She never forgot.”

A beat passed. Meredith blinked once, then turned away.

Karlie exhaled — something like a held breath finally let go.

From the terrace, Levi shouted, “I’m the rocket-fox-king of SPACE!”

Taylor’s mouth twitched. “That was fast.”

“He probably didn’t close the door,” Karlie said with a sigh.

“He didn’t,” Taylor replied. “But he looked extremely proud doing it.”

Karlie turned to her. “You did all this for them?”

Taylor shook her head gently. “No. I did it for you. Watching them.”

Karlie followed Taylor into the kitchen, carefully stepping over a stray dinosaur that Levi had abandoned in the middle of the hallway. Elijah toddled close behind, holding his arms up.

“Mommy, uppie,” he whined.

“You just walked,” Karlie said, but she scooped him up anyway.

 He rested his cheek against her shoulder, thumb in his mouth, then pulled it out and pointed lazily. “Cat say hiiii to me. Da fwuffy one.”

Taylor, pouring hot water over the tea bags, smiled. “Olivia liked you, huh?”

Elijah nodded solemnly. “She do a bump. On my han’. Like... boop!”

Karlie gave him a squeeze. “That means she likes you.”

He looked at Taylor, eyes wide. “Da cat eat puffs?”

Taylor blinked. “Puffs?”

“He means the star snacks,” Karlie said. “Freeze-dried toddler crack.”

Taylor laughed. “Ah. No, I think Olivia prefers sardines and emotional distance.”

Elijah blinked. “Sad beans?”

Karlie grinned into her cup. “Close enough.”

In the background, they could hear the rhythmic squeak of the trampoline springs — Levi narrating his own airborne mythology in full volume.

“I’m on da MOON now! Da moon’s a donut!”

Taylor looked toward the terrace, half-laughing. “He’s definitely mine now.”

Karlie stood at the kitchen island, shifting Elijah gently on her hip. He reached toward Taylor, palm out.

“I sit you?” he asked hopefully.

Taylor paused. “You want to sit with me?”

He nodded with deep conviction. “Wanna snuggle. You warm. Like toast.”

Karlie raised an eyebrow. “Wow. High praise.”

Taylor reached for him instinctively, and Karlie didn’t hesitate — just passed him over, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Elijah nestled into her chest immediately, sighing through his nose.
“Mmm. Tay-tay smell like cookie.”

Taylor looked over his head at Karlie, startled and soft all at once.
“That might be the donuts.”

“Nooo,” Elijah whispered. “It’s youuuu.”

Taylor swallowed hard.
She ran her fingers through his hair slowly, rhythmically, and he melted further into her. Small, warm, trusting.

Karlie watched her.

She didn’t say a word.

Not yet.

Taylor stayed still for a moment longer, Elijah tucked securely in her arms, while Levi’s muffled shrieks echoed through the glass doors.

“Me too?” Elijah asked, eyes bright.

A nod, a smile — and he was gone.

They moved into the dining nook slowly, cups in hand, the scent of vanilla still lingering from the donuts Taylor hadn’t touched. The soft creak of old floorboards followed them.
Outside, Levi launched himself into the air like a caffeinated comet.

Elijah bounced clumsily beside him, squealing with laughter, curls flying, socks half-on.

Taylor leaned against the frame between the kitchen and the dining space, her tea cooling in her grip. Karlie slid into the bench seat, eyes on the terrace, one knee tucked under the other like she was trying not to take up too much space.

For a moment, the only sound was trampoline springs and muffled joy.

“They really like it,” Karlie said quietly.

Taylor smiled without showing teeth. “That’s all I wanted.”

A pause.

Then, softer: “I’m sorry.”

Taylor glanced over. “For what?”

Karlie turned the cup in her hands. “For… everything. For the weirdness. The timing. Travis.”

Taylor didn’t speak right away.

“He seems like a good guy,” Karlie added carefully.

“He is,” Taylor said. Then looked down. “He’s kind. He’s patient. My parents adore him.”

“But?”

Taylor exhaled slowly. Her gaze drifted outside again, to where Elijah had now flopped flat on the trampoline like a sleepy starfish and Levi was jumping in uneven circles around him.

“The PR teams set a window,” she said finally. “A few months.“ And than we’ll… announce it.”

Karlie’s eyes widened just slightly. “It’s really ending?”

Taylor nodded. “It’s not official yet. There are still details. Statements. Logistics. We’re... untangling, slowly.”

Karlie didn’t ask what kind of details.

She already knew the shape of public love and private unraveling.

Taylor’s voice turned quieter. “I don’t really understand what went wrong.”

She looked down into her tea like it might explain something.

“I tried. I mean — I really tried.”

Her fingers tapped once against the mug.

“I made room. I said yes to everything I was supposed to. Football games. Family trips. Photo ops. Smiling when I didn’t know what I was smiling at.”

Her eyes flicked upward — caught Karlie’s.

“And somehow, I still wasn’t there.”

Karlie didn’t move. Just held her gaze, steady and soft.

Taylor swallowed. “Or maybe I was there. And just… empty.”

Outside, Levi shouted, “I’m an airplane!” and promptly tripped over Elijah’s sprawled leg. Both of them burst into laughter, tangled and breathless.

Taylor didn’t laugh.

She just kept looking at Karlie.

And when she spoke again, her voice was low. Almost a whisper.

“Maybe I do know what happened.”

Karlie’s throat tightened. “What do you mean?”

Taylor’s eyes didn’t waver.

“I stopped writing songs about him.”

Karlie blinked. Something flickered behind her expression.

Taylor set her mug down carefully, like even the clink of ceramic might shatter the moment.

Outside, Elijah threw himself against the trampoline net, laughing. Levi yelled something unintelligible and heroic.

Taylor didn’t look.

She was still looking at Karlie.

 And for a second — just one suspended beat — a thought pressed against the inside of her chest so hard it felt like breath.

I never stopped writing them about you.

She didn’t say it.

She just looked down, fingers brushing the rim of her mug, her throat suddenly dry.

Karlie didn’t push.

Didn’t ask.

But the weight of what had almost been said settled between them anyway.

Like a song left unfinished.

Like a line that never made it into the chorus — but never stopped echoing.

The silence was thick — not heavy, exactly, but dense with things not said.

And then, like a firecracker thrown into a still lake, the moment broke.

The door to the terrace slammed open.

Levi came barreling in at full speed, cheeks flushed, curls wild, socks missing.

“Miss Tayloooor!” he shouted.

Taylor caught him just in time before he collided full-speed with her legs.

“You don’t have to call me Miss Taylor, buddy,” she said gently, crouching down to his level.

He blinked up at her. “But Mommy says that’s polite.”

“It is,” Taylor agreed, lips twitching. “But I think we’re past formalities. You can call me Taylor. Or Tay-Tay. Or... Captain Songwriter.”

He grinned, dimples deep. “Okay, Tay-Tay!”

Then—eyes wide, voice full of anticipation—he gasped. “Is it time?!”

Taylor tilted her head. “Time for what?”

“The Paw Patrol song! You said you made one! You promised!”

 Taylor laughed, shaking her head like she’d been caught red-handed. “I did. And I keep my promises.”

Karlie looked up from her tea, her expression soft with amusement. “He’s been asking all week.”

Taylor walked over to the counter, grabbed her phone, and swiped it open. “Well then. Let’s not make the public wait.”

She pulled up the Notes app, scrolled, and turned the screen toward Levi. “Wanna hear the lyrics?”

 He nodded with wild enthusiasm, bouncing on his toes like he might levitate.

Taylor cleared her throat dramatically. “Okay. But just so you know—this is a world premiere. No press. No leaks. And absolutely no judgment if I rhyme ‘Chase’ with ‘space.’”

Levi giggled so hard he nearly fell over.

Karlie shook her head, smiling. “You actually wrote it.”

Taylor looked at her, and for a second, something tender flickered behind her eyes. “Of course I did.”

She slipped her phone into her pocket and crossed the room toward the guitar stand by the bookshelf. She pulled the acoustic down with practiced ease, strummed it once, then adjusted the strap off completely.

“Alright,” she said, settling cross-legged on the floor between the couch and the terrace door. “We’re doing this properly.”

She patted the floor. “Captain Donut Fire, front row.”

Levi plopped down in front of her without hesitation, legs sticking out in opposite directions. Elijah, now curious, toddled closer with his thumb still in his mouth, eyes wide. He crawled into Karlie’s lap and leaned back into her chest.

Karlie had sunk down onto the couch somewhere in the process, one hand resting absently over the gentle curve of her stomach. She wasn’t smiling yet — not really — but her eyes were lit in a way Taylor hadn’t seen in years.

Taylor looked down at her phone, propped it up beside her knee, and strummed once more — a soft, bouncy G chord.

“This one’s for Ryder and the crew,” she said, winking at Levi. “And for anyone who’s ever saved a cat from a tree or a donut from falling off the table.”

Levi giggled.

And then — Taylor began to sing.

“Dino Patrol”

Written by Taylor Swift (for Levi, Elijah & all chaos heroes)

(Verse 1)

Out in Dino Bay, the sky turns green,

A T-Rex is roaring on the jungle scene.

Ryder makes the call — “Pups, let’s roll!”

But this time, they’re bringing dino control.

(Chorus)

Paw Patrol, Dino Squad,

Saving the day with a dino nod.

Levi’s on deck with his plastic tail,

Rubble’s got snacks, and they’re never gonna fail.

Dino Patrol… they’re fast and bold,

With tiny arms — but hearts of gold.

(Verse 2)

Chase rides a raptor, Skye's in the air,

Elijah's yelling, "Rawwwr!" from a kitchen chair.

Triceratops need a donut break,

Marshall brings sprinkles for goodness' sake.

(Chorus)

Paw Patrol, Dino Crew,

No mess too big, no roar too new.

From lava jumps to bedtime calls,

They bounce, they bark, they crash through walls.

Dino Patrol… they’ve got it under control.

(Bridge)

No job too big, no pup too small,

And every dino loves a fire truck call.

With Levi in charge and Elijah on sound,

They build dino forts that shake the ground.

(Final Chorus)

Paw Patrol, Dino Time,

With frosting footprints and jungle rhyme.

They howl, they dig, they nap real hard,

But only after saving the backyard.

Dino Patrol…

Yeah, they’ve got it under control. 🎵

When the final chord faded, there was a beat of silence.

Then: a full-body clap from Levi, wild and uncoordinated. “Again! AGAIN!”

Elijah clapped too, but mostly because Levi did.

Karlie sat perfectly still. Her hand had moved from her belly to her heart.

Taylor looked up, blinking.

And Karlie whispered, more to herself than anyone, “You really wrote that for them.”

Taylor nodded. “I really did.”

Karlie didn’t look away.

Not this time.

Taylor had played the song three times.

And each time, Levi had demanded more.

Between repeat performances, there had been a brief snack break — apples, cheese sticks, a cookie Taylor insisted had "oats, so technically health food."

Then the boys were back on the terrace, bouncing like caffeinated kangaroos until Elijah tripped and giggled so hard he couldn’t stand.

Now, they were asleep.

The donuts’ sugar, the nonstop running, the endless trampoline jumps — all of it spent. Their energy had burned out like batteries run down to the last spark. Elijah had quite literally collapsed into a pillow mid-bounce, a sleepy smile still on his face. 

Levi had curled up like a puppy at one end of the couch, mouth slightly open, clutching his dinosaur with one sticky hand. Elijah laying half on Karlie’s lap, half on a cushion, thumb still in his mouth.

The TV played a muted cartoon loop in the background. Olivia slept on the windowsill. Meredith blinked disapprovingly from the bookshelf, still pretending none of this was her problem.

Taylor sat on the floor, legs stretched out, one arm on the ottoman.

And for a moment — just a moment — it felt like nothing had ever broken.

Karlie watched her.

The softness in her face.

The way her fingers still tapped out silent rhythm on the cushion.

The faint imprint of a melody she probably hadn’t even realized she was humming.

Taylor looked up, sensing the gaze.

Their eyes locked.

And something in Karlie’s chest shifted. Not with drama. Not with panic. Just… shifted.

She should’ve looked away.

She didn’t.

Taylor’s voice was quiet. “You okay?”

Karlie nodded once. Then, more quietly: “They love you.”

Taylor smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “They’re easy to love.”

A beat.

The room felt impossibly still.

She could’ve said so many things.

Instead, she whispered, “Tay…”

But before she could finish, her phone buzzed on the table.

Josh.

Of course.

The name lit the screen like a fire alarm in a quiet theater.

Karlie stared at it.

The spell cracked.

 Her hand hovered.

Taylor didn’t say anything. She just looked away.

Karlie picked up the phone.

Her voice, when it came, was steady. Controlled.

“Give me a minute?”

Taylor nodded. “Of course.”

Karlie stood slowly, careful not to wake Elijah, and stepped into the hallway.

And just like that, she was somewhere else again.

The door clicked shut behind Karlie, and Taylor was alone with the silence.

Well — not silence, exactly.

The soft cartoon hum from the muted TV still looped in the background. The occasional city sound filtered through the terrace glass. Elijah sighed in his sleep, a tiny, content sound. Levi snored — softly, adorably — face half-buried in a couch cushion.

But in Taylor’s chest, the silence rang loud.

She stared at the spot where Karlie had been, her body still faintly warm from the nearness. The edge of her sweater brushing Taylor’s knee.

She let her head fall back against the couch, eyes closing briefly.

Her guitar sat just a few feet away. The song still buzzed in her fingers. But she didn’t reach for it.

Instead, she looked at the boys.

Tiny, tangled, deeply asleep. Safe. Uncomplicated.

She hadn’t expected this to feel so natural.

And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

Because natural had never been the problem.

Natural had been the beginning.

Her eyes wandered to the hallway, where Karlie had disappeared.

What did Josh say? What did she say back?

Taylor shook the thought away. It wasn’t hers to hold.

She focused on Levi instead — how he mumbled something about dinosaurs even now in his sleep — and on Elijah’s tiny hand curled like a question mark against the blanket.

 When the door opened again, it was soft — almost unsure.

Karlie stepped back into the room, slower this time. She looked at Taylor, then at the boys, then sat down beside her without saying a word.

They stayed like that for a moment — shoulder to shoulder, almost-but-not-quite touching.

Then Karlie leaned back, her voice low. “This place… it’s changed.”

Taylor nodded. “Yeah. But not too much.”

Karlie smiled faintly. “You used to leave your guitar on the kitchen table.”

“You used to steal all my socks.”

“You didn’t fold them.”

Taylor looked sideways at her. “I still don’t.”

A soft laugh between them.

Then a pause.

Karlie’s expression shifted — softened — and she turned slightly toward Taylor.

Without a word, she reached for Taylor’s hand.

Taylor didn’t resist.

She just let it happen.

Karlie guided her hand, slow and deliberate, and laid it gently across her belly.

Warmth. Skin. Motion.

Taylor held her breath.

And then — a sudden flutter. 

Her fingers tensed.

Her eyes snapped to Karlie’s face.

Karlie was already watching her.

“It happens more at night,” she whispered. “They’s stubborn. Like someone else I know.”

Taylor didn’t speak.

She couldn’t.

Her hand stayed right where it was — stunned still — while something in her chest cracked open.

Not with pain.

But with awe.

With something terrifying and whole and impossible to name.

Taylor’s palm stayed still on Karlie’s belly, as if moving might erase what she’d just felt.

She had no words for it.

Not the way the flutter had jolted her — not physically, but somewhere deep and unguarded.

Not the quiet realization that there was a heartbeat inside Karlie that didn’t exist the last time they stood this close.

Her voice, when it finally came, was hoarse. „Someone’s really in there.”

Karlie smiled gently. “Yeah. The baby doesn’t like to be ignored.”

Taylor exhaled through her nose — shaky, slow.

“I felt that,” she whispered. “Like really felt it.”

Karlie nodded. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Every time, it feels like a secret getting louder.”

Taylor looked down at her own hand, still resting there. “I’ve written about a lot of things. Imagined a lot more.”

She glanced up again, searching Karlie’s face. “But this... I couldn’t have imagined this.”

Karlie’s eyes were glassy, but she didn’t look away. “I wasn’t sure if I should let you feel it.”

Taylor blinked. “Why?”

Karlie hesitated. “Because I didn’t know if it would hurt more… or less.”

That landed with a quiet weight.

Taylor swallowed.

And then, without thinking, she turned her hand over, palm up — offering, not asking — and Karlie laced her fingers into hers, gently, like they’d done it a thousand times before.

Maybe they had.

“I’m glad you did,” Taylor said quietly. “Let me.”

Karlie nodded, voice barely audible. “Me too.”

Outside, the city hummed. The wind brushed the terrace door.

The boys shifted in their sleep.

 But the moment didn’t break.

 Not yet.

——————————

It was late.

Too late, probably, to be polite about overstaying.

The boys were curled against each other in a tangle of limbs and drool and warmth — Levi clutching his dino like a lifeline, Elijah’s arm flung across his brother’s chest. Both deep in sleep, soft little snores rising and falling like waves.

Taylor hadn’t moved much since the moment on the couch.

Her hand had slipped away slowly, like the end of a song fading into silence.

And Karlie… Karlie had just sat with her.

Letting the weight of everything settle.

Letting herself breathe, in a place where she'd once forgotten how.

But now, it was time.

She shifted gently, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I should get them home.”

Taylor didn’t argue. She just nodded, slow and a little too calm. “Yeah.”

Karlie stood, careful not to wake Elijah, and leaned over Levi. “Hey, baby,” she whispered, fingers brushing his forehead. “Time to go.”

Levi stirred. “Wha...?”

“We’re heading home.”

“But I’m sleeeepin’...” he mumbled, without opening his eyes.

“I know. I’ll carry you, lazybones.”

Taylor stood too, already moving to gather Elijah. He curled instinctively into her shoulder like he’d done it a hundred times. Like he remembered her, even in sleep.

Karlie watched that for a second too long.

She lifted Levi with both arms — heavier than he looked when awake — and adjusted his backpack over her shoulder.

Taylor walked her to the door without speaking.

Karlie paused just before opening it.

“No problem, I’ll walk you to the car,” Taylor said with a soft laugh.

“You don’t have to—” Karlie began, but Taylor cut her off.

“Kar.”

They both smiled, the kind that didn’t need words, and headed for the elevator with the sleepy boys in their arms. Inside, the ride down to the garage was quiet, the hum of the elevator blending with the slow, even breathing of the children.

In the dim light of the underground parking lot, Karlie gently settled Levi into his car seat first, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. Then she turned to Taylor, who leaned in and carefully passed Elijah over. Karlie cradled him for a moment, then buckled him in, his head already lolling to one side.

The dim light from the parking lot cast Taylor in gold.

And Karlie felt something twist behind her ribs.

“I—” she started, but the words didn’t land.

Taylor didn’t wait.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Karlie like the ground might shift if she didn’t.

And Karlie held her back.

Not cautiously.

Not briefly.

Like memory. Like muscle. Like they knew the shape of this.

Elijah snored softly between them, head tucked against Karlie’s collarbone.

Taylor didn’t let go.

Not right away.

Her cheek rested against Karlie’s shoulder. Karlie’s hand brushed gently over her back.

And for one long second, they just... stood there.

Breathing the same space.

Holding what they could.

When they pulled apart, it was slow. Reluctant.

Taylor looked at her. “Text me when you’re home?”

Karlie nodded. “Of course.”

She didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t say I missed this.

Didn’t say I wish I didn’t have to go.

 But somehow, it all hung in the space between them anyway.

Karlie opened the door.

And walked back into the world.

She looked into Taylor’s eyes one last time — deep, searching — then gently placed Elijah into his car seat. A soft click, a final glance.

Then she climbed into the driver’s seat and drove away, Taylor still visible in the rearview mirror until the garage swallowed the distance between them.

Chapter Text

The apartment was dark when they got back.

Karlie juggled Elijah on her hip, Levi’s backpack slipping off her shoulder, the key barely sliding into the lock with one hand. The boys were sugar-tired — the kind of fizzy exhaustion that comes after donuts, trampolines, and one too many rounds of singing.

As the door creaked open, the hallway light flicked on.

Josh stood there. Still in his work clothes. Still in his shoes.

His expression wasn’t relief.

It was cold.

“Where were you?” he asked, voice clipped.

“I texted you,” Karlie said quickly, adjusting Elijah’s weight on her hip.

“I saw one text,” Josh replied, coolly. “Two hours ago. Said you'd be out longer.”

Karlie nodded slightly. “You called.”

“I did. I needed you to confirm the dinner next week.”

“You didn’t ask where I was,” she said softly. “Or what I was doing.”

Josh shrugged, as if that hadn’t occurred to him. “I figured you were busy.”

“You didn’t ask how I was, either.”

There was a beat of silence. Not tension — just distance. Familiar now.

She shifted Elijah gently in her arms. He was warm and heavy with sleep. And in that moment, she felt the weight of more than just the child.

“I came home, and the apartment was empty,” Josh continued. “No Rachel. No you. No kids. Just—silence.”

Levi burst past her at that moment, oblivious. “We were with Tayloooor!” he yelled joyfully. “And she wrote a song with dino fire and donuts and Chase was RIDING A RAPTOR!”

Josh’s eyebrows twitched. His eyes flicked to Karlie.

“You were with Taylor?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

Karlie glanced down. “Most of the day.”

Josh folded his arms. “And Rachel was just... gone?”

“She had errands. I said I’d be with them. They were fine.”

“They were gone,” Josh snapped. “You were unreachable for hours. Rachel didn’t know where you were. You took our kids to Taylor Swift’s apartment without even telling me?”

Karlie bristled. “She’s not just ‘Taylor Swift.’ She’s Taylor. You know that.”

Josh shook his head. “That’s exactly the problem. You say it like it means nothing, like the past just—evaporated.”

“She invited us,” Karlie said, louder now. “The kids love her. She made an effort. She was kind.”

Josh stepped forward, voice rising. “She’s not just being kind, Karlie. She’s not some neighborhood mom offering cupcakes. She’s your ex, and not just any ex. The one you never got over.”

Karlie’s chest tightened. “You don’t get to say that.”

“I absolutely do,” Josh snapped. “I’ve watched you fold yourself in half for three years trying to make this family look right on paper. And now you disappear for a day with her, and suddenly everything’s soft and glowing again?”

“It was one day!” Karlie hissed. “One day with someone I used to love, yes — but someone who’s still in my life. As a friend. Because I made a choice, Josh. I chose you.”

Josh stared at her like he didn’t believe it. Like he never really had.

Karlie’s voice cracked. “Do you honestly think I don’t struggle with that? Every. Single. Day?”

He flinched.

And then — as if on cue — his phone buzzed.

Josh glanced down at it and back at her, voice abruptly cold.

“I have to take this.”

He reached for the phone and turned away. “The kids should be in bed. It’s way too late.”

Karlie stood frozen.

Her arms ached from holding Elijah.

But her chest ached more.

Josh was already down the hall, speaking in hushed tones to someone who wasn’t her.

Levi lay down on the couch, rubbing his eyes. “Mommy?”

She couldn’t answer.

Rachel emerged quietly from the guest room, already reading the air. “I’ll take them.”

Karlie didn’t argue.

Elijah clung to her neck for a second longer, then let go.

Rachel took both boys gently, guiding them down the hall like she’d done it a hundred times before.

Karlie stayed still.

Then she moved.

To her office.

She closed the door.

Pressed her back against the wall.

And cried.

Not in bursts. Not in gasps.

Just... quietly.

A slow, hollow ache spilling out of her, like everything she’d held back for hours, maybe longer.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, slid down the wall, knees drawn in.

The carpet scratched beneath her palms.

Somewhere in the apartment, life went on.

But in here — in this moment — she let it fall apart.

The apartment still smelled faintly of her perfume, floral and familiar, when Taylor stepped out onto the balcony hours later — barefoot, braless, wearing only a robe and the ache in her chest.

She should’ve slept. Should’ve held onto the warmth still lingering on the sheets. But something restless stirred in her — a pull, sharp and silent. Her fingers hovered over her phone.

You up? She erased it.

Can I come over? Still too much.

Instead, she simply typed: On my way.

No answer came. She didn’t wait for one.

Her driver didn’t ask where. Just opened the door when she appeared downstairs, hoodie pulled over her head, heart pounding like she was running from something. Maybe she was.

The ride was quiet. City lights blurred by. She didn’t check her phone. Didn’t rehearse anything.

When Selena opened the door, she was already holding a glass of red wine.

Without a word, she turned and padded back into the apartment, grabbing a second glass from the counter. She poured Taylor a generous amount of wine — almost to the rim — and handed it to her without comment.

Taylor took it with both hands, fingers cold around the stem. They wandered together to the couch, the quiet stretching comfortably between them.

She sipped her wine, thoughtful. “So... what now?”

“I don’t know.” Taylor let her head fall back against the couch. “Josh is still in the picture. She chose him.”

“Years ago.”

“She stayed.”

Selena’s voice softened. “But she came back.”

Taylor stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to open that door again.”

Selena didn’t answer right away. The candle between them flickered, casting soft gold on Taylor’s face. Finally, she spoke.

“You know... I’ve known Karlie a long time too.”

Taylor turned her head, eyes meeting Selena’s across the wine and empty snack plates.

“She was easy to love,” Selena continued. “Kind. Curious. She was good to you in the ways people could see. And for a while, it made sense, you two. Like gravity.”

Taylor didn’t speak, but her throat moved.

Selena went on, gently. “But I also saw what it did to you. All the hiding. The code words. The glances that had to be rehearsed in case someone caught them. The way your voice would crack when you were happy but couldn’t say why. And the way you looked over your shoulder even when no one was there.”

Taylor’s eyes shimmered. She didn’t blink.

“I saw the fear, Tay. Of the label. Of the pressure. Of the press. The endless noise. You were never afraid of loving her — not really. You were afraid of what loving her would cost you.”

Taylor finally exhaled, sharp and quiet.

“You shut so much of yourself down just to keep a piece of her close. And I know you told yourself that was enough — that it had to be. But I remember what it was like watching you back then. I was your best friend, and you were disappearing right in front of me.”

There was silence. Not cold — just full. Honest.

Selena leaned in, elbows resting on her knees.

“I stayed out of it because I didn’t know the whole picture. And maybe I still don’t. But I know you. And I know that you don’t love halfway. You never have.”

Taylor blinked fast. Her hand trembled slightly as she set her glass down.

“I loved her so much,” she said finally, voice thin. “And I lost her while pretending I hadn’t.”

Selena reached out, her fingers wrapping gently around Taylor’s wrist.

“I know,” she whispered. “And still — you found your way back to something. Somehow.”

Taylor swallowed hard. “I don’t know if she’s here to stay. Or if I could survive losing her again.”

Selena nodded. “That’s the risk. Loving someone who cracked you open once already.”

She tipped her wine glass toward Taylor and said, “Tay... do you remember how you used to roll your eyes behind my back when I was with Justin?”

Taylor laughed through her nose. “Please. Behind your back? You could feel it from another ZIP code.”

Selena grinned. “You were right, though. You saw it for what it was before I did.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow. “I mean, you’ve seen how that turned out.”

“Exactly,” Selena said. “And I did the same thing with you and Travis.”

Taylor turned toward her, brow furrowing.

“He was nice. Funny. He tried really hard to make you feel safe. And you smiled with him — you really did. But Tay...” She paused. “You weren’t fully there. Not the way you are when you’re in it. All in.”

Taylor looked down at her hands.

“There was this... part of you that always held back. And I don’t think it was about him. I think it was about you. About trying to force yourself into something that looked right on paper.”

Taylor swallowed. “I wanted it to be enough.”

“I know,” Selena said gently. “But you don’t write songs about ‘almost.’ You never have.”

Taylor gave her a look — part gratitude, part pain. “I hate when you’re right.”

“You love when I’m right. Eventually.”

Taylor let her eyes fall shut.

“But listen,” Selena said, her voice low, steady. “You’ve always done the scary thing. The real thing. Even when it broke you. And you’ve always come back stronger. Not harder. Just... more you.”

Taylor smiled faintly through a fresh well of tears. “You always say the exact thing I need to hear.”

“That’s what best friends do,” Selena murmured. Then, grinning slightly: “Also, you’re a terrible liar when you pretend you don’t want to talk about this.”

Taylor laughed wetly. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I really, really do.”

Selena squeezed her hand. “I know. And I’ve got you. No matter how this ends.”

Later at home, she couldn’t sleep.

Not after the boys. Not after Karlie. Not after the wine and the way Selena had looked at her like she already knew the ending to the story Taylor was still too scared to write.

The apartment was dark, the city muffled behind glass. Olivia slept curled on a chair. Meredith blinked slowly from the windowsill like she’d judged the world and found it wanting.

Taylor sat on the couch in an old sweatshirt, phone dark in her lap, head leaned back, heart unsettled.

And just like that — her mind went there.

Big Sur.

It had been cold for California — not winter, but close.
Fog curled around the cabin like breath, thick and quiet.
The kind of quiet that made everything feel louder.

Their hike that morning had left their bodies pleasantly sore. Karlie’s hand had found Taylor’s halfway up the trail, and never let go. Taylor hadn't minded.
That was the problem.
By the time they returned to the cabin, Taylor felt strung out on nothing but air, closeness, and the way Karlie looked at her when she thought she wasn't watching.

The heater barely worked.
The tea went cold before they drank it.
They took turns in the shower.

Taylor came out in leggings and a soft sweater.
Karlie wore only one of Taylor’s hoodies — sleeves long, neckline wide, her bare collarbone exposed, hair still damp and curling.

They sat on the bed. Talking, teasing. A record spun in the corner — soft, something old, something that crackled like a memory.

Then Karlie poked her. Taylor gasped.
Laughter.
Hands.
Movement.

And then—

Stillness.

Taylor lay on her back, Karlie above her, her hair a golden curtain, her weight held just enough not to crush. Their noses nearly touched. Taylor’s breath caught, sharp and thin.

Her voice was barely a whisper.
"...You can kiss me, Kar."

Karlie did.
Gently.
Like she was testing something fragile.

Taylor made a small noise, deep in her throat, and pulled her closer.
That first kiss tasted like mint tea and nerves.

Then a second.
Hungrier.
More sure.

Taylor’s fingers threaded through Karlie’s hair, tugging gently, angling her mouth. Lips slid. Breath mixed. The kisses deepened, lengthened, grew warm and wet and slow.

Karlie shifted, settling between Taylor’s legs, and Taylor gasped — hips arching instinctively, thigh brushing thigh.
Karlie froze. “Wait — was that okay?”

Taylor nodded, cheeks flushed, eyes dark. “More than okay.”
A smile.
A kiss.
Karlie lowered her weight slightly, the pressure delicious. Intimate.

Taylor sighed into her mouth. “God, you feel good.”

Karlie’s hands moved — one cupping Taylor’s face, the other sliding down her side, fingers hesitant. She paused at her waist.
“Here okay?”
Taylor nodded. “Yeah. Keep going.”

Karlie kissed her again, and again, lips drifting from her mouth to her jaw, down her neck, breath warm, tongue flicking out gently.
Taylor tilted her head back, surrendering.

Her sweater rode up.
Karlie’s hand found the skin just beneath — warm, smooth, waiting.
Taylor gasped at the contact.

“Cold hands?” Karlie asked with a grin.

“Perfect hands,” Taylor whispered.

Karlie pushed the sweater higher, and Taylor helped, sitting up just long enough to pull it over her head. Underneath, she wore a simple black bra. Nothing special. But Karlie looked at her like she’d never seen anything more beautiful.

“You’re—” Karlie started, then stopped. Shook her head. “Jesus.”

Taylor blushed, smiled, whispered, “Touch me.”

Karlie did.
First, with her eyes.
Then, with her fingers.

She traced the lines of Taylor’s stomach — slow, deliberate. Her fingers followed the dips between ribs, the soft curve at her waist.
She leaned in and kissed her just below her chest.
Then again.
Then lower.

Taylor trembled, hands sliding up Karlie’s arms.
Karlie’s mouth reached her sternum. Then the swell of her breast. She paused, looked up.
“Here okay?”

Taylor’s breath caught. “God, yes.”

Karlie kissed her there — tongue and lips and breath working together. She sucked gently, drew a whimper from Taylor’s throat.
Then moved to the other.
Taylor arched into her.

“I can’t believe this is real,” Taylor whispered.

Karlie smiled, voice low against her skin. “Feels real.”

Hands kept moving.
Taylor’s fingers slipped under Karlie’s hoodie. “Your turn,” she said, voice shaking but firm.

Karlie sat up slightly, peeled it off. She wore nothing underneath.

Taylor’s eyes widened. Her breath left her in a rush.
She stared — slowly, hungrily — tracing every inch with her eyes before her hands.

“Is this okay?” Taylor asked, voice low.

Karlie laughed breathlessly. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Taylor leaned in, lips brushing the top of Karlie’s breast. “I want to touch you everywhere.”

“You can.”

Taylor’s hands were reverent — not trembling, but close.
She cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples, feeling them harden under her touch. Karlie moaned, softly, head falling back.

Taylor leaned in, kissed her between them, then one, then the other — mouth wet and warm and hungry.

Karlie gasped, hips shifting. “Taylor—wait—just...slow down a second.”

Taylor pulled back immediately. “Too much?”

“No—no,” Karlie said, eyes shut tight. “I just...I think I might come if you keep touching me like that.”

Taylor froze. Blinked.
Then grinned. “Really?”

Karlie covered her face. “Oh my god.”

Taylor laughed. “We’re definitely not good at this.”

Karlie peeked through her fingers. “Speak for yourself. I’m literally about to ascend.”

They both laughed, shaky and breathless, until Karlie pulled her down again. “Come here,” she whispered.

Taylor kissed her again, slower this time. Her hands slid lower, over Karlie’s hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of her underwear. She looked up.

Karlie nodded.
“Please.”

Taylor slid them down slowly. Her lips followed — over Karlie’s stomach, over her hips, the crease of her thigh.
Then the inside.
A kiss there made Karlie gasp so sharply it echoed.

Taylor moved lower.
She used her hands. Her mouth. Her whole body.
Not rushed. Not clumsy.
Just… learning. Tasting. Exploring. Giving.

Karlie writhed under her, a tangle of gasps and moans and breathless curses.

Taylor asked again — again and again.
“Here?”
“Like this?”
“Still okay?”

And Karlie said yes. Every time.
Until she couldn’t say anything at all.

She came with a cry that cracked in the middle, her hand gripping Taylor’s wrist, her thighs trembling.

Taylor stayed with her.
Mouth soft.
Touch gentle.
Kisses slow and grounding.

When Karlie finally opened her eyes, she looked wrecked in the most beautiful way — hair wild, lips swollen, skin flushed.

Taylor kissed her cheek, her jaw, her shoulder.
Then whispered, “You’re so beautiful when you fall apart.”

Karlie laughed, weakly. “That was... Jesus.”

Taylor kissed her again. “You’re welcome.”

They curled together, limbs tangled. Karlie pulled a blanket up. Taylor pressed her face into her neck.

“We’re not done,” Karlie murmured.

Taylor smiled against her skin. “God, I hope not.”

She barely had time to breathe before Karlie was shifting them — gentle but insistent, rolling Taylor onto her back with a kind of reverence that made her heart stutter.

Karlie hovered above her, eyes dark, lips swollen. One hand rested beside Taylor’s head, the other brushed her cheek, her jaw, the line of her neck.

“Can I take this off?” she asked, fingers grazing the clasp of Taylor’s bra.

Taylor nodded. “Yes. Please.”

Karlie moved slow, unclasping it with shaky fingers. When the straps slid down, Taylor fought the urge to cover herself.
But Karlie just stared — and smiled. Not the smirk she gave photographers, not the playful one from earlier. Something deeper.

“You’re...” She exhaled. “You’re perfect.”

Taylor flushed. “You’re staring.”

“I am,” Karlie whispered, and leaned down to kiss the top of her breast.

Taylor gasped softly. Her skin was buzzing — electric. Karlie’s mouth moved lower, lips barely brushing skin.

“Tell me if anything feels too much,” Karlie said.

“It won’t.”

“It might. And that’s okay.”
Her voice was low. Steady. Grounding.

Then her mouth closed gently around a nipple.

Taylor’s eyes fluttered shut. “Oh—”

Karlie sucked softly, tongue circling, one hand resting flat on Taylor’s ribcage like an anchor. She switched sides, lavishing attention on the other breast, dragging a soft moan from Taylor’s lips.

Taylor’s hands slid into her hair, fingertips gripping gently.
“Is this okay?” Karlie asked, her voice muffled against skin.

Taylor whimpered. “It’s—God—it’s so okay.”

Karlie smiled, and bit — just the tiniest amount. Enough to make Taylor jolt and then melt.

Her hands roamed slowly. Over Taylor’s stomach. The curve of her waist. Thumbs grazing the sides of her ribs, then the soft skin under her breasts.

Taylor felt laid bare — not just naked, but seen. Held. Wanted.

Karlie kissed a trail downward, slow and sensual, across her abdomen. She paused, looking up.

“Can I keep going?”

Taylor nodded, breathless. “Please don’t stop.”

Karlie hooked her fingers under the waistband of Taylor’s leggings. “Help me?”
Taylor lifted her hips, and they were gone — leggings, underwear, the last pieces.

Taylor lay there — exposed, aroused, open — and for a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Karlie whispered, “You’re shaking.”

Taylor smiled, a little breathless. “I know. It’s not bad.”

Karlie leaned in and kissed her hip. “I want you to feel good.”

Taylor’s voice was soft. “I already do.”

Karlie moved lower, settling between her legs like she belonged there. Her hands slid up Taylor’s thighs — slow, patient, worshipful.

She kissed the inside of one, then the other. Let her breath linger.

“Tell me everything,” she murmured. “What feels good. What doesn’t.”

Taylor reached for her hand, laced their fingers. “Just you. Just this.”

Karlie’s mouth met her — gently at first, teasing. A slow flick of her tongue, then a deeper press, a rhythm that built in slow, deliberate waves.

Taylor gasped. Arched. Her thighs quivered.
Karlie held her steady, hands firm but tender on her hips.

“Too much?”

Taylor shook her head, breath broken. “Not enough.”

Karlie smiled against her — and gave her more.

She worked her with her mouth, slow and focused, letting each reaction guide her.
Taylor’s moans came soft at first, then louder — breathy, full of disbelief and release.

Karlie found a rhythm that made Taylor writhe, and when she slipped one finger inside — slow, careful — Taylor’s breath caught.

“Okay?” Karlie whispered.

Taylor nodded rapidly. “Yes. Yes. Please.”

A second finger.
A change in angle.
Karlie’s tongue and fingers working together — fluid, intentional, giving.

Taylor felt her orgasm build slowly — not sharp, but massive. Tectonic.
It spread through her like heat, like music, like something she’d never felt before.

And then it broke.

She came with a cry, one hand over her mouth, the other buried in Karlie’s hair, her body trembling under the weight of it.

Karlie didn’t stop until Taylor was whimpering from the sensitivity.
Then she kissed her way back up, slow and loving — stomach, ribs, the valley between her breasts.

When she reached her face, Taylor pulled her into a kiss — deep, messy, grateful.

They lay there, tangled together, flushed and slick and still pulsing.

Taylor’s voice was barely audible. “You just rewired my nervous system.”

Karlie laughed against her neck. “Good.”

Taylor pulled her closer. “You’re gonna have to do it again.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

They smiled against each other’s skin

They didn’t sleep for a while.

But when they finally did, tangled in too few blankets and too much heat, Taylor had one thought as she drifted off —

This. I’ll write this down. I have to.

Taylor’s hand moved in slow circles over Karlie’s back, memorizing skin, breath, the way her body softened into sleep.

The room was quiet, except for the low hum of the sea beyond the windows and the steady rhythm of Karlie’s breathing. But in Taylor’s head, something louder pulsed — a melody, not yet written, not fully formed.

Say you’ll remember me, standing in a nice dress…

Red lips and rosy cheeks…

She hadn’t written those lines yet. But they were already hers.

Already Karlie’s.

A lyric forming in her ribs. A promise stitched in skin.

Even if it’s just in your wildest dreams…

She looked at Karlie — tangled in the sheet, moonlight catching on her lashes, and Taylor felt something deep settle inside her.\

She didn’t know what the world would do to them. But she knew what this was.\

Something worth remembering.

Not for the press. Not for the fans.

But for Karlie.

And maybe, one day, when the world asked who that song was for —

She’d let them wonder.

Because Karlie would already know.And somewhere in the middle of remembering it — the heat, the softness, the way Karlie’s breath had steadied against her collarbone — Taylor drifted off.

Not suddenly.

Not sharply.

But the way you fall asleep in someone’s arms: slow, safe, as if nothing outside that moment could touch you.

Her body softened on the couch, curled into itself, one hand resting lightly against her chest. The other slipped down beside her, palm open, empty but relaxed — like it had once been holding something it still remembered.

A faint smile touched her lips.

Not wide. Not giddy.

That night — that version of them — it lived in her. And in the quiet, it didn’t ache. It just was.

The candle had burned low. The cats were long asleep.

And Taylor — finally — let go of the weight of missing her.

Just for now.

Just long enough to dream in peace.

The next morning.

She didn’t know what time it was.

Only that the light filtering through the curtains was soft and pale, and that her whole body felt like it had folded in on itself sometime during the night.

Her eyes burned.

She’d cried herself out — not in loud sobs, but in the quiet kind that leave no strength behind.

She was still in her clothes. Her back ached. And her heart… her heart was full of static.

A strange mix of warmth and regret.

Of joy she didn’t know where to put.

And sadness she couldn’t name.

She reached for her phone, still lying beside the pillow.

There were messages.

From Taylor.

She blinked.

First, a simple:

"Let me know you got home safe?"

Then, an hour later:

"Thinking about tonight. You were... beautiful."

And then a selfie — Taylor and Selena, both grinning with ice cream cones in hand, Taylor in a hoodie, Selena in a beanie.

“From both of us. Selena says hi. She still owes you that guacamole rematch.”

Karlie stared at the photo.

Selena.

God. She hadn’t spoken to her in… what? Four years?

Not since everything.

Not since she lost Taylor.

And with her — the entire orbit: the group chats, the beach weekends, the way they all used to text “Dinner? Now?” and be in the kitchen in twenty minutes.

Karlie had chosen differently.

And she'd paid for it in quiet.

She lay still for a moment, one hand resting on her belly.

The baby moved — just a soft little nudge, like it was reminding her hey, I’m here.

She closed her eyes.

Breathed.

Then slowly sat up.

The apartment was quiet. For once.

Josh must have taken the boys to preschool. Rachel was probably still asleep or out for coffee.

The stillness wasn’t hostile.

Just... unfamiliar.

Karlie wrapped herself in one of the oversized cardigans from the chair and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The tile was cool under her feet. The kettle was still full from the night before.

She didn’t make tea.

She didn’t move for a long time.

Then — with a sudden burst of something close to resolve — she grabbed her phone again.

Scrolled to a contact she hadn’t called in a while.

Kimberly

She tapped.

It rang twice before a cheerful, slightly breathless voice answered.
“Karlie? Hey! You okay?”

And Karlie’s voice cracked — just a little.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Can I... talk to you for a second?”

“Of course,” Kim said immediately. “What’s going on?”

Karlie swallowed. “It’s... Taylor.”

A beat. Then:
“Oh,” her sister said softly. “That Taylor.”

Karlie let out a breath. “Yeah.”

And just like that, she told her. Not everything — not the years of silence or the ghosts in song lyrics — but enough.

The day before.

The boys.

The moment on the couch.

Josh.

The ache.

The fear.

The flutter.

When she was finished, there was a long pause.

Then Kimberly said, calm and kind:
“You’ve always done what’s right for everyone else.”

Karlie blinked. “I thought that was the right thing.”

“Maybe it was. Then. But maybe... now it’s time to ask what’s right for you.”

Karlie pressed her lips together.

“You’re not wrong for feeling what you feel,” Kim added. “You’re human. You’re allowed.”

Another movement from the baby — this time firmer, like punctuation.

Karlie closed her eyes.

“Thanks,” she whispered. “I just needed to hear someone say that.”

“You’ve got people,” Kim said. “Even if you forgot it for a while.”

The call ended, but Karlie didn’t move.

She sat at the kitchen table, phone resting in her open palm, her other hand absently tracing circles across her belly.

The city outside had begun to stir — faint car horns, the rumble of delivery trucks, life returning to its usual noise.

But inside the apartment, it was still quiet.

Still hers.

And then — without realizing it — Karlie began to hum.

Softly. Barely more than breath.

A melody that had lived in her bones for years. One she hadn’t let herself touch in just as long.

„My heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue

All's well that ends well to end up with you…“

The line curled from her lips like an old habit.

“Lover.”

Of all songs.

She hadn’t meant to sing it. But there it was — warm, slow, full of all the things she hadn’t dared to name.

A song that never made sense before.

And now?

Now it felt like it had been waiting for her.

She closed her eyes and let it drift.

One verse. Then another.

Not loud.

Just hers.

“Can I go where you go?” she whispered. And this time, she wasn’t singing.

Chapter Text

The forest smelled like earth and sunlight.

Karlie stood on the porch of the cedar cabin, barefoot, a mug of coffee in her hand, watching as Levi and Elijah darted between trees, their laughter echoing through the stillness. It was Mother’s Day weekend, and the entire extended family had descended on a lakeside retreat near the Rhode Island border — Josh’s parents, her own mom and dad, and now the boys, running on sugar and morning air.

The air was warm already, thick with late spring. Sunlight glinted off the lake in sharp silver ribbons.

Josh was somewhere inside, corralling travel mugs and sunscreen. Rachel had stayed behind in the city. This was family time. Picture-perfect, at least on the surface.

Karlie didn’t hate it. She liked the quiet hum of it all, the sense of being held in something old and familiar. But it felt performative. Like she was trying to wear an old version of herself that didn’t quite fit anymore.

She set the mug down, tied her hair into a low knot, and slipped into sneakers as Levi came barreling toward her with a pinecone in each hand.

"For you, Mommy," he said proudly. "They're magic."

Karlie knelt and kissed his cheek. "Then I’ll keep them safe."

They spent the morning biking with Josh and the boys on the gravel path that curved through the woods, stopping every few minutes to look at worms, mushrooms, and caterpillars. Elijah made it exactly twenty minutes before demanding to be carried. Josh did most of the heavy lifting. Karlie didn’t mind. She was elsewhere in her head.

By late afternoon, the family spread out a picnic blanket in a clearing not far from the cabin. The mothers were celebrated with wildflowers, slightly burnt brownies, and fingerpaint cards. There was laughter, photos, clinking glasses. It was nice. It was enough.

But when her dad suggested fishing, Karlie didn’t hesitate.

They walked quietly down the sloping path to the dock, tackle box in hand. Her dad wore his old cap, the same one from every childhood camping trip.

They sat side by side, legs swinging above the water, rods cast.

"Still remember how to do it?" he asked, teasing.

"Barely," Karlie smiled. "But it’s muscle memory."

A pause. The bobber floated lazily.

"You doing okay?" he asked.

Karlie didn’t answer right away. She watched the lake shimmer.

"I don’t know," she said honestly.

He nodded, as if he’d known that would be her answer.

Levi wandered down a few minutes later, climbing into Karlie’s lap, watching the water with his chin on her shoulder.

She kissed his hair.

And took a photo. Then another.

And sent them all to Taylor.

It had started casually — a photo here, a message there. But today, the thread had grown. Taylor replied quickly. A picture of her own mom at brunch. A photo of the dessert tray. A blurry one of her hiding behind a wine glass.

Karlie couldn’t stop smiling.

They texted through dinner.

Taylor: your boys are magic
Karlie: so is their other mom
Taylor: don’t tempt me. I’ll cry in front of my label.

Later that evening, back in the cabin, Karlie scrolled through social media while the boys napped, curled against her thighs. Josh was outside talking with his father.

Then she saw it.

A photo from a gossip account: Taylor and Travis arriving at a restaurant in Philadelphia. A Mother’s Day thing. Taylor half-smiling at the cameras. Travis walking slightly behind.

At first, it hurt. A twist in her stomach. A reminder.

But then — she looked closer.

The top Taylor was wearing.

Black. Daisies. Slightly faded at the collar.

Karlie had bought it for her. Forever ago.

A gift on a rainy afternoon, found in a boutique on a side street in Big Sur. One Taylor had called her "lucky shirt."

Karlie zoomed in. Her heart thudded.

Taylor was wearing that shirt.

And suddenly, the sting softened.

She wasn’t the only one remembering.

The phone buzzed.

Taylor: I miss you today. Is that okay to say?

Karlie stared at the screen, fingers trembling just slightly.

Then she typed:
It’s more than okay.

She hit send.

And let herself feel everything.

Philadelphia was loud in a different way.

Not like New York, with its constant pulse. Philly felt tighter. Denser. Like everything was a little too close and a little too loud, especially today.

Mother’s Day brunch with Andrea was meant to be a cheerful tradition, and it mostly was. There were hugs. There was cake. There was laughter.

But there was also Travis.

He arrived late.

Didn’t bother to hide it.

His shirt was half-tucked, sunglasses still on inside the restaurant. He hugged Andrea stiffly, patted Taylor’s shoulder like he was greeting a teammate, and sat down at the far end of the table.

Andrea noticed. Of course she did. But she was all warmth and practiced joy. Taylor appreciated her mother’s loyalty more than she could say.

"He flew in this morning," Andrea said brightly to the others. "Long night, I think."

Travis gave a tight smile. "Yeah. Sorry. Rough travel."

Taylor didn’t respond. She just reached for her mimosa and nodded like it didn’t sting.

The table was full — label execs, family friends, even Andrea’s neighbor from Nashville who brought a bouquet wrapped in newsprint. There were jokes about childhood photos, a toast that Andrea insisted on making, and a brief moment when someone suggested Taylor play something on the restaurant piano.

She declined.

And Travis? He spent most of the meal on his phone, half-listening, occasionally chiming in when someone asked about his upcoming training schedule.

He didn’t ask Taylor how she was.

Didn’t even try.

Andrea leaned toward her midway through the meal, hand brushing Taylor’s. “You don’t have to carry this, you know.”

Taylor blinked. “What?”

Andrea’s voice was low. “All of it. Him. The pretending.”

Taylor looked down at her lap. “We’re almost through it.”

Andrea’s eyes softened. “I know, baby. But I hate seeing you disappear like this.”

Taylor forced a smile. “It’s temporary.”

“Some things shouldn't be,” Andrea murmured.

Taylor didn’t answer.

Dessert came. Tiny cakes. Spoons clinking. Laughter that didn’t reach her.

Taylor checked her phone under the table.

Karlie had sent a picture of Levi holding a pinecone.

Then Elijah grinning from a bike seat, one sock missing.

Then Karlie herself, hair in a bun, holding a fishing rod with her dad at her side and Levi in her lap.

Taylor stared at that one a long time.

She smiled.

Took a blurry selfie. Sent it back with a wink emoji.

Typed:
don’t tempt me. I’ll cry in front of my label.

Andrea saw the photo and laughed. “Cute. That the lake house?”

Taylor nodded. “Karlie took the boys out for Mother’s Day.”

Andrea raised an eyebrow. But said nothing.

Travis stood a moment later, muttered something about taking a call. His phone was already in his hand before he left the table. He didn’t look back.

Taylor watched him go.

Then looked down at her own shirt — black, soft, with little daisies. Frayed at the collar. Faded at the hem.

Karlie had given it to her.

She hadn’t meant to wear it today. But maybe, on some level, she had.

Her phone buzzed.

Karlie: It’s more than okay.

Taylor’s breath caught.

She closed her eyes.

Typed something.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Then stopped.

Instead, she opened the photo again.

Karlie. Her son. The lake.

She stared at it like it held the answer to a question she hadn’t dared ask.

And in the space between messages, in a room full of noise and strangers and smiling ghosts, Taylor felt something settle.

Not peace.

But the beginning of it.

After the brunch, the car to the airport was quiet.

Taylor sat beside Travis in the backseat, arms folded tight across her stomach, her gaze fixed on the city slowly passing by. Travis scrolled through his phone, occasionally muttering something about needing to be in Kansas City by Tuesday.

They weren’t fighting.

But silence could be a kind of shouting, too.

When they pulled up to the terminal curb, Travis grabbed his bag and opened the door without hesitation. "I’ll check in at the hotel," he said. "You flying tonight?"

"Yeah," Taylor replied. "Rhode Island."

He looked surprised. "Didn’t know you were heading up there already."

She shrugged. "Needed space."

He nodded, almost like it was a business arrangement. "Right. Safe flight."

No hug. Not even a wave.

He disappeared through the sliding glass doors. Taylor didn’t watch him go.

Instead, she walked toward her own gate, bag in hand, sunglasses still on even in the fading light. Her plane was already boarding. She didn’t speak a word until she was buckled in and the plane was lifting off, leaving Philadelphia and its hollow politeness behind.

Somewhere over Connecticut, she pulled out her phone and opened the chat with Karlie.

Flying up to Rhode Island. Needed the ocean. And quiet. Wish you were here.

She stared at it for a moment.

Then hit send.

By the time Taylor reached the coastal road, the sun had gone. Her Rhode Island house waited in the dark — quiet, modern, sea-facing. The renovations had just finished last month. Her sanctuary. She’d barely slept there since.

Inside, everything smelled like cedar and clean linens. Earlier that afternoon, her assistant had driven up ahead with the cats in their carriers, settling them in with fresh bowls, toys, and their favorite blankets. Olivia jumped onto the kitchen stool as if she’d never left. Meredith, more skeptical, had spent an hour circling the perimeter of the living room before finally claiming a patch of sun near the bay window. She’d flicked her tail once, judged everything silently, then settled with resigned dignity. Olivia, by contrast, had already tried to open the pantry herself.

Taylor didn’t bother turning on all the lights. Just the hallway lamp. Just enough.

She wandered into the living room where Meredith still claimed her sun patch like a queen refusing to acknowledge her exile. Benjamin was curled on the windowsill nearby, tail twitching with soft disapproval, as if the move had interrupted a perfectly balanced week of naps and judgment. Olivia trailed behind Taylor with curious, padded steps.

"Well," Taylor said softly, setting her wine glass on the side table, "it’s just us tonight. Again."

She crouched beside Meredith, gently scratching behind one ear. "You still hate change, huh?"

Meredith blinked once.

"Yeah. Me too."

Benjamin flicked his tail in agreement.

Taylor turned to Olivia, who was pawing at a closed cabinet. "That’s not where the treats are. Not yet."

She exhaled slowly. "We’re all figuring it out. Even you."

She poured a glass of wine. Answered a message from Selena. Another from her team.

Then her phone buzzed again — this time, a FaceTime request.

Cara.

Taylor smiled and picked up.

“Hey, stranger,” Cara said, hair tied back, smoky eyeliner still perfect. “Tell me you’re not working.”

“I’m trying not to,” Taylor said.

“I heard you fled the city.”

“Something like that.”

Cara smirked. “Good. You needed it.”

In the background, Taylor could hear someone laughing — likely Minke, Cara’s girlfriend.

“We’re driving up from Montauk tomorrow,” Cara added. “Would it be insane to ask if we could do dinner? Just something chill. Gigi’s with us. And Jack and his Wife, if he doesn’t bail. You in?”

Taylor hesitated only a second. “Yeah. Come over.”

Cara grinned. “You’re the best. We’ll bring wine. And maybe Gigi will come too. She’s baking something weird and wants opinions.”

Taylor laughed. “You know this is my version of heaven, right?”

“Good. You deserve something that tastes like it.”

As the call ended, Taylor sat back against the counter, the glass cool in her palm.

Friends.

People who knew her. Not just the version in photos.

And then — without thinking — she opened the thread with Karlie again.

Just to look.

Just to see her name on the screen.

And then, softly, she whispered into the empty house:

“Maybe I need to see her, too.”

Her fingers hovered over Karlie's name again.

Dinner. Tomorrow. Would it be too much?

She hesitated — thumb lingering, breath held. Karlie was still at the cabin with her family, she reminded herself. Kids, parents, woods. The logistics alone made it unlikely.

But still.

She tapped out a message.

She stared at it.

Then sent it before she could second-guess herself.

The message had come in late in the night.

Hey. Totally last-minute, but… some of the gang is coming over for dinner tomorrow in Rhode Island. No pressure at all. I know you're away. Just — if you’re nearby or feel like it — there's a seat. Or a room. I’ve got a lot guest rooms now.

Karlie stared at the screen longer than she meant to.

She didn’t need time to decide. The answer was already there, low in her chest, quiet and solid.

Yes.

She wanted to go. Not just to see Taylor — though that truth pulsed like a second heartbeat — but to sit around a table with friends and laughter and a version of herself that still felt real.

When she told Josh, she kept it simple.

“I’m heading out in the morning. Just for the night.”

He looked up from his book. “Where?”

“Rhode Island. Taylor’s hosting a little dinner. Cara, Gigi… a few others.”

His expression didn’t change. Not much. But something in his jaw tightened. His fingers remained on the edge of the page, but he didn’t turn it.

“She invited you?”

Karlie nodded. “Yes.”

He shut the book, not sharply, but with a certain finality. It sat in his lap like something unresolved.

“And you’re going.”

She met his gaze. “I am.”

Josh leaned back slightly in the chair, arms crossing. “You do realize what this looks like.”

Karlie’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m going to dinner with friends.”

“Friends who just happen to include your ex. Who you haven’t stopped messaging for days.”

The words landed with more weight than she expected. Not cruel — just deliberate.

Karlie inhaled slowly. “I’m not doing anything wrong, Josh.”

He looked at her, really looked at her, and something in his eyes faltered. “Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean it’s right.”

She said nothing.

He stood, picked up the book again — not to read, just to hold it — and walked past her.

“I won’t stop you,” he said as he reached the door. “But don’t expect me to pretend it doesn’t matter.”

Karlie stood still for a long time after he left the room.

Then, quietly, she whispered to herself: “I’m not pretending anything.”

She woke early the next morning, well before the boys. The sky outside was already heavy with clouds, the air pressed low and still. It wasn’t raining yet, but the lake had a dull, gunmetal sheen, and the wind had that quiet tension that suggested a storm was coming.
The lake was still under a fine sheet of morning mist, the trees unmoving, the house hushed in a way that felt more like permission than absence.

Karlie packed lightly.
A dress she hadn’t worn in years, a soft sweater, flats that would do. She didn’t overthink it. Didn’t need to.
The decision had already been made in the space between Taylor’s message and her heartbeat.

She left a note for her mom on the kitchen counter, kissed both boys while they slept, and quietly closed the door behind her.
By the time the gravel crunched beneath the tires, the sun had started to peek through the treetops.

The drive felt surreal.
Like moving through a memory she hadn’t yet lived.

Somewhere around New Haven, her phone buzzed.

Cara: see you soon 🚀 – should we all wear heels or nah?

Karlie smiled.

Karlie: no heels. just hearts open.

She didn’t check for a reply.
Didn’t need validation.

She was going.

To Taylor.

To whatever waited.

The clouds hung heavier by the time she arrived. A few droplets had hit the windshield, soft and slow, like a warning rather than a storm. The security gate recognized her name, even though it had been years. A nod. A wave. Permission to pass.

Karlie followed the narrow drive as it curved through the trees. The house revealed itself slowly — all clean lines and weathered shingles, framed by the ocean in the distance.

Different.

She knew it had been renovated — there were articles, photos, fans who tracked every real estate move — but knowing wasn’t the same as seeing. Not like this.

This house had once been hers too.

Not legally. Not on paper.

But in feeling. In memory.

She and Taylor had spent most of the Lover era here. Weeks at a time. Writing, swimming, escaping. Taylor had written some of her softest lyrics in the upstairs loft. Karlie had made pasta in that old kitchen in socks and nothing else.

Now the porch was new. The siding a shade paler. The garden less wild.

Still beautiful.

But not the same.

A security staff member opened the car door as she pulled up to the entrance. Music drifted faintly from inside — laughter too. She could see a few silhouettes through the window. Cara, probably. Maybe Gigi.

Friends.

Home — or something like it.

Karlie smoothed her sweater. Drew one steadying breath.

And stepped out of the car.

The air was warm, but restless — the kind of air that held its breath before a storm broke. Her flats crunched softly on the gravel as she walked toward the front steps.

The door was already open.

Cara appeared first, barefoot, holding a wine glass and smiling like it had only been a week instead of years. "There she is."

Karlie exhaled a laugh she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. "Hey."

Inside, the house glowed golden — not from extravagance, but from comfort. Someone had put music on. Something jazzy and old. Gigi was curled on the couch with a blanket around her shoulders and a slice of bread in her hand. Jack was by the record player, arguing gently with Minke over whether Aretha or Etta was better for dinner vibes.

And somewhere, though she hadn’t yet seen her — Karlie felt Taylor. Not just in the rooms. In the light. In the quiet details.

She was here.

And soon, they’d meet again. Not in the past. Not in theory. But in the middle of all this living.

Karlie stepped through the doorway. Into something that felt like coming home, even if it had changed shape.

Chapter Text

From the kitchen, Taylor heard the door open — and somehow, she already knew it was her.

Not from the sound. Not from the timing. But from something inside her chest that went still for half a second.

She turned just as Cara’s voice floated in, casual and welcoming. Then footsteps. Softer ones.

Taylor wiped her hands on a dish towel, heart knocking once against her ribs. The light from the open back doors caught the glass in her hand and scattered it across the tile.

She stepped into the hallway.

And there she was.

Karlie. In the doorway. Real.

Not in a memory. Not on a screen.

Their eyes met.

Taylor smiled, small at first. “You came.”

Karlie’s laugh was breathier than she expected. “I said I might.”

Taylor didn’t move right away. Neither did Karlie.

Then — they did. Simultaneously. An awkward, half-step-forward kind of thing. But somehow they met in the middle.

A hug. Not long. Not tight.

Taylor felt it in her spine.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said softly, pulling back.

“I wasn’t going to miss this.”

They smiled again. Let the world spin awkwardly around them for a moment longer. Then Taylor stepped aside.

“Come in. You’re just in time.”

The evening unfolded in soft, flickering waves.

Music hummed through the house — something old and warm, Fleetwood Mac on vinyl, courtesy of Jack, who insisted “crackle is character.” He and Margaret had arrived early, helping in the kitchen. Now Margaret was curled up on the window bench with a cup of chamomile, her eyes tracking the room like she was taking notes for a poem.

Cara and Minka came together — casual, in step, radiating the kind of intimacy that didn’t need to be performed. They brought olives and a homemade dip that disappeared before dinner started. Cara lit the candles, three at a time, humming to herself, effortlessly setting the tone.

And then there was Karlie.

She hadn’t made an entrance. She just… arrived. Quietly. Fully. Taylor had seen her at the door — that hug, that flash of something old and real — but even now, an hour later, it didn’t quite feel real.

Karlie wasn’t drinking. When Jack handed her a glass of rosé, she smiled, lifted a hand. “Just water, thanks.”

Margaret noticed.

Later, as they stood near the open kitchen window, Margaret leaned in, voice low and kind. “Congratulations, by the way. That’s... really beautiful.”

Karlie blinked, then smiled — soft and surprised. Her hand moved instinctively toward her stomach. “Thank you.”

Taylor saw it. Not the words. Just the moment — the gesture. And it knocked something loose inside her. A quiet little ache that sat just beneath the ribs.

The house glowed with noise and warmth — laughter bouncing off the walls, friends moving in and out of rooms like tidewater. But Taylor kept finding her eyes back on Karlie. Not staring. Just… checking. Noticing.

She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She wasn’t trying to reclaim space. And yet, somehow, she belonged again. She moved through the house like she remembered it — the corners, the cadence, the quiet.

It started to rain around dessert. First a whisper on the windows. Then a full, rhythmic tapping. A storm, sudden and shameless.

By the time thunder rolled low in the distance, Taylor was on her second glass of wine, the stem of the glass cool in her fingers. Someone — maybe Jack — made a comment about weddings, about how Taylor was “clearly next,” how she had “waited long enough.”

Laughter. Teasing.

Taylor smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She glanced up — and found Karlie already looking back at her.

Their eyes held for a moment too long.

And then Taylor stood.

“I’ll be back,” she said, too fast. She slipped past the group, through the glass doors and into the rain.

It wasn’t just raining.

It was pouring.

Warm, wild rain. The kind that soaked through clothes in seconds. That kissed the skin and pulled everything else to the surface.

She didn’t stop at the porch.

Didn’t grab an umbrella.

She just walked. Past the garden. Down the path.

Toward the beach.

The ocean was furious. Crashing. White foam on black waves. The sky lit once, then again, in sheets of lightning far out over the water.

Taylor stood on the edge of the dune, chest heaving. Her breath was ragged, her heart too loud in her ears. The salt air stung her throat, mixing with the wet already clinging to her skin. The ocean raged ahead, relentless, loud enough to drown out the sound of her thoughts — but not the weight of them.

She bent slightly, one hand on her knee, the other pressing flat against her chest like she might physically hold herself together.

She couldn’t do this. Not again. Not halfway.

Being near Karlie — talking, laughing, pretending to belong at the same table — it had torn something wide open.

She wasn’t built for pretending.

Not with Karlie.

They couldn’t be just friends. That was the lie. The sweet, slow poison.

Because the ache never went away. Because every glance pulled her backward and forward at once. Because Karlie walked into her house and the walls remembered her before Taylor did.

Because she still loved her.

Not the memory. Not the echo.

Her.

And then — footsteps behind her.

Karlie.

Of course it was Karlie.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just came up beside her, hair plastered to her neck, eyes scanning Taylor’s face.

“Taylor,” she said. Just her name. Nothing more.

Taylor shook her head, eyes burning.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered. “Not like this. I can’t pretend to just be your friend. I can’t laugh and sit at dinner and watch you be almost mine.”

The rain ran down her cheeks. Not all of it was rain.

Karlie reached out. Slowly. Touched her wrist.

“I know,” she said softly.

Taylor looked at her, raw. “So what do you want?”

A beat. A breath.

Then Karlie stepped closer.

“I want you.”

And then — she kissed her.

Not soft. Not slow.

Desperate. Certain. Like something breaking open.

Taylor kissed her back.

Like she’d been waiting since the last time.

And everything else — the rain, the thunder, the house behind them, the ocean in front of them — faded.

It was just them.

Just this.

Like coming home in the middle of a storm.

She pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against Karlie’s.

“You’re soaked,” she murmured.

Karlie smiled against her mouth. “So are you.”

“Come inside?”

Karlie nodded. But didn’t move.

Taylor ran her hands over Karlie’s waist, then gently, instinctively, laid one flat over her belly. Karlie’s own hand joined hers.

And Taylor felt it — not a movement, but a shift. A fullness. A reminder that time had passed, that their lives had stretched beyond each other and were still somehow curving back.

The storm cracked again above them, wind lashing across the shore, thunder shaking something deep.

But she didn’t step away.

Not this time.

Her fingers curled slightly over Karlie’s. The kiss had ended, but the silence between them now was louder. Charged. A breath waiting to be released.

Taylor searched her eyes, rain slipping from her lashes. “I don’t know what this is. Or what it means. But I want it. All of it.”

Karlie looked at her like she was memorizing her all over again.

“I never stopped wanting it,” she said.

And then she kissed her again.

Not desperate this time.

But deep. Devouring. Like a promise that had waited years to be spoken. Their mouths met with heat and memory, lips parting, searching — not just for each other, but for all the time they’d lost.

Taylor's hands tangled in Karlie’s rain-drenched hair, pulling her closer with a soft, broken sound. Her entire body leaned into the kiss like she might disappear without it.

Karlie held her like an anchor — one hand on her waist, the other still curled over Taylor’s heart. Their kiss turned slower, but no less intense, breaths shared, foreheads pressed, noses bumping with tenderness.

It wasn’t just reunion.

It was surrender.

The kind that comes after a thousand unsent messages and too many dreams half-remembered.

It was every song Taylor had written but never released.

Every time Karlie had scrolled past her contact and ached.

This kiss was everything they hadn’t said.

And everything they finally could.

The world spun, wild and wet and loud around them — but in that moment, they stood still. Anchored.

And for the first time in years, Taylor didn’t feel like she was waiting anymore.

She was home.

They walked back through the storm, hand in hand, breathless and soaked to the bone. Lightning danced behind them, thunder cracked above. But all they heard was each other. All they felt was the heat still pulsing between every touch.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

By the time they reached the edge of the patio, Karlie stumbled into Taylor with a laugh — giddy and soaked and alive — and Taylor kissed her again, fast and full, like she was afraid the door might close behind them.

They slipped inside quietly, stealing past the hallway light, past the murmured laughter of their friends still gathered in the living room. They giggled like teenagers, Taylor shushing Karlie as they tiptoed past the kitchen, water trailing from their clothes.

The second the bedroom door clicked shut behind them, everything ignited again.

Clothes peeled away with hurried fingers — wet fabric clinging, then falling in soft slaps to the hardwood floor. A puddle spread beneath them as they moved, mouths finding skin, hands learning each other again.

Taylor dropped to her knees with reverence. She kissed the underside of Karlie’s wrist, the curve of her hip, the line of her thigh. She looked up, eyes dark, asking without words.

Karlie nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

Taylor stood, kissed her deeply, and walked them backward toward the bed — slow, certain, worshipful.

They fell together, tangled in the quiet thunder, the smell of rain and memory thick in the air.

Karlie — skin warm, hair damp, cheeks flushed — looked up at her with wide eyes. “You’re looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world.”

“You are,” Taylor whispered.

Karlie’s breath hitched. She cupped Taylor’s face and pulled her into another kiss — deep and aching.

Taylor kissed lower. And lower.

And then it wasn’t soft anymore.

It was need.

It was years of ache and longing and finally — finally — having permission.

The rain didn’t stop.

Neither did they.

Taylor’s lips moved slowly over Karlie’s skin — reverent, aching, rediscovering. Every inch was familiar and foreign at once, a map she once knew by heart and now traced again like scripture.

Karlie arched into her touch, a soft gasp escaping her throat as Taylor’s fingers found her ribs, her waist, the inside of her thigh. There was no rush. Just worship. Just time unfolding.

She paused more than once — to ask, to watch, to read the curve of Karlie’s mouth. Her hands steady but gentle, her voice a whisper of want. “Still okay?”

Karlie’s nod was a breath. “More than okay.”

They moved like melody and harmony — rising, falling, slowing, deepening. The space between them was gone. Only pulse, pressure, breath. Taylor kissed the swell of Karlie’s stomach with soft reverence, then pressed her cheek there, eyes fluttered closed.

When Karlie pulled her back up, their bodies slid together with ease, her fingers tugging Taylor’s shirt free, her palms flat against warm, bare skin.

“You’re still shaking,” Karlie whispered.

“Because it’s you.”

The sheets tangled, their laughter faded, their kisses turned fierce again — hands memorizing, mouths open and wanting. Nothing held back. Nothing left unspoken.

Taylor let herself fall. Into heat. Into rhythm. Into Karlie.

She hadn’t planned to follow.

For a moment, she had stood in the doorway, watching the rain swallow Taylor's silhouette as she disappeared down the garden path. Her chest tightened. Her hand had pressed unconsciously to her belly. And then — without logic, without permission — her feet had moved.

Out the door. Into the storm.

Each step was heavy with memory. But her heart was light — wild, rushing, terrified, and somehow full.

She found Taylor on the dune, staring out into the chaos, eyes stormier than the sea. And then Taylor turned, and her ocean-blue gaze hit her like a wave.

That look —

That was the moment.

The one that unraveled everything. The one that rebuilt it all again.

And when Taylor kissed her, it was like something holy. Every reason not to — gone. Every echo of her life outside this kiss — silenced.

Karlie didn’t care about the past. She didn’t care about Josh.

Only this. Only her.

The walk back to the house was a blur of heat and laughter, hands on waists, mouths brushing skin when they thought no one could see. The front door, the darkened hall, the giggle she couldn’t stop when Taylor pressed her into the wall for one more kiss before dragging her down the corridor like a secret.

And then — the bedroom.

It started fast. Clothes pulled, yanked, peeled from rain-slick skin, landing in wet heaps across the bedroom floor — shirts flung aside, denim kicked off in a frenzy. The storm outside had followed them in, its rhythm thundering against the windows, lightning flashing in fits across the ceiling, casting their bodies in brief, electric silhouette. Buttons popped. Fabric clung, dragged over flushed limbs. Breathing already quickened, their eyes locked as Taylor stood half-bare, rain still glistening on her skin.

Ocean blue met aquamarine. Lightning flashed through the window behind them, illuminating their faces like something elemental. Taylor's mouth parted, her breath caught. Karlie stared back, chest rising fast, her shirt clinging transparently to her skin, nipples peaking through, soaked from the storm.

Taylor stepped in. Fingers fumbled only for a second before Karlie's top joined the rest on the floor. She was glowing, dripping, raw with the heat of it all. Her jeans were peeled down next, clinging to every curve as they went. Taylor’s palms ran over her thighs, her hips, her ass — and then up, up, to her waist, where they rested as Karlie stepped out of her shoes and kicked the denim away.

By the time they hit the bed, they were breathless — soaked, flushed, trembling — the mattress catching them like a wave. Taylor climbed over Karlie, hair dripping, body lit by the pale blue shimmer of a lightning strike. Taylor’s mouth met Karlie’s collarbone first — open, hot, desperate. Their bodies slid against each other, damp skin catching, nipples brushing, legs tangling beneath them. Taylor kissed a trail down Karlie’s chest, then returned, dragging her tongue across the same path, slower now, savoring the taste of storm and skin. Karlie’s moan was low and guttural, her back arching as Taylor suckled at one breast, then the other, fingers already mapping the ridges of her hips.

The bed creaked beneath them as Karlie flipped her, straddling Taylor’s waist. Her hands moved with purpose — palms and nails — scraping gently, leaving promises in their wake. Taylor’s eyes fluttered shut as Karlie bent down, hair falling in wet waves as her lips found the curve of Taylor’s neck, biting, kissing, licking until Taylor writhed beneath her.

There was nothing soft about their hunger now — it was sharp, hot, years of silence breaking open between their bodies. Mouths sought, hips met, thighs pressed. And in the space where thunder echoed, they filled the quiet with gasps, slick heat, and the sound of skin on skin.

The house felt suspended in time, nothing outside of this storm and the heat of their skin. Every breath between them was soaked in lust, every glance a demand. Karlie’s nails dragged harder across Taylor’s spine, leaving faint trails that burned in the best way.

Taylor’s mouth met Karlie’s collarbone  — open, hot, insistent. Her lips mapped every inch, branding heat into bone, coaxing sighs from Karlie’s throat. Every kiss was a spark, every breath between them a thread pulled tighter. Their bodies slid together, damp skin catching, nipples brushing in passing shocks of sensation, thighs restless and warm beneath tangled sheets.

Taylor kissed lower, then back up, dragging her tongue over the same path, slower now — tasting salt, storm, skin. Karlie cry of pleasureed, deep and rough, her hips tipping instinctively into the contact. Her body was a live wire, shivering, burning from the inside out. Taylor’s mouth found one breast, her tongue flicking the nipple before she sealed her lips around it, suckling with a rhythm that sent a jolt straight to Karlie’s core.

Karlie’s hands moved on their own — into Taylor’s hair, over her back, nails raking gently in search of more. The bed creaked as she shifted, flipping Taylor with sudden urgency. She straddled her, hair hanging wet and wild around her face, her breath coming in hot bursts that tickled Taylor’s skin. Her palms traced Taylor’s curves with reverence, dragging over slick ribs, cupping full breasts, fingers shivering with need.

Taylor gasped beneath her, eyes fluttering closed as Karlie leaned down. Her lips met the base of her throat — kissing, biting, licking — and Taylor arched into her, hands fisting in the sheets, every nerve alight. Karlie left heat in her wake, mouth branding marks into skin, her breath scorching. Her tongue dipped into the hollow between Taylor’s breasts, her hands pinning Taylor’s hips to the bed.

The urgency that pulsed between them was no longer sharp — it had melted into something heavier, more consuming. Their hips rocked together, instinctual, bodies straining for friction. Karlie kissed her way down Taylor’s torso, a slow, worshipful trail. Her tongue lingered at the curve of Taylor’s stomach, her nose brushing skin, her breath drawing a shiver. Taylor trembled beneath her, muscles jumping under each touch.

Karlie’s fingers curled along the sides of Taylor’s thighs, thumbs stroking lightly — maddeningly — over sensitive skin. Taylor’s legs parted without thought, her breath hitching. When Karlie’s mouth met her again, it was with reverence. A single, deliberate lick — firm, slow — sent Taylor's hips jerking. Her cry cracked through the air, helpless.

She devoured her with slow, purposeful licks, her tongue dragging in long, savoring strokes. Her fingers joined, sliding in with perfect pressure, curling just right. Taylor’s entire body seized, her voice raw, hands scrabbling over Karlie’s back, nails dragging paths of need. Her thighs clenched, shaking around Karlie’s shoulders.

Karlie cry of pleasureed into her — low, rough, vibrating through Taylor’s core. She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Every sound Taylor made, every arch of her spine, fed her hunger. She moved with relentless rhythm, her hand and mouth in perfect tandem. Taylor’s cry of pleasures turned to cries, her body unraveling.

When she came, it was sudden and full-body — a scream torn from her throat, hips jolting, spine bowing. Karlie held her, grounded her, rode every tremor. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t let go.

Taylor collapsed into the mattress, gasping, drenched in sweat, her skin flushed and glowing. But Karlie wasn’t done. Not yet.

She pressed kisses to twitching thighs, soft now, reverent again. Her hand moved slowly, her fingers still inside, coaxing more. Taylor whimpered, already too sensitive, but she didn’t ask her to stop. Her body rolled into it, greedy and raw.

Karlie’s lips returned to her with quiet urgency. Licked. Sucked. Her fingers moved with precision now — not just curling deeper, but angling upward, pressing into that spot that made Taylor gasp. Her thumb found Taylor’s clit and circled it in slow, tight strokes, slick and insistent, matching the rhythm of her tongue. The friction built fast, unbearable — a wet, gliding pressure that pulled sharp sounds from Taylor’s throat. Taylor shattered a second time, her body clenching hard, her voice breaking into helpless cries. Her hips rocked against Karlie’s hand, grinding into each stroke as her clit throbbed under the relentless pressure. The orgasm surged through her in jagged waves, hips jolting, hands clawing at Karlie’s back, leaving red trails in their wake.

Karlie came up, trailing kisses over Taylor’s body — her inner thigh, the crease of her hip, the soft skin below her ribs. Then her mouth closed over one breast, slow and tender, her tongue circling the areola before she sucked, deep and slow, a deliberate pull that made Taylor whimper anew. Her lips moved to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention — teasing, then claiming. Taylor’s breath hitched. Her hands reached for Karlie’s head, guiding her gently, wordlessly pleading for more.

Karlie complied, licking in soft spirals, her breath hot against wet skin. Taylor’s nipples tightened again under her tongue, the pleasure cresting too fast. She cry of pleasureed, a desperate sound, her legs shivering, hips lifting in search of more contact.

And then it came again — another orgasm, sharp and unbidden, racing up her spine and crashing through her with an intensity that shocked her. Her cry was raw, her hands clutching Karlie’s shoulders. Her body arched, quivered, then sagged, boneless and reeling.

The sound of the storm was distant now — just a drumbeat against glass — nothing compared to the tempest inside them.

Karlie came up, kissed Taylor’s mouth, sharing her taste. Their bodies moved together, grinding, rocking, every touch a demand, every breath a plea. Taylor’s thigh slid between Karlie’s again, and Karlie gasped as friction sparked through her. Her hips moved, desperate now, her breath catching with every grind. Each exhale came faster, deeper — heavy gusts that left her lips parted and chest rising hard. Their faces hovered close, breath mingling, ragged and hot. The air between them pulsed with every sharp inhale, every shivering release of air that spoke of how close they both were to unraveling.

Taylor’s hands found Karlie’s back, sliding down, nails scoring gently, guiding her. Their eyes locked, wild and wide. Karlie stared into the depths of Taylor’s gaze, held there by something deeper than touch — a raw, wordless connection that made her chest tighten. Taylor didn’t look away. Her eyes were dark, glinting with heat and vulnerability, pulling Karlie in until the world outside their gaze disappeared. Karlie’s body shook, her muscles tight, her thighs slick and shivering. The pressure built fast, unbearable.

Taylor bent forward, lips brushing over Karlie’s belly — soft, sacred. Her breath hit Karlie’s skin like fire. She kissed once, low and slow, just above her pelvis.

Karlie cried out, her hips jerking forward. Taylor whispered, "Let go," and Karlie did.

Her orgasm ripped through her, explosive and shaking, her whole body lifting off the bed. A sob escaped her, hands gripping the sheets, nails tearing. Her vision blurred. Her mouth opened around Taylor’s name.

And when she fell, Taylor caught her.

They shifted — slow, instinctive — until they were both on their knees in the center of the bed. Karlie’s back pressed to Taylor’s chest, her skin flushed and damp, her breath still shaky. Taylor wrapped one arm tightly around her, palm cupping Karlie’s breast from behind, thumb brushing over the nipple until it peaked again under her touch. The other hand slid lower — fingers dipping between Karlie’s thighs, parting her gently, finding her clit with practiced certainty.

Karlie exhaled hard, her head tipping back to rest on Taylor’s shoulder. Her breath stuttered as Taylor leaned in and caught her earlobe between her teeth, nibbling gently — teasing, slow. The sensation sent sparks through her. A cry of pleasure slipped from her lips, deep and guttural. One arm moved back, blindly, until her hand tangled in Taylor’s hair, holding her there, anchoring herself to the heat pressing into her neck. Taylor responded with a low groan, her fingers moving — slow, steady circles, gliding through slick heat, angling with perfect precision against Karlie’s clit. The rhythm was unhurried, but insistent, deliberate. Taylor’s breath stayed close to Karlie’s ear, whispering heat across her skin, lips brushing her jaw as her mouth drifted lower again.

Karlie trembled in her arms, her hips rolling back into Taylor’s touch. Taylor’s fingers didn’t falter — they moved with slow pressure, working Karlie’s clit in deliberate strokes, dragging her upward with every pass. The hand on her breast gripped firmer now, grounding her, holding her steady against Taylor’s chest.

Taylor’s eyes fluttered shut as she felt Karlie’s body tense. The friction, the weight of Karlie’s shivering body against hers, the wet heat pulsing around her fingers — it was almost too much. Her breath hitched. Her hips jerked forward once, and then again, grinding desperately into Karlie’s lower back as her control snapped. Her voice broke against Karlie’s skin in a ragged cry: “Fuck—fuck—fuck,” the word tumbling from her in a stuttering cry of pleasure as her own climax slammed through her. Her body quivered violently behind Karlie, her forehead pressed between Karlie’s shoulder blades, one arm still tight across her chest, holding on as waves of pleasure tore through her. Her thighs refused to still, trembling uncontrollably as the climax echoed through her legs, aftershocks rippling again and again. She couldn’t stop shaking, breath coming in short, broken bursts against Karlie’s back, her entire lower body pulsing with oversensitive need and spent desire. She nearly collapsed from the force of it, breath stolen, vision swimming — undone simply by touching the woman in her arms, by watching her fall apart.

Still, her fingers moved, relentless and aching with devotion, driving Karlie toward her own edge. Nearly overwhelmed, but not stopping. Not yet. Nearly undone, but still giving.

Karlie’s breath came faster, her cry of pleasures rising. Her voice hitched on a gasp as pleasure flooded her spine, and her lips parted around a broken whisper — not just sound, but feeling given shape. „I am hopeless, breathless, burning slow…“ she breathed, the lyric torn from her chest in a moment that blurred pleasure and truth. Taylor’s breath caught; she knew those words — words she'd written in a quiet confession, a song that never left the studio. Hearing them now, from Karlie's lips, turned want into something holy.

Another cry of pleasure trembled from Karlie’s throat as Taylor’s fingers pressed deeper, firmer. „Touch me, hold me, tell me…“ Karlie gasped again, the next lyric faltering into a whimper. Taylor’s hand didn’t stop. Her body tightened behind Karlie’s, her mouth open against her skin, whispering fragments of her own song into the curve of Karlie’s neck like a vow. „…I won’t leave, it’s a need….“ And then, slowly, her hands reached out in front of her — seeking. Her fingers found the headboard, and she gripped it tight as her hips began to tremble. The orgasm came not in a crash, but like a tide — slow, steady, overwhelming. Her body moved with the rhythm, hips pressing down into Taylor’s hand, her voice caught between a cry and a gasp.

Taylor held her through it, her lips still pressed to Karlie’s neck, whispering praise she couldn’t fully form. Karlie clung to the headboard, her knuckles white, thighs shaking, as the aftershocks dragged through her in long, slow pulses.

When it finally eased, she collapsed gently into Taylor’s arms, still shivering, still panting, every nerve lit. Taylor kissed her shoulder, her temple, her spine — and didn’t let go.

They stayed like that — chests heaving, legs tangled, sweat cooling between them. But something deeper simmered in that silence: the ache of recognition, of rediscovery. After years apart, it wasn’t just lust they were drowning in — it was memory, meaning. Each touch felt like a reclamation, each gasp a reminder of what had once lived between them. Their fingers had learned these bodies before, but now they re-mapped them with reverent hunger, as if to memorize what had changed, and what had never left.

Taylor’s hand brushed slowly over the curve of Karlie’s side, thumb sweeping along her ribs like tracing music only she could hear. Then, with a slowness that held reverence in every movement, her lips drifted lower. Karlie rolled onto her back, and Taylor followed, shifting until she was kneeling beside her — her gaze locked with Karlie’s, eyes dark with something that was no longer just want, but devotion. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Taylor lowered herself, her mouth meeting the gentle rise of Karlie’s pregnant belly with soft, heated kisses. Her hands smoothed along Karlie’s hips, grounding them both.

Karlie’s breath caught as Taylor kissed her again — lower, firmer, lips dragging slowly across taut, tender skin. Their eyes never broke. There was no need for words when every glance said I love you, when every press of Taylor’s mouth whispered you’re mine, still, always. Karlie’s hand reached down, brushing Taylor’s hair back from her face as Taylor’s mouth continued its worship — hot, open kisses pressed along the curve of Karlie’s stomach, a silent promise burning in every touch. Karlie shifted slightly, eyes half-lidded, and turned to nuzzle into the crook of Taylor’s neck. Her breath was hot and uneven, her voice hoarse when she whispered, "I still remember everything."

Taylor’s eyes closed for a beat too long, her throat working before she answered — not with words, but by tightening her hold. Her lips found Karlie’s temple, then her jaw, then her mouth again — slower now, deeper, tasting the ache of time lost and the urgency of what they’d found again. The storm outside raged on, but inside the room, they had become the eye of it.

No words passed.

They weren’t needed.

Only breath.

Only skin.

Only this.

Karlie’s hand found Taylor’s cheek. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Her touch said everything.

Chapter Text

They hadn’t really slept. Somewhere between midnight and morning, Taylor had murmured, “This is so Maroon,” and Karlie had snorted, still half-asleep. “All the rust that grew between telephones,” she teased. “And you, wearing my sweatshirt.”

They both laughed — soft and quiet and real. It was ridiculous. It was perfect. A lyric that once hurt now curled gently into the moment, like a ribbon of memory re-woven.

Their bodies had drifted in and out of shallow dreams, always tangled, always touching — like their skin couldn’t bear to be alone again. The storm had passed sometime before dawn, but its rhythm still echoed in the slow beat of Taylor’s thumb against Karlie’s side.

The windows glowed now with the faintest blush of morning. Soft gold creeping across the hardwood. The sound of waves below, calmer now, as if the sea itself had exhaled with them.

Taylor stirred first. Not with movement, but with thought. She opened her eyes and saw the edge of Karlie’s face, barely an inch away. Her lashes were damp, skin kissed with sleep, breath even. They were still holding hands.

Taylor smiled. Karlie blinked slowly, like her body was trying to pretend it hadn’t woken, not quite yet. Her free hand slid instinctively to her belly. Taylor followed the movement with her eyes, then laid her palm gently over it.

The baby kicked. Karlie gasped — not loudly. But enough.

And Taylor laughed. That breathy, stunned kind of laugh that breaks from a place deeper than reason.

“I think they like me.”

Karlie nodded. “They better.”

They lay there in silence for a while, sunlight moving gradually up the wall beside them. No urgency. No fear.

Taylor turned her face and pressed a kiss to Karlie’s forehead. “What do we do now?”

Karlie didn’t answer right away. Because for the first time in a long time — she wasn’t sure she needed to. But the moment lingered.

Taylor’s thumb stroked the back of Karlie’s hand. A breeze slipped through the open window, carrying with it the scent of wet pine and salt.

And then, softly — almost like she didn’t want to break whatever peace had settled over them — Taylor whispered:

“And the boys?”

Karlie’s breath caught, but only for a moment. She looked at Taylor — really looked — and in that stillness, she felt the answer rise before she could stop it.

“They’ll be okay,” she said. Quiet. Steady.

Taylor’s eyes held hers. Full of emotion. “Karlie... I’ve never felt like this with anyone. Never.”

Karlie’s expression trembled.

Taylor continued, voice thick. “I’ve loved before. I’ve said the words. But this? This feels like truth. Like I spent years writing love songs that didn’t quite fit — and you’re the line I’ve always been missing.”

Karlie’s eyes welled. “You’re not missing anymore.”

Taylor kissed her softly. Then again.

“I didn’t come here to run,” Karlie said finally. “I came because I knew — in some part of me — I was already gone.”

Taylor blinked, and her tears slipped free. Not from grief. Not from longing. But from the fragile weight of hearing what she’d never dared to hope for.

Karlie reached for her cheek, thumb catching the first tear. “I tried,” she whispered. “I tried to make that life make sense. For the boys. For the public. For him. I told myself I could be content — that I owed it to everyone to stay, to see it through. But I kept waking up and feeling... missing. Like there was a version of me I’d buried too deep.”

Taylor’s hand slid to her waist, grounding them both.

“You weren’t missing,” she said quietly. “You were still here.”

Karlie nodded. “And last night — that storm — you — it brought me back to myself. For the first time in so long, I felt whole. Not divided between who I should be and who I am. Just... me.”

Taylor closed her eyes. Let the words settle. Let the truth of them warm the space between them.

When she opened them again, tears slipped freely down her cheeks.

Karlie leaned in and kissed one.

“I don’t have every answer,” she said. “But I know this one: I choose you. I always did. I was just too afraid to say it out loud.”

And Taylor, still crying, still smiling, whispered back:

“Say it again.”

Karlie did.

And the light in the room got a little brighter.

So did everything else.

Karlie watched her slip from the bed, wrap herself in a robe, and head quietly to the door.

A few minutes later, she followed — slower, careful, but with her hand resting gently on her belly, as if anchoring herself to the new rhythm of everything that was beginning.

She paused near the dresser, realizing too late that all her clothes were still in the guest room.

"Tay?" she called softly.

Taylor peeked her head back in. “Yeah?”

Karlie gave a sheepish smile. “I need something to wear. Unless you want me sneaking past our friends in a sheet.”

Taylor laughed and crossed to the wardrobe. She pulled out a hoodie and paused. Then, from the back of the closet, she tugged free something soft and familiar.

A worn, oversized navy sweatshirt — frayed slightly at the sleeves, the collar stretched from years of casual wear. Karlie blinked.

“I thought I lost that,” she murmured.

Taylor held it out with a shrug. “You left it here. I never got rid of it.”

Karlie took it slowly, her fingers brushing the fabric like it was something sacred. “This used to be my favorite.”

“I know,” Taylor said quietly.

Karlie slipped it over her head. It still fit — not perfectly, not like before — but comfortably, like memory. Like belonging.

She looked at Taylor and smiled. “Thank you.”

“For keeping it?”

“For everything.”

Taylor stepped closer, brushing a damp lock of hair behind Karlie’s ear. Their eyes held — warm, unguarded — and then Taylor leaned in, kissing her slowly. A kiss that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t hungry. It was deep. Certain. Like an anchor.

Karlie’s hands slid up Taylor’s arms, fingers gently pressing into her shoulders. They stood there in the quiet morning, rain still dripping faintly outside, mouths meeting again and again — soft, reverent kisses shared like secrets.

Eventually, they parted with one last lingering glance, both aware that silence in a house full of friends had an expiration.

Just before they parted ways, Taylor hesitated near the door.

"I have to talk to Tree," she said, her voice low, eyes still a little swollen from all they’d said. “Soon. Maybe today.”

Karlie nodded slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling the sleeves of the sweatshirt over her fingers. “She’ll already know.”

Taylor gave a soft laugh — not amused, but resigned. “She always does. I think she’s known since…” She stopped, her gaze unfocused. “Since I stopped writing songs that felt like lies.”

Karlie stood and crossed to her. “She loves you. And she knows what it means to choose someone. Even when it’s hard.”

Taylor’s expression flickered. Then steadied. “She once told me, ‘Don’t run from what feels real just because it doesn’t come easy.’”

Karlie smiled gently. “Then don’t run.”

Taylor touched Karlie’s cheek, leaned in for one last kiss, and whispered, “I'm not.”

She left first, barefoot on the wood floor, and padded toward the kitchen.

Karlie took a breath, adjusted the oversized sweater, and followed minutes later.

Taylor stood at the stove, humming lowly to herself. A pan sizzled. She hadn’t noticed Karlie yet.

Cara was already seated at the counter, hair a mess, mug in hand. She looked up and smirked the moment she saw Karlie.

“Well, well. Sleeping beauty returns.”

Karlie blinked, flushing.

Cara raised her brows, grinning. “I was drunk, not dead. You two disappeared last night. Very unsubtly, might I add.”

Karlie froze. Taylor turned.

Their eyes met — and for a second, there was panic. But then something shifted.

They both smiled.

Didn’t say a word.

Taylor flipped the tofu gently, then glanced sideways toward Karlie, just for a second and smiled.

Then she turned back to the stove — and paused.

Right there on the front burner sat Jack’s thick-rimmed black glasses.

Taylor picked them up and turned them in her hands. “Why are these here?”

Cara didn’t blink. “He used them to flip pancakes at midnight. Thought they were the spatula. No one stopped him.”

Taylor let out a breathy laugh, set the glasses aside, and reached for the fridge. Eggs. Scallions. Something vaguely resembling leftover Thai. She retrieved a pan, found an open space among the clutter, and started cracking eggs one-handed, smiling to herself.

Karlie leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching.

The scene was absurd.

Taylor glanced up and caught Karlie’s eye. “Tea?”

Karlie nodded gratefully and stepped further into the kitchen. Taylor passed her a warm mug just as the kettle clicked off.

Karlie took it, fingers brushing Taylor’s in a quiet thank you, and moved to sit beside Cara at the counter.

Cara raised her brows again, mischief still lingering. Karlie just bumped her shoulder playfully.

“Shut up,” Karlie said, grinning.

Cara grinned right back.

Taylor watched the two of them — Karlie laughing, the mug between her hands, the light catching in her eyes — and smiled to herself.

The kitchen buzzed quietly with warmth and leftovers and the scent of something like beginning.

And this time, no one was pretending.

Taylor watched the exchange, a smile curling at her lips.

Then she cracked the last egg into the pan, turned to face them all, and said, “Well. If this isn’t a real fucking legacy, I don’t know what is.”

Karlie’s laugh came quick — surprised and bright. She rested her tea on the counter, leaned back slightly in her chair. The oversized navy sweatshirt bunched at her elbows, sleeves half-covering her hands as she wrapped them around the warm mug again. Her fingers brushed Taylor’s as she passed close by. Just a second — enough to feel it.

Taylor didn’t pull away.

From behind her, the pan sizzled, the smell of butter and scallions filling the kitchen. She added the tofu next, letting it brown slightly before adding a generous dash of soy and maple — the scent rising sweet and savory around them.

Karlie took a sip of tea, then looked over at Taylor again. That look — quiet and full of something unspoken — made Taylor pause. She tilted her head, smiled, and gave Karlie the smallest wink, unseen by the others. Karlie’s lips lifted just at the corners in return, her eyes lingering.

Cara was still hunched over her coffee, half-slouched onto the counter. At one point, she leaned over to sniff the pan. “Please tell me there’s enough for everyone,” she said.

Taylor nodded, flipping the eggs. “I’m working with questionable leftovers, but yes — consider this a community scramble.”

“I’ll take questionable over nothing,” Cara muttered.

Karlie chuckled, nudging Cara again with her elbow. “You really don’t remember that midnight?”

Cara blinked. “Only vaguely. There was a glitter cannon.”

Karlie snorted. “And at least this year, you left the cheap rosé at home.”

Cara rolled her eyes. “Progress. Jack tried to quote Hamlet and fell off the couch.”

Taylor cracked up.

Karlie leaned back again, her eyes flicking from face to face — the warmth of this kitchen, the comfort in every exchange. She could feel the hum of something ordinary and extraordinary all at once.

Her hand drifted to her belly unconsciously.

Taylor noticed. She stepped to the side and casually brushed her knuckles across Karlie’s shoulder in passing — like a tether. Like reassurance. Their eyes met — blue to green — and held for just a second longer than it needed to.

Cara caught it and grinned. “You two are nauseating.”

Taylor handed out plates one by one. Karlie’s came with an extra drizzle of maple soy glaze, golden-browned tofu nestled beside her eggs, onions just starting to caramelize — and a smile.

Karlie gave Taylor’s wrist a soft squeeze as she took it, their fingers brushing again, electricity in the contact. Neither said anything. They didn’t need to.

Everyone dug in. The hum of forks, murmurs of appreciation, soft morning sounds. Outside, the sea moved in slow rhythm. Inside, it was all heat and comfort and quiet beginnings.

Taylor sat down beside Karlie, close but not touching. Still, their knees bumped under the table, and neither of them moved away. Occasionally, their shoulders brushed — barely-there touches that meant everything.

As Karlie reached for her fork, her fingers grazed Taylor’s hand again. This time, she left them there for a heartbeat longer. Taylor’s thumb ran lightly over her knuckles. A wordless exchange. The kind you only learn with time.

Karlie smiled into her plate and let her foot drift sideways until it nudged gently against Taylor’s. A simple, silent tether.

Cara glanced between them and raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She just smiled to herself and kept eating.

“Did we ever get the glitter out of the vents?” Taylor asked suddenly.

Karlie laughed. “Only after you vacuumed them three times with that mini Dyson you swore by.”

Cara groaned. “I think I still have confetti in one of my boots.”

Taylor grinned. “It’s your legacy now.”

No one said it aloud — but something had shifted. Not dramatically. Not loudly. But it was there.

In every look. In every shared silence. In every fingertip that lingered longer than necessary.

And somehow, the day had only just begun.

Chapter Text

The house had settled into that kind of silence that only comes after something sacred. Not empty — just... full. The echoes of laughter and footsteps still lived in the corners. The scent of Taylor's cooking still lingered faintly in the air. But outside, the morning had taken on a cooler edge. The kind of stillness that follows the storm.

Everyone was gone now. Jack had hugged Karlie so tight she nearly cried, whispering, "If you don’t hold on to this, I swear I will." Cara had left last, of course — with a wink and a loud, “You better not ghost each other again, or I’m writing a group chat intervention.” Taylor had blushed. Karlie had smiled. But now — now it was just them.

Karlie stood by the car, her overnight bag in hand. Her fingers tightened slightly around the handle, the way you grip something when you're not ready to let go.

Taylor was across from her, arms folded loosely, her face open but careful. The wind tugged strands of her hair into her eyes. She didn’t brush them away.

Karlie took a breath. “I should go.”

Taylor nodded slowly. “Josh is back in the city?”

“Yeah. With the boys.” Her voice caught on the second word. She looked down. “I told him I’d be back today.”

A pause.

Then Taylor asked, “Are you alright?”

Karlie looked up — and for the first time all morning, really looked at her. Her throat tightened.

“I don’t know how to leave this,” she said.

Taylor stepped forward just enough for Karlie to feel the warmth of her.

Karlie swallowed. “Can I ask you something?”

Taylor’s voice was soft. “Always.”

Karlie held her gaze. “Do you mean it? All of it? Not just the night. Or the morning. Or the memory. Do you really see it? Me. The kids. The mess of what this will be.”

Taylor didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I do.”

Karlie’s eyes flickered. “Because I’ve spent years trying to make something work that looked good on paper. And I’m grateful to Josh — truly. He gave me a home when I needed one. He gave me safety. He gave me my sons.”

She blinked back a sudden rush of tears. “But I can’t stay out of guilt. Or comfort. Or for the shape of a family that doesn’t fit anymore. I owe him the truth.”

Taylor stepped closer. “He deserves that. And so do you.”

Karlie nodded. “I think I’ve known for a long time that it was always you. Even when I couldn’t say it. Even when I told myself I had moved on. I didn’t.”

Taylor’s lips trembled. “You were always the song I couldn’t finish.”

Karlie laughed, broken and soft, and wrapped her arms around Taylor. They stood there for a long moment, pressed together, unmoving.

“I have to tell him,” Karlie whispered. “I have to say it out loud — that I can’t do this anymore. Not like this.”

Taylor pulled back just enough to look at her. “And after?”

Karlie gave a small, sad smile. “Then I find a new way forward. One that includes honesty. One that includes you.”

Taylor touched her face. “I’ll wait. However long it takes.”

“I don’t want you to wait,” Karlie said. “I want you to be there.”

They kissed again — not rushed. Not desperate. Just full. Of meaning. Of memory. Of what was still to come.

When they finally parted, Karlie stepped back, her hand on the car door.

“I love you,” she said.

But it wasn’t just a present-tense truth.

It was past and future. It was years of words swallowed, nights endured, moments missed. It was everything she had tried to bury coming up like breath after being underwater too long.

“I always have.”

Taylor’s face crumpled. Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but the emotion stole the words.

She stepped forward, took Karlie’s face in both hands. Her touch was reverent, like she was afraid if she let go, it would all disappear.

“I love you too,” she said — voice trembling. “I ever loved you.”

The words fell out unpolished, a twist of grammar, but utterly true.

Always. Endlessly.

Karlie laughed through her tears, nodding. “You didn’t have to say it perfectly.”

“You did.”

Taylor’s thumb traced her jaw. “You’re everything I tried to forget and everything I want to remember, all at once.”

 Their foreheads met, breath to breath, heart to heart.

 No more running.

No more pretending.

Only this.

Only them.

Karlie got in the car, her hand resting gently over the life growing inside her, and drove back toward the city.

Toward the boys.

Toward the truth.

Toward home — whatever that was becoming.

Taylor stood on the porch long after the car had vanished down the drive.

The air was cool, the wind tugging gently at the edge of her sleeves, but it didn’t sting.

It carried.

She didn’t feel alone.

Not this time.

The house behind her was quiet, but not empty.

It still held the echo of Karlie’s laughter, the warmth of shared breath, the faintest trace of lavender on a borrowed sweater.

Taylor could still feel her — everywhere.

And she knew now, without doubt, without apology:

She couldn’t let her go again.

Not halfway.

Not in secret.

Not this time.

Because Karlie didn’t come alone.

She came with a life — a real, full, beautiful life. Two boys. A baby still growing. A story already in motion. And Taylor wanted all of it. The noise. The love. The mess. The mornings and the years.

She wanted to be part of it.

Not around it.

With her.

She stepped back inside and walked slowly to the kitchen. The room was still warm — with memory, with sunlight, with something like a beginning.

Taylor sat down at the table. And before she could second-guess herself, she picked up her phone.

Tree.

She didn’t text.

She called.

It rang twice.

“Taylor?” Tree’s voice was immediate. Steady. Familiar.

“Hi,” Taylor breathed. “Can we talk? Not just now — I mean really talk. In person. You, Mom… maybe Dad too, if he’s free.”

A pause. “Of course. What’s going on?”

Taylor swallowed hard. “There’s… a lot. I need to tell you everything. About Karlie. About the last few years. About what’s happening now. Not just as PR. Not as damage control. As my family.”

Tree was quiet. Listening.

“I need you to know why this matters,” Taylor said. “And that I want this — I want her. And the kids. And the life that comes with them. I’m terrified. But I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

There was another small pause.

Then Tree said, gently:

“Taylor… I know.”

Taylor blinked. “You—what?”

“I’ve known for a long time. Maybe not the details. But I saw how you loved her. And how you never stopped.”

Taylor’s breath caught.

Tree continued, her voice soft but certain. “Taylor, how many songs have you written about her? More than anyone else you’ve ever known.”

Taylor’s eyes filled with tears. She thought of the lyrics, the melodies, the hidden messages woven into her music over the years. Songs like "Cornelia Street," where she sang of the fear of losing someone so dear, or "It's Time to Go," hinting at the pain of a friendship's end. Even "Right Where You Left Me," capturing the feeling of being stuck in a moment of heartbreak.

“I guess I have,” Taylor whispered.

Tree's voice was warm. “Your music tells your story, even when you can't. And it's clear that Karlie has been a significant part of that story.”

Taylor nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I need help,” she whispered.

“Then come,” Tree said. “Let us help you.”

Tree’s voice softened again. “Come to the house. Today. I’ll call your mom.”

Taylor hesitated. “I… I want to tell them everything.”

“You will,” Tree assured her. Then she added, after a beat, “Austin’s in town. He’s been staying with your dad a few days. He asked about you.”

Taylor’s heart tightened. She hadn’t seen her brother in weeks — maybe longer. Their lives drifted often, always anchored in affection, but rarely in schedule.

“He doesn’t know anything,” Tree added. “But I think he’d want to be there. Quiet support, you know.”

Taylor gave a breath of a smile. “That’s Austin.”

“Come,” Tree said again, gently but firmly. “This is family. All of it.”

Taylor closed her eyes. Let the words settle. Let them warm her spine.

And then she whispered, “Okay. I’m coming.”

The drive back into the city had been long.

In hours — and in thoughts.

In the way her hands gripped the steering wheel a little too tight.

In the weight of the silence around her.

In the way her heart beat louder the closer she got.

She pulled into the underground garage of the Manhattan townhouse just as the sun was beginning to dip behind the skyline. The light outside had softened to a dull grey, and inside, the air was cool and still.

Josh's car was already there. Parked beside hers.

She saw the familiar curve of the booster seat in the back.

The toys in the door pocket.

A forgotten drawing crumpled near the window.

Her chest tightened.

 She didn’t want this to be the life they remembered — a home where silence shouted louder than joy.

Where love was folded behind walls and smiles were worn, not lived.

She wanted her boys to grow up seen.

Known.

Safe — but not just from the world.

From the slow ache of a house without warmth.

She took a deep breath and shut the engine off.

For a moment she didn’t move. Just sat there.

Letting herself feel the fear.

And the clarity.

Then, finally, she opened the door.

Marty, the security guard, looked up from his post and smiled gently. He’d already called the elevator.

“Good evening, Miss Kloss.”

“Hi, Marty,” she said, grateful for the steadiness in his voice. “Thanks.”

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, gold-toned and polished like always. She stepped in. The familiar hum rose as the floor number lit up.

She breathed in.

Out.

When the doors slid open, she stepped into the private hallway.

The townhouse was quiet. Still.

She unlocked the door and slipped inside.

Everything looked the same. Her shoes by the entry mat.

A half-finished puzzle on the side table.

A kids’ book left open on the couch.

She dropped her bag gently by the bench, slipped off her shoes, and padded softly toward the kitchen — where the low light glowed.

Josh was there.

Leaning against the counter, arms crossed.

Hair uncombed, dark circles under his eyes.

His face was unreadable.

His silence, louder than anything.

Karlie stopped a few steps in.

Neither of them spoke.

Not yet.

The moment hung between them — fragile, heavy, and waiting to break.

Karlie found her voice first. It was quiet, but steady.

"Where are the boys?"

Josh didn’t move. Just looked at her, then said,

“With your parents. I thought... it might be easier. If we talked. Honestly.”

Karlie nodded. A small movement. But it held weight.

“Okay,” she said.

She stepped further into the kitchen. As the light shifted across the tiles, something caught her eye — behind the kitchen island, near Josh’s feet: a duffel bag. Half-zipped. Packed.

Her gaze lingered on it.

He noticed.

“I didn’t know how this would go,” he said, simply.

Karlie looked up, but before she could speak, Josh’s voice came again — quieter now, more tired than angry.

“You don’t have to say it,” he said. “I’ve known.”

She froze. “Known what?”

“That you’ve been gone a long time. Even when you were here.” He exhaled, the sound thin. “I think I really saw it two years ago. Eras Tour. You begged me to come.”

Karlie’s lips parted, but she didn’t interrupt.

“You said I didn’t have to,” he went on. “That you’d go with one of your sisters. But you were hoping I’d say yes. Hoping it’d look right.” He gave a half-smile, bitter around the edges. “The husband beside his wife at her ex’s concert. How wholesome. How... PR-perfect.”

Karlie swallowed, her voice dry. “You didn’t want to go.”

“No,” he said honestly. “But I went. And I watched you backstage. I saw the way you looked at her.” His voice caught. “Not the way someone looks at an ex. The way someone looks at... home.”

 Karlie felt the blood drain from her face.

Josh shook his head slowly. “ I had spent years trying to win you — and I knew, deep down, I was a placeholder for something I could never touch.”

Karlie stepped closer, her voice shaking now. “Is that why you pulled away? The coldness... was that why?”

Josh leaned back against the counter. For the first time in months, maybe longer, he looked at her.

“I think I was trying to convince myself I could be enough,” he admitted. “And when that didn’t work... I stopped trying to be anything at all.”

Karlie’s throat tightened. “I noticed. I felt it. Every day.”

“And you stayed,” he said. “Even when it hurt.”

“I stayed because I wanted to believe we could be something true,” she said. “Because we’d built this life. This family. And because I’m grateful. You were there when things fell apart. When I needed a story to hide in. You gave me space. You gave me protection.”

Josh nodded slowly. “I was your cover. And eventually, we started living like the lie was the truth.”

Karlie looked down. “I’m sorry.”

Josh’s voice was quiet now. “Is the baby...?”

Karlie cut in before the sentence could finish. “No. This wasn’t some fix-it bandage. I wouldn’t do that. But maybe... maybe I was hoping the future would make the past irrelevant.”

Josh nodded. “It never does.”

She met his eyes. “Were you hoping too?”

He hesitated. Then: “Yeah. But I think we both knew better.”

Silence stretched. Not hostile. Just sad.

“I was scared,” she said. “Of blowing everything up. Of breaking their world. But I think staying became the bigger lie.”

Josh’s arms dropped from his chest. He looked older in that moment — not bitter, just tired.

“And you love her.”

Karlie didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver.

Her voice was quiet, but filled with something unshakable.

“I do.”

Josh didn’t look away. He didn’t argue.

He simply nodded — not with anger.

Not even with sadness.

With a kind of tired knowing.

Not approval. Not defeat.

But the quiet surrender that comes when a truth has been sitting between two people for far too long, waiting to be said out loud.

A long silence stretched.

Then, softly — painfully — he asked,

“You’ve always loved her, haven’t you?”

Karlie blinked.

And when the words came, they carried the weight of years.

“Since before we ever started this,” she said. Her voice shook. “Before the press. Before the pretending. Even when I tried to convince myself I could want something simpler — safer — it was always her.”

Josh looked away for a second, like her words had knocked the breath from his chest. But he didn’t stop her.

He didn’t have to.

Karlie stepped closer, as if to close the space that still hurt between them.

“I tried to love you the way I thought I was supposed to,” she continued. “And there were moments — real ones — where I did care. Deeply. But a part of me was always somewhere else. With someone else. And I didn’t know how to make that stop. I just knew how to bury it.”

Josh’s eyes glistened, but he blinked the emotion back.

“I think I knew it even then,” he said. “Even before it was real between us. I could see it — in the way you didn’t talk about her. In the way you looked when her name came up. It was never indifference. It was silence too heavy to be anything but love.”

Karlie’s breath caught.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For all of it. For choosing you and still wanting someone else. For making you believe you could be enough for a heart that was never fully mine to give.”

Josh didn’t reply right away.

Then finally, with a voice steadier than expected, he said:

“At least now, we’re telling the truth.”

Karlie wiped at her face, tears hot and silent. “You deserved better.”

 “You too,” he said.

She looked at the duffel bag again. Then back at him.

“I don’t want to take the boys from you.”

“You’re not,” Josh said. “You’re giving them a version of you that’s whole. And that’s what they need most.”

She stepped closer again. Their eyes locked — not with resentment, but with history.

“I’ll always be their father,” he said. “You won’t keep them from me.”

“Never,” she promised.

They stood in that fragile quiet — not broken, not angry. Just changed.

Josh shifted slightly, exhaling as though the decision had already been made in his body long before the words reached his mouth.

“I’ll go to a hotel,” he said, his voice even. “Just for a while. Until I figure out something more permanent.”

Karlie looked up, startled.

“Josh, you don’t have to—”

He held up a hand, not unkind.

“I do. I think we both know that.”

She blinked, emotion welling again, but different this time. Soft. Shaken.

He glanced toward the hallway, toward the quiet hum of life beyond the conversation.

“This place… it’s their home,” he said. “Their routine. Their beds. Their books. I don’t want to take that from them. And I don’t want you uprooting everything because of me.”

Karlie couldn’t answer. Her throat had closed too tightly.

Josh gave a small, almost wistful smile.

“We’ll figure out the rest later. Logistics. Schedules. Legal things. But not tonight. It’s too much.”

She nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

Josh looked at her for a long moment — then walked around the kitchen island, picked up the duffel bag she’d seen earlier, and slung it over his shoulder.

He paused at the door.

 “I don’t hate you,” he said. “In case you’re wondering.”

 Karlie opened her mouth, but the only thing that came was a sob — quiet and involuntary.

Her hand flew to her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks.

Josh didn’t speak again. He just looked at her with something close to grace. Then he turned, opened the door, and stepped into the hall.

It clicked shut behind him.

And Karlie was left in the stillness. Breathing. Crying.

But for the first time in years, she didn’t feel like she was pretending to be okay.

She just was.

She hadn’t even sat down yet when the tears started.

Tree stood from the kitchen table the second Taylor walked through the door, her mother close behind. Andrea pulled her into a hug without a word — the kind of embrace only mothers can give. Not questioning. Not pressing. Just holding her.

Austin lingered nearby — quiet, present, protective in the way only brothers know how to be. He gave her a nod, the kind that said I’m here without needing to say anything at all.

Taylor sank into the chair across from them, eyes already red, fingers twisting in her sleeves.

“I need you all to hear this from me. Not from headlines. Not from PR. From me.”

Tree gave a small nod. “We’re listening.”

Taylor’s voice wavered. “It’s Karlie.”

Andrea and Austin exchanged a look, but neither of them said a word. The room was still, safe.

“She’s back in my life. Really back. And I—” She broke off, swallowing hard. “I love her. I never stopped.”

No one flinched. No gasps. Just quiet understanding. A silence that felt like sanctuary.

“I’ve been hiding it for so long. We both have. And now that she’s here again, I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter. I won’t pretend.”

Tree leaned forward slightly. “Tell us everything.”

So she did.

She told them about the visit in New York. About Levi and Elijah. About the baby growing quietly, impossibly, beneath Karlie’s ribs.

About the rain. The beach. The kiss that changed everything — again.

She told them about Josh. About the pain Karlie still carried. The fear she couldn’t quite shake. The weight of years spent smiling through locked doors.

She told them about the morning after. The stillness. The hope.

Andrea squeezed her hand. “And what do you want, sweetheart? Not the label. Not the press. You.”

Taylor looked up. Looked at her mother, at Tree, at Austin. She blinked the last of the tears from her lashes.

“I want to stop hiding. I want to wake up and not feel like I’m lying — even just by omission. I want to love her in the open. I want to protect her life. The boys. The baby. Not have them dragged into headlines they didn’t ask for. No cameras in school parking lots. No microphones at her OB appointment.”

Tree nodded slowly. Then she leaned back, folded her hands.

“Taylor. That pressure you lived under? The rules your old label carved into your skin? That’s over. We made sure of that. You built something new. You can be who you are. Or not. You can love who you love. Or not. You don’t owe anyone anything — except yourself.”

Andrea smiled, her voice thick with emotion. “You don’t have to choose between being you and being safe anymore. That’s not the world you’re in now. And that’s not the kind of mother I raised.”

 Taylor said it plainly:
“I want a life with her. Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs.”

Andrea reached across the table and took her daughter’s hand in both of hers. “Even if it’s hard?” Her voice was soft, but her eyes held steady.

Taylor nodded. “Especially if it’s hard.”

Austin finally spoke. “What about Travis?”

Taylor sighed, pressing her sleeve to her face. “That’s where it gets messy. The breakup is happening — we both know it’s over — but PR wants to stagger the timeline. They think going public with Karlie too soon would ‘confuse the narrative.’”

Taylor gave a tired smile. “You know the one. America’s sweetheart. Football fairy tale. All that.”

Tree leaned forward, calm but firm. “Taylor. I am your PR. I’m the one who sat with his team. Who got on those calls with his lawyers. Who negotiated the language of every joint statement.”

Taylor blinked, quiet.

Tree’s voice didn’t rise — it didn’t need to. “We’ve already structured the rollout. The timeline is clean. No one’s blindsided. Travis and his reps understand the situation, and they’ve agreed to keep things respectful and coordinated. This isn’t your burden to carry alone.”

Taylor exhaled, the relief almost visible in her shoulders.

Tree continued, more gently now. “You’ve been protecting everyone but yourself for years. You don’t have to do that anymore. This time, we protect you. Your truth. Your heart.”

Andrea nodded, eyes full. “And Karlie. And her boys. And that baby on the way. This isn’t about selling a story anymore. It’s about building a life.”

Taylor wiped at her face. “I just don’t want them hurt. Any of them. Travis included.”

Tree nodded. “Then we do what we’ve already set in motion. Quiet transition, mutual respect, no leaks. And when you’re ready — when Karlie’s ready — we let the rest unfold with care.”

Taylor looked at her, voice barely above a whisper. “You really think that’s possible?”

Tree gave a small, certain smile. “I didn’t sit through twenty years of bullshit to leave you stuck in someone else’s story.”

Taylor looked down, the weight of it hitting her all over again — the weight lifting.

Tree added gently, “That said, the PR team is still doing their job. If you’re okay with it, we can stick to the rollout plan for the Travis news. It buys a little time. Keeps it clean. For his sake, too.”

Taylor nodded. “That’s fair. He deserves that much. He was good to me. It just… wasn’t home.”

Andrea reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face like she was five again. “Home is what you’re choosing now.”

Taylor cried then. Really cried. Shoulders shaking, face in her hands. Years of pressure, of silence, of second-guessing — all of it pouring out in sobs that didn’t apologize. That didn’t hide.

Austin got up and walked around the table, placing a steady hand on her back. “Whatever happens, we’ve got you.”

Tree’s voice was gentle but sure. “And Taylor?”

She looked up.

“You’re not alone in this. We’ll do it right. For her. For them. For you.”

Taylor nodded, tears still falling.

But for once, they didn’t sting.

They healed.

Just as the room quieted and the exhaustion of the truth began to settle like the tide pulling back from shore, Taylor’s phone buzzed beside her.

She glanced down.

Karlie
The boys are asleep. If you're not too tired… want to come over?

Taylor stared at the screen for a moment. And suddenly, everything inside her was still.

After the conversation.
After the tears.
After the truth.

She looked at her mother. Then at Tree.

“She wants to protect her life,” she said. “So do I.”

Tree nodded. “Then we’ll do it with care. But we won’t do it in fear.”

Andrea smiled through her own tears now. “Go. You’ve already lost too much time.”

Taylor stood slowly, phone in hand, heart beating steady for the first time in days.

She didn’t say thank you — she didn’t need to.

They already knew.

Then she types back:

Give me 30 minutes.

Taylor didn’t come alone.

She never really did anymore — not in the city, not at night. Security rode quietly in the SUV with her, no questions asked. They knew the route. They’d driven it before, years ago, when Karlie’s name wasn’t something Taylor had to swallow.

They pulled into the private garage beneath Karlie’s building. Everything looked the same, and yet nothing did. The quiet concrete walls. The elevator with its mirrored door already waiting — summoned ahead, just like always.

She stepped out before anyone could open her door. Coffee in hand. Hoodie drawn up. Her feet moved fast — faster than her nerves.

But in the elevator, it caught up to her.

What if this was a mistake?

What if Josh was still home?

What if Karlie hadn’t really made a choice — just a moment?

The iced coffee in her hand started to sweat. So did her palms.

She wasn’t sure what scared her more: that Karlie might pull away — or that she wouldn’t. That loving her might cost more than either of them could pay.

I don’t want to break her life apart, Taylor thought. I don’t want to be the reason something crumbles.

But then the doors opened.

And Karlie was there.

Barefoot. In soft clothes. Waiting.

Taylor walked forward, slower now. The weight of her own heartbeat loud in her ears. She held up the coffee like a peace offering.

“Figured this was more appropriate than wine.”

Karlie didn’t take it.

She stepped forward. Gently. Without hesitation.

And with one hand around Taylor’s arm and the other at the small of her back, she pulled her inside — closed the door behind them with a soft click.

And kissed her.

Pressed her against the wood with a tenderness that felt like truth. Taylor gasped into her mouth — still holding the coffee — the other hand finding Karlie’s hip, her breath catching as everything inside her loosened.

Karlie kissed her deeper, slower. Like nothing needed to be rushed. Like everything was finally allowed.

And Taylor let herself fall.

Chapter Text

Karlie didn’t stop kissing her.

Not after the door clicked shut. Not after Taylor’s breath hitched between parted lips. Not even when the coffee cup nearly slipped from Taylor’s hand.

Somehow, without looking, Taylor managed to crouch slightly, setting it carefully on the floor, the cold condensation already trailing onto the hardwood. But her mouth never left Karlie’s. Her fingers never stopped grasping.

She was pulled back up, pressed against the door. And Karlie’s hands were everywhere — in her hair, under the hoodie, tugging it up, over.

Taylor helped, arms raised, clothes dragged.

Karlie’s mouth didn’t stop moving either.

She kissed Taylor behind the ear, soft and hot, then along the line of her neck, breath uneven. Her lips found the delicate skin at the base of Taylor’s throat — and then her collarbone. She sucked gently, teeth grazing just enough to make Taylor gasp — the sound low and unguarded, like it had been waiting.

Karlie breathed harder, chest rising fast against hers.

At least one of those kisses would leave a mark.

Taylor didn’t care.

She just pulled Karlie closer, feeling heat gather between them.

“Karlie—”

“I need you.”

It wasn’t a whisper. It was a vow. A confession. A cry made holy.

Taylor answered with her mouth. With her whole body.

They moved through the space without direction, just instinct. Taylor’s back hit the wall, Karlie’s hands bracketing her face before sliding down — over her neck, her shoulders, her ribs — like she was memorizing her by touch.

Their kisses deepened, became messier. Hungrier. Desperate and slow all at once. Karlie kissed her jaw, her throat, the place just below her ear. Taylor gasped, arching into her, fingernails clutching the fabric of Karlie’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Then it was off. The shirt. The barriers. Everything.

They stumbled through the living room, laughter breaking between kisses, mouths finding skin, and skin answering back. There was reverence in every touch. Devotion in every gasp. A hunger built on longing and love.

Taylor’s bra was unhooked with a grace that came from history. Her head fell back. Her hands shook.

“God, I missed you,” she whispered.

Karlie pulled back, eyes molten. “Then don’t let me go.”

Clothes came off in a flurry — not careless, but necessary. Like shedding weight. Like coming home.

They collapsed onto the couch, tangled in each other.

Taylor beneath, Karlie above.

Hands moved everywhere. Legs tangled. Mouths returned to mouths. They moved together like tide and shore — one pulling, one yielding, never separate.

Taylor's hands explored every inch — her back, her sides, the slight curve where hip met thigh. She slid her palms over Karlie’s breasts, fingers brushing softly across her nipples, feeling them harden under her touch. Karlie gasped into her mouth as Taylor kissed lower, over her stomach, her name over and over.

Karlie’s voice broke on a moan. Her fingers threaded into Taylor’s hair, pulling her closer. Taylor answered with lips and tongue, worshipful, hungry. Her hands roamed Karlie’s belly, then slipped lower.

She pushed her fingers between Karlie’s thighs with aching care, finding warmth and wetness. Karlie gasped louder now, hips twitching, legs falling further apart.

Taylor didn’t stop. She kissed her way down again, tongue meeting skin, then slipping further, until she found the place that made Karlie shake. She flicked, then circled, then pressed deeper — tongue and fingers working together until Karlie was writhing beneath her, voice ragged, breath broken.

"Taylor… don’t stop…"

She didn’t. She moved harder, deeper, fingers curling at just the right angle, tongue never losing rhythm. Karlie cried out, thighs clenching around her head, hands clutching the couch cushions.

Taylor added a second finger, and Karlie arched, crying out louder now, the sound raw and guttural. Her entire body trembled, her moans turning frantic as she bucked against Taylor's mouth.

“I—I’m gonna…”

Taylor pulled her even closer, tongue pressing harder, fingers stroking that perfect spot, relentless and tender all at once.

And Karlie came — hard, gasping, her body going taut, then shaking apart. Her climax rolled through her in waves, her hands gripping Taylor’s shoulders like she’d float away without them.

Taylor held her through every last shudder, not stopping until Karlie whimpered from the sensitivity, until her body finally gave in and slumped against the cushions, chest heaving.

Taylor came back up, kissed her — first her inner thighs, then her stomach, then her lips.

Karlie pulled her close, and Taylor melted into her arms. Their mouths met again, slower this time, and something in the pressure of Karlie’s kiss changed.

Taylor gasped as Karlie’s hand slid down her back, under the curve of her ass, fingers dipping between her thighs with purpose.

“Let me,” Karlie whispered.

Taylor nodded, already breathless.

Karlie moved with care, with certainty. Her fingers found Taylor’s heat and slipped inside easily, her thumb pressing just enough to make Taylor cry out.

She curled her fingers, slow at first, letting Taylor grind against her hand, finding rhythm together.

Then deeper.

Then faster.

Their foreheads pressed together, mouths brushing, breath caught between gasps.

Taylor moaned, body trembling, her thighs shaking as Karlie brought her higher.

“Don’t stop,” Taylor begged. “Please, please—”

Karlie kissed her hard, deep, fingers relentless now, curling inside as her thumb circled. Taylor broke apart with a sob, crying out into Karlie’s mouth as her orgasm tore through her.

She didn’t come alone.

As Taylor fell into it — Karlie’s fingers still working her through it, their mouths pressed together — Karlie felt her own climax crash back through her, unexpected and raw. Her whole body locked and shook, breath caught, their moans overlapping, echoing.

They came together, tangled in each other, hands locked, foreheads pressed. The world spun around them, but neither let go.

They held each other, rocking gently, pulses erratic, hearts pounding.

Taylor’s hands moved gently across Karlie’s skin, fingertips exploring every rise and dip with reverence. She let her touch linger along the slope of Karlie’s side, then drift down to the gentle curve of her belly. Her palm came to rest there — warm, open, awed.

She shifted slightly, propping herself up on one elbow, and kissed Karlie’s bump. One kiss. Then another. Her lips soft, slow, full of something deeper than words.

Karlie’s breath caught. Her fingers threaded through Taylor’s hair, holding her close. 

Taylor smiled, lips brushing the skin again — just below Karlie’s navel, where the heat of her breath made goosebumps rise. Her mouth moved lower, slower, trailing kisses like silk. Between each one, she whispered things — quiet, tender, hungry things.

“You’re incredible.”

“You’re so beautiful like this.”

“I missed your skin. I missed all of you.”

Her hand moved again, fingers tracing the stretch of Karlie’s inner thigh, then upward, slowly. Deliberately. She didn’t push. She worshipped. Her nails scratched lightly over sensitive skin, just enough to draw another gasp from Karlie’s lips.

Heat stirred again between them — not frantic this time, but molten. Intentional. As if time itself had paused so they could learn each other all over again.

Taylor’s kisses found Karlie’s belly once more. She moaned softly against it, as if the contact alone was enough to undo her.

Karlie’s eyes fluttered shut.

“You’re glowing,” Taylor murmured, dragging her tongue just along the edge of skin and curve.

“That's your fault,” Karlie breathed, her voice thick with warmth and want.

Taylor looked up, eyes dark, smoldering. “Then I’ll never stop.”

She lowered her mouth again, tongue and lips exploring the tautness of Karlie’s body, her cheek brushing the bump, her fingers grazing lightly, possessively. Every touch said: mine. Every kiss whispered: yours.

And Karlie — eyes wide, breath shallow, fingers knotted in Taylor’s hair — could only hold on as Taylor mapped her with desire and devotion alike.

Taylor slumped against Karlie’s chest, her fingers still trembling, her lips pressed against warm, sweat-slick skin.

“You… you always know exactly how to touch me,” she whispered.

Karlie smiled, kissed her temple. “Because you let me see you.”

They stayed like that, bodies wrapped tight, letting the last waves of pleasure ebb and soften. Fingers traced along ribs, over hips, lazy and reverent. Every breath was a thread.

Every heartbeat, a vow.

There was no need to rush.

They had time.

And right now, they had each other.

Each pulse of breath between them a promise: we’re here. We’re still. We’re not going anywhere.

Even long after, when the room was still and their skin slick with sweat, their foreheads stayed pressed together, their fingers still tracing lines no map could hold.

“I’ll never forget this,” Taylor whispered.

“You don’t have to,” Karlie answered. “We’re not dreaming this time.”

 And then — quietly, tenderly — they kissed again. 

They stayed like that for a long while — until their bodies softened, breath slowed, hearts steady beneath skin that still hummed with memory.

Eventually, exhaustion found them.

They lay wrapped in blankets on the couch, still bare beneath them, their bodies tangled and warm. Taylor sat upright, her back nestled into the cushions, and Karlie’s head rested in her lap, hazelnut brown hair damp with sweat and the softness of night.

The room was silent except for the faint tick of a clock and the rhythm of Karlie’s breath. She looked up — eyes steady, wide, open in a way Taylor remembered from a lifetime ago.

And then — gently — the baby moved.

Karlie’s lips parted.

She reached for Taylor’s hand and guided it to her stomach.

Taylor stilled.

Then laughed — soft, in awe, her fingertips curling around the motion she felt beneath them. “Hi,” she whispered to the bump. “It’s me again.”

Karlie’s smile was tired, but real. “They remember.”

Taylor bent slightly, kissed Karlie’s forehead. “How could they not?”

There was a long silence. Not awkward. Just full.

Then Karlie spoke — voice low. Honest.

“He moved out.”

Taylor blinked. “Josh?”

Karlie nodded. “He’s at a hotel. He left the house for the kids. Said it should still feel like home to them.”

Taylor listened, fingers absentmindedly brushing through Karlie’s hair.

“I told him the truth,” Karlie added. “That it’s always been you. That I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Taylor’s heart ached. But not from pain. From the quiet courage of those words.

“What did he say?”

“That he knew. That he’s known since before I did. And that he won’t fight me — but he needs time. And we still need to figure out the rest.”

Taylor swallowed. Let her thumb trace Karlie’s temple.

“I’m here,” she said. “For whatever you need. For the boys. For the baby. For you.”

 Karlie blinked up at her, the look on her face softening into something close to disbelief.

“I want all of it,” Taylor continued, her voice thick with conviction. “I want you. The kids. This life. Whatever form it takes. I want to be part of it — not just behind closed doors. Not this time.”

Karlie reached up and touched her cheek. “Are you sure?”

Taylor nodded. “I talked to Tree. My mom. Austin. We’re going to be careful. Thoughtful. But we’ll do it right.”

She hesitated.

“There’s still the Travis stuff to sort. PR wants it slow — a few more months. But that’s not what I’m worried about.”

Karlie waited.

“I don’t want to hide you,” Taylor said. “Not ever again. Not you, not the boys, not this baby. But I won’t shove you into the spotlight either. We can do this quietly, with intention. But not in shadow. I won’t let the world make us feel small.”

Karlie’s eyes filled.

Taylor leaned down and kissed her. Slow. Firm. Like a vow.

“No more hiding,” she whispered. “Never again.”

Karlie didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

She sat up just enough to kiss Taylor again — slow, grateful, reverent. Her hand slid along Taylor’s jaw, her thumb tracing the soft curve of her cheekbone. Taylor melted into it, her own fingers dancing lightly over Karlie’s side, anchoring her in the moment.

The world outside didn’t matter.

This was theirs.

They stayed like that for a few more minutes— kissing slowly, softly, fingers weaving between each other’s, breath syncing once more. Every touch a reassurance. Every glance a thread pulled tighter between them.

Karlie pulled back just enough to look at her. Her eyes shimmered — not with fear, but with clarity.

She took Taylor’s hand in hers.

“Come with me.”

Taylor followed without a word.

Through the quiet house. Down the hall. Into one of the guest rooms where the lights were low and the sheets still smelled like lavender from the laundry.

Karlie stepped to the side of the bed. Reached for her left hand.

And slid the ring off her finger.

She didn’t say anything.

She placed it gently on the nightstand, the metallic clink impossibly loud in the silence.

Then she turned back to Taylor.

Taylor stepped into her arms, and they sank together onto the bed — curled under the covers, bodies still warm from the night, the space between them now sacred.

No more words. Just the quiet rhythm of shared breath.

And, eventually, sleep — safe, held, and whole.

Together.

Chapter Text

Karlie woke first. Not from a noise. Not from a dream. But from quiet.

Taylor lay beside her — still warm, still close, still there.

Her breathing was soft. Her lashes brushed the tops of her cheeks. She looked younger in sleep — calmer. Like the world couldn’t touch her here.

Karlie watched her for a moment. Let herself look. Let herself feel it.

Taylor smelled like skin. Like coffee. Like home.

The early light came in gentle through the curtain, pooling gold across the sheets and the curve of Taylor’s shoulder. Karlie leaned in, brushed a strand of hair back, and kissed her — soft, barely a whisper against her skin.

She didn’t stir.

But in the hallway outside, the smallest sound reached her ears — a soft, uneven step. One, then two. The creak of a board.

Tiny feet.

Karlie smiled.

Levi.

She slipped quietly from the bed, pulled on Taylor’s sweater from the edge of the chair, and cracked the door.

Levi stood there, rumpled and blinking, one sock half off, dragging his favorite stuffed dinosaur by the tail.

“Mommy?”

Karlie crouched, opened her arms. “Hey, baby.”

He ran into her. Wrapped his arms tight around her neck.

“I’m hungry.”

“I figured.” She kissed the top of his head. “Let’s make something, okay?”

They padded down the hall together, the house still mostly asleep. The kitchen was dim, quiet, the faint tick of the wall clock the only sound.

Karlie set Levi up on a stool, started pulling things from the fridge. Toast. Berries. Oat milk.

Her hands moved by habit, but her body felt slower — heavy in a way that wasn’t tired, just full. The night still lived in her skin. So did Taylor’s touch.

She glanced down at her son, his small hands fumbling with a cup.

And her chest ached — not from pain. From love. From the bigness of it all.

Everything was changing.

But this — this quiet morning with him — this part, she would keep.

She poured him milk, then leaned against the counter, exhaling.

Taylor woke to sunlight on her face.

It was soft, golden — the kind that didn’t demand, only reminded her that morning had arrived.

For a moment, she didn’t move.

The sheets beside her were warm but empty.

 And through the slightly cracked door, she heard the quiet murmur of voices. The unmistakable cadence of Karlie — low and gentle — and the bubbling sounds of a child trying to explain something very important about cereal.

Taylor smiled.

She sat up slowly, stretching, her body still sore in the way that only tenderness can leave behind. She reached for her clothes, pulled on jeans and a hoodie, ran fingers through her hair without a mirror, and stepped barefoot into the hallway.

The scent of toast and oat milk hit her first.

Then the sound of giggles.

When she turned the corner into the kitchen, Levi looked up and gasped.

“TAY-TAY!” he squealed, bouncing off the stool.

Elijah followed, tiny arms already lifting in anticipation.

Taylor caught him easily, lifting him high, spinning him once. He laughed — that sweet, unfiltered kind of laugh that made her ribs ache in the best way.

“Hi, buddy,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Karlie looked up from the counter.

Their eyes met.

And in that quiet second — without a word — Taylor saw everything.

Karlie’s smile wasn’t wide.

It was warm.

There was sleep in her eyes and softness in the way she looked at Taylor, like last night hadn’t been a break from reality, but the beginning of something they were allowed to keep.

Taylor smiled back — tentative, careful — letting Karlie lead.

But Karlie said nothing.

So Taylor didn’t push.

She set Elijah down gently, brushing a crumb from his cheek.

Levi pulled on her sleeve. “You slept here, right?”

Taylor glanced briefly at Karlie, then knelt to his level.

“I did,” she said simply. “I stayed over.”

Levi accepted the answer with a decisive nod. “Cool. We have waffles.”

Taylor laughed.

 Karlie passed her a plate without speaking. Their fingers brushed.

And even though the kitchen filled with the boys' chatter — Elijah humming nonsense songs, Levi explaining the nutritional value of syrup — Taylor felt the moment stretch.

There was love in the air.

Thick, quiet, brave.

And when she sat down beside Karlie — close, but not touching — she didn’t have to say it.

It was all there in the way she looked at her.

 You don’t have to explain. I’m here.

Karlie met her gaze. 

And finally — finally — let her fingers rest lightly on Taylor’s knee, under the table, where the boys couldn’t see.

Taylor exhaled.

And smiled.

They ate in a rhythm that only new mornings allow — quiet, slow, full of glances that said everything without words.

Karlie poured more oat milk into Levi’s cup, cut up pieces of toast for Elijah, and reached for Taylor’s hand under the table once again — not with urgency, just with a steadiness that made Taylor feel like gravity was working differently now.

Taylor helped with the strawberries. Karlie buttered a second round of waffles. Elijah got syrup on his chin and Levi told a joke that made no sense but had them all laughing anyway.

It was domestic. Effortless.

When the plates were cleared and the boys were halfway into a pile of LEGO bricks in the living room, Taylor leaned back in her chair, coffee cooling between her hands, and let herself just look at Karlie.

"You’re glowing again," she said softly.

Karlie raised a brow. “Leftover adrenaline or early-stage chaos?”

Taylor smiled. “A little of both.”

Karlie tilted her head. "You okay?"

Taylor nodded. "I think I am. I think I’m more than okay."

Before Karlie could answer, the sound of the front door opening echoed faintly down the hall.

Rachel appeared moments later, her tote bag slung over one shoulder, sunglasses perched in her hair. She paused when she saw Taylor — standing there barefoot in Karlie’s kitchen.

Her brows lifted slightly. Not in surprise, but in quiet assessment.

Taylor set her mug down and straightened. “Hi. I’m—”

“Taylor,” Rachel finished, stepping forward. “Yeah. I know.”

Her tone wasn’t sharp. Just dry. Measured.

Karlie moved to stand beside her. “Rachel, this is Taylor.”

Rachel gave her a small nod. “Nice to meet you, officially.”

Taylor smiled, nerves flickering at the edges. “You too. Thanks for taking care of the boys.”

Rachel sipped her coffee. “They’re great kids. Just... maybe teach them not to narrate what they hear through floorboards.”

Taylor blushed. Karlie groaned.

Rachel grinned, softening. “Relax. I’ve heard worse. And I’ve seen you make Karlie laugh more this morning than I have in months. So... yeah. Welcome.”

Taylor blinked. “Thank you.”

Rachel moved toward the living room. “Now, I’ll get the boys ready. Thought I’d take them to the park — maybe tire them out before lunch. Give you two some time.”

Taylor’s heart swelled.

At the threshold, Elijah turned.

His big eyes found Taylor.

“Taywor… you stay?” he asked, voice small, tangled in toddler consonants.

 Taylor blinked.

Her throat tightened.

She crouched down to his level, held out her pinky

“Pinky swear.”

Elijah wrapped his tiny finger around hers. “Pwomise?”

Taylor nodded, smiling. “Promise.”

Satisfied, he turned back toward the door.

Levi was too busy trying to fit a plastic dinosaur into the toy bag to notice.

Rachel caught Taylor’s eye as she opened the door. She nodded — nothing big, just a quiet understanding.

And then they were gone.

The house exhaled.

And Taylor was still standing there, pinky slightly raised, smiling like someone who’d just been trusted with something precious.

Taylor turned to Karlie.

 She let herself reach across the counter and really take Karlie’s hand.

Fingers laced.

Eyes full.

Taylor squeezed gently. “Still with me?”

Karlie nodded. “Still with you.”

The silence after the front door closed felt heavier than before — not uncomfortable, just full.

Taylor stood in the middle of the kitchen, still holding the pinky promise like a relic, until she felt Karlie step beside her.

"That was sweet," Karlie said softly.

Taylor looked over. “He’s unreal.”

Karlie nodded, then leaned against the counter beside her, brushing their shoulders together.

For a while, they didn’t say anything.

Then Taylor turned. “We didn’t really talk last night.”

Karlie exhaled. “We didn’t.”

 They made tea in silence — not awkward, just familiar. Steam curled between them as they moved together through the kitchen, shoulders brushing, fingers meeting on mugs.

Later, they sat on the couch — Taylor cross-legged, Karlie curled beside her with her head resting on Taylor’s lap. Their tea steamed quietly on the table in front of them. The light had shifted, warmer now, like the day had taken a breath with them.

Taylor gently ran her fingers through Karlie’s hair, the other hand wrapped around her mug.

"Where do we even start?" Taylor asked softly.

Karlie gave a small laugh. “Josh?”

Taylor nodded. “PR?”

“Your team,” Karlie added. “Your fans. The boys.”

Taylor looked down at her. “Do you want to tell them? The kids. About us?”

Karlie thought for a long moment. “Not yet. They’re small. And the last thing I want is to confuse them when we’re still figuring it out.”

Taylor’s voice dropped. “I don’t want to take anything from them. Or from you.”

Karlie reached for her hand where it rested on her hip. “You’re not. They can have their father and still know this love.”

Taylor blinked, nodding slowly. “I talked to Tree. To my family. They’re with me. But Travis... the announcement still needs time. They want it to look clean. Gentle.”

 Karlie squeezed her fingers. “We don’t owe the world a performance. We owe ourselves honesty.”

Taylor leaned her head back against the couch, eyes closed. “I don’t want to hide you again.”

“You won’t have to.”

“But it’ll take time. And... I want to do it right.”

Karlie shifted slightly to see her better. “Then let’s give it time. Let’s not rush this. The world can wait. We can’t decide our future in a morning.”

Taylor opened her eyes, studying her. “But we can begin it.”

Karlie smiled, reaching up to brush her fingers along Taylor’s jaw. “We already have.”

They stayed like that — Karlie in her lap, Taylor with her hand in her hair — while the tea cooled and the morning light settled around them like permission.

They didn’t solve it all.

Not yet.

The rest of the day unfolded in soft, quiet rhythms.

Rachel returned from the park with the boys just before lunch, their cheeks flushed and hands sticky from ice cream. Elijah ran straight to Karlie, babbling about ducks and mud and a slide that went “sooo fast.” Levi followed, holding out a crumpled leaf like it was treasure.

Taylor had helped Elijah build a shaky tower of blocks while Karlie made lunch, stealing glances over her shoulder now and then. Every time Taylor caught her eye, Karlie would smile — soft, content, like watching something she'd once only dared to imagine now unfolding in real time.

Levi sat on the floor nearby with his dinosaur collection spread out like an archaeological dig. He explained, with great seriousness, the exact difference between a T-Rex and a Spinosaurus — “this one has three claws, see? And that one? He swimmed. Like, in lava.” Taylor nodded solemnly, completely invested.

Elijah grew tired of blocks and climbed into her lap without warning, his blanket trailing behind him. He nestled in, head tucked under her chin.

“ You smeww wike toast ‘gain,” he said, his words muffled in her sweater.

Taylor laughed — a soft, surprised sound — and looked up.

Karlie stood at the counter, holding a plate, watching them. Her expression was unreadable at first — full, layered — and then she smiled. A slow, knowing smile that said: I see this. I see you.

And Taylor smiled back, feeling the weight of something real settle in her chest.

Elijah sighed into her, content.

“I think lunch is ready,” Karlie called gently.

Taylor shifted, lifting Elijah carefully and standing with him still wrapped around her like a koala. Levi trailed behind them, arms full of dinosaurs, insisting that they each pick one to sit beside their plate “so they don’t get lonely.”

They gathered at the island — Karlie plating food, Taylor helping with water cups and napkins, the boys squabbling briefly over which chair was “the fastest.”

Elijah ended up on Taylor’s lap again, gnawing on sliced strawberries and humming nonsense under his breath. Levi told them all — between bites — about the mud puddle he’d jumped in at the park and how his shoes were now “officially squishy forever.”

Karlie looked over at Taylor once, mid-chew, her eyes soft.

Taylor reached for a napkin and brushed Elijah’s cheek. “You got jam on your nose, buddy.”

He blinked up at her, then leaned forward and smushed his face into her sweater, laughing.

Karlie watched them like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

After lunch, the calm returned. The boys were tucked in for their nap with a familiar routine of stories and lullabies.

Karlie slipped away to her office for a scheduled Teams meeting with the leadership team at Kode With Klossy. The door clicked shut behind her.

Taylor stayed behind, quietly clearing the dishes, rinsing plates, stacking cups. The rhythm was oddly grounding. A soft clatter, the hum of the dishwasher, the smell of strawberries still lingering.

She dried her hands and glanced toward Karlie’s closed office door, then reached for her phone and stepped out to the balcony. The air was crisp, the city alive in the distance.

 She called Tree.

"Hey," Taylor said, voice low.

"Hey. You okay?"

Taylor nodded even though Tree couldn’t see her. "Yeah. I just... wanted to talk through something. About the AMAs."

"Still on the fence?" Tree asked gently.

"More like... still figuring out what the message is. If I go. If I don't."

"You don’t have to perform," Tree reminded her. "But showing up means something. Or we wait. Either way, they need an answer soon."

Taylor looked out over the railing. "I’ll decide by tonight."

Tree paused. "And how are you otherwise?"

Taylor smiled faintly. "Trying to hold something real without breaking it."

After they hung up, she returned inside and began folding a dish towel when Karlie appeared in the kitchen again, barefoot, still in her oversized sweater.

"Hey," Taylor said, turning to face her. "Meeting done?"

Karlie nodded. "Everyone's still excited. Lots of logistics. I might need to go to Chicago next month."

 Taylor leaned back against the counter. "Tree asked if I’m still going to the AMAs."

Karlie raised an eyebrow. "Are you?"

Taylor shrugged. "I haven’t decided. I want to be seen... but only if it means something."

Karlie stepped closer, brushing a hand lightly down Taylor’s arm. "You don’t need to decide everything today."

"No," Taylor agreed. "But talking to you helps."

Later that afternoon, while Rachel played with the boys in their rooms — voices and laughter faintly echoing down the hall — Taylor and Karlie curled up on the couch together. Karlie rested her hand over Taylor’s and whispered, "I’m going to miss you."

Taylor turned her head slightly, brushing her nose against Karlie’s temple. "You’ll barely notice I’m gone."

Karlie gave a small smile. "I already do."

She shifted so she could see Taylor’s face more clearly. "But I hope you have a good time. The AMAs... they’ve always meant something to you."

Taylor’s chest tightened, full of warmth and ache all at once. She tucked a strand of hair behind Karlie’s ear and murmured, "It never really felt right without you."

Her voice dipped lower, thoughtful. "Do you remember 2014? The AMAs?"

Karlie blinked. "Of course. You performed 'Blank Space.' You won Artist of the Year."

 Taylor smiled faintly. "And you were there. Right behind Selena. I had to hug her first, remember? Label optics. They said I couldn't go straight to you — that it would look 'too personal.'"

Karlie gave a small laugh. "I remember thinking how strange that felt. Pretending."

Taylor nodded slowly. "We were already together by then. But in that moment... I had to perform the version of myself they approved of. Not the one that just wanted to grab your hand."

Karlie’s fingers tightened slightly around hers. "I knew. And I waited."

Taylor looked at her, eyes steady. "That night stayed with me. Because even when I won, even when the whole room cheered — it still felt a little wrong. Because I couldn’t turn to you first."

She paused, a soft laugh catching in her throat. "I couldn’t wait to get in the SUV after. I remember sitting there next to you, and I just leaned in and kissed you — deep and real, like I’d been holding my breath all night. Selena was with us, and she went, 'Hello? I'm right here.'"

Karlie laughed, eyes bright. "Classic Selena."

Taylor grinned. "And Tree, sitting in the front seat, just muttered to Selena, 'You know I have to professionally endure this level of drama every day, right?'"

Karlie blinked. Then rolled her eyes fondly. "She helped write the NDAs, Tay. She coordinated half the press lines with my team.

"Tree was one of the first to know, actually. She helped make sure everything between us — the public side — stayed framed as friendship. Quiet but careful. She knew what was at stake. But in that SUV, she let us have our moment. Even with Selena fake-gagging in the corner like we were a rom-com."

"She did that thing where she rolled her eyes and said, 'Ugh, you two are insufferable,'" Karlie added, giggling.

"And then offered us gum like a chaperone," Taylor finished, eyes shining with the memory.

Karlie grinned. "She totally did."

"I just—" Taylor looked away briefly, then back. "I missed you all night. Even when you were right there. I wanted to be near you, not behind the stage lights or stuck in someone else’s narrative. Just us." The light was golden, drifting in through the windows. Karlie rested her head on Taylor’s shoulder, one hand trailing along her arm. Taylor held her close, their bodies tucked together in a kind of quiet that asked for nothing more than presence.

Taylor didn’t have a bag to pack. She’d come without one, unplanned. She would have stayed that way if not for the flight.

Karlie shifted slightly against her, her voice barely more than a murmur. "I hate that you're leaving."

Taylor exhaled through her nose, leaning her cheek against Karlie's hair. "I know. Me too."

"Promise you'll come back soon?" Karlie asked, her fingers trailing soft lines along Taylor's forearm.

"I promise," Taylor said.

The boys’ laughter echoed faintly from the hallway, mingled with Rachel’s voice.

Taylor looked at Karlie, their foreheads touching now. "We’ll figure this out. One day at a time."

Karlie nodded and closed her eyes for a moment, breathing her in.

Eventually, reluctantly, she untangled herself.

Taylor gathered her things slowly. A sweater. Her phone charger. The empty coffee cup from earlier that had somehow ended up next to the bookshelf. She didn’t want to rush — didn’t want to leave — but her flight wouldn’t wait.

She hugged Karlie at the door. A real hug. Full-bodied. Lingering.

Then she crouched and hugged both boys.

Elijah wrapped his arms around her neck and whispered, "You come back ‘gain?"

Taylor kissed his cheek. "Yeah, buddy. I will."

She didn’t look back as the door closed behind her.

One of her security team was already waiting by the elevator, professional but kind-eyed. Taylor slipped on her sunglasses, tucked her phone in her pocket, and followed him out.

The car was quiet. Familiar. They drove in companionable silence, Taylor watching the city roll by — its corners, its breath, its old memories.

First stop: her apartment downtown. Just long enough to shower, change clothes, and grab her L.A. bag.

The moment she stepped inside, the stillness hit her. The apartment was silent — no paws on the floor, no sleepy feline eyes blinking up at her. Meredith, Olivia, and Benjamin were still in Rhode Island. The absence felt louder than any noise.

She wandered briefly through the living room, set her phone on the table, and touched the edge of the piano without pressing a key.

It used to feel like a fortress. Now it just felt hollow.

She moved through the motions: stepped into the shower, let the water wash away the hours. Changed into fresh clothes. Before she pulled her carry-on from the closet, she knelt by the old dresser and opened the second drawer. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, was the pale pink box — still there, untouched since the night after the Met.

She didn’t lift it out this time.

She just opened the lid.

The familiar items greeted her quietly: a handful of photos, a flattened daisy, and the fine gold 'K' necklace that lay coiled like it remembered her.

Taylor reached in and lifted only the necklace, cradling it in her hand for a moment before fastening it around her neck.

The charm settled just over her heartbeat.

The box she closed gently and left in its drawer — exactly where it had always lived.

Chapter Text

Her body was in motion, but her thoughts kept drifting — to Elijah’s laugh, to Levi’s dinosaur facts, to Karlie’s eyes across the kitchen counter.

She stood in the middle of her apartment, the silence pressing in. No sound but the low hum of the city through double-glazed windows. No paw-steps. No voices. Just her heartbeat, and the weight of all the things she didn’t want to leave behind.

Then—

"OH. MY. GOD, TAYLOR!"

She jolted violently, the guitar case nearly slipping from her fingers.

"TREE!?" Taylor turned, hand flying to her chest. "Jesus Christ! You can’t just—! How did you even—?"

Tree stood in the doorway, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on her head, eyes sharp. "I texted you. Three times. Called you twice. Knocked for a solid minute. Then I used the key. And your name. Loudly. Several times."

Taylor stared at her, still catching her breath. "Okay, but next time maybe don’t materialize behind me like a ghost in Louboutins."

Tree smirked. "Duly noted."

Her gaze softened as it landed on the necklace around Taylor's neck.

"Is that—?" she asked.

Taylor looked down. Her fingers had unconsciously settled over the gold 'K' charm.

"Yeah," she murmured. "I never got rid of it. Never threw it away. I just... needed to see it again."

Tree nodded slowly. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, the sound soft but final.

"You’re not packed."

"Not yet."

"And your flight leaves in three hours."

Taylor exhaled. "I know."

Tree moved toward her, then sat on the coffee table across from the couch. There was no judgment in her voice, only concern.

"Want to tell me what’s really going on?"

Taylor hesitated. Then she sat, the guitar case at her feet like a relic.

"I don’t want to go," she said. "Not to the AMAs. Not to L.A. Not today."

Tree tilted her head. "What are you afraid will happen if you do?"

Taylor stared at the floor. "That I’ll forget how this feels."

"How what feels?"

"Real. Unfiltered. Like I belong somewhere without having to perform for it."

Tree was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Tell me about this morning."

Taylor looked up. "Elijah woke up first. Climbed onto my lap with his blanket. Said I smelled like toast. Levi was giving me a lecture on the dietary needs of carnivorous dinosaurs. Karlie was making waffles in one of my sweaters."

Tree smiled softly. "Sounds like a moment worth staying in."

"It was," Taylor whispered. "It is."

"And now you're afraid that if you go to L.A., you'll lose that version of yourself."

"Yes. Not just her. Them. That rhythm. That gravity."

Tree leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Taylor, you've been two people for so long. One who sings and shines for the world, and one who craves quiet places to be loved in. It's okay to choose one for a while."

"But won’t people be disappointed?"

"Some will. But the people who love you won't be. And the people who matter? They already know the truth. Most of them just need permission to say it out loud."

Taylor looked away, her fingers playing with the charm again. "I want to stay. I want to pick dinosaurs and clean syrup off cheeks and fall asleep on the couch with Karlie reading beside me."

Tree stood up and moved to the window, pulling back the curtain. The morning sun spilled in across the floor.

"Then stay."

Taylor turned toward her, almost breathless. "Can I really?"

Tree turned to meet her eyes. "Yes. And you don’t need to manage the fallout. I will."

Taylor blinked. "You'd do that for me?"

"I've been doing that for you. But this? This is the easiest call I’ll make all week. You want to be honest? I can work with that. We can reframe the appearance. Quiet health focus. Needing to be grounded. Hell, we can say you're working on something personal. It's not a lie."

"And you won't be mad?"

"Mad? Taylor, you came back to life this week. I watched it happen. I'm proud of you."

Taylor's throat tightened. She stood, crossed the room, and hugged Tree without warning. Arms tight. Gratitude fierce.

"Thank you," she murmured into her shoulder.

Tree hugged her back. "Don't thank me. Just... go live it. The real thing. That’s the story worth protecting."

Taylor stepped back, her hand still clutching the charm around her neck.

Tree, already pulling out her phone. "I'm going to call everyone else. This time, you don’t need to explain yourself to anyone."

Taylor nodded.

The apartment was quieter without Taylor. Not empty, but still. A pause in the rhythm Karlie hadn’t realized she’d learned to love.

Rachel had taken the boys to the park again, her voice echoing down the hallway as they wrangled jackets and dinosaurs. Karlie had kissed Elijah’s head and straightened Levi’s backpack, her mind already shifting ahead, but her heart lagged behind.

Today, she had to perform. Not for a red carpet, but for a microphone. Not for flashbulbs, but for conversation.

The interview was scheduled weeks ago—a sit-down for a popular women-led podcast, one that had gone viral for its mix of politics, parenting, and personal truth. The host, Isa Moreno, was sharp and thoughtful. Karlie had liked her immediately. She’d agreed to the interview on a day when her world still felt different. Still orderly. Still defined.

She stood in the kitchen now, barefoot in leggings, sipping lukewarm coffee while her team filled the space around her like stagehands behind a curtain.

A stylist unpacked a garment bag and held up a silk cream blouse and tailored navy slacks. "You’re glowing today, Karlie."

Karlie glanced up, blinking as if pulled out of a fog. She gave a small smile. "I’m happy," she said simply. And she was. But the word didn’t capture the whole of it. It wasn’t just happiness. It was a sense of something settling. Something blooming.

She stepped into the bathroom to change, slipping into the blouse, tucking it neatly, smoothing the fabric down over her frame. The stylist added soft waves to her hair, brushed a warm hue of color across her cheeks, and dabbed on a rose-toned gloss.

"You don’t need much," she said. "Whatever you did yesterday, keep doing it."

Karlie gave a light laugh. She reached for her phone without thinking, fingers already composing a message.

K: Hope your flight was smooth. Levi tried to toast his dinosaur.

She didn’t expect an immediate reply—but her phone buzzed within seconds.

T: Tell Levi his dino would make an excellent waffle. And I missed you more.

Karlie smiled, thumb hovering. She considered asking more. She wanted to. But she also didn’t want to interrupt. Taylor had a huge night ahead. Red carpet. Press. The AMAs were never just an event—they were a storm.

K: Don’t forget to eat something. And breathe. I’ll be watching.

T: Always breathing easier with you.

Karlie read the message twice. Then once more. She tucked her phone away and returned to the living room, shoulders held just a little higher, her pulse a little steadier.

She didn’t know that Taylor wouldn’t be at the AMAs at all.

She didn’t know that somewhere, Taylor was pacing her own quiet apartment, her own chest full of a decision she hadn’t told anyone but Tree.

She only knew what the silence didn’t say.

And right now, that was enough.

By the time Isa arrived with a two-person crew, the apartment had transformed. Soft lights. Quiet focus. Water glasses on coasters. The buzz of professionalism layered like a veil over everything else.

They got through the pre-chat easily, laughing at the chaos of toddler mornings and the illusion of work-life balance. When the mics were clipped and Isa gave her the cue, Karlie straightened her spine and smiled. A practiced smile, but not an empty one.

The red light blinked on.

ISA: "Let’s talk about public vs. private. You’re someone who has always moved between those worlds — fashion, tech, philanthropy, now motherhood. How do you keep anything for yourself?"

KARLIE: laughs softly "Honestly? It’s a moving target. I used to think privacy meant secrecy, and that if you weren’t sharing it, maybe it didn’t count. But I don’t believe that anymore. Some of the most sacred parts of my life are the ones no one knows about. And that doesn’t make them less real — it makes them more mine."

ISA: "Was that a hard shift for you?"

KARLIE: "Yes. Especially in an industry where visibility can feel like currency. But becoming a mother changed everything. It made me more intentional. If something doesn’t feel rooted in truth, I won’t offer it."

ISA: "You mentioned truth. What’s a truth you’ve recently learned about yourself?"

KARLIE: pauses "That I can hold more than one story at once. That love and grief and growth and uncertainty can coexist. And that letting go of a version of your life doesn’t mean it wasn’t beautiful. It just means you’re making space for what’s next."

ISA: "That’s brave."

KARLIE: smiles "It’s necessary."

ISA: "You talk a lot about intentionality. Has that always been part of your nature, or did something lead you there?"

KARLIE: "Honestly? I think I learned it the hard way. I used to rush through seasons of my life. Always on to the next shoot, the next campaign, the next city. But now? I want to linger. I want to feel everything—even the hard stuff. Especially the hard stuff. Because that’s where clarity lives."

ISA: "And how does co-parenting fit into that?"

KARLIE: "It’s another kind of growth. Josh and I respect each other deeply. And respect doesn’t disappear when love changes shape. We are raising two small, curious humans. That’s sacred work. And we do it as a team."

ISA: "Do you ever feel misunderstood?"

KARLIE: softly "Sometimes. But I’m learning to care less about perception and more about alignment. If it feels right in my body, in my home, in my heart—then that’s my measure now."

ISA: quiet "That’s a powerful place to live from."

KARLIE: "It is. And it’s still new.“

After the interview wrapped and the team began packing up, Isa hugged her goodbye. "You’re one of the most gracious people I’ve ever sat with."

Karlie smiled. "Thanks for asking real questions."

They exchanged one last knowing look—the kind shared between women who have stopped performing for the world and started choosing themselves.

Her hand drifted to her stomach. Not out of instinct, but out of presence. She had carried two lives into the world. She was still carrying a third: her own.

She let the silence linger. Let the air settle.

Then her phone buzzed. A message from Taylor.

T: How did it go?

Karlie stared at the screen for a long moment before typing back.

K: They asked about the boys. About growth. About Josh. I told the truth. Not all of it. But enough.

A pause. Then another buzz.

T: I miss you.

Karlie smiled to herself. Her chest ached in that quiet, beautiful way that only truth can make space for.

She stood. Picked up the sweater and pulled it over her head.

It was later in the afternoon when Karlie heard the door swing open with a flurry of noise.

"No! It’s mine!"

"You said I could have it in the park!"

"You can’t even SPELL pterodactyl!"

Karlie blinked, still seated on the couch, as the chaos rolled through the hallway and into the living room. Rachel appeared first, hair windblown, cheeks flushed, holding one boy by the wrist and the other by the elbow.

"We had... an afternoon," she said flatly, then added under her breath, "Send help."

Levi was crying because Elijah had stepped on his drawing. Elijah was crying because Levi yelled too loudly. Both were sticky from snacks and brimming with righteous indignation. Their jackets were half off, their shoes barely hanging on, and Rachel's purse had a crushed juice box leaking into the side pocket. Karlie could see grass stains on Levi’s pants and dried oatmeal on Elijah’s sleeve. There was a twig in someone's hair. She didn’t want to know whose.

Karlie didn’t even stand. She just pressed her palms to her knees and exhaled, long and slow.

"Welcome back to motherhood," she muttered.

"No kidding," Rachel said, already heading for the kitchen. "I need caffeine or a time machine. Possibly both."

The next two hours were a blur of mismatched socks, loud demands, stubborn refusals, and negotiations over who got the blue plate. Karlie and Rachel worked like an old comedy duo—trading off toddler meltdowns, refilling water cups, singing made-up songs to redirect tantrums, and wiping jam off every surface in sight. Levi demanded that his Paw Patrol figurines supervise dinner prep. Elijah insisted his dinosaur wear a bib. Someone dropped a full cup of oat milk. Twice. And no one confessed.

At one point, Elijah stood in the middle of the living room and declared, arms flung wide and face full of drama, "I don’t wike ruwwwws!"

Rachel, without missing a beat, muttered, "Same," while pouring oat milk into sippy cups like a bartender on her third double shift.

Later, when Karlie tried to hand Elijah a clean shirt after a juice spill, he crossed his arms and shouted, "No, Mommy! Iss too biiiig! I wan' my ducky shirt!"

"Your ducky shirt is in the laundry, remember?" Karlie said gently, crouching to his level.

"But I neeeeed it! My ducky wikes me best!"

Meanwhile, Levi was in full meltdown mode in the hallway because he couldn’t find the tail to his Spinosaurus toy, even though it was clearly attached. In his other hand, he clutched Rubble from Paw Patrol like a battle companion. "It’s not the riiiight tail! Rubble says it looks wrong and he’s da boss!"

Karlie exchanged a glance with Rachel, who just shrugged. "Apparently Rubble’s in charge now."

Karlie had to bite back a laugh. She smoothed Elijah's curls back from his sticky forehead. "Okay, buddy. Let's find your ducky shirt tomorrow. What if Rubble watches over your dinosaur tonight and makes sure no one messes with his tail?"

Elijah sniffled. "Tank you, Mommy. You’re da bestes." He threw his arms around her neck, melting into her shoulder. Then he looked up with wide eyes. "Can we do waffles now? Pweeeease? Wif stwawbewwies and syrup and not da smooshy kind?"

Dinner became a chaotic collage of half-eaten toast, spilled oat milk, and giggles. Levi demanded an extra chair for Chase to sit in. Elijah requested the blue plate, then the red, then finally decided he would eat off Karlie's lap.

Karlie didn’t try to force quiet. She didn’t reach for her phone. She didn’t even look at the clock.

This was the rhythm of her life. The one no camera caught. The one no interview transcript could hold. The one where her sweater got peanut butter on the sleeve and she didn’t even flinch.

She missed the quiet. She missed the glow of the morning. She missed the stillness of the interview room and the feeling of soft, unseen threads tying her back to Taylor. But this—this sticky, loud, imperfect mess—was just as much hers.

Later, after baths that ended in puddles, and pajama debates, and a full five-minute protest over which toothbrush had more sparkles, the boys were finally tucked into bed. Levi had all four Paw Patrol figures lined up beside him like tiny sentinels. Elijah clutched a sock-wearing dinosaur in one hand and his backup ducky shirt in the other.

Rachel collapsed on the sofa with a mug of tea and a groan that came from her soul.

"Why do they have the energy of a music festival and the logic of a sleep-deprived raccoon?"

Karlie laughed, curled up beside her.

Rachel looked at the mess around them—crumbs on the rug, a spilled box of crayons under the table, mismatched socks draped over a lamp. "I should clean up before bed."

Karlie shook her head and nudged Rachel gently. "Leave it. The chaos will still be here tomorrow."

Rachel hesitated, then smiled. "You’re probably right."

She stood, stretched, and headed toward the hallway. "Night."

"Good night," Karlie called after her.

Alone now, Karlie pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped both hands around her mug. The living room was a war zone of toys and laundry and toddler imagination. A tower of blocks leaned dangerously to the left. A half-eaten waffle sat abandoned on a side table. One of the Paw Patrol figurines had mysteriously lost its hat.

She exhaled slowly.

Then she picked up the remote and turned on the TV.

The AMAs were just starting. The red carpet coverage was in full swing—flashes, sequins, voices rising over the din of paparazzi calls. Hosts were commenting on gowns and suits, on who was wearing who, on rumored tensions and expected performances.

Karlie watched, her eyes scanning the screen.

She didn’t expect to see Taylor yet. Taylor always arrived late. It was a strategy—to avoid the worst of the frenzy, to slip in at just the right moment.

Karlie sipped her tea.

Her phone buzzed again.

A flutter in her chest.

She picked it up quickly, half-hoping.

Nothing. Just a news alert. Someone else on the carpet.

Karlie sighed.

She'd sent a message earlier. Just a soft check-in: "You good? Everything feel okay tonight?" No read receipt. No dots. Nothing.

Maybe she was already backstage. Maybe Tree had her phone, like always before big events. Or maybe Taylor had turned it off on purpose—protecting her headspace, her energy.

Karlie tried to tell herself it made sense. That it wasn’t personal.

But her gut didn’t believe it.

The clock in the corner of the screen read 7:34. Twenty-six minutes to showtime. The hosts had begun teasing surprise performances, speculating about red carpet no-shows.

Still no Taylor.

Karlie stared at the screen, heart ticking faster than the countdown.

Maybe she had walked in without cameras. Maybe they were saving her appearance for maximum impact. Maybe she’d be onstage in thirty minutes, looking like the universe had bent to dress her.

But somewhere beneath all that hope, something deeper flickered.

Doubt.

Not in Taylor.

But in the story Karlie had let herself believe: that tonight, they'd still be reaching toward each other, even if from across a red carpet.

She hugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

The chaos of the day had finally gone still.

But inside her, something had just begun to stir.

She looked down at the soft rise of her stomach, the place that had started to feel less like a secret and more like a promise. Gently, she set her hand there, her thumb brushing the fabric of her sweater.

"Hey, baby," she whispered. Her voice was barely more than breath. "You’re not even here yet, but I can already tell how much you're going to shake everything up."

She exhaled slowly.

"You’re going to have two super chaotic big brothers," she murmured with a smile. "And a papa who loves you. And... maybe, just maybe, someone else who’s going to fall completely in love with you the second she sees you."

Her hand rested lightly against her belly.

"I can’t wait for her to meet you. I think... I think she’s already waiting for that moment too."

She closed her eyes briefly. Her back ached. A deep, dull throb that radiated across her hips. Her temples pulsed gently from the long day, too much light, too much emotion.

"How is this all going to work?" she whispered. "How are we going to make this whole messy life make sense again?"

She inhaled. Exhaled. Tried to stay with that thought.

But before she could spiral, a knock sounded at the front door.

Karlie blinked.

No one ever knocked here. The front entrance to her townhouse was only accessible via the private elevator from the garage. Delivery drivers left things downstairs with security. Anyone else—anyone unexpected—would be announced first.

Her brows pulled together.

Maybe it was Josh? Maybe he forgot something. Wanted to pick up extra stuff.

But he would've texted.

And security would've called. Wouldn't they?

She set her mug down and slowly rose from the couch, one hand pressed to her lower back.

The movement made her wince. Her spine protested, tired and stiff from the long day. Her neck pulsed with a dull ache. She pressed a hand to her belly for balance.

The knock came again. Softer this time.

She walked slowly to the door, each step cautious. Curious.

And just a little afraid.

Taylor stared at her phone, the notes app open in front of her. The glowing screen illuminated the shadows inside the SUV as it hummed through the city streets. She read the list again, each item loaded with more than it said.

To Get:

• Donuts (Paw Patrol if possible)
• Citrus soda (the one she liked that summer)
• Salty + sweet snacks
• That face mask with the lavender she always hoarded
• Lip balm (mint, not vanilla)

She added a space below the last line, then backspaced it. There was nothing else to write. Nothing else she could think of that would say what she needed to say without actually saying it out loud.

This wasn’t a care package. It wasn’t an apology, or a grand gesture, or even a plan. It was a memory map. A thread of small things that had once made Karlie smile. And maybe still could.

Taylor shifted in the seat, pulling her hoodie tighter across her chest. Her sunglasses were still on, though the light was fading. She felt like a ghost and a getaway driver at the same time—half-present, half-hiding. Familiar territory. Moving through the city as someone almost invisible.

The first stop was the donut shop. The one she remembered Karlie had liked when they were still sneaking through quiet mornings and pretending the world wasn’t watching. They didn’t have the Paw Patrol ones.

She sent her security to another.

And waited.

Waited like every minute was part of a countdown she hadn’t started.

The second place had them. Mini donuts shaped like little cartoon dogs, colored icing and candy eyes and ridiculous smiles. Perfect. Over the top. Exactly what Levi and Elijah would love. Exactly what Karlie would laugh at while pretending not to steal one for herself.

The next item took longer. The citrus soda wasn’t easy to find. Some strange, organic label that only existed in boutique groceries and was discontinued twice. But she remembered it. The way Karlie had sipped it through a paper straw on that Fourth of July—at that ridiculous backyard party in Long Island, the one with the inflatable water slide and neon glow bracelets everywhere.

Karlie had worn cutoff shorts and a tank top, barefoot most of the day, hair tied up in a messy bun. She’d grabbed a soda from the cooler, took one sip, and immediately burst into laughter when the fizz hit her too fast.

"It tried to assassinate me!" she’d said, half-choking, the straw shooting foam back into the bottle.

Taylor had doubled over, laughing so hard she spilled her own drink.

She remembered that sound. That joy. And she needed it again.

She texted the instructions to her team from the back seat.

Only green label. Not the orange. Citrus but not too sweet. And sparkling, not flat. It has to fizz.

The third store finally had it. Three bottles. She asked them to buy all three.

The snacks were easy. A mix of things she remembered Karlie liked when she couldn’t decide: sea salt kettle chips and chocolate-covered almonds. She added honey licorice last-minute. It had been a craving once. Maybe it still was.

The face masks came from a tiny beauty shop she’d passed on impulse. Lavender-scented. Karlie’s favorite kind. She remembered because Karlie always said they made her feel like she could breathe again after too many days of interviews and heels.

Taylor picked two. Then three. Then bought five.

And the lip balm—mint. Always mint. Vanilla had never worked for Karlie. She said it tasted like pretending.

By the time everything was gathered, the tote bag was full. Too full. It looked ridiculous, probably. But Taylor didn’t care.

She sat back in the car, staring at the bag in her lap, her guitar beside her.

Every item was a sentence she couldn’t quite say.

And maybe, just maybe, Karlie would hear it anyway.

Marty wasn’t easily convinced. Not even by her.

"Taylor," he had said, voice firm but not unkind, arms crossed in front of the private elevator entrance, "you know how this works. No name, no clearance, no entry. Not even for you."

She had pulled her sunglasses off and looked him dead in the eyes. "I know. But it’s me. And she needs to see me."

Marty had stared at her for a long moment. Then down at the tote bag, the guitar, the extra-large iced coffee her driver had added without asking.

"You bring bribes now?"

"She has cravings. And I have... regrets."

Something in her voice must have landed.

He sighed and keyed the elevator. "Five minutes. And if she calls security on you, I’m pretending I never saw you."

Taylor grinned. "Deal."

And now she stood outside Karlie’s door, overloaded, breath catching.

She knocked once.

Nothing.

She knocked again, this time softer.

The door opened.

Karlie stood there, hair messy, face tired, eyes unreadable. For a second, everything stilled.

Taylor couldn’t speak.

Karlie stepped forward, eyes blazing, set her hands on either side of Taylor’s face, and kissed her hard.

Between kisses, she whispered, broken and breathless:

"What the fu—"

Another kiss.

"—are you doing here—"

Another kiss.

"—I love you."

Taylor dropped the tote bag.

And kissed her back.

She pulled back only an inch. Just enough to see her.

Karlie’s hands were still framing her face, thumbs brushing the damp edges of her eyes.

"You should be in L.A.," Karlie whispered, voice tight, trembling.

Taylor met her gaze, steady and clear. "That doesn’t feel important right now."

And then she kissed her again. Not rushed. Not chaotic. Just full. Steady. Like a promise.

The air between them pulsed. And for a second, it was like the world had narrowed to this doorway. To this breath.

When they finally pulled apart, Taylor bent down, picked up the tote bag, and held it between them.

"I brought snacks," she said softly, with the hint of a smile. "And some very embarrassing Paw Patrol donuts. Want to watch a really boring award show with me?"

Karlie blinked.

Then laughed.

And pulled her inside.

Chapter Text

They curled up on the couch with their hair pulled back and lavender face masks setting slowly over their skin. A tower of snacks teetered on the coffee table: open chip bags, the soda in glass tumblers, a half-eaten donut shaped like Chase from Paw Patrol, a bowl of popcorn that was rapidly disappearing, and a small plate with peanut butter pretzels that Taylor had brought just for Karlie.

The TV glowed quietly in front of them. The AMAs were on, hosted by Jennifer Lopez, but even her charisma couldn’t save it. The pacing was off, the jokes fell flat, and the performances felt phoned in. Even more baffling—some of the so-called "live" performances weren’t live at all. Blake Shelton and Gwen Stefani had both been promoted as headliners, but neither was present. Instead, their performances played as pre-recorded clips on massive screens, leaving the crowd confused and unimpressed.

Taylor raised a brow. "Wait. Didn’t they say this was live?"

Karlie shook her head slowly. "Apparently not. I read somewhere they recorded that last week. Blake didn’t even fly in. Gwen’s set was stitched together from two rehearsal takes."

One awkward presenter introduction made Karlie snort. "I swear they wrote that five minutes ago on a napkin."

Taylor cracked up. "No way. That was a Post-it note at best."

A forgettable pop performance played next. Taylor reached for the chips, Karlie stole some nuts, their fingers brushing. For a moment, the static of the world dimmed. This was the quiet magic they hadn’t realized they’d been missing.

"This is like watching a rehearsal where no one knows they're on stage," Taylor added, shaking her head.

"A very expensive, sparkly rehearsal," Karlie said with a chuckle, reaching for a chocolate-covered almond and popping it in her mouth.

Taylor grabbed her phone and quietly opened her burner X account. Her timeline was chaos.

"Why does this feel like the dress rehearsal they forgot to cancel?"

"Did JLo forget her mic was on? Or was that supposed to be a joke?"

"Blink twice if you’re being held hostage by this production."

Taylor snorted so hard she nearly choked, one hand over her mouth as Karlie looked at her with amused concern.

"Reading the live tweets?"

"My guilty pleasure. This is gold."

They kissed between bites. Between eye rolls. Between the quiet awe of remembering how simple love could feel. Between the nonsense of bad choreography and sequins that caught the light too aggressively. Between everything they’d survived.

Karlie leaned her head against Taylor's shoulder, her voice low and warm. "You made it just in time for the worst award show ever."

Taylor grinned, pressing a kiss to Karlie’s temple, letting her lips linger for just a breath longer. "Perfect. Wouldn't want to miss this disaster with anyone else."

After another performance started—this one featuring far too many lasers and a backup dancer visibly out of sync—Taylor turned slightly toward Karlie. "Hey… where are the boys? It’s a little too quiet."

Karlie smiled knowingly, fingers grazing Taylor’s knee. "Rachel worked her magic. Got them to bed early. After today, it was a heroic act. I think she knew we needed this night."

Taylor chuckled. Her chest swelled with something she hadn’t let herself feel in a while—belonging. Real, bone-deep peace.

Just then, her phone buzzed. A message from Tree.

Tree: You’re missing the biggest trainwreck of the season. Proud of you. Stay put. Stay soft.

Taylor laughed and turned the screen to Karlie.

"Tree’s reviewing the AMAs like it’s a sporting event."

"Well, it’s definitely full-contact cringe," Karlie replied, snuggling closer. "I mean, I almost pulled a muscle from secondhand embarrassment."

Another buzz. Cara.

Cara: So… apparently I was scheduled to present and you were a ‘maybe’—and neither of us showed up? Ha. Iconic. You owe me chips.

Taylor grinned at the screen. Cara had been the only one who knew she might not show—and even then, it hadn’t been confirmed. Cara was slated to present an award and had bailed without warning.

Taylor typed: Deal. I’ll even throw in a donut shaped like Chase from Paw Patrol.

Cara: Fair. That show was a disaster. I lasted long enough to wave at one camera and climb back into the SUV.

Taylor chuckled, then added quietly, “Didn’t even win anything tonight.”

Karlie looked over. “Would you have cared?”

Taylor shook her head. “Not really. I’m right where I want to be.”

Meanwhile, fans on Taylor’s burner timeline were spiraling.

"WHERE IS TAYLOR?" "Did anyone else notice Tree’s here but not her??" "She’s not backstage. She’s not in the building. The AMAs are CANCELLED."

Karlie peeked again, resting her chin on Taylor’s shoulder. "They really love you. Even when you’re not there."

Then she glanced at the tumbler of soda on the table. "Wait a second… is that—?" She picked it up and took another sip. Her eyes widened. "Is this the citrus soda I loved back at that Fourth of July party?"

Taylor grinned, her face lighting with quiet pride. "The exact one. I had someone hunt it down. You used to drink it all day at that party—the one with the giant inflatable water slide and the glow sticks everywhere. You ran around in that red swimsuit, screaming with a popsicle in one hand and a sparkler in the other."

Karlie laughed, the sound full and unfiltered. "I totally wiped out at the bottom and had grass in my hair all night."

"And you drank this the entire time," Taylor said. "You said it tasted like fireworks and summer skin."

Karlie clutched the tumbler to her chest. "I can’t believe you remembered."

Taylor’s voice dropped to something fierce and gentle. "I remember everything. Especially the things that made you happy."

They stayed curled together as another forgettable act filled the screen. Taylor wiped a flake of mask from Karlie’s cheek. Karlie traced her wrist with a fingertip. The intimacy was unspoken but overwhelming.

The room felt like it was humming with something holy.

As the show dragged into a final, surprise segment, Karlie let out a theatrical sigh. "This entire show feels like a badly rehearsed teen soap."

Taylor chuckled. "Yeah, like a high school talent show that forgot to rehearse."

Karlie turned to her, mischief dancing in her eyes. "So... want me to act like I’m in my twenties again?"

Taylor raised a brow. "Surprise me."

Karlie stood up dramatically, then climbed into Taylor’s lap, straddling her thighs. Her hands slid into Taylor’s hair, fingers threading through familiar strands as she leaned in. Then she started kissing her like a teenager sneaking away from curfew—wild, breathless, all teeth and heat and longing.

Taylor gasped against her mouth, then laughed, trying to keep them both balanced. "Careful—one of us is pregnant, and it’s not me."

Karlie grinned wickedly, her lips brushing Taylor’s as she whispered, "Shut up and hold me."

Taylor’s hands moved instinctively to her hips, then lower, cupping her gently to keep her steady. "Always."

Their kisses slowed, softened, melted into something aching and reverent. Karlie kissed down her jaw, then back to her lips, her breath trembling from laughter and want. Her belly pressed between them.

Then—

A gentle nudge from inside Karlie’s belly.

She pulled back with a gasp, laughter catching in her throat as she placed both hands over the swell. "Well. Someone has thoughts."

Taylor’s hand joined hers, palm warm and steady. She looked down, and with a soft smile, she reached for the hem of Karlie’s sweatshirt. She lifted it gently, just enough to reveal the smooth curve of Karlie’s belly.

Then, with reverence and something like awe in her eyes, she leaned down and kissed it. A quiet, tender kiss that said more than any words could. Her fingers rested on either side of the bump, holding it like it was the most precious truth in the room.

Karlie watched her, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. "You should be in L.A."

Taylor looked up, her lips still brushing Karlie’s skin. "This is more important. You are more important."

Karlie exhaled shakily. "You really remembered that soda."

Taylor gave her belly one more kiss. "I remember everything."

They looked at each other, soft and full and utterly in love.

Taylor kissed her again—slow, reverent. The kind of kiss that rewrites every headline.

And then, the AMAs were finally over.

Karlie yawned, her body sagging into Taylor’s chest. “God, I’m tired.”

Taylor stood, brushing a crumb from her shirt, and started quietly tidying the living room. She collected the half-finished snacks, sealed the chip bags, and stashed the soda tumblers in the sink. Then she tiptoed into the kitchen, opening cabinets one by one until she found a high shelf where she could hide the sweet stash. She knew better than to leave anything within tiny morning-reach. 

She paused for a moment, leaning against the counter, just taking it all in. The mess. The quiet. The unbelievable feeling of finally being where she wanted to be.

Then she returned to the living room, turned off the TV, and dimmed the lights. She crossed the room, offered Karlie a hand.

“Come on.”

Karlie stood with her, slowly. Her lower back ached. Her head throbbed softly from the long day. But her heart was full.

She led Taylor down the hall to the guest room—the same one they’d shared the night before. Taylor pulled back the blankets, helped Karlie settle in, fluffed a pillow behind her back.

Then she slid in behind her. One hand on Karlie’s belly. One wrapped around her hand.

“Will you stay?” Karlie murmured, already fading.

Taylor kissed her shoulder.

And they slept.

Wrapped in quiet. In love. In the soft certainty that tomorrow would still be theirs.

The light in the room shifted from silver to gold as the first threads of morning sunlight spilled through the curtains. Taylor stirred, blinking slowly. Karlie was still asleep, half-draped over her, one arm tucked beneath Taylor’s body, her breath deep and even against Taylor’s collarbone. The weight of her baby bump pressed gently against Taylor’s side.

Taylor didn’t move.

She just lay there, breathing it all in—the warmth, the peace, the gravity of the moment. She pressed a soft kiss into Karlie’s hair, right where the strands curled slightly at the nape. There was nothing performative about this. No makeup, no cameras, no rehearsals. Just them, and the quiet miracle of this morning.

Then—soft footsteps. A whisper of movement beyond the door. A tiny voice followed.

“Mommy?”

Taylor held still for a second, then carefully slipped out from under Karlie, who murmured something indecipherable but didn’t wake. Padding across the room, Taylor opened the door slowly.

Elijah stood there in pajamas too short at the ankle, one sock half-off, hair sticking up in all directions. He looked up, eyes wide.

“Taylorrrr,” he whispered loudly.

Taylor crouched to meet his eye level. “Pssst—hey, buddy. Everything okay?”

He nodded solemnly, then looked past her shoulder. “Mommy?”

“She’s still sleeping,” Taylor whispered back.

Elijah leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m hungwy.”

Taylor smiled. “Okay, let’s fix that.”

They tiptoed down the hall together, Taylor’s hand resting gently on his back. In the kitchen, the morning light painted everything honey-colored.

“Okay, Chef Elijah,” she whispered, lifting him onto the counter and making sure he was safely seated. “Tell me how Mommy makes her famous waffles.”

Elijah grinned, clearly delighted with his role. “Fiwst, we needs da mix. Da big bowl! An’ a spoon, a big one. Not da yucky spooon. Da blue one.”

Taylor played along, opening cabinets and pulling out the things he pointed to. “Got it. Blue spoon. Big bowl. What’s next?”

“Eggies! An’ da miwk. An’ da butter dat go all melt-y. Mommy go squish squish mix it wif da spoon like dis—” He made exaggerated stirring motions with both arms.

Taylor chuckled. “Alright, little expert.”

She retrieved the ingredients, and while Elijah stirred with serious concentration.

Elijah sat proudly on the counter, small hands gripping the edge of the mixing bowl while Taylor poured a careful stream of milk into the waffle batter.

He stirred with the blue spoon—his chosen utensil—with deep concentration, tongue poking out between his lips as he navigated the important task.

“Nice technique,” Taylor said, smiling. “You’re gonna be a pro.”

“Mmhm,” Elijah nodded sagely. “Mommy teached me. But—” he paused, squinting up at her. “Taylor?”

“Yeah, bud?”

“Dis morning…” he scrunched up his nose, like he was trying to remember a very important detail. “Mommy wasn’t in her bed.”

Taylor gave him a soft smile, brushing a curl from his forehead. “No, she wasn’t.”

Elijah blinked. “She in yours?” “Uh huh.

Taylor’s smile widened, but she only said, “Let’s just say she needed extra sleep today.”

Elijah accepted this explanation without protest, grabbing a berry from the plate. 

Taylor laughed softly, brushing a strand of flour-dusted hair from his forehead. Her heart did something strange—tender and aching and soft. She tapped the tip of his nose gently. “You’re very smart, you know that?”

Elijah gave her a proud little shrug and went back to stirring. “I’s gonna make Mommy da bestest waffles ever.”

Taylor grinned and leaned over to kiss the top of his messy head. “I think she already has the bestest kid ever.”

Rachel’s voice floated in from the hallway, a mix of relief and lingering nerves. “Elijah? There you are—”

She appeared in the doorway, Levi beside her, both still rumpled from sleep. Rachel’s hair was pulled into a quick bun, her sweatshirt slightly askew, expression apologetic.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, glancing between Taylor and Elijah. “I turned around for one second, and he’d vanished.”

Taylor looked up from where she was carefully guiding Elijah’s hands over the mixing bowl. “No worries. He’s been a perfect sous-chef.”

“I helps!” Elijah chirped proudly. “I tells Tay-Tay how Mommy do da mix-mix!”

Rachel smiled despite herself. “Of course you did, sweetheart.”

Levi stepped into the kitchen, blinking at the bright light and sniffing the air. “Are those waffles?”

Taylor nodded. “Almost ready.”

“And you’re still here!” Levi said with a grin.

“I am,” Taylor replied, gently.

Rachel watched them for a beat, then said, “Well, if you’ve got them, I’ll knock out a few errands. I need to grab groceries before the rush starts.”

Taylor gave her a reassuring look. “We’re good. Take your time.”

“Okay,” Rachel said, already backing toward the door. “But if I come back and find the kitchen turned into a flour tornado, I’m blaming Elijah.”

Elijah giggled. “No boom-booms! I’s careful.”

Taylor chuckled. “We’ll keep the explosions to a minimum.”

Rachel winked and disappeared down the hall.

Taylor turned her attention back to the boys. She reached into the fridge and pulled out the container of fresh berries she’d spotted earlier.

“Elijah, Levi—do you want berries on your waffles?”

“Yaaa!” Elijah squealed, kicking his feet.

“But dey gotta be da lil’ ones,” he added seriously. “Big ones go mooshy an’ get ‘splode-y in da syrup.”

“Noted,” Taylor said, trying not to laugh. “Only the tiniest, crunchiest, non-sploding-est berries for you two.”

She washed a few and began slicing them into halves and quarters. Then she gently lifted Elijah from the counter and set him next to Levi at the table, making sure he was secure.

The guest room was wrapped in a cocoon of soft, sleepy stillness. The kind of quiet that only existed in the early hours of a house that had known laughter the night before. Morning light spilled gently across the covers, casting everything in a warm, amber glow. It lit the outline of Karlie’s body where she lay nestled in the soft bed, her limbs heavy with rest, her breathing slow and even.

What woke her wasn’t sound exactly—but sensation. The smell of something rich and golden curling under the door. Waffles, without question. Maybe syrup. Definitely butter. There was also something brighter beneath it all—a zing of citrus, the faint pop of berry skins just warmed by a pan. Her stomach, loyal and honest, gave a rumble of anticipation.

Then came laughter. Light and fast. One was Elijah’s—a bubbling giggle, unrestrained and sugar-drunk. The other, a more measured chuckle, was unmistakably Levi’s.

Karlie stirred. The space beside her was empty.

Her hand stretched across the bed out of instinct—searching, not for something, but someone. The sheets were  indentation soft. Taylor had been there. And then, quietly, she hadn’t.

Karlie sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. One hand came to rest on the gentle swell of her belly, fingers tracing the curve with tender familiarity. The baby shifted under her palm, like a sleepy hello.

“Oh my God,” she murmured, smiling faintly. “I’m starving.”

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for the pile of clothes at the foot. Soft leggings, her favorite kind. And an sweatshirt that, without question, belonged to Taylor—worn cotton, the sleeves too long, and faintly smelling of lavender and something impossibly her. Karlie buried her face in it for a second before slipping it on. It felt like armor and comfort all at once.

No makeup. No pulled hair. No effort. She didn’t need any of that today.

Barefoot and quiet, she made her way down the hall, following the invisible string that tugged her forward—the aroma, the voices, the sound of Taylor’s laughter folded under the boys’ chatter.

She paused in the kitchen doorway, leaning lightly against the frame.

The scene unfolded like a memory she hadn’t lived yet.

Taylor stood at the stove barefoot, her old gray T-shirt falling perfectly across her shoulders, jeans low on her hips, her hair tied up in a bun so messy it could only be deliberate. The waffle iron steamed beside her, a plate already stacked high on the counter. She hummed under her breath, tapping a spatula rhythmically against the side of the pan in time with some soft song playing from a speaker nearby.

Elijah and Levi sat at the table mid-breakfast chaos. Plates smeared with syrup, berries rolling across the surface, sticky fingerprints on the edge of the wood. Elijah was gesturing wildly with his fork, narrating some sort of imaginary waffle competition, while Levi corrected him like a small, tired judge. They were loud, alive, entirely themselves.

And Taylor turned.

She caught sight of Karlie in the doorway, and for a moment, the whole room slowed.

Taylor’s smile was soft and luminous. Not just happiness—something deeper. Recognition. Relief. Devotion.

Karlie felt it in her chest like sunlight cracking through.

The boys noticed her next.

“Mommmyy!”

“WAFFLES!”

“I helpsed Tay-Tay!”

“She let me do da stir-stir!”

Karlie laughed and entered the room. “Whoa, whoa, whoa—save some breath for chewing.”

She leaned down and kissed Levi’s head, then Elijah’s, who grinned like he'd just built the Eiffel Tower in syrup.

“You two smell like a dessert table after a food fight.”

Taylor appeared beside her with a plate in one hand—golden waffles dusted with powdered sugar, crowned with whipped cream and fresh berries—and in the other, a steaming mug of tea.

“For the most beautiful woman who knows how to sleep in,” Taylor murmured, just for her.

Karlie accepted the plate and mug with an exaggerated sigh of gratitude. “You’re basically magic.”

Their fingers brushed, but not for long. Intentional restraint.

Karlie settled beside the boys, slipping into her chair with a quiet sigh. Her leg bumped Taylor’s, and she didn’t move it. Beneath the table, Taylor’s hand slid gently over hers, a silent hello that didn't need words.

“Thank you,” Karlie whispered, eyes fixed on her tea.

Taylor squeezed her fingers once before pulling away. “You needed sleep,” she said softly. “You looked... peaceful this morning. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Karlie took a bite of waffle and hummed, eyes fluttering closed. “This is the best thing I’ve tasted in my life.”

Elijah, still chewing with his mouth open, declared, “I makes da eggies!”

“You did,” Karlie agreed, kissing his sticky cheek. “You’re a five-star chef, baby.”

Taylor bent to clean a drip of syrup off the edge of Levi’s plate. “These two were my best sous-chefs. They even told me your exact waffle method.”

“Only da blue spoon,” Elijah said with a mouthful of whipped cream.

Karlie grinned. “Of course. It’s the sacred one.”

Levi pointed at the syrup bottle. “Can we have more? Please?”

Karlie passed it to him with a wink. “But you have to eat a berry with every bite.”

Taylor turned her gaze on her—briefly, but meaningfully. And Karlie felt the words unspoken settle between them like a promise.

She reached for Taylor’s hand again beneath the table and squeezed. Once. Then again. And once more, slow and sure. A silent code. I see you. I feel this too. I'm here.

Taylor didn’t pull away.

The moment passed like a soft breeze. The boys were too caught up in the joy of breakfast to notice anything except the syrup and their waffle kingdoms.

But to Karlie, the room felt full.

Not just of sound, or scent, or food.

But of home.

Of something real. Steady. Quietly blooming.

And she knew then—this morning wasn’t the start of something new.

After breakfast, the house had returned to a soft hum. Rachel had come back from the store, bags full and cheeks pink from the wind. She greeted them all with a bright smile, then scooped up the boys with practiced ease.

"Come on, you two. Let’s get dressed and head to the park before the crowds arrive," she said, ushering them into a flurry of jackets, shoes, and chatter.

Levi groaned theatrically but went willingly. Elijah insisted on wearing mismatched socks. Within minutes, the house emptied, the door clicking gently behind them.

The quiet that followed was warm and golden, broken only by the soft clinks of dishes and the gurgle of the sink. Taylor and Karlie moved around the kitchen like a practiced duet—Taylor rinsing, Karlie drying.

Taylor passed another plate to her and let out a soft, contented sigh. "I could get used to mornings like this."

Karlie smiled as she took the dish from her, setting it down gently. She turned to Taylor, towel still in hand, and leaned in to kiss her—slow and warm, like a promise.

"Good," she whispered. Then, more quietly, lips brushing Taylor’s cheek as she spoke, "Because I need you now."

Taylor blinked, breath catching slightly.

Karlie pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, smile full of meaning. "Shower with me?"

Taylor didn’t hesitate. She set the sponge aside, drying her hands quickly. "Lead the way."

And together, hand in hand, they disappeared down the hallway, the rest of the world left behind them for just a little longer.

They didn’t make it to the bathroom right away.

At the foot of the stairs, Taylor tugged Karlie back by the hand, spinning her gently until her back pressed against the wall. She kissed her with urgency this time, lips parted, hands finding Karlie's waist and pulling her closer.

Karlie gasped softly against her mouth, her hands sliding up into Taylor's hair, fingers twisting in the soft blonde strands. She kissed her back with equal fervor, pressing her body into Taylor's, one knee sliding gently between her legs. Taylor moaned into her mouth, her hands trailing down to the curve of Karlie's hips.

They broke apart just long enough to breathe, eyes dark and full.

"You’re not making it easy to get to that shower," Karlie whispered, voice breathless.

Taylor grinned, a bit feral. "You said you needed me. I’m just being thorough."

Karlie laughed, low and full, then pulled Taylor by the hand again. "Then hurry."

Halfway down the hall, it was Karlie’s turn to stop them. She backed Taylor into the wall this time, lips finding the side of her neck, kissing, then nibbling gently at the soft skin just beneath her ear. Taylor’s breath caught, her hands gripping Karlie's ass instinctively, anchoring them both.

They stumbled the final few steps, laughing into each other’s mouths, until they made it into the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind them, and suddenly the world was just the two of them—wet breath, tangled limbs, a hunger that pulsed beneath their skin.

The light was dim and golden, catching the curves of their bodies in soft glow. The air was warm, thick with the promise of heat. Taylor’s hand never left Karlie’s body—not even as she reached back to twist the lock with a practiced flick. Her palm slid along Karlie's spine, a quiet claim, fingers tracing the bare skin at the base of her back like a secret.

Clothes fell between them like petals—one by one, slow and deliberate. Taylor undressed her with hands that trembled slightly, not from nerves, but from restraint. Each button undone was a moment held. Each zipper lowered, a breath caught in her throat. She took her time, kneeling to slide down Karlie’s leggings, pressing soft kisses to the newly exposed skin of her hips, her thighs, the hollow behind her knee.

She stood still, eyes locked on Taylor’s, her body already trembling, wanting. Needing. She reached for Taylor’s shirt, pulled it over her head, baring freckled shoulders and soft curves. When Taylor stood again, fully naked, Karlie touched her like she was rediscovering something she already knew by heart.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” she whispered, voice low and full of want.

The shower hissed behind them, water spilling out in soft, hot waves. Steam curled around their feet, rose between their bodies like a veil. When they stepped in together, the heat was immediate—water pouring over their skin, running down in slow, indulgent streams. It was a touch in itself, a third presence between them.

Taylor pressed close, her hands cradling Karlie’s hips, thumbs stroking slow circles into the wet skin. Their breasts brushed, slick and sensitive, sending shocks through both of them. Water trickled between their stomachs, down their thighs, sliding over every inch like a lover’s tongue.

Their mouths met again—not rushed, not desperate, but full. A kiss that said: I need you, right now, but I’m going to savor every second. Tongues stroked, lips parted with tiny moans, heads tilting to deepen the connection. Karlie’s fingers wove into Taylor’s hair, pulling just enough to make her gasp. Taylor’s hand slid between their bodies, palm flattening over Karlie’s belly, fingers trailing down.

She didn’t rush. She didn’t need to. She touched her like she had all the time in the world—because in this space, this moment, she did.

“Turn around for me,” she whispered, lips grazing Karlie’s jaw.

Karlie did, slow and fluid, her breath shaky as she braced her palms against the slick tile wall. Water rained over her shoulders, slid in rivulets between her shoulder blades, down the curve of her spine, over the rise of her ass.

Taylor moved in behind her, her body a shadow of heat against Karlie’s back. She pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, then another lower, letting her mouth follow the water’s path. Her hands were reverent—first on Karlie’s hips, then moving up, cupping her breasts from behind. She kneaded them gently, thumbs brushing over hard nipples slick with water, making Karlie arch and groan.

Taylor’s other hand slid between Karlie’s thighs, knuckles grazing the sensitive skin. She found her center with a low moan—wet and ready, already pulsing with need. Her fingers stroked slowly, deliberately, teasing more than taking, until Karlie’s head dropped back with a broken sound.

"God," Karlie gasped, her voice trembling. "I need you."

"You have me," Taylor murmured into her ear. "All of me."

She slid a finger in—then paused, feeling the way Karlie tightened around her. Then another, curling slightly, her palm flat against her. Karlie’s hips rocked back, her body greedy now, aching. Taylor moved with her, matching the rhythm, adjusting the pressure. Her thumb found that perfect spot, circling, pressing, unrelenting.

Every breath became a moan. Every movement—a plea. Karlie’s body trembled, every nerve alive, every muscle drawn tight.

“You’re mine like this,” Taylor whispered, voice thick. “Open. Shaking. Gorgeous.”

Karlie could barely breathe. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Taylor didn’t stop.

Her fingers moved with reverent intent—slow at first, measured. She circled, pressed, filled. Each motion deliberate, each touch designed to make Karlie feel every agonizing second of pleasure. There was no rush. Only the hunger to draw it out—to make her feel everything.

Karlie’s body trembled under the cascade of hot water, her head thrown back against Taylor’s shoulder, breath broken into ragged gasps. She gripped the edge of the tile with one hand, the other curled tight around Taylor’s forearm, holding on like it was the only real thing in the room.

“Fuck…” Karlie groaned, her voice barely audible over the sound of water crashing down. “God, Taylor… I can’t—”

“You can,” Taylor whispered against her temple, her voice dark and lush. “You will. Don’t run from it. Let it take you.”

She curled her fingers again, deeper this time, slower, angling until Karlie cried out—a sharp, helpless sound. Her body jolted, hips pressing back with urgency, seeking more, always more. Taylor’s palm slid against her, thumb circling with increasing pressure, perfectly in tune with the rhythm inside her.

Karlie was panting now, her chest heaving, nipples tight and flushed as water streamed down them. Her skin was on fire—slick, flushed, vibrating. Taylor's body against her back was a brand, hot and firm and anchoring her through the storm.

And still, Taylor didn’t let her go.

She kept her right there—on the edge, trembling, legs barely holding. She slowed the rhythm for a moment, just enough to make Karlie gasp with frustration, then picked it up again, more intense, more exact, chasing her back up.

Karlie whimpered, then gasped again, a higher sound this time—sharp, vulnerable, desperate.

Taylor’s lips brushed against her neck, then her ear. “I love watching you like this. Needing. Falling apart.”

“Please…” Karlie managed, hips rocking harder now, raw and aching. “I’m so close… I need—”

“Shh. I know. Stay with me.”

She drove her higher, building her slowly, steadily. No mercy. No hesitation. Her fingers moved in steady thrusts, curling and pressing with devastating precision. Her thumb worked relentless circles, rubbing the sensitive bud until Karlie’s knees buckled.

Karlie sobbed—a sound pulled from somewhere deep, like her body was tearing open from the inside. The pressure built, unbearable, exquisite. Pleasure wound tight in her core, sharper than pain, sweeter than air.

Then Taylor whispered against her wet skin, her voice velvet and command: “Let go for me.”

And Karlie shattered.

Her whole body convulsed, thighs clenching around Taylor’s hand, back arching into the heat. Her cry echoed in the tile chamber—raw, broken, perfect. She came in waves, one crashing into the next, pleasure so sharp it blurred into something close to pain, into surrender. Her muscles seized, then released, again and again. Her breath hitched and caught and then burst in a moan that sounded like Taylor’s name.

But Taylor didn’t stop.

She slowed only slightly, just enough to let Karlie come down halfway—then dragged her right back into it. Her fingers kept moving, coaxing, demanding. Her lips never left Karlie’s skin—kissing her temple, her neck, whispering, "I’m still here. You're not done yet."

Karlie gasped, a trembling sob of disbelief and desire. “I can’t—”

And Karlie climbed again, faster this time, her body hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive. She convulsed around Taylor’s fingers, pleasure building too fast, too much, her voice dissolving into whimpers and cries.

When the second climax hit her, it was a tidal wave—ripping through her, tearing her open, making her scream. Her body shook, lips parted in a soundless cry, hands scrambling for something to hold, to anchor her to this moment.

She collapsed against the tile, legs weak, head hanging forward, gasping like she couldn’t find air. But Taylor held her, arms around her middle, grounding her with touch, still inside her, still with her.

And for a long time, they stayed like that—Karlie trembling, wrapped in the warmth of water and arms and love. Taylor kissed her shoulder, slow and soft now. Her voice barely a whisper.

“You’re everything,” she said.

Karlie turned in her arms, weak but smiling, and kissed her—long, slow, grateful. Their bodies still wet, skin humming, breath still unsteady.

But now, the urgency had melted into something deeper.

Not just need.

Devotion.

The water cooled, and Taylor shut it off with a contented sigh. Droplets still clung to her skin as she reached for a thick, soft towel, wrapping it securely around her body—high under her arms, tucked tight at her chest. Her hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends, and her skin glowed, warm and flushed with touch and afterglow.

She turned to Karlie, who was leaning against the tile wall, her lips parted in a lazy, satisfied smile. Taylor leaned in and kissed her—slow and soft, a final lingering brush of affection that said, I’ll be right back.

“Stay here,” she whispered against her mouth. “I’ll get us something to drink.”

Karlie nodded, eyes heavy-lidded, glowing.

Taylor stepped out into the hallway, barefoot, her steps quiet against the cool wooden floor. The air outside the bathroom was cooler, brushing against her damp skin like silk. She hummed softly, almost without realizing it—the tune drifting up from somewhere deep inside her.

"Daylight."

"I once believed love would be burning red... but it's golden... like daylight..."

It fit. Her whole body felt light, golden. The world had slowed down, softened. She passed the kids’ shoes by the front door—still gone with Rachel, probably off chasing butterflies or dripping ice cream down their sleeves. She smiled to herself, a flicker of maternal warmth threading through the afterglow.

The kitchen was cast in the low amber glow of early evening, peach-toned sunbeams striping across the floor and countertops. The fridge hummed quietly. Everything felt peaceful, untouched. She opened the cupboard and reached for two glasses, the clink of glass soft, familiar.

She turned around, the glasses in hand, ready to go back upstairs.

And froze.

Josh stood at the far end of the kitchen.

Still. Silent.

Watching her.

He hadn't made a sound. He was just there.

His eyes locked on hers, flickering down briefly—taking in the towel, the wet hair, the flushed skin—and then back up again. His face was unreadable, carved from something cold and raw. There was confusion in his eyes. Something stunned. And underneath it all—something sharper.

Taylor’s breath caught like a punch to the ribs.

“Oh fuck,” she whispered.

The glasses trembled in her hands, clinking together in a soft, high-pitched sound that suddenly felt deafening.

Time froze.

The sun still streamed across the counter. The fridge still hummed. But everything else—the warmth, the humming, the golden bubble—popped.

And Josh said nothing.

He just stared.

Chapter Text

Taylor didn’t move.

She stood barefoot on the kitchen tile, the damp towel cinched tightly under her arms, her hair still dripping in soft rivulets down her spine, cheeks flushed from more than just the heat. Her breath was trapped high in her chest, a single tight knot between heartbeats.

Josh stared at her from across the room, framed by the morning light pouring in through the window. One hand still held his keys. The other hung at his side, useless. The front door stood slightly ajar behind him. He hadn’t expected her.

His eyes scanned her, but it wasn’t lust. It wasn’t even shock. It was something colder. Something quieter. The kind of stillness that happens just before something breaks.

Taylor swallowed, her voice barely audible. “Hi, Josh.”

He blinked. And then, like a switch had flipped, he let out a short, bitter laugh.

“Okay,” he said, tone flat but laced with something sharp. “I didn’t think I’d walk into my kitchen and find you... naked.”

“I’m not naked,” Taylor replied softly. “I’m... barely wrapped in a towel. It’s different.”

Josh raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Definitely better.”

The silence between them wasn’t just awkward—it was loaded. Past, present, and everything unspoken hung between them like humidity before a thunderstorm.

Then—Taylor’s phone buzzed behind her. Loud. Relentless. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound was shrill against the countertop. It vibrated through the marble like a countdown.

She didn’t move. Didn’t check who it was. Didn’t even glance at it.

And then—footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Soft. Familiar.

Karlie.

She appeared at the top of the staircase, robe cinched at her waist, barefoot, hair damp from the shower. Her expression was easy at first, unaware. She was expecting Taylor, not this.

“I thought you were just getting water,” she said lightly, voice still warm with sleep. “You disappeared.”

And then she saw Josh.

Her body tensed, only slightly—but Taylor saw it. Saw the way Karlie’s breath caught, the flicker in her eyes.

Josh turned. “Hey,” he said casually, too casually. “I’ve been trying to reach you. I came to grab a few things. I signed a lease. Got a place. Midtown.”

Karlie blinked, her posture shifting into something neutral. Protective. “You got a place?”

“Yeah,” he said. “The hotel was… a bit much.”

No one laughed.

Taylor’s silence stretched thin behind them. She hadn’t moved an inch.

Josh looked at her again—really looked—then back to Karlie. “How are the boys?”

“They’re good,” Karlie said carefully. “Sleeping better. Eating more.”

He nodded. “That’s… that’s good.”

But the air had shifted. The room wasn’t holding space—it was holding breath.

Karlie crossed her arms. “I know this is still your house, Josh. But you said I could stay here with the kids. That I could make this a home for them.”

Josh frowned. “I’m not trying to take that away. I called. I knocked.”

“That doesn’t mean you just walk in like you still live here,” Karlie said, firmer now. “You chose to leave. You don’t get to control the space you gave up.”

Josh’s jaw twitched. “I’m still their father.”

“No one’s questioning that,” Karlie said, quieter. “But there are boundaries now. You need to respect that.”

The phone buzzed again. And again. A relentless, vibrating pulse.

Taylor’s fingers tightened around the glasses she was still holding. Her knuckles white. She still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t spoken.

Josh’s eyes flicked to the phone, irritation flashing across his face. “Can she not just answer the damn phone?”

Taylor jumped like he’d struck her. Her breath hitched as she turned toward the counter, reaching with fingers that visibly trembled.

Karlie stepped forward, her voice slicing through the tension. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Josh looked away.

Taylor glanced at the screen. Tree.
Her voice when she answered was a whisper. “Hey?”

There was silence. A pause.

And then—everything changed.

Her face went white. Not pale—white. As if something had drained straight from her bones. Her knees bent slightly, like the weight of the news had landed physically in her chest.

She gripped the back of the nearest chair. Her hand shook.

Karlie stepped closer, carefully. “Taylor? What is it?”

No answer.

“Taylor,” Karlie said again, more urgently now. “Look at me.”

Taylor lifted her gaze. Her eyes looked dazed, glassy. Her voice was barely a breath. “I have to go. Now.”

She moved like she’d been pulled by a string.

Up the stairs—fast. A door slammed. Drawers opened and shut. Hangers scraped metal. A zipper zipped. Then: footsteps—rushing.

She flew down the stairs, dressed now in jeans and an sweatshirt. Her hair still wet. Her face unreadable.

She reached for the front door—then paused.

Turned.

Ran back.

Right to Karlie.

She kissed her. Hard. Desperate. Certain.

“I love you,” she whispered against her lips. “I’m sorry.”

And then she was gone.

The door slammed behind her. The echo ricocheted down the hallway.

Josh stood frozen, lips parted like he might speak—but didn’t.

Karlie remained still in the doorway, one hand lifted, as if she could call Taylor back. Her chest rose and fell, her pulse pounding in her ears.

A distant ding.

The elevator.

And Taylor was gone.

The silence that followed wasn’t still. It rang.

Josh stood like a statue. Karlie stared at the space Taylor had just occupied, one hand still pressed to her lips where the kiss lingered, soft and electric and already gone.

Neither of them moved.

Josh let out a breath—measured, almost too composed.

“Well,” he said, more to the room than to her. “That escalated quickly.”

Karlie turned slowly, brows knit. “You’re not even surprised.”

Josh shrugged lightly, voice flat. “Should I be?”

She blinked. “You didn’t react. At all.”

He met her gaze but didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, shifted his weight.

Karlie looked away, heart racing in a way she didn’t understand yet. “Do I need to worry about her?”

Josh raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that something you’d know better than me?”

But the sarcasm fell flat. Because Karlie wasn’t listening anymore. She was staring at the door, eyes unfocused, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of her robe.

She murmured, “She said ‘I’m sorry.’”

Josh didn’t respond.

Karlie kept going, half to herself. “She only says that when she’s scared.”

Josh exhaled and moved toward the counter, picking up one of the untouched glasses of water and draining half of it. “Look. I didn’t come here to fight. I just needed to talk about the rest of my stuff.”

She didn’t look at him. “What if she doesn’t come back?”

He frowned. “She left in a hoodie and no shoes. She’s not gone forever.”

Karlie’s stomach twisted. “You didn’t see her face.”

Josh leaned against the counter. “You’re not really hearing me, are you?”

“No,” she admitted quietly.

He nodded once, then spoke more gently. “I want to come back—just once. To pack. To take what’s mine. Just give me a day. I don’t want to make it weird. You can take the boys out, stay with your sister.

That finally registered.

Karlie blinked, then looked over at him properly. “Yeah… okay. I’ll take them somewhere. Just let me know when.”

“Thanks,” he said simply.

The front door opened.

Rachel’s voice floated into the hall. “We’re back!”

Tiny sneakers pounded on hardwood. Laughter. The wild rush of post-park energy.

“Daddy!” Elijah squealed, barreling into the room with Levi behind him.

Josh knelt down to scoop them both up, hugging them tight. They exploded with stories about ducks and slides and someone’s dropped ice cream.

Karlie stood a few feet away, smiling faintly but distant. The room blurred at the edges.

She couldn’t feel the joy in the air. Couldn’t meet their eyes.

Her thoughts were still with Taylor.
Running. Pale. Whispering “I’m sorry” like it was a final breath.

Was she scared?

Was she running from Karlie?

From them?

From herself?

A hand moved to her belly—slow, instinctive. The warmth of the gesture steadied her only slightly.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, to no one in particular. Not even sure who it was for.

Then louder, to the room: “I’m sorry.”

She caught Rachel’s confused glance, Josh’s distracted nod, the boys now tumbling around his legs in a blur of motion.

And she turned.

Step by step, she climbed the stairs—slow, quiet, one hand trailing the banister.

In her room, she dressed without hurry.

Soft leggings. A sweater that still smelled faintly of lavender and lemon. Her movements were automatic, her mind elsewhere.

Wherever Taylor had gone.

Wherever Taylor’s voice had cracked.

Whatever had broken loose in the moment she ran.

Karlie stood by the window, staring out over the city.

And whispered, more to herself than anyone: “Please come back.”

The elevator doors whispered open, and Taylor rushed out barefoot, not feeling the cold bite of the polished concrete floor. Her hoodie clung damply to her back, the sleeves pulled over her fists. She didn’t notice the way the air in the underground garage hit her skin, sharp and sudden. She didn’t notice anything, except the scream in her chest that hadn’t yet found a way out.

Her driver was already there, standing beside the black SUV, hands folded in front of him. He opened the door before she could say a word.

She slid into the back seat, curling one leg beneath her. Her hands were shaking.

“Where to, Miss Swift?” he asked gently.

“Carroll Gardens,” she said, voice barely audible. “Tree’s.”

He nodded and pulled away from the curb without another question.

The city blurred past the window, all steel and movement and light—but Taylor saw none of it. She stared forward, jaw tight, her nails gnawing at the edge of her thumb until it hurt. She didn’t feel the pain.

This can’t be what she meant.

Tree wouldn’t call me like that unless—

No. No. No.

She reached into the pocket of her hoodie, frantically now. Then the other.

Panic bloomed. “Fuck,” she whispered. Her phone wasn’t there.

Her stomach dropped with a sickening lurch.

It was still in Karlie’s kitchen. Still sitting on the counter. Where she’d left everything behind in a rush of skin and steam and—

She didn’t even put on shoes.

She looked down at her bare feet, curled beneath her. Concrete grit clung to her heels. Her legs were trembling.

The city outside changed as they crossed the bridge—buildings shrinking, trees appearing. Carroll Gardens was quiet, almost too quiet. Like a place frozen in amber. The kind of place where secrets didn’t shout. They whispered. And they never, ever left.

As they turned the final corner, Taylor spotted Tree’s townhouse immediately: the ivy climbing up the red-brick facade, the blue trim on the windows, the tall, elegant door that had always felt like a safe place to land.

Not today.

The car slowed.

Taylor didn’t wait.

She pushed the door open before the SUV stopped fully, bolting across the sidewalk. Her bare feet slapped the pavement. She barely registered the sting. Up the stairs—two at a time. Her lungs burned.

She pressed the doorbell over and over, leaning into the camera above the stoop, eyes wide.

“It’s me,” she breathed. “Tree—please, open the door—”

The lock clicked.

The door opened.

Tree’s husband stood there in soft slacks and a linen shirt, a phone pressed to his ear. He looked surprised, then concerned.

“Taylor—hi. Are you—?”

She didn’t stop. “Sorry—sorry,” she said, brushing past him before he could finish. “Where’s Tree?”

“Down the hall,” he said automatically, turning slightly as she disappeared inside.

The hallway smelled like jasmine and clean wood. Her throat tightened. She remembered laughing here once. Champagne. A baby shower. A fight they’d had about a red carpet. All of it seemed like another life.

“Tree?” Taylor called out, breath hitching.

“In here,” came the reply. Calm. Too calm.

Taylor stepped into the dining room.

Tree was seated at the long oak table, her laptop closed in front of her, hands folded. Her mouth was set in a line, but her eyes betrayed everything—worry, pain, fear.

Across from her sat one of Taylor’s longtime legal counsels, Daniel Petrocelli. His gray suit jacket was draped over the chair, a yellow legal pad in front of him, pen capped, untouched. His teacup steamed quietly beside him.

There were three cups.

The third one sat waiting for her.

Taylor stared at it. Her legs felt like water.

She moved toward the chair like she was wading through concrete. Her hands touched the back of it, gripped the wood. She sat slowly, shoulders hunched forward, barely breathing.

Her voice cracked like old glass. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

Tree didn’t answer right away.

The silence was worse than anything.

Then she reached forward, rested her fingertips against the rim of her cup, and said gently, “You need to listen to everything I’m about to say. And I need you to stay calm.”

Taylor’s breath hitched.

Tree leaned forward. “They made a move.”

The room shrank around her. The floor tilted.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Her brain had already gone white.

Her fingers shook as they reached for the cup of tea—but stopped just short. Her hand hovered there, trembling.

She wasn’t sure she could hold anything.

And then—like a wave cresting too fast—her thoughts flashed back.

Karlie.
Standing barefoot at the bottom of the stairs.
A robe tied loosely around her belly.
The way her face crumpled with confusion when Taylor said, “I have to go.”
The kiss—hurried, scared, too sharp at the edges.

Taylor squeezed her eyes shut.

God. I didn’t explain. I didn’t give her anything.
She deserved so much more than that.

She pictured Karlie now, probably standing by the window, hand pressed to her belly, wondering where she’d gone. Wondering if it was fear, or regret, or something even worse.

Taylor’s chest ached.

I’m sorry, she thought. I didn’t want to run. I just didn’t have time to stay.

A single tear slid down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

Tree was still speaking—but the words floated past her like distant traffic.

All Taylor could think was:

Please let her know I didn’t leave her. Not really. Please let her wait for me.

And then she inhaled, slow and deep.

And finally—she picked up the tea.

Tree reached across the table and took Taylor’s hand. Her touch was gentle, grounding, like a tether to something real.

“Taylor,” she said softly, but with urgency, “you need to listen now.”

Taylor’s eyes flicked up to hers, unfocused, brimming. She was somewhere between panic and freefall.

Tree took a breath, then laid it out.

“Shamrock Capital—” she began. “The company Scooter sold your masters to—they’ve come forward.”

Taylor’s stomach dropped.

“They’ve seen the numbers. They’ve seen what the re-recordings have done. ‘Taylor’s Version’ isn’t just a statement anymore. It’s dominance. It’s decimating the value of what they bought. The press, the fan support, your refusal to back down—it’s worked.”

Taylor’s lips parted. Her lungs stopped functioning.

Tree’s voice softened, but didn’t lose its power. “Shamrock wants to cut their losses. They’re offering to sell everything back. All six albums. Your masters. Your legacy.”

Taylor blinked. Once. Twice. And then time collapsed inward.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, like it was trying to break free from her chest. Her vision blurred. Not from fear this time—but something sharper. More powerful.

Hope.

All those nights—locked in a studio. The notebooks stained with coffee and tears. The guitar calluses. The stolen credits. The silence she swallowed when the world told her she didn’t own what she created. The stage lights. The Grammy speeches she smiled through even when she felt like she was screaming inside. The ache of watching her life’s work bought and sold like stock in a man’s portfolio.

And now—

Now it was almost hers.

Tree kept talking, words like safety nets: “No conditions. No licensing ties. They’re walking away. You will own everything. Completely.”

Taylor’s hand flew to her mouth. A sob clawed its way up her throat. She didn’t even try to stop it.

“I—” Her voice cracked apart. “I thought I’d never get this.”

Her body trembled. Shoulders shaking with the weight of years.

“I thought this part of me was gone,” she whispered.

Tree leaned closer. “It was never gone. It was just waiting for you to come back for it.”

Taylor let the tears fall freely now. She was no longer in a room—she was in every album. Every song. Every note she’d ever written that saved her from something darker.

“I wrote my whole life down,” she said, her voice breaking. “I gave it away. I let them take it. And now—”

Her fingers clenched against the table.

“I get to take it back.”

Tree nodded. Daniel Petrocelli sat silently, eyes lowered in respect, pen still poised over the paper. He didn’t interrupt.

And in the corner of her soul, Taylor felt something unlock.

“I need to tell Karlie,” she said suddenly, voice hoarse. “I need her to know—”

She faltered.

“I left her. I ran out. I didn’t explain. I didn’t even say goodbye.”

Tree reached for her hand again. “You will.”

Taylor looked at her, breathing hard. Her bare feet were still cold. Her hair still damp. But something inside her was on fire.

“I’m getting my music back,” she said again. This time stronger. Clearer. Almost disbelieving.

And then she laughed—broken, breathless—half-sob, half-holy release.

“I’m getting me back.”

Taylor didn’t stop crying.

At first, the tears came in a flood of relief — sharp, cleansing, like a dam finally bursting open. But then the sobs deepened. Turned messy. Guttural. Her shoulders shook, her breath came in uneven gasps, and the sound that left her throat was somewhere between a sob and a keening wail.

Tree froze.

She watched her for a moment, unsure. The tears hadn’t stopped — in fact, they were worsening. Taylor was crumbling right there at the kitchen table, arms curled around herself like she was trying to hold all the pieces in.

“Sweetheart,” Tree said softly. “Taylor. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

But Taylor couldn’t hear her. She rocked slightly in place, fingers gripping the edge of the table, her whole body trembling under the weight of something far too big for words.

Tree knelt beside her, her hand reaching gently for Taylor’s arm, her voice quieter now. “Hey. It’s over. You won. It’s yours now.”

Taylor still hadn’t said a word.

She sat collapsed into Tree’s side, breath ragged, her cheeks blotched and wet. Her hands trembled in her lap, clenched and unclenched like she didn’t know where to put the ache.

Tree kept one arm around her and one hand pressed lightly to Taylor’s wrist, like she was grounding her pulse. She’d said nothing for several minutes now — just held her, waiting for the sobs to ease.

But they hadn’t.

Taylor cried like the grief was centuries old. Like something inside her had finally broken loose, and there was no controlling the flood. Her chest hitched with every breath. Her eyes wouldn’t lift.

Tree could only guess what part had truly broken her: the years lost. The songs stolen. The way she’d left Karlie — too fast, too breathless. The apology that barely landed.

Tree exhaled slowly, carefully keeping her voice low and even. “Taylor, honey… it’s okay. You don’t have to talk. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Taylor didn’t even nod. Just another quiet, broken sob.

Tree swallowed hard, pulled out her phone without breaking contact, and typed quietly:

To: Karlie
“She’s with me. I know you don’t know where she went. I didn’t tell her I’m texting you. But if you can come, I think she needs you.”

She hit send before she could overthink it.

Then she tucked the phone out of sight.

Taylor never even noticed.

Her body sagged heavily against Tree’s. Her eyes were unfocused now, like she wasn’t entirely present — lost somewhere between the past and the wreckage of a future she couldn’t yet reach.

“She’s going to come,” she whispered, barely audible. “Even if you don’t say a word. She’ll come.”

And still, Taylor said nothing.

But her fingers, barely perceptible, curled tighter around Tree’s sleeve — as if she’d heard her.

It didn’t take long.

Karlie arrived at Tree Paine’s house less than twenty minutes after receiving the message. She didn't knock. Lance Paine opened the door, surprised, but Karlie was already moving past him.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly, barely pausing.

She had been here before—many times. Back when everything had to be calculated, when "strategy" meant ensuring she and Taylor maintained just enough distance, said the right things, posed with the right people. Back when Tree’s house was the place where they practiced silence in public and heartbreak in private.

Karlie had heard the sound before.

Not often. Only once or twice. Once, backstage in a dressing room after the 2016 Grammys. Once, on the floor of a hotel suite in London after a tabloid article hit harder than expected. And now—here.

But this time was different.

This wasn’t Taylor hiding in a bathroom or crying into a pillow. This wasn’t frustration or exhaustion. This was something primal. Wordless. Gasping. Like grief had a grip on her throat and wouldn’t let go.

Karlie stood in the doorway of Tree’s living room, her whole body tense.

She couldn’t breathe either.

She hadn’t known where Taylor had gone. Her phone calls had gone unanswered. Her own chest had been tight with worry the entire ride over, stomach roiling, heart hammering. But nothing had prepared her for this.

The sight of her—folded in on herself like a collapsed star. Red-eyed. Shaking. A ghost of the woman who had kissed her only an hour ago.

Karlie’s first instinct was to run to her. The second was to freeze. What had happened?

She forced herself forward.

Tree looked up, her face pale, her hand still on Taylor’s back. Daniel stood quietly near the hallway, looking helpless. He started to speak, but Karlie raised a hand.

“What happened?” Her voice was tight.

Tree didn’t answer—just gave a small, helpless shake of her head.

Karlie’s heart slammed against her ribs.

“Taylor,” she said, stepping closer. “Taylor, look at me.”

No answer. Taylor’s breath was wild. Wet. Uncontrolled.

Panic. A full-blown panic attack.

Karlie dropped to her knees in front of her. She wanted to wrap her arms around her but knew enough not to touch too quickly. Not when Taylor looked like she was drowning.

“Breathe with me,” she said gently. “Baby, come on. In through your nose. Like this.”

Still nothing. Taylor’s hand had curled into a fist against her chest.

“Taylor, please.” Her voice cracked.

Karlie’s thoughts spun. What happened? Was she hurt? Did something happen with the boys? With the re-recordings? With her mom?

Guilt surged. I should’ve followed her sooner. I should’ve insisted.

She reached slowly, took Taylor’s hand, and pressed it to her own chest—right over her heart. Then lower. Onto the soft round curve of her belly.

“Hey,” Karlie whispered, voice trembling. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”

She held Taylor’s hand in place.

A second later—there it was.

A small, unmistakable kick.

Taylor flinched. Her eyes flickered.

Another kick. Stronger this time.

Taylor’s breathing stuttered.

Still no words. But something shifted in her face. The raw panic blurred into something else—grief, relief, disbelief. Her eyes, red and wide, locked onto Karlie’s.

And then the tears came again. Harder. Her whole body shook.

But now—Karlie held her.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t push. She just slid onto the couch beside her, cradled her close, and whispered into her hair.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Taylor clung to her, face pressed into Karlie’s neck, sobs still wracking her body, but her breathing was beginning to slow.

Karlie rested her forehead against Taylor’s temple, her eyes full.

She didn’t know what had shattered her like this.

But she would stay there for as long as it took to help her pick up the pieces.

Taylor’s sobs began to soften.

They didn’t stop entirely — not at first — but the rhythm changed. The gasping desperation slowed, became tremors. Shaky breaths. A sound like wind trying to quiet itself.

Karlie stayed exactly where she was. One arm wrapped around Taylor’s back, the other hand gently stroking up and down, slow and soothing. She pressed a kiss to her temple. Then her cheek. Then again. Soft, grounding touches. Her lips barely lingered each time, but the message was clear: I’m here. I’m not moving.

Taylor’s head was tucked beneath Karlie’s chin, her whole body curled into her like a child seeking safety.

And then—barely a whisper:

“I got them back.”

Karlie blinked, her lips brushing Taylor’s forehead. “What?”

Taylor’s voice cracked. “I got them back.”

Karlie pulled back just enough to look at her. “Got who back?”

Taylor’s eyes lifted slowly.

Tears still clung to her lashes, but behind them—something new flickered. Wild and terrified and disbelieving. Her lips trembled, and for a moment she couldn’t say it. Couldn’t breathe around it.

Then—

“My masters.”

Karlie stared.

“What?”

Taylor choked on the next breath, her voice breaking open. “My music, Karlie. My albums. The first ones. I got them back.”

For a moment, time stopped.

Karlie’s heart thudded once, hard in her chest. Then again.

She looked into Taylor’s face, searching it, needing to be sure she’d heard her right. “Your… you mean your actual recordings? The ones Scooter—?”

Taylor nodded, the motion jerky, another sob catching in her throat. But this one was different. Not grief. Not pain.

A release.

“I thought it was gone,” she whispered. “I thought it was gone forever. But they’re—they’re mine again.”

Karlie couldn’t speak. Her eyes filled instantly.

She reached both hands up, cupping Taylor’s face, brushing her damp hair back gently.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “Taylor…”

Taylor let out another sob-laugh — broken and bright all at once — and collapsed into Karlie’s arms again.

Karlie held her tighter than ever. Her own chest was aching now, her eyes brimming.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered. “I’m so, so proud of you.”

Taylor didn’t say anything. She just breathed, her face pressed against Karlie’s neck, her fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the world.

Then, slowly, she pulled back.

Her eyes were red and swollen. Her cheeks streaked with tears. Her lips trembling.

But she looked at Karlie — like she was trying to memorize the face of someone who had never once let go.

And then, without a word, she leaned in and kissed her.

It was soft. Desperate. A little salty from the tears.

But it was also something else entirely.

Grateful. Real. Unshakable.

Karlie kissed her back, both hands still cupping Taylor’s face, thumbs brushing gently over damp skin. She poured everything into that kiss — all the fear from earlier, the relief now, the fierce, quiet pride blooming in her chest.

When they finally broke apart, Taylor rested her forehead against Karlie’s.

“I had to tell you first,” she whispered. “You were the first person I wanted to tell.”

Karlie smiled through the tears that had finally started to fall. “You just did.”

And she kissed her again.

The moment stayed suspended between them, lips still tingling, breath shared, hearts finally beginning to settle. The air had changed — not lighter, exactly, but steadier. Less fractured.

Then the sound of footsteps returned. Light ones. Careful ones.

Tree stepped back into the room first, followed by Daniel. Her eyes flicked immediately to Taylor and Karlie — curled together on the couch, foreheads resting against each other, tears still fresh but no longer wild.

Tree softened, visibly. In her hands were two glasses of water and a packet of tissues.

“Hey,” she said gently. “You two okay?”

Taylor nodded, slow and small. Karlie wiped at her cheek, trying to pull herself together even though her own tears hadn’t stopped completely.

Tree handed Karlie a glass and then knelt to set Taylor’s down on the coffee table beside her. She placed the tissues quietly next to it. Then she reached out and tucked a damp strand of Taylor’s hair behind her ear — a gesture full of years of knowing her.

“We didn’t want to interrupt. Just… wanted to make sure you’re breathing again.”

Taylor let out a weak little laugh. It cracked in her throat.

Daniel, standing behind Tree, cleared his throat gently and gave Taylor a small nod. “We can go over all the legal details later. But the basics are this: the company that bought your masters — after Scooter sold them — reached out. They’ve been watching everything. The re-recordings, the public support, the backlash they’ve gotten. Sales of the original masters have plummeted. It’s become clear they can’t recover their investment.”

He stepped forward slowly, speaking with calm clarity.

“They want out. And they know the best way to save face is to give them back to the one person who should’ve owned them all along. They’re offering you full rights — everything. It’s not a trap. We’ve reviewed it thoroughly. It’s real.”

Taylor laughed again — high and sharp and soaked in disbelief.

“You’re telling me… they’re just giving them back?”

Daniel smiled faintly. “With the right paperwork and a number with a lot of zeros on your end, sure. But this time, you set the terms. You call the shots.”

Taylor blinked, her fingers tightening around Karlie’s.

Karlie couldn’t help it — her throat caught again, and another tear slipped down. She wiped it quickly, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe it either.

“You did it,” she whispered. “After everything… you won.”

Taylor looked down, then back up at Daniel.

“And they actually—” Her voice faltered. “They want to talk to me?”

Daniel gave a quiet nod. “They’ll take the meeting. But only if you’re ready.”

Taylor exhaled shakily. Her hand reached for the water, but she didn’t drink it.

She turned back to Karlie instead — eyes raw but shining now.

“I think I’ve been ready for a long time,” she whispered.

Tree’s voice broke in, softer now, as she knelt beside them. “Then let’s take it one step at a time. Starting with a deep breath.”

Taylor looked at her, then Karlie, then Daniel.

And for the first time in years — truly — she believed this could be hers. Her music. Her choice. Her voice.

Daniel glanced at his watch, then pulled out his phone. “They sent over some windows for a meeting,” he said, scrolling. “There’s one tomorrow. One late Friday. Or Monday morning.”

Taylor didn’t hesitate. “Tomorrow. As early as possible.”

Tree raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to sleep on it?”

“I’ve slept on this for years,” Taylor said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was resolute. “Let’s go.”

Karlie squeezed her hand. “Tomorrow it is.”

Taylor looked at her and smiled — wide, radiant, a little dazed. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“You deserve it,” Karlie said, eyes bright. “Every single bit of it.”

Taylor’s breath hitched again, this time from something warmer. “I need to call my mom. And my dad. And Austin. They’ve been fighting this with me since the beginning. I—” She stopped herself, blinking quickly. “They need to know.”

Daniel gently cleared his throat. “You can tell them. But please — no one else. Not yet.”

Taylor’s expression turned serious. “You think they might change their minds?”

“They’re not fools,” Daniel said. “But they’re cautious. And if word gets out — especially to the press — it could spook the board. We need everything locked in before even a whisper hits the outside.”

Tree nodded in agreement. “Let’s not risk it now.”

Taylor nodded. “Okay. Just Mom. Just Dad. Maybe Austin”

“And me,” Karlie said softly, grinning.

Taylor turned to her and smiled. “You were the first to know. You’re always the first.”

She reached for her phone — then froze, groaning into her hands. “Shit. I left it at your place.”

Karlie laughed, warm and quiet. “Then we’re definitely going back together. Can’t have you showing up barefoot again, either.”

Taylor blushed, looking down at her still-bare feet. “I forgot shoes. I forgot everything.”

“Except your fire,” Tree said gently, handing her a tissue. “That you remembered.”

And in the middle of the quiet room, with tea gone cold on the table and the world beginning to tilt back into motion, Taylor Swift began to believe — for the first time in far too long — that she might just get it all back.

The city blurred past, a smear of glass and orange light beyond the car window. But inside the SUV, the air was still. Soft hum of the engine. The occasional turn signal click. The quiet rhythm of Karlie’s breathing beside her.

Taylor sat curled in the passenger seat, her hands clutched in her lap. Her shoes were still off. Her hair was drying in waves, tangled from tears. Her heart thudded like it wasn’t sure which tempo to keep.

Karlie drove in silence. Not awkward. Not tense. Just gentle. Like she knew Taylor needed space to fall apart a little more before she could speak.

Taylor blinked slowly. Her eyes tracked the skyline—and then everything fell away.

Flashback – The night her Masters were sold again.

The hotel room was high up in the tower, but it felt like a bunker. Soundproofed. Empty. Still. Outside, the city blinked on without her. Life moved, but she didn’t.

The only light came from the TV screen, muted, playing some award show she wasn’t at. Her phone sat face down on the floor. Fifteen missed calls. Tree. Andrea. Abigail. Her lawyer. No one had the words she needed.

She’d thrown up earlier. In the marble sink. Quietly. Dignified even in grief. She was always so careful.

She was sitting on the carpet in an old hoodie, knees pulled up, head against the wall. Her fingers still smelled like sharpie from signing Folklore vinyls that morning. She should’ve been proud of that album. But the email had come in the middle of a meeting, and then the floor just—

Dropped.

“The acquisition has been finalized.”

“No further negotiation possible.”

They’d been sold again. Like cattle. Like she wasn’t the one who wrote every word with a guitar and bleeding fingers.

And she hadn’t even known until it was already done.

A sound escaped her. Not quite a sob. Not quite human.

She pressed her face to her knees and whispered, “You promised me they’d tell me first. You promised me.”

No one heard her.
No one answered.

For the first time in her career, Taylor Swift truly believed she might never win. Not this battle. Not this war.

She stayed there on the floor for hours. Not crying. Just unraveling. Quietly. Slowly. The only sound was her own breath breaking in half.

But somewhere, somewhere inside her bones, a voice still whispered—

“You’ll get them back.”

Back in the car – Now

Taylor’s throat tightened. Her vision blurred again—not from sadness now, but something messier. Heavier.

She turned her head slightly toward Karlie. Watched the shape of her hands on the steering wheel. The familiar profile lit by the dusky glow of streetlights. Strong, capable, gentle.

And then, almost without thinking, Taylor reached across the console and slipped her hand into Karlie’s.

Karlie glanced at her, startled for only a second. Her fingers curled instinctively around hers.

Taylor didn’t speak. Her heart did the talking.

She squeezed.
Once.
A pause.
Twice.
Another pause.
Three times.

I’m here.
I love you.
Don’t let go.

Karlie inhaled, her throat catching slightly. She pulled their joined hands to her thigh, resting them there. Her thumb began to draw slow circles across the back of Taylor’s hand.

Taylor closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window. She wasn’t okay yet.

But she wasn’t alone.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Taylor stepped out first, barefoot, her hand still wrapped tightly in Karlie’s.

Neither of them had said much on the ride back. There wasn’t much to say that didn’t feel too small or too big. The silence wasn’t cold. It was tender. Heavy with everything that had just happened.

Taylor didn’t want to let go. Not of Karlie’s hand. Not of this moment. Not now.

Karlie unlocked the front door with one hand, the other still in Taylor’s. She hesitated for a second before pushing it open.

The house was still. Too still.

Taylor didn’t need to ask. The energy had shifted.

Karlie stepped inside first. Her fingers slid from Taylor’s but hovered near. Taylor followed, eyes flicking across the open space.

Things were missing.

The hallway console table. The large plant in the corner.

Then they stepped into the living room.

Gone.

The couch was gone.

Taylor blinked slowly. It shouldn’t have surprised her. But it did.

Karlie stood beside her, arms crossed loosely over her chest, exhaling through her nose. “Well…”

She paused. Then, dryly:

“He said he needed time to collect his things.”
A beat.
“Looks like he had enough.”

Taylor glanced around. The rug was still there. The kids’ toys stacked neatly in the corner. But the room felt… hollow. Like someone had taken not just the furniture, but the noise that once filled it.

Karlie crossed the room slowly, running her hand along the wall as if expecting to find something still left behind. Then she looked at Taylor.

“That was his couch,” she said quietly. “I always hated it. But—”

Taylor gave a small laugh. Just air, really. “But now it’s weird that it’s gone?”

Karlie nodded. “Yeah.”

They stood there, in the empty echo of what had been normal for so long.

Taylor took a few steps forward and sank onto the edge of the rug, folding her knees underneath her. The hardwood was cool through the fabric of her pants. Karlie sat down beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched.

For a while, they didn’t speak. Just breathed in the newness of the room.

And Taylor, finally, rested her head on Karlie’s shoulder.

She whispered, “Is it bad that I’m relieved?”

Karlie leaned her cheek against Taylor’s hair. “No,” she said. “Not bad.”

Taylor closed her eyes.

Karlie shifted slightly, her gaze sweeping over the space again. “It looks… weird,” she murmured. “Like someone scooped out the middle of the house and left the edges.”

She stood slowly, walking across the room, her footsteps soft on the hardwood. Taylor stayed on the rug, arms loosely wrapped around her knees, watching her.

Karlie disappeared briefly into the hallway. “Even the guest room’s empty,” she called, her voice echoing slightly. “All the sheets and the stuff from the closet—gone.”

Taylor’s brows lifted faintly, but she didn’t respond. She could hear the muted creak of doors opening and closing.

Karlie reappeared in the doorway of her own bedroom. She didn’t step inside right away.

“It’s untouched,” she said. “Except… his clothes are gone. His charger’s gone. The shelf by his side of the bed is empty.”

She walked in slowly, her fingers brushing along the dresser edge. Then she sat down on the edge of the mattress.

It felt… wrong.

Like something sacred had shifted, but not fully settled yet.

She looked down at her hands.

“It’s weird,” she admitted aloud, not knowing if Taylor could hear from the other room. “Sleeping in this bed. With you. After everything.”

Taylor padded softly into the doorway, her frame small in the vast quiet of the house.

Karlie looked up at her. “I mean… I haven’t even asked you. If you want to stay. If you’re okay staying. I just kind of—assumed.”

Taylor’s face softened.

Karlie kept going. “I know you have your own place, your life. I know this—” she gestured vaguely at the room, the house, the moment “—isn’t simple. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to be here. I don’t expect you to just… move in. Or stay every night. I haven’t asked what you want.”

She looked at her, quiet and searching.

Taylor walked toward her. Stopped in front of the bed. Then, with a small sigh, she sat beside her.

“Kar,” she said gently. “It’s okay.”

Karlie opened her mouth to say something else, but Taylor touched her hand, a quiet reassurance.

“I mean it,” she added. “If you and the boys want to stay at my place tonight, we can do that. Even Rachel can come. There’s space. And the cats would love it—they’re back from Rhode Island, by the way. I had them brought up last week. Meredith is already angry at the rug again.”

Karlie blinked, half-laughing, half-tearing up. “You’re serious?”

Taylor nodded. “I just want to be wherever you are. And I want you to feel okay.”

Karlie looked at her. The hand between them. The hollowed-out house. The tiny possibility of a softer night.

She leaned in without hesitation and kissed her.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t rushed.

It was soft—an inhale, a thank you, a grounding.

When she pulled back, her eyes were shimmering. “I love you,” she whispered.

Taylor exhaled like she’d been holding that breath since the moment she walked back into this house. Her fingers tightened around Karlie’s hand.

“If you want,” Taylor said gently, “I can text Dave. Have him pull the car around. We can head to mine in twenty minutes.”

Karlie nodded, then blinked like something hit her mid-thought. “Wait. The meeting. With the sellers. You need to be rested for that, Tay. Focused. You should sleep in your own bed, get your routine—”

Taylor cut her off softly, touching Karlie’s cheek. “Hey,” she murmured, calm and anchored. “It’s okay.”

Karlie hesitated. “But I don’t want to throw you off.”

“You’re not,” Taylor said, her voice steady, warm. “You’re the reason I’m still standing.”

Karlie opened her mouth to argue—but the look on Taylor’s face stopped her.

“I mean it,” Taylor said. “It’s okay.” She leaned forward and kissed her again. “You’re my peace.”

Karlie nodded, slow and small, her thumb brushing over the back of Taylor’s hand.

“I’ll tell Rachel to pack a bag,” she whispered. “The boys will love it.”

Taylor smiled. “So will the cats. Mostly.” A beat. “Okay, maybe not Olivia. But she’ll deal.”

They both laughed—tired, quiet, a little fragile. But together.

Karlie stood, her fingers giving Taylor’s hand one last squeeze before she let go.

“I’ll go get them ready.”

Taylor watched her go, her footsteps soft on the stairs, until she disappeared from view. Then she turned toward the windows, the skyline just beginning to blush with twilight. She pulled out her phone and dialed Dave.

“Hey,” she said, her voice calm but tinged with warmth. “We’ll need a bigger car tonight. Something with space for two car seats—and Rachel. Yeah, overnight bags too.”

She paused, listening.

“Thanks. And… thank you, Dave. For everything today.”

Upstairs, the hallway light was soft and golden. Karlie stepped into the boys’ room just as Rachel was zipping up Elijah’s pajamas. Levi was already tucked under the covers, clutching a worn dinosaur plush. Laughter still lingered in the air from some bedtime story or inside joke.

“Hey,” Karlie said gently, smiling as she leaned in the doorway.

Rachel looked up. “Hey. Just about ready for lights out.”

Karlie crossed to her, brushing a loose strand of hair behind Elijah’s ear. “Change of plans,” she said quietly. “We’re going to sleep at Taylor’s tonight.”

Levi sat up straighter, wide-eyed. “Taylor’s?!”

Elijah already scrambling for his slippers.

Rachel raised a brow but didn’t question it. She nodded and headed toward the dresser. “I’ll get them packed.”

As Rachel began folding clothes into small travel bags, Karlie ducked into her own room. The light in there was dimmer, quieter. Her suitcase waited on the bench at the foot of the bed.

She moved without rush, without noise—folding leggings, a sweater, a scarf. The essentials. Toothbrush. Lotion. Lip balm. She was about to zip the bag when her gaze shifted to her nightstand.

She hesitated.

Then reached for the bottom drawer and pulled it open.

The shoebox was still there—unmarked, ordinary, taped shut along one edge.

She stared at it for a long moment.

Her fingers hovered just over the lid, but she didn’t open it. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Instead, she tucked it gently into the bottom of her bag, covering it with a sweater. Then she added her laptop, the charger, and zipped the whole thing shut.

Taylor was finishing her call. Her voice was quiet, steady. But inside, her heart was pounding—not with panic this time, but with something new - Karlie, her boys and her Masters.

Karlie stood for a moment at the edge of the bed, one hand on the bag. She looked around the room. At what had been. At what was now.

Then she turned off the light, and walked toward the sound of her boys' laughter.

Karlie stepped back into the boys’ room, her overnight bag now slung over one shoulder.

Elijah was trying to zip his tiny backpack but had somehow managed to trap the strap in the teeth of the zipper. His tongue peeked out the corner of his mouth in concentration. Next to him, Levi was bouncing slightly on the mattress, full of a four-year-old energy that hadn’t yet recognized bedtime.

“Mommy?” Levi asked, eyes wide. “If we sleep at Taylor’s… can we jump on the trampoline again tomorrow?”

Karlie smiled as she knelt to help Elijah. “Maybe,” she said. “If the weather’s nice and you’re not too tired.”

Levi grinned. “I won’t be tired. Never tired.”

Elijah tugged on her sleeve urgently. “I wan’ my duckies,” he mumbled, voice soft and slightly garbled in that toddler-speak way that still melted Karlie’s heart. “Need ’em. Dey wait for me.”

“Of course, baby,” Karlie said gently. She stood and crossed the room, reaching under the little shelf near the bed where Elijah always lined up his rubber ducks. “Here they are. All three.”

Elijah nodded solemnly and held out both arms. “Dey need sleep too.”

Karlie handed him the ducks one by one, watching as he clutched them to his chest and gave a big, serious nod like he was accepting great responsibility.

Rachel, already folding pajamas into a small duffel, paused for a second. “Hey, Karlie?” she asked softly. “Would it be okay if I stayed here tonight? Just to double-check things, and maybe swing by in the morning with their jackets and some extra stuff?”

Karlie looked over and nodded without hesitation. “Of course. Thank you. That’d be perfect.”

Rachel smiled. “You need anything else?”

Karlie glanced around the room—Elijah cuddling his ducks, Levi already asking for snacks for the car, the duffel half-packed on the bed—and then back at Rachel.

“No,” she said, softer now. “Just… thank you for being here.”

Rachel gave her a look of quiet reassurance, the kind of look that didn’t need words.

Karlie turned back to her boys, gently guiding the zipper closed on Levi’s bag. “Okay, my loves,” she said. “Let’s go on an adventure.”

Levi cheered.

Elijah raised his ducks in the air triumphantly.

They made their way down the stairs slowly, a small, clumsy parade of sleepiness and excitement.

Elijah led the way, wobbling a little with his tiny backpack bouncing on his back and his ducks gripped proudly in both hands. His voice echoed off the walls in his sweet, muddled toddler talk: “Taywo, Taywo—we come too! My duckies come too. Dey sleep in your house now. Okay?”

Taylor was standing by the door, coat already on, hair pulled into a soft ponytail. The second she saw them, her face lit up like someone had turned the lights on inside her.

“You brought the whole crew,” she said, her voice warm, her smile growing as Elijah ran straight for her.

Elijah threw his arms around her legs without warning, rubber ducks squishing between them. “We come wit’ you now,” he declared. “All night.”

Taylor bent down slowly, hugging him back. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

Behind him, Levi came bouncing down the last three steps and flung himself into Taylor’s side, arms wrapping around her with unfiltered joy.

“Trampoline,” he whispered like it was a secret. “Tomorrow, okay?”

Taylor looked at Karlie over both their heads, her heart already full. “Deal.”

Karlie descended last, her bag slung awkwardly over one shoulder and a smaller one in her hand. She was smiling—soft, tired, and deeply fond.

Taylor stepped forward immediately. “Hey, give me those,” she said, reaching for the heavier duffel before Karlie could protest. “You’re carrying enough.”

Karlie hesitated. “I’m fine.”

“You’re pregnant,” Taylor said flatly, tugging the bag gently from her hand. “You’re not carrying a suitcase down concrete stairs while I’m standing right here.”

Karlie let it go with a half-sigh, half-smile. “Bossy.”

“Correct,” Taylor said, shifting the weight with ease. “Loving. Bossy.”

They stood for a second just looking at each other. Quietly aware of how strange and perfect it was to be here, now, like this—with kids and bags and rubber ducks between them.

Karlie let out a soft chuckle and leaned in to kiss Taylor’s cheek. “Thanks for making room for all of us.”

Taylor leaned into it. “There’s always room for you.”

Then she held the door open wide, and the little family spilled into the hallway, laughter and tiny footsteps echoing behind them.

Dave had pulled into the underground garage with a large black SUV, its windows already tinted against the city lights and noise. As the trunk opened, the sound of his calm voice filled the space, checking details with swift precision. “Got the boosters in the back,” he said. “Rear-facing one’s set too, just in case.”

Taylor gave a quiet nod of thanks, her hand still looped with Karlie’s.

Karlie hadn’t let go of her since the stairs.

The bags were loaded, the car seats fastened. Elijah clambered in with his ducks, clutching them tightly like treasure. Levi babbled excitedly for a minute or two about sleeping over and which stuffed animals might be waiting at Taylor’s. But before they even made it onto the West Side Highway, he was out cold, mouth open.

Elijah followed ten minutes later, ducks pressed between him and his seatbelt.

In the front, Taylor and Karlie sat quietly, fingers interlaced. The city passed in a blur of lights. Taylor watched Karlie more than she looked out the window.

She thought about the hotel room again. That awful, echoing silence. The heartbreak of knowing someone else held her music, her memories. And how impossible the fight had seemed back then.

Now here she was—with Karlie’s hand in hers, her cats waiting at home, and two sleeping kids breathing softly behind them.

Dave pulled up to the private entrance and wordlessly began helping. He lifted Levi into his arms and carried him gently up the elevator, settling him on the couch inside Taylor’s apartment with all the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before.

Taylor cradled Elijah carefully, his cheek heavy against her shoulder, his little fists still gripping duck-shaped dreams.

Dave returned for the bags.

Taylor and Karlie carried the boys into the guest room, one at a time. The room was already warm, dimly lit, the soft bedding turned down like a promise. Levi was curled onto his side the moment he hit the mattress, and Elijah murmured something about “no loud duckies” before flopping deeper into sleep.

They covered them gently, each boy safe in his own corner of the bed.

Karlie kissed both foreheads with a quiet reverence, her hand brushing back a stray curl from Elijah’s brow.

Taylor flicked the hallway light on and left the door open just a sliver.

The glow spilled into the room like a soft watchlight.

Neither of them spoke as they stepped out again. But their hands found each other easily. Naturally.

Taylor padded softly into the kitchen, her feet bare against the polished floor. The quiet of the apartment wrapped around her like a blanket—soft, golden, humming with presence. She opened the wine cabinet and pulled out one of her favorites, uncorking it carefully. The deep red glugged gently into the glass, catching the warm underlight of the counter.

From the fridge, she grabbed one of the citrusy limonatas Karlie liked. She twisted off the cap and headed down the hall, both drinks in hand.

She found Karlie exactly where she knew she would be: standing still in the doorway to the music room.

The door was cracked open, just enough to reveal the dim interior. Moonlight slipped through the tall windows, silvering the edges of the grand piano and the wall of acoustic guitars that lined the far side. A few scattered pages of sheet music lay forgotten on the floor, a notebook left half-open on the ottoman.

Karlie didn’t turn when Taylor approached. She just stood there, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe, her silhouette outlined by soft light.

Taylor handed her the limonata wordlessly.

Karlie took it, then said, almost to herself, “You wrote one of my favorite albums in this room.”

Taylor exhaled through her nose, soft. She stepped closer, her shoulder brushing Karlie’s. “I know.”

Karlie finally turned her head, her eyes tracing the familiar space. “And now it’s yours again.”

The words hung there.

Weighty. Wonderful. A little impossible.

Taylor stared into the room for a beat, taking it in. Her sanctuary. Her sound. Home.

Then she looked back at Karlie, voice quiet and full: “You helped me write a lot of that. You don’t even know how much.”

Karlie’s brows knit gently, lips parting—but before she could speak, Taylor leaned in and kissed her.

It was slow. Full of memory. Gratitude. Gravity.

Karlie leaned into it, her fingers curling softly around the cool glass in her hand.

When they parted, Taylor rested her forehead against Karlie’s. “It never would’ve sounded the same without you.”

Karlie whispered, “I was just there.”

Taylor smiled. “Exactly.”

They stood there a little longer, side by side, looking into the room where so much had been created, lost, and finally reclaimed.

Flashback: Taylor’s music room, past midnight a few years ago

The house was wrapped in silence, like a held breath. Just past midnight, the world outside was still—no headlights through the windows, no phones buzzing, no obligations. Only this room. Only the music.

Taylor’s music room was tucked away at the back of the house, a converted guest room that had slowly filled with pianos, guitars, stacked notebooks, and the kind of mess only creativity understands. Old tour posters leaned against the wall, a Polaroid pinned crookedly to a corkboard. A candle burned low on the windowsill, scenting the air with something soft—vanilla and cedar.

Taylor sat at the upright piano barefoot, one leg tucked under the other, her body folded into the keys. She wore loose, worn-in cotton shorts and a black sports bra, her hoodie pushed back and hanging open, sleeves bunched at her elbows. Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun, a few strands falling down and sticking slightly to her skin. Her shoulders rose and fell as she played, lit by the warm, honey-colored glow of the only lamp in the room.

“I’d kiss you as the lights went out…”

Her voice was barely more than breath. A melody like a secret, unraveling slowly.

In the doorway, Karlie stood. Wrapped in nothing but a blanket, her silhouette framed by the low hallway light behind her. She didn’t say a word. Just watched.

She took in the curve of Taylor’s bare back, the flex of her shoulder blades with each movement. The soft skin just above her waistband, barely visible as she leaned forward into the music. And the way Taylor’s body seemed to feel each note she played—as if the song came not from the keys, but from somewhere deep inside her.

“Even with my hands tied…”

Karlie’s heart ached. With love. With longing. With the weight of everything they carried but couldn't show.

She stepped forward, slowly, her feet soundless on the hardwood floor.

Taylor didn’t notice.

“I could’ve spent forever with your hands in my pockets…” The blanket slipped a little as Karlie moved behind her. She leaned in.

A kiss—soft—against the curve of Taylor’s neck.

Taylor froze. Then let out a shaky exhale.

Another kiss. Slower. Warmer. And then, spoken low and true:

“I love you.”

Taylor turned slightly, eyes wide and soft, breath caught in her throat. Her fingers hovered above the keys.

“I didn’t hear you.”

Karlie smiled, tucking a piece of hair behind Taylor’s ear. “I didn’t want to interrupt you. I just… had to be near you.”

 Taylor looked down at herself, at her mismatched outfit, at the chaos of lyrics on the floor, at the notebook balanced on the edge of the piano.

“I look like a mess.”

Karlie’s gaze never wavered. “You look like art in motion.”

And Taylor, blinking back something too big to name, whispered:

“I’m a mess, but I’m the mess that you wanted…”

Karlie knelt beside her, her hand finding Taylor’s bare knee, thumb brushing gently over the skin.

“Oh, it’s gravity keeping us grounded

I’d hold you as the water rises

Even with my hands tied…”

The room felt too full for words. Or maybe finally full enough. She kissed her. This time not on the neck, but deeper—on the mouth.

Taylor responded instantly, her hands sliding into Karlie’s hair, pulling her closer, until their breaths mingled in a rhythm all their own. The music sheets scattered to the floor as Karlie climbed gently into Taylor’s lap. Skin to skin. Warmth against warmth.

The keys beneath them gave a small, helpless chord as Taylor leaned her back against the piano, Karlie straddling her now, the muscles in her thighs tightening as she pressed down, needing more.

The kiss deepened—less a question now, more a certainty.

Taylor's hands moved to Karlie's waist, then her back, then lower— claiming, not out of dominance, but reverence. She guided Karlie up, carefully lifting her just enough to slide her onto the edge of the piano bench—then higher—onto the keys themselves.

Karlie laughed, breathless. “You’re going to break it.”

Taylor, lips tracing the inside of Karlie’s thigh: “Then I’ll write a new song about that too.”Karlie’s laugh caught in her throat when Taylor kissed higher. Then again—slower. Deeper.

Her body answered before her mouth could. A soft gasp. The sharp curl of her fingers against the edge of the piano. Her thighs tensed instinctively, welcoming, inviting. The sound the piano made beneath her was raw, chaotic, beautiful. Notes that weren’t meant to be played like that. But they belonged there now. Taylor’s breath grew heavier, rougher. It rolled against Karlie’s skin like heat rising off summer asphalt—unsteady, undeniable. She pressed her mouth to the inside of Karlie’s thigh again, this time slower, deeper. The softness of skin beneath her lips, the slight tremble in the muscles above—it made her dizzy. Grounded.

She shifted forward, one knee creaking softly against the hardwood floor. Her hands smoothed along Karlie’s legs, parting them further, her thumbs anchoring just below her hips. She held her like a song she never wanted to stop playing.

Karlie’s body opened for her. Breathlessly. Trustingly. Her fingers clutched the edge of the piano for balance as she tilted her hips forward, inviting. Her eyes fluttered shut.

Taylor looked up, lips parted, eyes full of something fierce and reverent.

 Then she leaned in.

Her mouth found the center of her with reverent slowness—testing, teasing, pressing deeper. Her tongue moved in slow, steady rhythm, matched to the beat of her own breath, now hot and rough in her throat. She inhaled her, tasted her, the salt and warmth of her. The truth of her.

Karlie let out a sound—soft, broken—like a chord struck too hard. Her hand found Taylor’s shoulder, fingers digging in, grounding herself.

The piano beneath her sang again—unintended notes, sharp and trembling, echoes of pleasure in wood and wire.

Taylor didn’t stop.

She moved with intention, not in haste. Every movement of her mouth was measured, like phrasing in a verse she’d rewritten a hundred times. She moaned softly into her, the sound low and raw, vibrating through her tongue and into Karlie’s skin. Her breath hitched, turned ragged, but she stayed there—completely lost in giving.

Karlie gasped, her voice catching in the back of her throat.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, barely audible, barely air.

Taylor only pressed closer.

Her hands slid upward again—fingertips grazing over Karlie’s ribs, the underside of her breasts, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat beneath her skin. She kissed harder now, her tongue circling in slow, deliberate rhythm. Her jaw tightened with the effort of holding herself still while her body begged to move. Her own thighs trembled against the floor.

Karlie’s hips lifted with each wave of sensation, her legs beginning to shake. Her body betrayed how close she was—so close, too much, not enough.

Taylor held her tighter. Her breath, burning now, spilled across Karlie’s skin in short, open exhales. She groaned again—quiet, low in her throat—and the vibration pulled a cry from Karlie’s lips.

It wasn’t a scream.

It was music.

And when Karlie came, it was with a full-body shudder, her legs tightening around Taylor, her hand clutching the back of her head, pulling her impossibly closer.

The piano moaned beneath them.

Taylor didn’t let go—not right away. She stayed, her tongue soft now, slow and soothing. She kissed Karlie through it, then down, then lower, until the trembling softened. Until Karlie collapsed back against the piano lid, one arm draped over her eyes, breath uneven, chest rising fast and wild.

Taylor exhaled.

Her own skin was flushed, her breath still ragged, her thighs damp where they met the floor. She rested her cheek against Karlie’s leg and closed her eyes for a moment.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t need to.

When Taylor finally looked up again, Karlie met her gaze—eyes half-lidded, shining, still breathless.

Taylor stood slowly. Her knees ached, but she didn’t care. She reached out and cupped Karlie’s face, kissed her gently—this time on the mouth. Tender. Raw.

“I’ve never loved anyone like this,” Taylor whispered. Her voice cracked. “You break me open.”

Karlie smiled, weak and glowing. “Then let’s never close again.” Taylor lingered in the stillness, forehead pressed to Karlie’s, their breath slowly syncing again.

Outside, the world remained unchanged. But inside—everything had shifted.

Karlie’s eyes were closed now, lips parted just enough to keep breathing her in.

Taylor pulled back gently. She reached for her notebook on the floor without breaking eye contact, fingers trembling slightly as she flipped past pages of half-formed thoughts. Some crossed out. Some too honest. Some written only for the dark.

She didn’t ask permission.

She just picked up her pen.

Her hands still smelled like skin. Like warmth. Like her. Her thighs ached from the floor, her body humming with memory. She felt Karlie’s breath behind her—steady now, grounding—and it pushed her forward.

The words weren’t lyrics yet.

They were fragments. Emotions. Movement.

She wrote not to capture the moment, but to survive it.

This wasn’t about writing a song.

This was about saying something she couldn’t say anywhere else.

Something that didn’t belong to the outside world.

Not to managers. Not to cameras. Not to headlines.

It belonged here—to the room, to the breath between their mouths, to the music that only ever lived when Karlie was near.

Taylor paused, pen hovering, and looked up again.

Karlie watched her in the half-light, calm now, raw and open.

Taylor’s voice cracked as she spoke—not from doubt, but from everything that had no name:

“If this is the only place I get to tell the truth…”

She swallowed.

“…then this is where I’ll leave it.”

Karlie nodded, slow and knowing.

And the silence that followed wasn’t hollow.

It was full—of everything they were, and everything they weren’t allowed to be.

Taylor reached for Karlie’s hand, their fingers tangling effortlessly in the soft lamplight.

“Are you tired?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Karlie let out a slow, breathy laugh. “Exhausted,” she admitted. “I could fall asleep standing right here.”

Taylor smiled and gave her hand a gentle tug. “Then come to bed.”

They left the hallway light on and the door to the boys’ room cracked open just a little—enough to hear a soft snore, or the rustle of sheets if someone woke.

In Taylor’s bedroom, the quiet felt different. Safer. Full. The bedsheets were cool and smooth, the scent of lavender still clinging faintly from the linen spray she’d used that morning. Karlie slipped into one of Taylor’s oversized shirts without saying a word, and Taylor watched her with something just shy of reverence.

She grabbed her phone and set the alarm—early enough to prepare for the meeting, not so early it would break this quiet.

Karlie was already under the covers when Taylor climbed in beside her, curling up close, fitting herself into the curve of Karlie’s body like she belonged there.

Because she did.

Karlie’s arm wrapped around her automatically, instinctively.

As the quiet settled deeper around them, Taylor shifted slightly beneath the covers, her hand gliding gently over the soft curve of Karlie’s belly. Her fingers stilled there, warm and light, as if grounding herself in something real—something steady.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For today. For being there.”

Karlie blinked slowly, her breathing evening out, but she smiled. “Thank you… for telling me first.”

There was a pause, filled with the hush of nighttime and the distant hum of the city.

“And,” Karlie added, softer now, “thank you for letting the boys and me stay here.”

Taylor turned her head and pressed a kiss to Karlie’s cheek—slow, lingering.

“I love you,” she whispered against her skin.

Karlie gave the faintest nod, her features relaxing completely as her body melted further into the mattress. Within minutes, her breathing grew slower, deeper—she had drifted off.

Taylor stayed still, watching her for a few heartbeats longer, her hand still resting over the life growing inside the woman she loved.

Her heart felt full—maybe for the first time in a very long time.

No fear. No running.

Just peace.

Just love.

And Taylor smiled to herself in the dark.

She was happy.

Chapter Text

The room was quiet, but Taylor couldn’t sleep.

She lay still for what felt like hours, eyes open in the dark, watching the faint city lights flicker against the ceiling. Her body still rested beside Karlie’s, their breaths rising and falling in quiet rhythm. But her mind refused to settle.

At some point—without really deciding to—she slipped carefully out from under the covers, pressing a kiss to Karlie’s shoulder as she moved. She pulled on one of Karlie’s threadbare hoodies—faded, familiar, and faintly scented like her—and padded barefoot across the apartment.

The hallway was dim and quiet, but not silent. The hum of the city below. A pipe clicking somewhere behind the walls. The soft thud of her own heartbeat in her ears.

As she passed the guest room, she paused.

The door was slightly ajar.

She peeked inside.

Elijah was curled up with his duck plushies clutched to his chest, mouth parted in deep sleep. Levi had kicked off his blanket and sprawled diagonally across the mattress. Between them, not touching but close, was Benjamin Button—snuggled deep into a pillow like he belonged there.

Taylor smiled faintly.

On the rug nearby, Meredith sat upright, tail wrapped tightly around her paws, staring at her like her mere presence had disrupted some sacred feline order. Taylor whispered, “Okay, sorry,” and tiptoed away.

She ended up in the living room, sinking slowly onto the couch. The weight of the day dropped over her like a second skin.

Her thoughts spun. The Masters. The meeting. The years she had spent fighting. The betrayal. The loss. The quiet, tireless reclaiming. The moment Tree had said, “They’re offering them back,” was still echoing in her chest like an aftershock.

She wrapped her arms around herself.

So much had changed. So much had been taken.

And yet, somehow, here she was. On the verge of getting it all back.

Her work. Her voice. Her name.

And not just that—this. Karlie. The boys. A life that didn’t feel like a mask anymore.

But what if it wasn’t real? What if it all slipped again?

She pressed her fingers into her temples and breathed in slowly.

In just a few hours, she’d sit across from the very people who bought pieces of her soul like real estate.

And ask for it back.

No. Demand it back.

Not with anger.

But with clarity.

With ownership.

And with every note of every song she ever wrote still living in her bones.

She didn’t know what would happen. But she knew what she had to bring into that room.

She leaned back, looked up at the ceiling again, and whispered, barely audible:

“Stay calm. Be clear. Be you.”

She sat there for a while, the silence folding in around her like a second blanket.

She couldn’t talk to anyone about it—not really. Not yet. The deal wasn’t final. And if word got out too soon, the whole thing could collapse. Daniel had been clear: Keep it contained. No leaks. No emotions online. No posts.

And somehow, in the chaos of the day—Tree’s call, the tears, the panic, the joy, Karlie’s steady hands and soft eyes—she had completely forgotten to call her mom.

Or her dad.

Or Austin.

God, she thought. They’re going to kill me.

Not because she didn’t tell them. But because they knew what this meant to her. And they weren’t there to catch her when the moment hit.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want them to know.

She just… hadn’t had the space.

Taylor stood slowly, legs stiff from sitting too long, and drifted quietly down the hallway again.

This time, she didn’t stop at the guest room.

She walked past it. Past the kitchen. Past the mirror where one of Levi’s stickers clung crookedly to the edge.

And into the music room.

The soft click of the door behind her felt sacred, almost reverent.

She didn’t turn on the lights. The moonlight through the tall windows was enough. It cast everything in shades of silver and memory.

Her feet brought her instinctively to the wall on the far side of the room—the one she hadn’t really let herself look at in a long time.

The wall where all her albums hung.

Framed, glossy, neatly spaced. A timeline of her entire adult life.

She walked slowly along the row, fingertips ghosting just beneath the glass.

Debut. Fearless. Speak Now. Red. 1989. Reputation.

The first six.

She paused in front of them, her hand hovering in the air, not quite touching.

So much of her was trapped behind that glass. So many hotel rooms. Dressing rooms. Stages. Scribbled notes in the margins of notebooks. Voice memos recorded at 2 a.m. with shaky breath and too much caffeine. Smiles that weren’t real. Wins that didn’t feel like hers.

And yet—those songs were hers.
Every line. Every bridge.
Every cry for help hidden in a hook.
They were hers when she wrote them.
Hers when she sang them to empty hotel rooms,
to stadiums,
to no one.

And maybe—if this deal held,
if the meeting didn’t fall apart—
they could be hers again.

Truly. Officially.
No asterisk.
No hidden contract.
No one else's name on what came from her bones.

She moved down the wall slowly, now facing the second row. The re-recordings.

They were framed just like the others—identical layouts, the same soft lighting. But they didn’t feel the same. They felt heavier. Earned.

Fearless (Taylor’s Version).
Red (Taylor’s Version).
Speak Now (Taylor’s Version).
1989 (Taylor’s Version).

Albums born not out of inspiration, but out of necessity. Not because she wanted to relive her past, but because someone had taken it—and she refused to let that be the end of the story.

They glowed with something different. A quiet defiance. A promise. A reckoning.

She stared at them one by one, letting the songs drift back to her—not as melodies, but as moments.

The first time she played "Fifteen" live.
The night she wrote "All Too Well" and didn’t sleep until sunrise.
The way her hand shook when she recorded the bridge of "Enchanted" again, this time older, less naive—but still just as open.

Each track had been like stepping into a memory and choosing, actively, to survive it.

But her breath caught when she reached the last empty space.

Reputation (Taylor’s Version).

It should have been there. It wasn’t.

She hadn’t finished it.

She’d tried. More than once.

She remembered standing in the studio booth, the headphones on, the instrumental playing, and her voice just—stopping.

The lyrics tasted like metal. The memories like smoke.

She had written Reputation in flames. Every line was a fight. Every beat a heartbeat she had to reclaim.

But the person who made that album wasn’t here anymore.

That Taylor had been cornered. Torn apart. Weaponized.

And loved—loved so deeply it broke her open.

Loved by Joe.
Loved by Karlie.
Loved, then lost, in all directions.

It wasn’t just about Scooter or the media or faceless suits in boardrooms.
It was about rooms filled with people who knew her and still left.
It was about betrayal that felt personal, and loyalty that had an expiration date.

And how could she sing those songs again—those songs about loyalty, secrecy, desire—when so many of the people behind them had disappeared?

She blinked hard.

Gorgeous. Dress. Call It What You Want.

Every single one of them carried fingerprints. And the ones she couldn’t see anymore hurt the most.

Could she finish it?

Could she own it without erasing what it meant?

She placed her palm flat against the blank space on the wall.

Not to touch the album.

But to acknowledge the ache.

And then her eyes shifted—up and to the side—to the frame for Taylor Swift (Taylor’s Version). It wasn’t hung yet. But she knew exactly where it would go.

Her debut.

The one that made everything else possible.

She’d recorded it last year. Quietly. Tenderly. Like wrapping her arms around the girl she used to be.

Sixteen. Country twang. Boots too big for her feet. Hope spilling out of her faster than her pen could catch.

She hadn’t released it.

Not because she didn’t believe in it. She did.

But because part of her still wanted to protect that version of herself. Keep her sacred. Keep her safe.

But maybe that wasn’t the point.

Maybe she was never meant to protect the girl she used to be.

Maybe she was meant to stand beside her.

Tell the world, she mattered too.

She felt tears sting the back of her eyes, but she didn’t wipe them away.

She let them fall, slow and warm.

Because this wasn’t about mourning anymore.

It was about reclaiming.

All of it.

And suddenly, as the tears slipped down her cheeks, Taylor smiled through them.

A real smile.

Raw, crooked, alive.

She whispered, voice barely audible in the quiet:

“I see you. All of you. And I’ve got you now.”

She wiped her cheeks on the sleeve of Karlie’s hoodie and stood there for a beat longer, just listening to her own breath. Then, without fully deciding to, she turned toward the piano.

It stood quietly in the corner of the room, dignified and still, as if it had been waiting for her. Like it always did. No audience. No lights. Just her and the keys. A place where truth had always come out, even when she tried to hide it.

Taylor sat down, her breath catching slightly as she sank onto the bench. She let her fingers hover above the keys for a long moment. They trembled—not from fear, but from something older. Something deeper.

Her hands moved on their own, coaxing the song to life. Not a performance. Just… release.

She touched the keys.

And New Year’s Day began to play.

Soft. Tender. Fragile like breath on glass.

The melody poured out of her like water, slow and aching. She didn’t need lyrics. Her fingers said enough. They always had.

And then, without warning, memory took over.

A different night. Another version of her life.

Back when the world outside was white with snow and the city felt far away.
Back when Karlie had still been hers, without hesitation, without weight, without wounds.

Their apartment.

In this room.

It had smelled like cinnamon and wax and something warm and sharp, like red wine and skin.

Taylor had lit candles—just because—and played around on the piano while Karlie wandered the room barefoot, hair damp from a shower, cheeks pink with the kind of heat that only came from laughter and love.

They’d curled up on the floor with one oversized blanket and two long-stemmed glasses.

No clothes. No plans.
Just music. Just them.

Taylor remembered how Karlie had looked at her then. Like she was made of stars and she hadn’t even noticed.

She had started to hum something, tapping out notes with the side of her hand, not serious—just an idea. A little heartbeat of a song, not even formed yet.

Karlie, tipsy, leaned her head on Taylor’s shoulder and whispered, “That one.”

Taylor looked at her. “What one?”

“That one. The one you just played.”

“It’s not a song yet.”

Karlie grinned, lazy and glowing. “Then make it one.”

So she did.

She looped the chords again—slower this time.
And then the bridge came. Just… came.

Simple. Unpolished. Honest.

Karlie started to sing harmony, her voice low and imperfect but intimate in a way no recording booth could ever recreate.

They hadn’t written it. They had felt it.

That night wasn’t a session. It was a confession.

It was two people in love with everything about the moment except the idea that it could end.

And when the melody faded, Karlie had kissed her—soft and sleepy a—and whispered, “Don’t forget this.”

Taylor never had.

Even after the silence. Even after the leaving.

Even after the headlines, the fake smiles, the sharp edges of absence.

She had never forgotten.

Back in the present, the song slowed beneath her fingers, delicate and weighted like a memory being unwrapped.

And as the final notes hung in the air, Taylor’s hands trembled where they rested.

She hadn’t played that version in years.

The version that belonged to them.

The version that had never been on a record, but always lived in her bones.

She blinked hard, staring at the keys, her breath uneven. But she didn’t cry.

Because now—finally—Karlie wasn’t just a memory or a ghost in a song.

She was here.

Sleeping down the hall.

Letting the boys sprawl across Taylor’s guest room.

Loving her like no time had passed.

And Taylor, felt like she wasn’t singing to the past anymore.

She was singing from it.

For the woman she loved now.
For the girl she used to be.
And for the version of herself who never stopped believing in both.

She let the silence settle.

And whispered into the room, like a promise:

“I’m still here.”

She let the song slow even more, until the final note held in the air like breath caught between lovers.

She sat still. Let it settle.

The moonlight spilled through the window, touching her face, her hands, the piano.

She looked down the hallway toward the bedroom.

And she knew what she wanted.

What she had.

She stood.

Walked slowly.

Back down the hallway.

Paused at the guest room. Listened to the quiet huffs of sleeping children. Her heart ached in the best way.

Then she opened the bedroom door.

Karlie stirred slightly, shifting under the covers. Her eyes opened halfway, blurry with sleep, and when they met Taylor’s, they softened instantly.

Taylor slipped under the blankets and reached for her.

Karlie’s arms pulled her close without hesitation, her hand resting instinctively over Taylor’s waist.

“You okay?” she whispered, voice still thick with sleep.

Taylor tucked herself into the curve of Karlie’s body, nuzzled her nose into her neck.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I just… needed to feel it.”

Karlie kissed the top of her head. “Feel what?”

“That I’m really here. That you’re here.”

Silence.

Then Karlie’s voice, almost inaudible:

“I love you, you know.”

Taylor smiled, eyes already fluttering closed.

“I know,” she whispered. “And I love you back.”

Karlie’s hand found hers beneath the blankets, their fingers linking softly.

And this time, sleep came quickly.

Wrapped in love. In music.
In the quiet certainty that nothing stolen would stay gone forever.

The first thing Karlie felt was the cold.

Not in the room—but beside her.

The space where Taylor had been was empty, the sheets cool to the touch.

She blinked awake slowly, adjusting to the pale blue light filtering through the curtains. It was early—too early—but something had stirred her.

A small shape filled the doorway.

Elijah.

His curls were wild from sleep, his pajamas a little crooked, one duck plush trailing behind him.

“Mommy?” he mumbled, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand. “Where Tew-lor?”

Karlie smiled, soft and sleepy, and lifted the blanket. “Come here, baby.”

He padded toward her, tiny feet tapping the floor, and climbed up with a little grunt, duck tucked tight under his arm.

She caught him easily, pulling him in close. His body melted into hers, his head tucked under her chin—warm, solid, safe.

“She’s here,” Karlie whispered against his curls. “Just not right now. Go back to sleep, okay?”

He nodded against her chest. “’Kay…” Thumb in his mouth, breath softening by the second.

Then—light footsteps again.

Another shadow in the hallway.

Levi.

He appeared in the doorway, blinking at them, already wide awake and visibly not wanting to be left out.

“I come too?”

Karlie opened the blanket wider. “Of course.”

He ran in and flopped up beside them, elbowing Elijah in the ribs, which earned him a sleepy “Heyyy…” but no real protest.

Karlie wrapped her arms around them both, shifting until they were tucked against her.

She let her head fall back onto the pillow with a long breath, her arms still wrapped loosely around the warm little bodies beside her.

Elijah had gone quiet again, thumb tucked into his mouth, his plush duck nestled under his chin. Levi was fidgeting—barely still, the way he was right before a new idea struck.

Karlie rested a hand gently on her belly, her fingers curving instinctively over the soft roundness there. The baby kicked, just once—enough to make her smile.

“I know,” she whispered softly to the baby. “I’d love to sleep too.”

She closed her eyes.

One second. Maybe two.

And then—

“Mommyyy,” Levi whispered, way too close to her face. “Can we play now?”

Karlie cracked one eye open. “Sweetheart… it’s barely morning.”

“But I not sweepy anymore,” Elijah mumbled around his thumb. “Wanna gooo.”

“Go where?” she asked, trying to buy time.

He pointed vaguely toward the door. “Tew-lor’s house.”

Karlie laughed quietly, shifting to sit up against the headboard, both boys climbing over her like a jungle gym. “Baby, we’re already at Taylor’s house.”

Elijah blinked. “Oh.”

Levi perked up. “Can we bounce on the bed?”

Karlie raised a hand. “No bouncing. This bed has a pregnant lady in it.”

Levi paused. “But I bounce careful?”

“Elijah too!” his little brother chirped, and then immediately began to wiggle out from under the blanket.

Karlie sighed dramatically but laughed, catching both boys in her arms and pulling them back in with exaggerated groans. “Okay, okay. Five more minutes of cuddles. Then I’ll find you breakfast. Deal?”

Elijah nodded eagerly. “Deal.”

Levi considered. “Only if dere’s pancakes.”

Karlie rolled her eyes fondly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She kissed the tops of their heads, leaned back into the pillows again, and tried—just for a minute—to freeze this moment. To hold it.

Sleep was out of the question now.

Karlie reached for her phone on the nightstand, blinking against the brightness of the screen. One new message. From Taylor.

She tapped it open—and had to scroll. And scroll.

It was a wall of text. Rambly, nervous, full of heart.

Hey. I didn’t want to wake you, you looked so peaceful. I’m with Tree and Daniel. We’re heading out now. I’m a little nauseous, a lot excited, and I may or may not have cried twice already (don’t tell Tree, she’s being very professional today).

I love you. So much. Thank you for yesterday. For last night. For everything.

Oh—and apparently someone (Magic?) restocked the fridge. There’s oat milk and those protein pancakes Levi likes. I think there’s even blueberries.

Also, don’t stare too long into the cats’ eyes this morning. Benjamin lies. He already had breakfast. Don’t fall for it. He’ll pretend he hasn’t eaten in days.

Karlie smiled. That kind of slow, involuntary smile that unfurled straight from the chest.

She read the message again—twice—before starting to type her reply, thumbs still clumsy with sleep.

You’ll do great. I love you. And I believe in you. We’re all cheering you on—me, the boys, and even Benjamin, Olivia and Meredith (probably).
P.S. Elijah wants pancakes and Levi says he “bounces careful.” So it’s chaos, but the good kind. Come back to us soon.

Before she could hit send, Elijah lunged across the bed, cackling, and Levi bounced once—just once—before Karlie gave them both the look.

“Okay, that’s it,” she said, standing and brushing her hair out of her face. “Everybody up. We’re making breakfast before someone gets launched into a wall.”

Levi cheered. Elijah grabbed his duck.

And together they marched into the hallway, pajamaed and wild, Karlie smiling tiredly behind them—phone in hand, heart full, and lighter than she had felt in weeks.

Taylor’s footsteps were barely audible on the thick, expensive carpet of the private hallway. But to her, each step thudded like a drumbeat in her chest.

The building was discreet—hidden behind polished stone and tinted glass in Tribeca. It didn’t announce what it was. No logos, no lobby signs. Just a quiet nameplate by the door. The kind of place where billion-dollar deals passed through without leaving a single photograph.

It felt cold. Clinical. Like a place built to sterilize emotion.

And still—every nerve in her body was on fire.

She followed close behind Tree, who walked with the kind of calm only years of crisis management could build. Her assistant trailed silently, typing something on her phone. Daniel and his team moved beside Taylor, his expression unreadable, occasionally murmuring logistics to the two sharply dressed associates at his side.

Behind them, her security team moved in practiced sync—Dave and Nick, solid and silent. Dave gave her a brief glance, the smallest nod. She didn’t return it. She couldn’t.

She was too busy holding herself together.

Not with words.

With her fingers.

Wrapped tightly around the small gold K at her collarbone.

The necklace sat hidden under her blouse—thin black silk, tucked into tailored charcoal-gray pants. Her coat was open, her hair swept into a smooth low knot, a look that said power even when she felt like unraveling inside.

No rings. No lipstick. Just that one chain.

Karlie’s initial.

The metal was warm from her skin. And it grounded her. Just enough.

Her palms were sweating.

Her breath caught short.

Because in just a few minutes, she would sit across from people who had treated her life’s work like inventory. Who had bought and sold the pieces of her story with boardroom smiles and fine print.

People who had never written a verse in their lives—yet owned her voice for years.

She could still remember the day it happened. The gut-punch. The disbelief. Her phone lighting up with headlines before anyone had the decency to call.

She had cried. Raged. Rewritten history one re-recording at a time.

And now she was here.

Not to beg.

To take it back.

She squeezed the pendant tighter.

“You’re not here to ask,” she heard Karlie’s voice whisper in her head. “You’re here to reclaim.”

Her heart thudded louder.

Daniel turned slightly toward her, lowering his voice. “Taylor. You ready?”

Taylor nodded once. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Still—her feet moved.

The elevator dinged ahead.

And she stepped inside.

The doors closed behind her like a seal.

A heartbeat passed.

Then two.

And Taylor Swift lifted her chin.

Whatever waited at the top floor—she would face it.

For her music.
For the girl who wrote it.
For every version of herself who had to survive to make it here.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss.

Taylor stepped out first, heart pounding in her ears. The hallway was narrow, lined with frosted glass and muted gray carpet. No signs. Just silence, interrupted only by the echo of dress shoes and quiet voices behind her.

Tree gave her a quick glance—professional, reassuring—and nodded toward the end of the corridor, where a set of double glass doors stood open.

They were expected.

A receptionist greeted them softly and gestured toward the conference room just beyond. Taylor’s fingers tightened again around the small gold “K” pendant beneath her blouse. It was almost instinct now. Grounding.

The meeting room was sleek, modern, and cold. Chrome fixtures. A long black table. No windows. No distractions.

Already seated on the other side were four people: three men in dark suits and a woman in navy, with her hair pulled back in a precise bun and a folder open in front of her.

“Miss Swift,” the woman said, rising with a polite smile. “Thank you for coming.”

Taylor nodded, her voice too caught in her throat to reply just yet. She took her seat slowly, flanked by Daniel and Tree, while Dave and Nick stayed near the door, watchful.

“I’m Margaret Holloway,” the woman continued, offering a hand, which Taylor shook with a controlled smile. “This is Richard Lin, Alan Chen, and Thomas Delgado. We represent Shamrock Capital.”

Shamrock Capital. The name still twisted something in her stomach. The firm that had purchased her masters from Scooter Braun. The firm that had tried—politely, coldly—to convince her it was nothing personal. Just business.

Taylor’s jaw tensed slightly as she looked at them. Margaret’s voice was calm, practiced. The men wore the same faintly pleasant expressions as if this were any other deal.

But it wasn’t.

This was her life.

Tree began speaking, smooth and composed, laying out their position clearly. Daniel followed with legal specifics. There were handshakes exchanged across the table. Muted pleasantries. Contracts opened. Questions asked.

Taylor didn’t speak. Not yet.

She listened.

Heard her name—Miss Swift—more times than she could count. Heard phrases like creative control and artist integrityand valuation of intellectual property.

But her mind was elsewhere.

On the girl who wrote those songs in the dark.

On the woman who was told she didn’t own her own voice.

Her hands stayed folded in her lap, her thumb still brushing lightly over the K at her chest.

She was ready.

Taylor exhaled slowly, then looked up—directly at Margaret Holloway.

Her voice was quiet but steady, smooth as velvet laced with steel.

“Thank you,” she began. “For making this offer. For allowing this conversation.”

She paused, the words deliberate.

“You’re not just offering me a business deal. You’re offering me back my work. My memories. My voice.” She glanced at the others, letting the silence fill just enough space before she continued. “You’re offering me my name in my own handwriting. And I don’t take that lightly.”

There was a flicker of something across Margaret’s face—respect, maybe. Or calculation. Hard to tell.

“Miss Swift,” Richard Lin cut in, leaning forward slightly, “we’ve reviewed the terms carefully. And we understand the gravity of this moment for you.”

Do you? Taylor thought. But she gave nothing away.

Margaret picked it up smoothly. “We believe this agreement is in everyone’s best interest. You’ve demonstrated impressive independence and control of your brand over the past years. We respect that.”

Beside her, Tree gave a polite nod, but her voice was firmer when she answered. “You respect it now that the re-recordings cut into your bottom line.”

Thomas Delgado flinched slightly. Alan Chen stayed silent, reading something on his copy of the folder.

Daniel spoke next, calm but direct. “Let’s look at the details.”

The assistant beside Margaret slid a sleek folder across the table. Daniel opened it. So did his two colleagues.

Taylor glanced sideways as he scanned the first page. His brow lifted—just slightly—but he said nothing.

Then Margaret spoke again. “As proposed, the offer grants full ownership of the original master recordings, associated artwork, and publishing share revertment on qualifying titles. The purchase price is noted on page three.”

Tree leaned over slightly to peek.

So did Taylor.

Her stomach twisted.

It was a lot. Even for her.

But then again—what was the cost of reclaiming yourself?

Taylor leaned back, fingers lightly brushing the rim of her water glass. Her voice was calm, but her eyes—sharp.

“I appreciate the clarity,” she said, then turned her attention to Thomas Delgado, whose smiles had started to wear thin, too polished, too rehearsed. “But let’s not pretend this is all generosity.”

Thomas straightened.

Taylor didn’t blink. “I’ve seen the numbers. The streaming performance of the originals has dropped significantly since the Taylor’s Versions came out. I imagine that’s uncomfortable.”

Silence.

She tilted her head slightly, as if thoughtful. “And I haven’t even released the last two yet.”

That landed.

Margaret shifted in her seat. Thomas opened his mouth to respond—but Taylor held up one hand, not unkindly.

“Let’s be honest with each other. You want to offload a depreciating asset. I want what’s mine. The question isn’t if I’ll finish what I started. The question is whether you want to be remembered as the ones who made it right.”

Another pause.

Then Margaret cleared her throat. “We’re prepared to lower the figure. Within reasonable bounds.”

Daniel looked up from the folder. “What’s reasonable?”

Margaret gave a small nod to Alan, who named a number.

Taylor’s jaw tightened. Not bad. But still more than symbolic.

Tree’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll counter.”

Taylor stayed silent, letting Daniel take the lead now. His tone was calm but measured, drawing boundaries, flipping pages, pointing out fine print. His team murmured among themselves, pens clicking, margins filled with annotations.

Taylor watched the people across the table.

She studied Margaret’s poised stillness, Richard’s quiet tension, Alan’s neutrality, Thomas’s thinning smile. It was like a symphony of carefully constructed masks. Professionals doing a job.

But for her, this wasn’t a job.

This was her blood. Her years. Her ache. Her joy.

Her everything.

Tree leaned closer to whisper, “You’re doing great.”

Taylor didn’t nod. Couldn’t. Her hands were clasped in her lap, white-knuckled now. But she didn’t let go of the “K” pendant between her fingers. Not yet.

Daniel finished reviewing the new terms and said, “Our counter is here,” sliding a revised sheet forward. “Given the drop in valuation and the shift in public perception, we believe this reflects both fairness and reality.”

There was silence on the other side of the table. Margaret took the page. Read it slowly.

Then Thomas spoke.

“With all due respect,” he said, a bit tighter now, “this offer undervalues the long-term licensing potential of the original recordings.”

Taylor tilted her head slightly. “Only if you assume people still want to license them.”

He blinked.

She leaned forward—not aggressive, not angry. Just clear.

“I’ve rebuilt every one of those albums. Brick by brick. Note by note. And my fans followed. They chose the new versions. Not because of some press release. Because they believe in them. In me. That’s not something you can quantify.”

Her voice caught—but she didn’t falter.

“You bought my legacy like it was a spreadsheet. Like it didn’t have blood in it. Like I wasn’t still alive in those songs.” She took a breath. “But I never stopped being part of them. You just stopped seeing me.”

The room was still. Even Tree stilled beside her.

Taylor let that silence linger—let it sting.

Then she added, “This deal? It’s your chance to make that right. Not just for me. For every artist watching.”

Margaret finally spoke, voice lower now. “You’re not wrong, Miss Swift. We know what this means. Which is why we’re here.”

Taylor nodded once. “Good.”

Alan looked up. “We’ll need a few minutes to discuss.”

Daniel gestured politely toward the door. “Of course. We’ll step out.”

Tree stood first. Taylor followed.

She didn’t speak until the door had clicked closed behind them and the soundproof corridor muted the world again. Then she exhaled—hard.

Tree handed her a bottle of water. Taylor drank, then leaned against the wall, her fingers trembling now.

“I didn’t mean to say all that,” she murmured. “It just—came out.”

Tree smiled, a little teary herself. “You said everything you needed to.”

Taylor’s phone buzzed softly in her pocket. She fished it out, and her face softened instantly.

Karlie. A reply to the long message she’d sent earlier.
Just a photo.
The boys sitting at the kitchen counter, eating cereal.
Meredith in the background, judging everyone.
A tiny message underneath:

“We’re proud of you already.”

Taylor blinked quickly, pressing the screen to her chest.

Daniel appeared down the hall. “They’re ready.”

She straightened. Put her phone away.
Checked her breath.

Then she walked back in.

The room was different now.

Margaret stood.

“We accept the counteroffer.”

Thomas said nothing.

Alan passed the revised contract across the table.

Taylor looked at it. The real numbers. The signatures.

Her name—her real name—on the header line.

Taylor Alison Swift.

Daniel handed her a pen.

Taylor took it—her hand didn’t shake.

She signed.

The room held its breath.

Tree let out a soft laugh that turned into a tiny, audible sob. Daniel smiled. One of his colleagues muttered, “Damn.”

And Taylor—still holding the pen—sat back.

Her eyes closed.

Just for a second.

And for the first time since she was twenty-one, she wasn’t a guest in her own story anymore.

She owned it.

Every note.

Every lyric.

Every version of herself along the way.

She owned her name.

Back at the apartment, sunlight spilled lazily through the tall windows, casting soft shadows across the living room floor.

Karlie stood by the kitchen island, phone in hand, brow furrowed.

Still no response.

She glanced at the time.

It’s been over an hour.

She wasn’t worried—not really. But the silence gnawed at her in a quiet, familiar way. Taylor always texted. Even just a heart, or a “wish me luck,” or an “I’m breathing.”

But today: nothing.

Karlie exhaled and set the phone down, trying not to stare at it like it might change its mind and buzz after all.

The sound of laughter floated in from outside—high-pitched and chaotic. She moved to the window and smiled despite herself.

The boys were on the trampoline.

Levi was jumping as high as he could, hair wild, arms flailing like a bird with too much confidence. Elijah was mostly just bouncing, falling over, squealing every time the springs squeaked beneath him. At one point, Levi stopped mid-bounce to help his little brother back up, only to fall over with him in a fit of giggles.

Their shoes were kicked off in opposite directions. Duck plushies and one of Meredith’s toys had somehow made it out onto the trampoline with them. The cats had collectively chosen to observe from a safe distance—all three of them parked on the patio, tails twitching in faint irritation.

Karlie leaned her forehead against the glass for a moment and smiled.

It was strange—how normal it felt.

How easily the boys had settled into this space.

How right it all felt, even with Taylor gone.

She ran her hand slowly over her stomach.

“I hope you’re taking notes,” she murmured.

Then she reached for her phone again, just in case.

Still no message.

Still no “I’m out.”

The silence stretched.

Not ominous.

Just… suspenseful.

Karlie considered calling. But stopped herself.

She’ll text when she can.

Still, her thumb hovered above Taylor’s name longer than it should have.

She turned away from the counter and opened the fridge.

And paused.

A note in Taylor’s handwriting was taped to the inside of the door — she had apparently overlooked it before.

“Told you somebody stock up. No one’s allowed to starve here. Not even you.”

Karlie smiled, eyes stinging.

She took a juice pouch, stabbed the straw into it, and took a slow sip.

Then: “Levi! Elijah! Juice time!”

The sliding door opened, the boys came flying in like a miniature tornado, sweaty and happy and pink-cheeked.

Taylor’s silence remained.

But somehow, Karlie could still feel her in the room.

That warmth.

That presence.

Like the echo of a song you didn’t realize was still playing.

She smiled softly, staring out the window as the boys fought over who got the blue cup. She didn’t hear the front door. Didn’t hear the soft pad of sneakers across hardwood. Didn’t notice the shift in the air until—

“Hi,” came a voice behind her.

Karlie turned.

And there she was.

Taylor stood in the entryway, still in her tailored navy coat, cheeks flushed, eyes shining like she’d just won the rest of her life.

The juice box slipped from Karlie’s hand and hit the floor with a dull thud, forgotten.

“Mommy!” Elijah squealed, and Levi echoed him—“TAYLOR!”

The boys ran straight into her legs like little rockets, and Taylor laughed—too bright, too breathless—dropping to her knees, hugging them both, her arms full of warmth and noise and home.

“I missed you guys so much,” she whispered into Levi’s hair, and kissed the top of Elijah’s head.

Karlie couldn’t move at first.

Then she did.

She crossed the kitchen in five steps, the world narrowing down to just Taylor’s eyes—wide, tear-bright, overwhelmed—and the tremble in her smile as she stood back up.

Karlie stopped in front of her.

Taylor looked at her like she couldn’t quite believe it herself.

Then she leaned in, her voice barely a breath:

“I got them back.”

And something in Karlie shattered beautifully.

Her eyes welled up without warning.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, hand flying to her mouth.

Taylor didn’t hesitate. She cupped Karlie’s face with both hands, soft but urgent, forehead pressed against hers like a vow.

“Love you,” she breathed.

And then she kissed her.

Right there in the middle of the kitchen.

With Levi clinging to her coat and Elijah clapping for reasons no one understood.

With sunlight pouring through the windows and the ghosts of every stolen version of herself slipping quietly out the door.

Taylor kissed Karlie like it was the end of a war.

Soft and certain, full of history and everything they had clawed their way back from.

But as their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath, reality returned—with small feet and a confused voice.

“Wait,” Levi said, blinking up at them from just below.

They both looked down.

Levi stood with his hands on his hips in the middle of the kitchen, face drawn in serious concentration, the way only a nearly five-year-old could manage. His cheeks were still flushed from playing, his curls stuck damply to his forehead.

“Are you guys... kissing?”

Taylor froze.

Karlie exhaled a quiet breath and crouched slowly to his level, brushing a crumb off his sleeve like that could buy her a second to think.

“Well, yeah,” she said gently. “We were.”

Levi’s brow furrowed. “But... friends don’t do that.”

Taylor knelt down beside Karlie, heart thudding against her ribs. “That’s true. Not usually.”

He looked between them, suspicious. “So you’re not friends anymore?”

Karlie gave Taylor a quick glance—an unspoken question, a flicker of panic, of something wild and maternal—and Taylor answered by reaching over, placing her hand lightly on Karlie’s back. Steady.

“We’re still friends,” Karlie said softly. “But... we’re something more too.”

Levi stared at them for a long time, clearly trying to make the pieces fit in his mind.

Then: “Like best-best-best friends?”

Taylor smiled. “Exactly that.”

But before Levi could weigh in further, Elijah, who had been spinning in slow circles with a sock on one hand like a puppet, stopped and said matter-of-factly:
“Tay’er Mommy fwend.”

Taylor’s heart cracked open at the sound of his tiny, certain voice.

Karlie blinked, caught off guard, and turned to him. “What did you say, sweetheart?”

“Tay’er makes Mommy laugh,” he explained seriously, wrapping his arms around Taylor’s neck like he’d just solved the mystery of the universe. “Mommy happy when Tay’er here.”

Taylor's breath hitched.

Karlie swallowed hard and kissed Elijah’s soft hair. “She makes me really happy,” she whispered.

Elijah nodded, patting Taylor’s cheek. “Tay’er stay. Tay’er stay long time.”

And suddenly, Levi—still clearly mulling everything over—looked up and asked, “So... are you gonna marry her?”

Karlie felt like the air had been punched out of her lungs. She looked at Taylor, startled, and saw that same stunned softness in her eyes.

Taylor looked down at Levi, crouched in front of him, their faces inches apart.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “That’s something your mommy and I would need to talk about. Grown-up stuff.”

Levi considered this.

Then added, “You can if you bring pancakes. I like the ones with the tiny chocolate chips.”

Taylor’s laughter broke loose, rich and full and tear-wet at the edges.

“Deal,” she whispered.

She offered her pinky.

Levi looked at it suspiciously, then wrapped his own around hers.

“Okay. But you have to kiss her less in front of me. It’s weird.”

Karlie burst into laughter and covered her face, tears already trailing down her cheeks.

Taylor wiped one gently away and kissed her temple, whispering, “I love you. I love you so much.”

Levi shrugged like this was now fully resolved and went back to his juice, humming a made-up song and bouncing off toward the couch.

Elijah stayed wrapped around Taylor, his tiny arms looped loosely around her neck, his cheek resting against her shoulder, thumb back in his mouth. Quiet now. Watching them like he understood more than he should.

Taylor cradled him there for a long, quiet moment, and then looked up at Karlie, her voice soft, raw, joyful.

“I still can’t believe this is real.”

Karlie wiped the last tear from her cheek and nodded, eyes shining. “Me neither.”

“Do you think…” Taylor started, then hesitated. “Do you think they’ll be okay with it? I mean, with us?”

Karlie’s hand found hers again.

“They already are,” she said.

Taylor looked down at their joined hands.

A future. A family. And not the kind she’d had to fake. Not the one carefully constructed for cameras and headlines.

The real kind. The quiet kind. The messy, miraculous, deeply human kind.

Elijah yawned loudly, resting his full weight against her, and Taylor kissed the top of his head, pressing her cheek to his hair.

The apartment had gone quiet again, that sweet kind of stillness that only came with naptime and softened light.

Both boys were down for a midday nap, curled together in the guest room, their steady breathing caught by the baby monitor perched on the coffee table. Taylor had turned the volume up just enough to catch any stirring. But for now, silence.

Taylor and Karlie had retreated into the music room, shutting the door gently behind them. It was a small kind of sanctuary—the kind that held history and heartbreak, but also healing.

Taylor sat at the piano, her fingers resting quietly on the keys, not pressing down, just holding space. She wasn’t playing. Not yet. Just... feeling.

Karlie stood near the wall, eyes trailing over the framed albums. The chronology of Taylor’s life and career, spaced perfectly across the room. So many versions of the same woman. So many eras, stories, reinventions.

She ran her fingers along the edge of one frame—Red (Taylor’s Version)—and smiled a little, then turned toward the piano.

Taylor looked up as Karlie approached and gave her a soft, tired smile.

“Can I sit?” Karlie asked gently.

Taylor nodded and scooted over on the bench, and Karlie lowered herself beside her. She reached out, brushing Taylor’s thigh gently with the back of her hand.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” she asked. “At the meeting. If you’re ready. If you want to.”

Taylor let out a quiet breath, her shoulders relaxing a little more just from the ask. She nodded.

“Yeah. I do.”

She took a moment before speaking, gathering the words.

“It was in this ugly little conference room,” she started. “Cold, gray walls. No windows. But there were pastries on the table. Weirdly good ones.”

Karlie gave a soft laugh, encouraging.

“There were four people from the firm,” Taylor continued. “Three men, one woman. They didn’t waste time. They had papers ready. Tree handled most of it at first—talking through the terms. Daniel and his team kept the tone... serious, but professional.”

Her fingers tapped a few keys lightly, a nervous tic more than anything.

“Then they slid the documents across the table to Daniel,” she said. “There it was. The offer. A number. A real one.”

Karlie’s breath caught, but she stayed quiet, listening.

“And I wanted to sign it right there,” Taylor admitted. “I wanted to throw everything I had at them and just take it back. But then—one of the guys started getting too friendly. 

She made a face. Karlie squeezed her hand.

“And I realized,” Taylor continued, her voice lower now, “they weren’t doing this because they believed in what was right. They were doing it because the originals weren’t making money anymore. Because I’d made them irrelevant.”

Karlie blinked, but didn’t interrupt.

“So I pushed back. I said, ‘I know the sales are flat. You’re not giving me this out of goodwill. You’re cutting your losses. But I’m okay with that.’”

Taylor looked at her. “I told them, ‘I still have two left to release. And I will. With or without your cooperation. And when I do, your catalog will sink even further.’”

Karlie’s eyes widened. “You said that?”

“I did,” Taylor whispered. “And I meant every word.”

There was silence for a beat, filled only by the faint static hum of the baby monitor.

“They asked if I would stop the re-releases if they sold me back the rest. I said no. I said I’d finish what I started. Because I have to. Because the fight didn’t end just because they got scared.”

Karlie reached over and took both of Taylor’s hands in hers.

“And then?” she asked softly.

“They gave me everything,” Taylor said, her voice shaking. “All of it. For that number. No clauses. No sneaky terms. Just… done.”

Her eyes were glassy now, but she didn’t cry.

“I have them back, Kar,” she whispered. “All of them. Every note. Every chord. Every word I ever wrote in my bedroom at seventeen, or on tour buses, or hiding backstage with a pen and a heartbeat.”

Karlie didn’t say anything. She just leaned forward and kissed her.

Long. Deep. Quiet.

When they parted, Karlie pressed her forehead to Taylor’s.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered. “You did it.”

Taylor stayed quiet for a moment after the kiss, their foreheads still resting together, the piano keys forgotten beneath her hands.

Then, slowly, she leaned back, eyes tracing Karlie’s face. She looked so present. So real. Like an anchor.

“There’s one thing,” Taylor said, her voice quieter now. “Something I haven’t told anyone.”

Karlie tilted her head, waiting.

Taylor hesitated, her thumbs brushing over Karlie’s knuckles. “I never finished Reputation (Taylor’s Version).”

Karlie blinked. “What?”

“I tried,” Taylor said. “More than once. I have maybe a third of it. The rest…” Her voice caught in her throat. “I just—couldn’t.”

Karlie’s face softened instantly, a small frown forming between her brows.

“I kept going into the booth,” Taylor continued, eyes distant now. “Kept trying to sing Dress. Or Call It What You Want. Even Ed had been there with me in the studio. It felt like swallowing fire. My voice would just—stop.”

Karlie reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind Taylor’s ear, not pushing her—just letting her speak.

“They weren’t just songs,” Taylor said. “You know that. They were you. They were us. Dancing With Our Hands Tied,New Year’s Day, even the darker ones—they were all written in the middle of what we were. Of how I loved you. Of how I lost you.”

Karlie’s eyes glistened. She didn’t interrupt.

Taylor shook her head slightly, her fingers tightening around Karlie’s. “I didn’t want to rewrite our story. I didn’t want to sing those words from the past like they weren’t still alive. And I couldn’t sing them like they were either. I was stuck.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. “I’ve rerecorded four full albums. I took back songs I wrote at fifteen. But I couldn’t even get through Dress without breaking.”

Karlie reached up, wiped the tear gently with her thumb, her own eyes wet now.

“I never blamed you,” Taylor whispered. “But I couldn’t face it. Not when everything still ached.”

Karlie nodded, voice soft and steady. “And now?”

Taylor looked at her, eyes searching. “Now I’m not scared of those songs anymore. Because you’re not just in the past tense.”

That broke something in Karlie.

She exhaled shakily, leaned in, and kissed her again—this time slower, more certain, more now.

When they parted, Karlie pressed their foreheads together again, her hands framing Taylor’s cheeks.

“Then maybe,” she whispered, “you’re ready to finish it.”

Taylor nodded slowly.

But then, her voice softened again. “No,” she said. “I don’t want to finish it.”

Karlie blinked, surprised.

Taylor looked up at her, eyes glassy but sure. “I don’t want to re-record Reputation. I thought I had to. I thought I needed to make everything mine again. But that one... I need to leave as it is.”

She swallowed. “Because it was mine. Every bit of it. The rage, the fire, the heartbreak, the secrecy, the hope. All of it—you. Us. What I lost. What I loved. What I tried to hide and couldn’t.”

Her fingers returned to the keys, but she didn’t play. Just touched them.

“I want that record to stay exactly how it was. Raw. Messy. Untouched. Because that’s the truth of who I was in that moment. And even if I’ve changed… I want that version of me to be real, too. The girl who couldn’t let go. The one who still believed, even in the dark.”

Karlie didn’t speak right away. She looked at Taylor, something deep flickering behind her eyes.

“You don’t have to re-write it,” she said softly. “I hear you. I do.”

Taylor nodded again, this time more firmly. “Everything else I’ve reclaimed. But that one? I think I need to honor it by letting it stay.”

Karlie leaned in and kissed her forehead, resting her hand over Taylor’s heart.

“Then that’s exactly what you should do.”

Taylor closed her eyes, breathing her in.

There was nothing else to say.

Only silence, only music, only the quiet understanding that some things weren’t meant to be redone—because their truth already lived.

The stillness wrapped around them, warm and weightless.

A few minutes passed. Then Taylor stirred. She looked up, eyes glinting with a calm resolve.

“Will you take a picture of me?” she asked softly.

Karlie tilted her head. “Of course. What for?”

“I want to tell them,” Taylor said. “The fans. I want them to know. Tree gave the okay—I can finally say it out loud.”

Karlie nodded, smiling gently. “Then let’s do it right.”

Taylor stood and brushed her hands down her sides. “I should change.”

She disappeared down the hallway and returned not long after, her presence subtly transformed.
She wore a powder-blue blouse with short sleeves and elegant structure—understated but strong. Jeans. Simple flats. Her hair was tucked loosely behind her ears. In one hand, she held a pen. In the other, a sheet of crisp white paper.

Karlie stood near the piano, watching. “You look beautiful,” she said.

Taylor gave her a quiet look. “I want this to be simple. Just me. The albums. Nothing more.”

Karlie moved aside, letting the light from the window spill across the floor. “Take your time.”

Taylor sat at the edge of the bench and started to write. Slowly. With intention.

“For years, I’ve fought for the chance to stand in this room and say these words.
And now, I can.
I own my first six albums. Every melody. Every lyric. Every piece of me that I gave to this world—I’ve finally taken back.”

She paused, swallowing, and then added:

“It’s because of you. Because you listened. Because you believed.
This journey wasn’t just mine. It was ours. And we did it.”

She signed her name at the bottom, a little shaky. Then looked up.

Karlie was already raising the camera.

Taylor sank slowly to the floor of the music room, the light casting warm shadows across the hardwood.

In front of her, arranged in a careful semicircle, stood the six albums.

Debut. Fearless. Speak Now. Red. 1989. Reputation.

Not hung. Not behind glass. Just there. Close. Real. Hers.

She placed the letter gently beside her on the floor and pulled her knees in, resting her arms on them. For a long moment, she didn’t move—only looked.

Each cover felt like a time capsule. A heartbeat frozen in a different life.
She could see the girl she’d been in each one—wide-eyed, furious, hopeful, heartbroken, learning how to fight.
Learning how to love.

These weren’t just albums.

They were everything she had survived.

And now… they were home.

Taylor reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of the Debut album. Then Fearless. Each one grounding her in a different way.

She whispered, not for anyone else, just for the room:

“Thank you for waiting for me.”

Click.

Click.

Click.

Karlie caught the light just right—the quiet pride in Taylor’s posture, the shine of certainty in her eyes.

In the best shot, Taylor wasn’t smiling. Not quite.
But she looked whole. Present.
Like someone who had walked through fire and come out singing.

Karlie lowered the camera. “Got it.”

Taylor looked over her shoulder. “Can you fade the background? Make it white. Just me and the work.”

Karlie nodded and sat on the edge of the couch, editing the photo carefully, her thumb brushing over the screen like she was handling something sacred.

Taylor stood quietly, rereading her letter. She didn’t need to change a word.

She added it to the photo. Paused. Then typed:

They’re finally mine.
Thank you for walking this with me.
—Taylor

She pressed “Share.”

And it was done.

She set the phone aside and crossed the room. Karlie stood, reaching for her. They met halfway in a soft, quiet hug—no fanfare, no words.

Just Taylor, holding on.
To Karlie.
To her past.
To the version of herself that had survived long enough to become this one.

Karlie hadn’t even finished refreshing her feed when the wave hit.

“Okay,” she whispered, eyes widening as post after post flooded in, “you just broke the internet.”

Taylor blinked at her, still reeling from the weight of pressing “share“. Karlie tilted the screen toward her. “Look.”

And there it was—everywhere.

Her name.
Her albums.
Her words.
Millions of reposts. Fans screaming in all caps.
Photographs edited into collages, side-by-sides of Taylor at seventeen and now, comments overflowing with hearts, crying emojis, thank-yous that sounded like prayers.

“I can’t—” Taylor started, but her voice broke.

Karlie slid closer on the couch, her phone already blowing up in her lap, and opened Instagram.

Taylor Swift: They’re finally mine. Thank you for walking this with me.

The post already had over three million likes. It hadn’t even been ten minutes.

“Look at them,” Karlie murmured, scrolling. “They’re losing their minds.”

Taylor laughed, half-hiccup, half-sob, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh my god.”

She leaned in, her eyes wide and wet as she watched the videos being stitched together: fans reacting in real-time, screaming in their bedrooms, crying in their cars, showing off tattoos of lyrics that were finally, officially, hers again.

Karlie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “They never gave up on you.”

Taylor’s throat tightened.

And then her phone started ringing.
The name blinking on the screen—Mom.

Then another. Dad.

And—Austin.

Taylor let out a sharp breath. “Fuck.”

Karlie raised a brow.

“I didn’t tell them,” Taylor admitted, her eyes wide. “I meant to. I was going to, but everything happened so fast and—God, they’re gonna murder me.”

Karlie was already laughing softly. “I think they’ll forgive you.”

Taylor looked down at her phone like it had grown teeth. The vibrations kept coming—texts, calls, messages pinging in rapid succession.

She could barely hold it together. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter, then with tears, then with both at once.

She turned to Karlie, heart thudding, soul overwhelmed, and kissed her.

Hard and breathless and full of every emotion she didn’t have the words for.

“I love you,” she gasped between the kiss, between the tears.

Karlie kissed her back just as fiercely. “I know.”

Chapter Text

The phone calls came fast and wild.

Andrea was crying before she even finished reading the letter. Scott’s voice cracked mid-congratulations. Austin texted first—WTF—and then called, shouting into the receiver, “You DID IT!” over and over until Taylor laughed through tears. Selena left six voicemails in a row. Gigi FaceTimed her from a shoot, full glam, tears streaking her makeup. Abigail simply said, “Finally,” and cried with her on speaker.

Meanwhile, Karlie had barely caught her breath before she was on the phone with her sisters. She hadn’t planned to tell them everything—not yet. But the words poured out: Taylor, the reconnection, the long silence turned sudden light.

“Wait—back up,” Kimberly had said, laughing and crying all at once. “You and Taylor are back together?!”

Karlie had smiled so hard her face hurt. “Yeah,” she breathed. “We are.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end.

“I knew it,” Kimberly said, her voice full of that big-sister certainty. “Last week, when we talked—there was something in your voice. You sounded… happy. Like, real happy. I just didn’t want to push.”

Then the screaming started—disbelief, joy, teasing and over-the-top shock all at once, her sisters talking over each other in a storm of love.

“You’re kidding!”
“When did this happen?”
“What the hell, Karlie, why didn’t you tell us?!”

“I couldn’t,” she said. “It was… fragile. And now it’s not.”

They wanted to know everything. How it started again. How it had changed. How Karlie could be sure.

And Karlie had answered the only way she could: “Because when I look at her now, I don’t see what we lost. I see what we saved.”

That evening, Karlie leaned in the doorway of Taylor’s kitchen, phone abandoned behind her. Her gaze softened as she watched Taylor and Jack cavorting around the island. They were yelling the lyrics to "Getaway Car" into a phone camera, jumping up and down like teenagers. Meredith had retreated to the hallway, her ears flat in disapproval.

Taylor was flushed, breathless, alive.

And when she caught Karlie watching, their eyes locked—and something clicked.

She didn’t hesitate.

Taylor walked straight over, cupped Karlie’s face gently in her hands, and kissed her.

It wasn’t performative or poetic—it was real. Full of joy and fire and exhaustion and triumph. The kind of kiss that said, I finally got it all back—and I want to share it with you.

“I love you,” Taylor whispered, forehead resting against Karlie’s.

Karlie’s voice broke. “I love you too.”

Jack, behind them, simply grinned and turned off the camera.

The next few days passed in sun-warmed joy.

On the rooftop terrace, the four of them lay tangled on the trampoline. Levi bounced until he collapsed in giggles. Elijah clutched his duck plushies to his chest and squealed every time Taylor kissed the top of his head.

“Bounce more!” Levi demanded.

“My spleen,” Taylor wheezed. “I think I lost my spleen.”

Karlie laughed so hard her belly shook. “That’s what you get for teaching him to somersault.”

Later, they all lay in a pile of limbs and laughter, the sky melting into golden pink.

“This is what peace feels like,” Taylor whispered, more to herself than anyone.

Karlie didn’t answer. She just took her hand.

There was another moment—quiet and golden—when Taylor and Levi sat together at the piano. His small hands crashed joyfully over the keys, while Taylor picked out a soft melody beneath the chaos.

“Play the swooshy one,” he said.

Taylor raised an eyebrow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

From the door, Karlie just watched, arms folded gently, a smile too wide to contain.

The day Josh came to pick up the boys was quiet. Taylor gave each of them a long hug. Elijah rested his cheek on her shoulder. Levi asked, serious as only a four-year-old could be, “Do we get to come back?”

Taylor bent down to meet his eyes. “Always.”

Josh gave her a small nod.

When they left, the apartment didn’t feel empty. It felt like it had exhaled.

Karlie walked barefoot into the living room, hair tied up, wearing one of Taylor’s old sweaters. She curled up beside her, and they sank into the silence together.

From down the hall—Meredith meowed loudly.

Taylor laughed. “Guess we’re being summoned.”

Karlie kissed her shoulder. “Guess so.”

She rested her head briefly against Taylor’s shoulder, her voice soft in the quiet. “I’ve got that work thing today—remember? The new team launch. We’re sponsoring that women’s basketball program.”

Taylor smiled. “I know. You left a note on the fridge.” She looked down at her, eyes full of quiet affection. “Color-coded. With three exclamation marks.”

Karlie let out a small laugh. “Well, it’s important.”

“I know it is,” Taylor said, and leaned in to press a gentle kiss to the crown of Karlie’s head. Her hand moved instinctively to Karlie’s belly, resting there with care and warmth. “You’re doing good things. Important things.”

Karlie tilted her head up, eyes searching Taylor’s. “I wish I could be with you tonight though.”

“I know.” Taylor’s voice softened even more. “Dinner with Selena.”

Karlie nodded, her fingers brushing along Taylor’s arm. “You’ll have fun. She misses you.”

“I miss her too,” Taylor said, and then added, “But I’ll miss you more.”

Karlie leaned up, kissed her slowly, sweetly. “Soon,” she promised. “There’ll be dinners and late nights and the four of us yelling over dessert.”

Taylor smiled against her lips. “I’m holding you to that.”

“You better.”

They held each other for another long moment before Karlie sighed and stood to get ready, her hand still brushing Taylor’s as she walked past.

As she moved, her fingers casually traced the curve of Taylor’s backside.

Taylor let out a mock-offended squeak. “Hey!”

Karlie turned, completely unrepentant, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Couldn’t help it.”

Taylor was already halfway up from the couch, spinning toward her, catching her in a kiss that landed somewhere between laughter and longing.

When they parted, Karlie rested her forehead against Taylor’s and murmured, “I should probably go back to the townhouse to change. I only brought one bag, and I’m not about to show up to a press event in one of your oversized sweatshirts.”

Taylor held her gaze a second longer before she said quietly, seriously, “Okay. But—Karlie? Without telling you what to do, just… please take Nick or Dave. You're pregnant, and New York traffic is an Olympic sport. You don’t need that stress.”

Karlie opened her mouth to object, to say she was fine, but Taylor wasn’t finished.

“And,” Taylor continued, softer now, “if you feel like it—bring more of your stuff. For you. For the boys. I mean… only if you want to. No pressure. Just… it’s starting to feel like home when you’re here.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Karlie’s eyes welled up—suddenly, completely. She didn’t even try to blink the tears away. She just stepped forward and kissed Taylor, deep and fierce and full of everything that had been building between them.

“Yes,” she whispered against her lips. “Yes, yes, yes.”

As Karlie stepped into the private elevator, she turned back for one last glance—half-expecting Taylor to come rushing around the corner with another kiss or reminder or quiet I love you.

But the space behind her remained still. Just soft light. The scent of coffee and whatever candle Taylor had lit that morning. Peace.

The elevator doors slid shut with a hush, enclosing her in a small bubble of quiet hums and polished metal. She let her hand rest briefly over her stomach.

When the elevator opened into the private garage, the morning light didn’t quite reach this far. But there was Nick, leaning casually against the SUV. Sunglasses on. Calm and steady like always.

“Hey,” he greeted with a nod, already opening the back door for her.

She slid into the seat with a smile. “Hi, Nick.”

It still felt odd, letting someone else drive. She missed the wheel in her own hands—but not the New York traffic. And, more than that, she’d promised Taylor she wouldn’t push herself. Not now. Not like this.

Taylor had kissed her on the head and then she’d added, quieter, “I just want you safe. All of you.”

Karlie hadn’t argued.

The drive through Manhattan was familiar and foreign all at once—her mind half in Taylor’s apartment, half on her own townhouse. When they pulled up, she stepped out carefully, her hand bracing against the car door.

Nick followed her up the front steps. She glanced over her shoulder, amused. “You planning on standing guard at the closet door, too?”

He gave her a practiced look. “Taylor was very specific. No heavy lifting. No pushing furniture. No sneaking down ladders to find that one pair of heels you hid on the top shelf.”

Karlie laughed soft. “She remembers that?”

“She remembers everything.” 

Karlie rolled her eyes, warmth blooming behind it. “She’s impossible.”

Nick just shrugged.

Inside, the townhouse was clean and echoey in that way only an unused home could be. Her life here felt paused. Unfolded laundry still in a basket.

The boys’ drawings still magneted to the fridge.

But it wasn’t home anymore.

Not the way Taylor’s place had become.

Karlie stood in the center of the living room for a moment, just breathing it in.

Then she turned to Nick. “Alright. You get to carry the bags. I’ll handle emotional support and playlist curation.”

He gave her a crisp salute.

And as they moved through the space, collecting favorite sweaters and picture books, old t-shirts and familiar lotions, Karlie felt the shift again. The weightless stretch between what had been and what was coming.

Karlie stood in the center of her bedroom,  soft light filtering through the curtains. The room, once a bustling hub of her daily life, now felt like a quiet echo of the past week spent at Taylor's apartment. She opened her wardrobe, fingers grazing the fabrics as she selected an outfit suitable for the evening's event—a tailored blazer, a crisp blouse, and comfortable yet stylish flats.

As she packed, her thoughts drifted to the journey that led her here. Becoming an investor in the New York Liberty wasn't a spontaneous decision; it was the culmination of months of discussions, evaluations, and a shared vision for the future of women's sports. The Liberty, fresh off their 2024 WNBA Championship win, were more than just a team—they were a symbol of empowerment and progress. Joining forces with other notable investors like Jack Ma and Thasunda Brown Duckett, Karlie felt a profound sense of purpose in contributing to the team's growth and the broader movement of elevating women's athletics.

Tonight's event at the Barclays Center was more than a mere formality; it was a celebration of this new chapter. She would be meeting with Clara Wu Tsai, the team's governor, and Keia Clarke, the CEO, both instrumental figures in the Liberty's recent successes. The gathering promised to be a blend of strategic discussions and heartfelt acknowledgments of the strides made in women's basketball.

As she zipped up her bag, Karlie felt a flutter of anticipation. This wasn't just about business or sports; it was about being part of a transformative movement. And as she prepared to step into this new role, she couldn't help but feel a deep sense of gratitude—for the opportunities ahead and the unwavering support from those she loved.

Nick’s voice cut gently into the quiet.
“Should I take the bag down for you,?”

She turned, just as she was about to lift it. Her hands froze on the handles.

He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms with a playful kind of authority. “You’re not seriously going to try, are you?”

Karlie sighed—caught. She let go immediately and stepped back like the bag had burned her.
“Fine,” she muttered with a smirk. “Taylor send you a memo?”

Nick didn’t answer. He just slung the bag easily over his shoulder with one arm and nodded toward the hallway. “I’ll wait downstairs.”

Karlie watched him disappear, the door falling softly shut behind him.

And suddenly, the bedroom felt very still.

She stood there, alone, in the space that had once been full of so much noise. Morning chaos. Cartoons playing too loud. Elijah’s giggles bouncing off the walls. Levi begging for pancakes at unreasonable hours. Josh walking through the room half-distracted, holding a half-made coffee.

Her chest tightened—not with sadness exactly. More like a strange softness. A quiet understanding of what had been. Of how things had shifted, like furniture in the dark.

There were no toys scattered across the floor. No baskets of clean laundry waiting to be folded. 

Karlie moved to the window and pulled back the curtain. The street below buzzed with typical New York morning energy—taxis, pedestrians, the city refusing to pause for anyone’s past.

She let the curtain fall again.

And in the hush that followed, she closed her eyes and smiled—just a little.

Because this wasn’t the end of something.

It was the clearing of space.

She turned and walked out of the room, her bare feet quiet against the hardwood. The air in the hallway smelled faintly of old lavender detergent and floor polish. She passed Rachel’s room—the door slightly ajar, the bed neatly made. Rachel had taken some time off, temporarily.  A quiet blessing Karlie hadn’t known she’d needed until it was there. She smiled at the thought and moved on.

As she opened the door to the boys’ room, she wasn’t surprised to hear footsteps behind her.

“Nick,” she said, not turning around.

“I’m not hovering,” he answered, already inside the room behind her.

“You’re literally a shadow,” she said, half-laughing, and flopped gently onto the edge of Levi’s bed, her hand smoothing the wrinkle in the comforter automatically.

Nick leaned against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for instruction.

Karlie sighed dramatically. “Okay. You win. Can you please start with the bin under the bed? There should be some of Levi’s favorite books in there. And the duffel in the closet—just grab whatever’s clean.”

Nick moved immediately, crouching down and sliding the bin out like it weighed nothing. She watched him work, feeling strangely reassured.

“If I so much as look at a full bag,” she said dryly, “you’ll tackle me to the ground, won’t you?”

Nick didn’t look up. “I’d prefer not to. But I’ve been given permission.”

Karlie laughed, sinking back onto her elbows on the small bed, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars still clinging to the ceiling.

She wasn’t sure if this was ridiculous or perfect.

Maybe both.

Karlie pulled her phone from her pocket and opened her messages. Her thumbs hovered for a second before she typed:

Karlie:
Your loyal bodyguard just threatened to tackle me over a duffel bag. Remind me again why you’re the one in charge?

She hit send, smirking softly to herself, and let her head fall back against the wall.

The reply came almost instantly.

Taylor:
Because I’m smarter and hotter. And because I know you. 🫢🖤

Taylor (cont.):
Also: tell Nick thank you. He’s just doing his job.
I’m in the music room. Writing. It’s quiet here. I miss you.

Karlie smiled at the screen.

Karlie:
Miss you too. And yes, I’ll tell him. But next time, he’s not allowed to glare at me like I tried to smuggle a piano.

The dots bounced for a moment.

Taylor:
I’d actually pay to see you try that. Bring everything you want, okay?

Karlie exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that unclenched something in her chest.

She looked around the room—the quiet, the corners where bedtime stories used to live—and then back at the phone in her hand.

Karlie:
You saying that made my heart weird. Like... full and floating at the same time.
Also: piano smugglers have rights, you know. 😌

She hit send, and before she could sink any deeper into her phone—or her feelings—Nick’s voice came from the doorway.

"Got room for more in that magic duffel, or are we calling it quits?"

Karlie looked up, amused. “You mean before you report me for attempted lifting again?”

He crossed his arms, raising a brow. “Just doing my job. Taylor gave orders.”

Karlie rolled her eyes, but the affection in it was obvious. She pushed herself up from the bed and motioned to the built-in dresser along the wall. “Okay. Elijah’s things are in there. Bottom drawer. The one with ducks on everything.”

Nick walked over and knelt down, opening the drawer carefully. Inside were tiny shirts, footed pajamas with smiling ducks, and a well-worn hoodie that had once belonged to Levi but had found new life in Elijah’s closet.

Karlie sat back on the mattress and watched him for a moment—her heart tugging again in that strange, quiet way. She barely noticed the soft shuffle of movement until Nick straightened with a grunt and zipped up the last of the bags.

He cleared his throat. “You were in another universe for a second there.”

Karlie blinked. “Sorry. Was just… remembering.”

Nick offered a small smile, then gestured behind him. “You didn’t see it, but someone—probably you, let’s be honest—hid a ‘magical’ duffel bag behind Elijah’s clothes. Full of what I assume are essential items for toddler survival: an entire zoo’s worth of plushies, three unmatched socks, and a flashlight shaped like a carrot.”

Karlie laughed under her breath. “Levi insisted it keeps monsters away. Don’t judge the carrot.”

“Far be it from me to question carrot-based safety methods,” Nick deadpanned as he hoisted the bags with ease. “Alright, I’m taking these down. You—” he pointed at her with theatrical authority, “—stay exactly where you are.”

“I’m not five.”

“You’re pregnant,” he replied without skipping a beat. “Which, according to Taylor, means you’re under constant surveillance for reckless activity. Lifting, bending, thinking too hard, blinking too fast.”

Karlie narrowed her eyes at him, but it was all fond. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

Nick grinned. “Just following orders.”

He turned to leave, pausing in the doorway. “Seriously. No heroic bag-hauling stunts. Sit. Text your girlfriend. Daydream. I’ll be back.”

And then he was gone—bags in tow, heavy steps muffled by the hallway rug.

Karlie stayed still.

Not because she was tired—but because stillness sometimes said more than movement. Her eyes drifted across the room again. The crib Elijah no longer needed. The wall where Levi had once stuck glowing stars that had since fallen off one by one. This wasn’t grief. Not really. It was memory. Warm, lived-in. Bittersweet.

Her hand rested on her stomach—not because she felt a kick, but because it grounded her. A quiet ritual. A connection to all versions of herself, past and present.

She let her thoughts meander, unbothered by direction. Back to mornings here, the chaos of breakfast, syrupy fingers, mismatched socks, Josh singing slightly off-key to distract the boys during toothbrushing. Back to nights when she’d sat on the floor by the beds, humming lullabies until her own eyes grew heavy.

Then, soft footsteps returned—Nick.

“I’m not made of glass,” she said, amused, placing her hand in his. “And the baby needs a little more baking time anyway.”

Nick raised an eyebrow, but his grin softened.

Karlie laughed under her breath as he helped her up, steady and exaggerated like she might fall apart at any second. She rolled her eyes, but part of her liked the care. The quiet reverence. The way people moved around her now—like she mattered in ways both visible and unseen.

She let him guide her down the hall and into her office, the space where so many pieces of her former life still lingered. Deadlines, drafts, digital clutter. It all seemed so small now.

Karlie moved slowly to the drawer she rarely opened anymore—the bottom one, tucked behind a basket of tangled cords and a pair of unused noise-canceling headphones. She reached in and pulled out a small stack: an old Polaroid, the edges curled slightly from age. It was her and Taylor, wrapped in a blanket on the studio couch. Both of them blurry from laughter. Karlie’s mouth open mid-giggle, Taylor’s hand on her knee, her hair pulled up messily like she’d been in the booth five minutes earlier.

Nick stood back, quiet.

Beneath the photo, tucked in the same sleeve, was a smaller object: a miniature award plaque. No bigger than her palm.

Karlie swallowed thickly. She remembered when Taylor had given it to her. It wasn’t from an awards show, or a sponsor, or a committee. It was from a Tuesday night. In sweatpants. After a hard week and a harder phone call. Taylor had handed it to her with a single daisy and a kiss to the forehead.

Karlie had laughed, then cried. Then left it on her desk for months—until it hurt too much to look at. So she’d tucked it away. But now…

She turned it over in her hands, thumb grazing the edge.

“It’s beautiful,” Nick said softly.

Karlie nodded, her voice catching slightly. “It was everything I didn’t know I needed that night.”

They stood in silence for a beat longer, then began quietly gathering the last few things from the office. Old notebooks. A pair of reading glasses. A framed sketch Levi had once drawn of a rocket ship, labeled in crooked crayon letters: To mommy, love you all the way to Mars.

The laptop was already at Taylor’s—she didn’t need much else. Nick looked around the room and asked gently, “Anything else?”

Karlie hesitated, then smiled faintly. “One thing. But I’m not allowed to lift it.”

Nick raised a brow. “Should I be worried?”

She chuckled. “Depends how you feel about couture.”

He followed her through the apartment, her pace slow but purposeful. Past the soft silence of the main bedroom, into the adjacent room she hadn’t opened in weeks.

The double doors gave a soft click as she pushed them open.

And there it was.

Her walk-in closet. Not just any closet—but the closet. Rows and rows of carefully hung designer pieces. Evening gowns, tailored suits, a forest of neutral silks and bold reds. Shoes lined the walls in neat glass cases. Jewelry sparkled from two lit vanities. One wall was dedicated entirely to handbags, the top shelf crowded with boxes that still bore runway tags.

Nick let out a low whistle.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “This is a boutique.”

Karlie turned slightly toward him, a sly grin on her lips. “You should’ve seen it before I downsized.”

He blinked. “This is the downsized version?”

She laughed and nodded toward the built-in trunks at the base of the shelves. “We can start there. Just what fits in the SUV.”

Nick didn’t move right away. He looked around, taking it all in, before finally saying, “Taylor told you to bring what you needed, huh?”

Karlie’s smile softened. “She said I could bring anything I wanted. Everything, if I wanted.”

Nick looked at her for a long second.

And then he bent to unzip the first case, muttering under his breath, “Guess I’m getting a workout today.”

Karlie leaned against the doorframe, one hand over her stomach, the other brushing a velvet hanger as she watched him work.

The second the door clicked shut behind Karlie, Taylor exhaled—and shifted.

Gone was the softness of the morning, the lingering kiss, the warmth of arms and shared coffee. In its place, a sharp clarity settled into her shoulders. Work mode. Focused. Fast. Determined.

She padded into the kitchen, pulled her phone from the counter, and hit Tree’s contact. The line barely rang once.

“Taylor,” Tree answered, alert.

“I need a team,” Taylor said. “Interior. Kid-friendly, soft colors. Think less ‘staged perfection’ and more… ‘lived-in joy.’ You know the vibe.”

There was a pause. Then, “I know exactly who to call.”

Taylor nodded to herself. “Good. The second guest room’s got to go—Karlie doesn’t know yet. Surprise. I want it emptied and ready by the time she’s back tonight. And the boys’ room too. They’re in the guest room right now, sharing one bed. That needs to change.”

She walked briskly to the dining table, her bare feet silent against the hardwood. Her laptop was already open, a Pinterest board glowing softly with color palettes and room ideas. She clicked through them, eyes scanning. She’d built this board carefully over time—soft tones, cozy textures, furniture low to the ground, cloud-shaped lamps and gentle lighting.

No more shared guest bed. The boys needed their own space. Two beds. Room to sprawl, to bounce, to build forts and feel safe.

Taylor kept speaking into the phone. “Split beds. Maybe a bunk setup or something modular. Soft lighting. Bookshelves. Levi loves those constellation glow-in-the-dark stars—we’ll get those. Elijah needs a sound machine. He sleeps lighter.”

Tree’s silence on the other end wasn’t disapproval. It was awe.

“You’re serious about this,” she said finally.

Taylor’s mouth twitched. “Tree, I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

Her voice dropped as she scrolled to an image she’d bookmarked—a room with a mural of a night sky, two beds under a soft fabric canopy, toy bins built into the wall. Safety. Joy. Stability.

“Let’s make it happen.”

A short while later, the doorbell rang—not once, but twice in quick succession.

Taylor padded barefoot to the intercom, pressed the button, and before she could even speak, Tree’s voice came through, half-laughing, half-determined: “You really thought I’d miss this?”

Taylor grinned. “Come on up.”

Moments later, the private elevator dinged and opened directly into the apartment. Tree strode in, radiant as always, in her no-nonsense heels and tailored jacket, her phone already in one hand and an iced coffee in the other. Behind her came Daniel, a bit more breathless, juggling a tote bag, a folder stuffed with paperwork, and what looked like an entire forest worth of NDAs.

“Standard protocol,” Daniel said, lifting the stack toward her like a peace offering. “Contractors, designer, anyone who so much as walks past the door. Nobody breathes a word.”

“Perfect,” Taylor said, taking a long breath. Her nerves were humming, but in that productive, focused kind of way. The kind that meant the machine was running, wheels in motion.

Barely ten minutes later, the designer arrived—sleek, sharp, and perfectly composed. She introduced herself with a calm grace and a warm smile, a tablet in one hand and a measuring tape in the other.

“Miss Swift,” she said smoothly, extending her hand. “It’s an honor.”

Taylor smiled as they shook. “Please, just Taylor.”

But the woman only smiled back, unflinching. “Not today.”

Taylor chuckled. “Alright then, Miss Swift it is.”

She guided her through the apartment, toward the two rooms in question. First, the current guest room where the boys had been sleeping—still lived-in, with a few toys peeking out from beneath the bed, and rumpled sheets that still carried the warmth of Elijah’s last nap. Then the second room, still fully guest-like, barely touched in months.

“This one has to go completely,” Taylor said, arms crossed as she leaned in the doorway. “I want it empty and clean.

The designer nodded, taking silent notes.

“For the boys’ room,” Taylor continued, “I’ve got ideas. Pinterest board, saved colors, favorite toys. But I’m not the expert, so… whatever brings it to life better, I’ll trust you. Just make it feel like them.”

The designer flipped through Taylor’s references, her brow lifting slightly in quiet approval. “This is good. Specific enough, but you’re giving me room to work. I like that.”

Taylor rubbed her hands together. “There’s just one thing—I’m sorry, but the timeline is... short.”

The designer raised an eyebrow. “How tight are we talking?”

Taylor exhaled slowly. Late tonight. she thought—but didn’t say. That part was hers alone. If she comes back while I’m out with Selena... The thought lingered, warm and electric.

“I just want it done as soon as humanly possible,” she said instead.

The designer didn’t flinch. She clicked her pen, snapped her tablet closed, and looked up with a gleam in her eye.

“Then we’d better get started.”

Taylor blinked. “Really? You think—?”

“Miss Swift,” she said, her voice calm but sure, “this isn’t my first miracle. You gave me the blueprint. Now let me build the dream.”

Tree gave a small whoop of joy behind her.

Taylor stood in the middle of the hallway, hand to her chest, smiling through the swirl of it all.

The designer was already unlocking her phone, firing off texts like a commander preparing for battle. Within moments, Tree had stepped aside, speaking quickly but clearly into her own: she was contacting the security team to ensure that the elevator kept moving. It had to stay in use—controlled, secure. Every name logged, every delivery or crew member cleared through the front desk and signed under NDA.

“It’s a fortress now,” she muttered to Taylor with a grin.

And then, like an avalanche, it began.

A full team of workers arrived—contractors, decorators, painters, and movers. The apartment door opened and closed over and over again, until it barely registered. Taylor stood off to the side near the kitchen, watching in mild disbelief as a pair of movers wrestled a full bed frame out of the current guest room and nearly took out a hallway mirror in the process.

The designer popped her head into the living room. “Miss Swift? Quick question—what should we do with the current furniture from both rooms?”

Taylor blinked, then shrugged gently. “I don’t need it. Donate what’s good, toss the rest.”

“Understood,” she nodded, disappearing again.

Tree blinked at the chaos in Taylor's apartment as a stream of workers carried out armfuls of furniture, lamps, bedding, and rolled-up rugs. The hum of drills and the occasional crash echoed down the hallway. Paint cans were opened, brushes swished through trays, fabric swatches pinned to the walls. A lamp wobbled precariously on its way past the kitchen. Tree raised an eyebrow.

"Feels like a war zone," she muttered, arms folded across her chest.

Taylor, still clutching her tablet full of Pinterest boards and color palettes, laughed breathlessly. "An organized war zone. Hopefully."

They stood in the corner of the kitchen, far enough from the noise to have a conversation but close enough to still feel the vibration of hammers through the floorboards. The aroma of coffee lingered in the air, untouched in a mug beside the sink.

Tree looked over her shoulder at the hallway. "I’m glad you called me. Though you know, this is a little outside my usual job description."

"You’re good at things that matter," Taylor said with a smile. "And this matters."

Tree’s gaze softened. She let a moment pass before speaking again.

"You’re doing something really beautiful, Taylor. Not just the rooms. The gesture. You’re making a space for Karlie and the boys—without asking for permission, or tiptoeing around it. That’s a big thing."

Taylor looked down at her tablet and then out the kitchen window. "I want it to feel like a home. Not a stopgap. Not a maybe. A home."

Tree nodded. "And I think she’ll see that."

Taylor hesitated, then reached for the coffee mug she hadn’t touched. Her fingers wrapped around it like an anchor. "I hope so."

A beat of quiet. Then Tree sighed and took a step closer.

"Okay, look—now I have to ask the boring, annoying, professional question. Just to stay ahead of things."

Taylor gave her a wary side glance. "Which is?"

"Any official word about Karlie and Josh separating?"

Taylor flinched, then schooled her features quickly. "No. Not yet. Not publicly."

Tree held her gaze. "So it might come out. Whether or not you're ready."

Taylor swallowed hard, then nodded. "I know. But that’s not my news to share. We haven’t talked about what that looks like. Not yet."

Tree reached out and gently squeezed Taylor’s arm. "Fair. I’ll hold off on preparing any kind of narrative until you both give the word."

Taylor nodded again, eyes lingering on the flurry of activity beyond the kitchen.

A moment passed. The clatter of a headboard being removed. Someone asked for an extra roll of painter’s tape.

Then Tree said, softer now, "You’re not just reclaiming your masters, Taylor. You’re reclaiming your life. And you're brave for doing both at the same time."

Taylor’s voice was barely above a whisper. "I just want her to come back and feel like she belongs here. Not like she’s visiting someone else’s space."

Tree smiled. "She will. She already does."

From down the hall, one of the workers called out, "Miss Swift? Do you want us to keep the bookshelf in the second guest room or remove it?"

Taylor blinked, snapping back to the present. "Remove it, please!"

She turned back to Tree, suddenly determined. "Okay. We’re doing this. It’s going to be perfect. Or as close as we can get."

Tree laughed and raised her coffee mug in salute. "Then let’s get to work, boss."

And just like that, they dove back into the whirlwind.

A few more hours passed in a blur of movement and muted chaos. Taylor hadn’t stopped once. She’d bounced between rooms, checked on swatches, vetoed one too-modern floor lamp, and helped carry in exactly one box before Tree caught her and gave her a look that said, don’t you dare. She surrendered to the experts after that.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, she’d paused in her music room just long enough to snap a photo—one of her notebooks open, a pen artfully abandoned mid-thought, the soft light from the window spilling over the piano keys like a whisper.

She texted it to Karlie with a caption that read:
Hard at work 😇 🎶
It wasn’t a lie. Not really. It just wasn’t the whole truth. But Taylor didn’t want to tip the surprise. Not yet.

Now, as the late afternoon sun bled honey over the hardwood floors, Taylor stood in the finished boys’ room.

Her breath caught.

It was perfect.

Two twin beds—one with deep blue constellations, the other a soft duck yellow—faced each other across a fuzzy gray rug patterned in playful swirls. Floating shelves held a small, curated selection of books and toys. A low chest beneath the window had already been filled with plush animals. There was a reading nook in one corner with a crescent moon lamp, and above each bed hung framed prints Levi and Elijah had drawn.

She hadn’t even remembered Tree grabbing them from the fridge.

Taylor crossed the room slowly, fingers trailing over the duck-patterned comforter. The air smelled like fresh cotton and a little sawdust, like beginnings.

Behind her, a soft padding of paws.

Benjamin strutted in first, his tail upright and confident like he had personally overseen the entire redesign. Olivia followed, delicate and aloof, hopping up onto the reading nook and immediately curling into herself like a queen upon her throne.

Meredith, as always, was last.

She entered the room with a slow blink and a judgmental pause, standing in the doorway like an inspector. Then she wandered to the center of the room and sat down very deliberately—tail curled around her paws, expression unreadable.

“Well?” Taylor asked, hands on her hips. “What do you think?”

Benjamin meowed once and flopped dramatically onto Levi’s bed, promptly licking his paw.

Olivia yawned.

Meredith… remained unimpressed. But she didn’t leave.

That was approval enough.

Taylor knelt down between the two beds, resting her hands on her knees. “You three vanished the second the team showed up. Thought you’d moved out.”

Benjamin blinked at her.

“Traitors,” she said fondly. “But you came back just in time.”

Her phone buzzed in her back pocket. She fished it out and saw Karlie’s name light up the screen with a new message:

Karlie:
Your “writing session” better include snacks. Also… did Benjamin redecorate my playlist again? The man has paws of chaos.

Taylor laughed under her breath and typed back:

Taylor:
He denies all involvement. Olivia says she has an alibi. Meredith refuses to comment. Standard Swiftian silence. 🐾

She stared at the boys’ room one more time, her smile quiet and full.

They’d done it.

Not just the room. Not just the transformation.

The intention. The welcome. The home.

And tomorrow, when Levi and Elijah came barreling through the front door, squealing at the sight of their own beds and rocket books and duck blankets, Taylor wanted them to know—

They were never temporary guests.

They were part of the story now.

She stood and dusted her hands on her jeans, whispering to the cats like they understood. “Alright, my loves. We did good today.”

Meredith finally blinked.

A slow, regal nod.

Taylor grinned. “I’ll take that as approval.”

She turned, stepping carefully around a cardboard box someone had left in the hallway, and made her way toward the now-empty second guest room. She paused just inside the door, heart thudding a little harder in her chest. This room—quiet now, with bare walls and floors cleared—was no longer a placeholder.

With one last glance, Taylor walked in and retrieved Karlie’s old Kaizen mat, rolled it up gently, and stepped back out. She paused at the boys’ door again. That room wasn’t empty anymore—it was alive. And right in the middle of it?

Three very guilty-looking cats.

Taylor stepped inside with a sigh of fond exasperation. “Okay, gang. Field trip’s over.”

Meredith slunk out on her own terms. Benjamin, of course, made her lift him. Olivia stretched and blinked slowly, as if to say you’re lucky we let you finish this makeover in the first place.

Taylor scooped them up one by one and carried them into the living room, setting them down on a blanket draped over the couch. “Stay,” she told them, pointing like they were golden retrievers instead of chaos in fur coats. “Please.”

Her phone buzzed just as she turned back toward the hallway.

Selena:
Still good for tonight? I got us a booth at Monkey Bar. 8pm sharp. Bring your victory smile. 💋

Taylor’s mouth curled into a grin as she replied:

Taylor:
Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You’re buying the champagne. 🍾

Selena:
Only if you wear something hot.

Taylor laughed, locking her phone. “Challenge accepted,” she muttered under her breath.

She crossed the apartment to her bedroom and pushed open her closet door, exhaled, and began to change.

She pulled out the black mini dress—the one with silver sequin trim that kissed the neckline and hem just enough to say celebration.

She paired it with silver platform heels, slipped on her diamond drop earrings, and fastened her Gucci clutch with one smooth motion.

Hair up. Lipstick on—bold red, always. The one Karlie liked best.

She passed by the cats once more. Olivia blinked up at her lazily. Meredith, draped across a pillow like royalty, didn’t even lift her head. Benjamin followed her with his eyes, tail flicking once in vague approval.

“I’ll be back later,” Taylor said softly. “Behave yourselves.”

Benjamin gave her a slow blink in return. Taylor smiled.

She turned back toward the bedroom mirror, adjusted the lighting slightly—soft and warm, golden from the dimmed sconces overhead. Then she raised her phone, tilted her chin, a hint of gloss still shining on her lips. Just the right expression: part ready to slay, part wish you were here.

She snapped the photo. Sent it.

Taylor:
Fully dressed and halfway out the door. Wish you were here. Have fun tonight 💋

The reply came faster than she expected.

Karlie:
Sorry I didn’t make it back in time. Blame Nick—and maybe give him a raise? The man chauffeured a pregnant woman through midtown traffic like he was escorting royalty.

Taylor laughed quietly, heart already fluttering.

Karlie (cont.):
And btw… if you dare take that dress off yourself tonight, we’re gonna have a problem. You’re so… infuriatingly hot, it should be illegal. 🔥 I’ll deal with you later 😈

Taylor paused, biting her lip, a grin breaking across her face so wide it nearly hurt. Her pulse jumped—not from the thought of going out, but from the promise of coming back home.

She typed quickly:

Taylor:
Noted. I’ll behave. (Maybe.)
Also: you’re dangerous when you text like this 😳

Karlie:
Good. Let it haunt you through dessert 😏

Taylor slipped her phone into her bag, heels clicking down the hallway with purpose.

Then she turned toward the door, heels clicking softly against the hardwood, and stepped into the city night.

Even Nick had his limits.

By the time the third designer garment bag threatened to slip from his grip, Karlie could see it in his expression—focused but deeply questioning his life choices. They’d packed as much as the SUV would hold, and yet the walk-in closet still looked barely touched. At some point, Nick had threatened to call Marty to finish the job, but Karlie had waved him off.

“Just get me to the game, and I’ll owe you forever,” she said with a tired grin.

He agreed.

Upstairs, Karlie changed quickly.

She took the outfit from the suitcase she had already carefully packed—a tailored blazer in soft navy, a crisp white blouse that flared slightly at the waist, and low black flats polished enough to command a room and forgiving enough for swollen feet. She slipped small gold hoops into her ears, slicked her hair into a neat low bun, and gave her reflection one long, steady look.

This wasn’t just another photo op. Not to her.

She zipped her blazer over her growing belly with care and grabbed her phone just as Nick knocked softly on the open doorframe.

“You good?”

She nodded, slinging a lightweight tote over her shoulder. “As good as I’m going to be.”

He gave her a once-over and offered a rare nod of approval.

The drive to the Barclays Center was loud—traffic, honking, and pre-game buzz thick in the air. Karlie sat in the back, one hand resting lightly on her belly, the other gripping a water bottle Nick had insisted she take. She hadn't realized how long it had been since she’d eaten until he handed her a wrapped sandwich with a warning glare.

Now, seated comfortably in the private sponsors’ section, the lights dimming around her, Karlie let herself breathe.

To her left, Clara Wu Tsai was mid-conversation with Keia Clarke, both women radiant and at ease. They’d welcomed Karlie earlier with open arms and warm smiles—Clara’s hand briefly resting on Karlie’s forearm as she said, “We’re lucky to have you.” The photos had been taken. The handshakes made. The press would run it all tomorrow.

But tonight?

Tonight was for watching. For listening. For soaking in the collective heartbeat of a team that had changed the game.

Karlie sipped her water slowly, her eyes following the blur of warm-ups on the court below. She hadn't touched the sandwich yet, but she appreciated Nick's vigilance. And Taylor’s voice echoed in the back of her mind—bring what you want. Everything if you want. The words had stayed with her all day.

She pulled out her phone and glanced at the lock screen—one of the boys mid-laugh, his cheeks smeared with chocolate, his joy unfiltered.

Then she opened her messages.

Karlie:
In place. Sandwich secured. Water intact. Basketball dreams in motion.
(Your security guy is secretly terrifying.)

Seconds later, Taylor replied.

Taylor:
He just cares. Also: I better see that sandwich eaten. And I’m proud of you.
You look stunning, by the way.

Karlie smiled.

Karlie:
You haven’t even seen me.

Taylor:
I don’t have to. I know you.
(And Nick sent me a pic. Don’t be mad.)

Karlie laughed silently and leaned back, letting the noise of the arena swell around her. Her hand drifted to her belly again, light and instinctual.

This was her life now—half high-fashion press, half duck-themed pajamas, all stitched together by something bigger. Something fuller.

The game tipped off with thunderous applause, the Liberty taking the court in their signature seafoam green and black. Karlie leaned forward slightly, captivated by the speed, the rhythm, the collective force of movement. These women were athletes, warriors, artists. It filled her with pride—not just to watch, but to belong to it in some small, meaningful way.

By halftime, the score was tight, the energy high. Fans buzzed in the concourse, spilling popcorn and chattering excitedly. Karlie stood with a small circle of fellow investors near the private box entrance, exchanging updates and congratulations. Clara Wu Tsai gave her a brief side-hug. “Basketball suits you.”

“I think it’s the lighting,” Karlie joked, hand on her belly. “Or the hormones.”

She smiled for photos with a few fans who recognized her, gracious and warm, always careful not to linger too long. Then, back in her seat with her water and the now-half-eaten sandwich (Nick would be pleased), she opened Instagram and tapped to her profile.

After a moment’s thought, she uploaded a photo she’d taken pre-game—just the court below, lit perfectly, the Liberty logo glowing at center.

@karliekloss:
Game night at Barclays. Proud to be part of something this powerful. Let’s go @nyliberty 🏀💚 #wnba #libertyleads #womenssports

She hit “post” just as a notification from a tagged story popped up. Curious, she tapped.

And nearly choked on her water.

It was a paparazzi shot—one of several now circling online—from earlier that evening. Taylor and Selena at The Monkey Bar, mid-dinner, deep in conversation. One shot, clearly taken right as something unexpected was said, caught Taylor wide-eyed, her mouth cartoonishly agape, eyebrows practically in orbit.

Karlie snorted aloud and immediately saved the photo.

She texted it to Taylor with a caption:

Karlie:
You okay there, Miss Swift? Did the risotto attack??

The reply came in seconds.

Taylor:
😂 omg I knew that face would haunt me
Selena said something absolutely insane. I’ll explain later.

Karlie:
I’m making it your new contact photo.

Taylor:
You’re evil. Beautiful. But evil.
Also: you’re glowing. That post is everywhere. Everyone’s proud of you. I’m proud of you.

Karlie smiled and blushed, caught between warmth and ridiculousness.

Still in her messages, she jumped over to her mentions—and there she was.

Multiple photos of her in the stands, smiling, talking, one hand always resting gently against her bump. Someone had captured the moment she’d reached out to a young girl for a quick photo, bending slightly, smiling that real kind of smile that couldn’t be posed.

The caption on one fan post read:

“Seeing Karlie Kloss at tonight’s Liberty game was everything. Class. Strength. Heart. And that baby glow is REAL.”

Her eyes misted before she could stop them. It wasn’t vanity. It was validation. That she could do this. Be in this moment. Wear all her selves and still be whole.

She closed her phone, tucked it into her bag, and turned her gaze back to the court just as the players returned from the tunnel.

The second half was about to begin.

As the final buzzer rang and the Liberty secured a narrow, hard-fought win, the arena erupted in applause. Karlie stood with the rest of the crowd, clapping, her heart thudding—not just from the game, but from everything this night had meant. From where she stood—half investor, half spectator, fully herself—she felt something settle inside her.

She adjusted her blazer, slung her bag over one shoulder, and began to weave through the departing crowd, careful of the slow steps and occasional stares. A few more people waved her way, some offered quick congratulations, and she returned every smile with grace.

Just as she reached the edge of the VIP lounge, her phone buzzed.

Taylor:
Drew’s already waiting outside, on 5th. Black SUV. You won’t miss him.
I’m home. Come back to me.

Karlie didn’t even try to fight the smile that overtook her face.

Karlie:
On my way.
Tell Benjamin to clear the hallway. I expect a hero’s welcome.

Taylor:
He’s practicing his pose. Olivia is unimpressed.

Karlie laughed softly and stepped out into the night air. The crisp coolness of spring wrapped around her as the city buzzed and blinked under its thousand bright lights. There, at the curb just as promised, stood Drew—tall, stoic, with that calm, unshakable presence he always carried.

“Evening, Ms. Kloss,” he said with a nod, already opening the back door for her.

She slid in with a grateful sigh. “Hi, Drew. You just saved me from about twenty minutes of autograph chaos.”

He offered the smallest hint of a smile. “Happy to help.”

As the car pulled away from the Barclays Center and into the pulse of the city, Karlie leaned back against the seat, her hand instinctively resting against her stomach again.

Soon. She’d be home soon. To Taylor. To warm lights and waiting arms.

Just as Karlie leaned her forehead against the cool window of the car, her phone buzzed again. She hesitated for half a second before opening it.

Five texts.
No greeting.

Josh:
Levi just told me Elijah isn’t allowed on the couch unless he “recites the mission oath.”
I have no idea what that means.
Also
The dinosaur is missing
And Elijah is devastated

Karlie pinched the bridge of her nose, suppressing a sigh.

Karlie:
The dinosaur is probably behind the TV or in the bathroom sink.
Check both.
Then give Elijah his bottle and hold him for five minutes. Just five.
Levi needs a story, not a speech. Keep it short. Then lights out.

A moment later, another ping.

Josh:
He won’t sit still long enough for a story.
He says bedtime is “oppressive.”
And Elijah is asking if the dinosaur is dead.

Karlie rubbed a hand over her eyes.

Karlie:
Tell Levi he can lead the next mission after he completes this one: Operation Sleep.
Give Elijah the dinosaur and tell him it’s just tired. Like you are.

A pause.

Then—