The ride the next morning was thunder and steel, her knees bent awkwardly wide around the custom frame, the oversized gas tank rumbling beneath her like a storm barely leashed. The bike wasn't elegant, but it was hers—built over years with her stepfather, piece by stubborn piece. When her body outgrew the things made for it, they made something new. That, too, was a kind of miracle.
The roar of the engine faded as she slowed to a halt, boots crunching on seashell-strewn pavement. She killed the ignition and let the quiet settle around her.
The building before her was old and proud—painted peach and blue like some leftover postcard from the '70s, a four-story walk-up that looked like it shouldn't still be standing, but was too stubborn to fall. Above the vegan diner with its prayer flags and turmeric specials, and the surf shop that hadn't stocked an actual surfboard in what looked like a decade, the condo stretched toward the sea.
It didn't make sense.
How did a 24-year-old med student—brash, crass, who cursed like a pirate and dressed like a punk band's merch table—end up here? In a home with wrought iron balconies and windows that caught the light just so? It was beautiful. Not in a rich way, but in the way a poem is beautiful when you find it scribbled in the margins of a notebook.
She pulled the gum wrapper from her pocket again, as if to be sure. The message hummed against her chest like a heartbeat.
If you're real, come find me.
Roxie reached for the callbox beside the stairwell, hand trembling. Her armor was gone now tucked back into its place in her saddlebag. She wore nothing but old loose jeans and the sweat-soaked cardigan top beneath her riding jacket. No mask. No shield. Just Roxie, and the most beautiful, terrifying sentence she'd ever read.
She punched in the codet. And waited. Then with a single terrifying click the gate unlatched. And Roxie began her first climb to her new life.
The green-painted door stood slightly ajar, as if the condo had been expecting her.
Roxie raised a hand, hesitated. The chipped brass handle was warm from the sun. A single breath caught in her throat—thin and uncertain.
This wasn't a dorm. This wasn't a bunkhouse. This wasn't a temporary shelter or the backseat of a van.
This was something else.
She pushed the door open.
Cool air greeted her—laced with sandalwood, citrus, and the faint antiseptic ghost of rubbing alcohol. Light spilled like water through long, high windows. Shadows curved along the woodgrain floors in reverent silence.
The place was… huge.
Not conventionally large, not ostentatious. Expansive. Like it had been carved out of time and lit with intention. A high-ceilinged loft, sun-drenched and chaotic, layered with lived-in warmth and untouchable wealth. Plush couches sprawled like sleeping beasts across the open floor, half-covered in jackets, med school textbooks, and crumpled hoodies. A skateboard hung from the ceiling. A hookah curled in the corner like a dragon's tongue.
There was no television.
But there was a stereo, surrounded by vinyl records. Jazz, punk, some lo-fi indie with no discernible label. The record player spun nothing. And still, Roxie thought she could hear a rhythm underneath everything—like the heartbeat of a space that had never been empty.
To her left, the kitchen shimmered—copper fixtures, a stone sink, and a fridge too beautiful for anything human to open without guilt. There were lemon peels on the counter. A cutting board half-wiped. Signs of life paused mid-motion.
She took a step forward, boots quiet on the floor.
Down a small hallway, underneath what appeared to be a lofted master bedroom, two doors waited. One was firmly shut.
But the second… ajar.
Roxie stepped toward it.
Inside: stillness. A freshly made bed with clean white sheets. A small bookshelf with paperbacks—Le Guin, Gibran, a few medical dramas. A writing desk by the window. The curtains pulled back to let the late-day sun spill golden across the floor.
It was not a room abandoned.
It was a room prepared.
A room meant for someone.
And someone had meant it for her.
Her messenger bag slid from her shoulder like a burden lifted, and she placed it softly at the edge of the bed. The fabric was singed from the fight, the strap still faintly smelling of ozone and scorched cement.
She opened the side pocket.
There it was—the gum wrapper, creased and smudged, but still legible.
Written in ink that had bled a little from heat and time:
If you're real, come find me.
Roxie stared at the words for a long time.
A note. A joke. A test. A prayer.
Whatever it was, she had answered it.
And now… here she stood, in a sunlit sanctuary above a diner and a surf shop with no boards, holding a note from a girl who made space for her before she'd even asked.
But this—this place, this room, this gum wrapper folded like scripture— this felt like a lifeline.
Or grace, maybe.
Or the first real kindness in a long time.
A messy, foul-mouthed miracle, wrapped in chaos and dripping sarcasm.
A savior, maybe—but the kind you got when heaven wasn't answering.
The bathroom door creaked open behind her.
Steam curled out like breath from a dragon's maw, chased by the soft squeak of damp feet on hardwood.
Roxie turned.
Dianna stepped into the hallway, wrapped in a towel far too small for her attitude. Purple-tipped hair clung to her neck in wet spirals. A toothbrush hung from the corner of her mouth like a cigarette. One arm lifted to adjust the towel's knot with all the ceremony of someone utterly alone in their own kingdom.
She paused mid-motion.
One blue eye blinked at Roxie.
"…Shit. You're actually here." She pulled the toothbrush from her mouth with a flick. "You could've knocked."
Roxie blinked, stunned—not by the towel or the dripping hair or even the absolutely lethal way Dianna's smirk curled on one side—but by the sheer casual proximity of her. Of this moment.
"I… thought you'd be out," Roxie said weakly.
Dianna snorted. "You thought I'd invite you to a place I wouldn't be at? What am I, a bloomin' scavenger hunt?"
She padded across the floor, fearless and barefoot. She stopped just short of Roxie's personal space—close enough that Roxie could see the constellation of freckles on her collarbone and the faint scar beside her knee.
"You look like you fought a monster truck and won."
Roxie shifted, glancing down at the faint bruises tracing her forearms, the soot-blackened edge of her pants.
"I did. Sort of. Fell up the stairs on my way in. "
"Let me guess," Dianna said. "Didn't want to win too hard."
Roxie didn't answer.
Instead, she asked, quietly, "How do you live here?"
Dianna raised an eyebrow.
"Seriously," Roxie continued, voice low, full of disbelief. "How does a twenty-four-year-old med student afford a palace over a vegan diner and a failed surf shop?"
Dianna's grin faltered—just for a second.
And then she shrugged.
"I inherited it," she said simply. "Woman named Bernice. Long story. I'll tell you over a study session sometime."
Roxie nodded slowly.
Dianna turned, toothbrush still in hand, and gestured vaguely toward the lofted upper level of the condo. "That's my room. Don't go up there unless you wanna see a pile of laundry declare sovereignty."
She pointed back toward the bathroom. "That one's a temple. You'll cry. I guarantee it."
Roxie let her eyes trail toward the still-steaming door.
A temple?
"I set you up in there," Dianna added, jerking her chin toward the guest room. "Didn't know if you'd actually show. But figured if you did, you'd need somewhere that didn't suck."
"…Thank you."
Dianna shrugged again. "Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the water pressure."
She turned, sauntered back into the bathroom like a queen returning to her throne, and tossed a final parting shot over her shoulder.
"And don't touch my vinyl. That's the only rule. Oh—and if you steal my last protein bar, I will bury you beneath the hookah."
The door clicked shut behind her, and Roxie was left standing in the middle of a condo that somehow felt more alive than any place she'd ever lived.
Somehow… she felt real here.
-----
The bathroom door clicked shut, and Dianna leaned against it like she could keep the whole world out with her shoulder blades.
She stared at the tile. Then the mirror. Then the towel barely clinging to her damp frame.
"What the fuck did you just do?"
Her voice echoed off marble and glass. It didn't sound like hers.
She slid down the door until she hit the cool tile, towel hiked awkwardly around her chest, breath caught somewhere between laughter and a panic attack.
Ten minutes. That's how long she'd known the girl—ten actual minutes. Long enough to see the height, the eyes, the shellshocked quiet. Long enough to watch her get told she had no place to live. Long enough to open her stupid mouth and say, I've got space.
And now she was here.
Roxanna Paraveesh Shapiro was in her condo. Not figuratively. Literally. Standing in her living room like a holy statue pulled off its pedestal and dropped in the middle of Dianna's vaguely punk-rock coastal disaster of a life.
"Oh my God," she whispered, burying her face in her hands. "She actually came."
She hadn't expected that. Not really. People didn't take lifelines from strangers like that—not unless they were desperate. And Roxie had looked like someone right on the edge of falling into something she couldn't climb out of.
So Dianna threw her a rope.
And now she had a seven foot tall angel with a backpack standing twenty feet from her bedroom and no goddamn plan.
She sat there a moment longer, knees up, hair dripping onto tile, brain short-circuiting.
"This is insane," she muttered. "This is certifiable. You can't just—invite strangers home like they're stray dogs and expect it to—"
But she had.
And Roxie had said yes.
She looked up, wide-eyed. Then scrambled to her feet in a flurry of wet limbs and towel. She almost slipped on her own conditioner bottle. Almost died the way she lived—naked, unprepared, and fifteen seconds from disaster. She steadied herself and took a deep breath.
"Okay. Okay. She's here. You're not dreaming. You're going to go out there, offer her a drink, maybe some toast, and not say anything completely unhinged."
She paused. Frowned.
"...Maybe."
Dianna stared at her reflection a second longer.
The mirror didn't blink. Neither did she.
"Right," she muttered. "If I'm gonna be a dumbass, I'm gonna be a deliberate dumbass."
She shoved off the bathroom door, towel still clutched like it was doing a better job than it was. The hallway was quiet. No sounds of footsteps or movement. Which either meant Roxie was being polite, or she'd opened a cupboard, seen the absurdly stocked spice rack, and run for the hills.
More likely: still standing there. Still existing.
Still real.
Dianna jogged up the loft stairs two at a time, dripping slightly as she went. Her room wasn't a room so much as a command center of entropy—clothes half-folded, shelves buckling under med textbooks and fantasy novels, a corkboard of sticky notes organized by whatever logic only made sense to her at 3AM. A mug on the floor held three pens and a spoon. An empty protein shake canister had been converted into a trash bin. Somewhere under a pile of hoodies, her bed lurked.
She tossed the towel over a chair, rummaged through a drawer, and yanked on a pair of cutoff sweat shorts and a t-shirt that read PROPERTY OF NO ONE in cracked white font.
It felt weird, getting dressed for someone else. Not in a date way. Not in a going-out way. Just… choosing not to walk around half-naked for once.
Maybe she'd regret that later. Maybe not.
She tugged a brush through her damp hair, finger-combed the purple ends into something vaguely human-shaped, and tried not to overthink it.
Which was hard, given the part of her brain screaming There's a girl in your house. A stupidly gorgeous girl. Who took one look at your mess of a life and said okay, sure, I'll give this chaos a shot.
She blew out a breath.
"Alright," she told the mirror. "You got into this. You're staying in it. No panic. No weirdness. Just toast. Conversation. Basic human functioning."
A beat.
"And maybe like… one percent flirting."
She glanced around her room. Grabbed a hoodie off the floor. Sniffed it. Tossed it away.
Another one. Slightly less risk of biological warfare.
Good enough.
She pulled it on, padded barefoot back to the loft railing, and looked down.
And there she was.
Roxie stood in the golden spill of afternoon light like something holy that had accidentally landed in the middle of a punk rock sitcom. Her bag was by her feet. Her shoulders were slouched like someone who'd been holding the weight of the world for too long and had finally, for a second, set it down.
Dianna swallowed.
This was real.
This was happening.
No takebacks now.
She descended the stairs slowly this time, steady, aware of her heartbeat.
She reached the bottom, crossed the space between them, and gave a crooked little grin.
"Alright," she said. "Welcome to Casa Chaos. You want something to eat? Something to drink? Something to emotionally stabilize you after the week from hell?"
Roxie looked up.
And smiled.
Not the nervous half-smile like after she had fallen from the shuttle. Not the polite, distant one she'd worn in the hallway earlier. This was open. Honest. Something bright and unguarded blooming on her face like she'd just remembered sunlight was a thing and Dianna, somehow, was part of it.
It hit like a truck.
Heat curled in Dianna's gut before her brain could mount any kind of defense. Lower. Deeper. Immediate.
Oh.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
She blinked, smiled back, did not visibly melt into a puddle on the floor—small victories—and tried not to shift on her feet like a hormonal teenager caught staring.
This wasn't new, not exactly. Dianna had lived in her body long enough to know how fast the engine could rev. But this? This wasn't just lust on a fuse—it was lust tangled up with awe, and maybe something even stupider. Like hope.
God, what a mess.
She cleared her throat. "I, uh…" Her voice cracked. She coughed, then tried again, aiming for cool and landing somewhere in the general neighborhood of mildly concussed.
"I'll get us drinks."
And she turned, briskly, trying to pretend her legs weren't suddenly hyper-aware of the space between them.
----
Dianna disappeared up the stairs into her room and Roxie stood very, very still.
Not because she was tired, though she was. Not because her back ached from where she had been thrown through a step-side pick-up truck less than 16 hours ago. And not even because she'd just been invited into a stranger's home like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She stood because she had absolutely no idea what she was supposed to do next.
The moment Dianna turned away, the spell broke just enough for Roxie to breathe again. Her eyes flicked around the loft space like it might offer instructions—some unspoken rulebook she'd somehow missed. There was no obvious place to sit amongst the mess. No shoes-off policy. No rituals of politeness she could anchor herself to.
So she just… stood.
Back straight. Bag at her feet. Shoulders drawn in tight, like she was trying not to take up space.
It was strange, being still and seen at the same time.
This wasn't a dorm. This wasn't second-rate faculty housing or a crowded family home. It wasn't even a couch to crash on. It was someone's actual life. Lived-in. Layered. Bright and unapologetic and entirely different from everything she'd imagined when she'd pictured her first year away from home.
She thought she'd be living with a stranger who kept to themselves. Maybe someone into spreadsheets. Maybe someone clean and detached and uninterested in sharing anything more than a bathroom schedule.
She hadn't imagined her. A girl with purple-tipped hair and perfect-river-water-blue eyes who cracked jokes and offered sanctuary like it cost her nothing.
Roxie's fingers twisted gently into the straps of her bags. The whole of her existence was in those saddlebags—sketchbooks, a set of oil paints, a roll of treated canvas, a worn rosary, three changes of clothes, a half-eaten tin of dates... Titania's costume. Her mother's cross. A drawing she hadn't finished. Everything else—her place at the school, her plans, her grip on what came next—had just kind of… evaporated.
And yet here she was.
A guest. Maybe a roommate. Standing in sunlight on someone else's floor.
Roxie blinked slowly, then knelt beside her bag and began quietly, reverently, to unbuckle the flaps. She didn't take anything out yet. Just needed the motion, the grounding. The idea that she could unpack—even a little—without it all falling apart.
She glanced up toward the loft. She could hear movement. The creak of floorboards. A drawer. Maybe a voice, though she couldn't make out the words.
Her heart beat in her throat.
She'd never lived with someone outside her family before. Never shared a space that didn't have clearly defined expectations, prayer times, codes of behavior. The air here felt looser. Warmer. Woven with a kind of casual freedom she didn't quite know how to fit into.
But she wanted to try.
Even if it meant standing there awkwardly in the light, pretending she knew what to do with her hands.
Even if it meant learning the rhythm of a new world from scratch.
She exhaled, quiet and shaky, and murmured under her breath:
"Okay, Roxanna. Don't break anything."
She adjusted the bag. Sat back on her heels. Looked around again.
And waited.
Not because she didn't want to move.
But because, for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like she had to.
There was movement above her. Floorboards creaked. A drawer slid open. The faint sound of fabric rustling and a muttered voice carried down from the loft—too soft to make out the words, but real enough to remind Roxie this wasn't a dream. Roxie could have listened. Let herself hear what the girl above was saying in that one sided conversation but she had trained herself not to. Super hearing wasn't to be used for idle snooping.
She stayed kneeling beside her pack. Not unpacking, not quite. Just resting her hands against the buckled flaps like they were the only thing anchoring her in this space.
The loft above crested with footsteps.
Then the stairs creaked.
Roxie turned slightly, just enough to see a blur of motion in the edge of her vision—bare feet, a hoodie, those long dancer's legs taking the steps with careless, practiced ease.
Dianna rounded the bottom step and crossed to the kitchen like it was nothing. Like there wasn't a stranger sitting on her floor with her life in three bags and her faith stitched into every seam.
And then she spoke.
"Alright," she said, voice casual, crooked grin fully intact. "Welcome to Casa Chaos. You want something to eat? Something to drink? Something to emotionally stabilize you after the week from hell?"
Roxie looked up.
And that was when it hit her—not just the words, but the shape of them, the way Dianna offered them without hesitation or expectation. Not performative. Not pitying. Just… there. Like a rope tossed in a storm.
Her smile bloomed before she knew it was coming. Honest. Whole. The kind that cracked right through the tension and let light flood in behind it.
For a second, the silence that had wrapped itself around her—the ache, the unfamiliarity, the fear of not knowing how to be—broke open like sun through cloud.
She nodded, trying not to clutch at it like a lifeline. "Water's fine. Thank you."
Dianna didn't answer right away.
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe. Or awe. Or something else Roxie couldn't name, only felt, low and warm like a tremor in the floor beneath them.
Then Dianna coughed, blinked like she'd just remembered her body, and spun toward the fridge. "Right. Water. Coming up. One existential-crisis-compliant beverage, hold the garnish."
She opened the fridge with more force than necessary. Roxie heard a bottle clink against glass. The whole thing felt like a fever dream edged in absurdity—but not in a bad way. Just… in a way she hadn't known how much she needed until it was right in front of her.
She exhaled, slow and steady, and finally rose to her feet.
The apartment still wasn't familiar. Her place in it still uncertain.
But maybe—maybe—she could figure it out.
One awkward, graceless, human moment at a time.
Roxie took the offered glass with both hands, like it was something fragile and ceremonial. The durned thing was crystal and if Roxie thought too hard it *would* explode after all. "Thank you," she said again, softer this time. Not just for the water. Not even just for the room.
For the mercy of it.
Dianna didn't brush it off. Didn't make a joke this time, though Roxie could see the twitch of one threatening to surface. She just nodded, lopsided and quick, and leaned back against the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world to invite a stranger to stay without question.
Roxie sipped. The water was cold and clean and ordinary in a way that hit like a blessing.
A pause stretched between them—brief, but weighty.
Then Roxie straightened. Set the glass gently on the counter and tucked a length of hair behind her ear.
"I can cook," she said.
Dianna blinked. "What, like… now?"
"If you want. Or later. I just thought—I mean—you've already done so much, and I should do something, and I'm actually decent at it, so…"
She trailed off. Not awkward, exactly. Just unsure of where the edge was. Whether offering too much kindness might tilt the balance.
But Dianna just lit up.
"Ooh. You cook. Like, properly? Not just 'I know how to not burn toast' cook?"
"I can make a few things," Roxie said, trying not to sound too proud—or too shy. "Mostly Persian dishes. Or whatever's in the fridge. I improvise."
Dianna whistled low, impressed. "Alright, mystery girl. Sold. You want the kitchen, it's yours. Just, uh…" She reached into a drawer and tossed Roxie a lighter. "Stove's temperamental. Show it a little respect or it'll chuck a fit."
Roxie caught the lighter one-handed, then blinked down at it. Her fingers curled around the metal automatically.
Not a dorm. Not a student kitchenette.
An actual kitchen. A real space. A real offer.
She looked up again. Met Dianna's eyes.
"I'll make something good."
"I believe you."
And somehow, the words settled between them like a pact—not a promise exactly, but the beginning of something small and living and shared.
Roxie smiled, just a little. "I'll unpack first. Then start dinner."
Dianna gave her a mock salute and turned toward the living room, her bare feet whispering over the tile. "Knock yourself out, roomie."
Roxie stood a moment longer, hands cradling the lighter like it was a compass.
Then she picked up her bags, exhaled, and moved.
Like she belonged.
Like she was learning how.
Roxie's smile lingered as she turned toward the hallway. She hadn't truly exhaled since the housing office. Now—strangely—she could.
She didn't unpack so much as disperse. The messenger bag was still where she had lain it on the bed. She tucked her suitcase just inside the door, but she emptied her saddlebags placing her clothes on the hangers in the ridiculously large walk in closet, which was so big that a smaller person could have comfortably used it as a bedroom. And then she padded off to the kitchen.
She found it by feel more than familiarity—drawn to the wide countertops and sleek, slightly-dated touch panels that blinked softly to life beneath her fingers. The place had the kind of tech that might've looked futuristic once, all brushed steel and soft-chime interfaces. Built-in automation. Analog screens with crisp faux-retro fonts. Voice-dial presets that responded to commands like "lights: mood two" or "fridge inventory, confirm."
It was the kind of cutting-edge luxury that would've turned heads in the late 90s.
Now it felt... quietly impressive. Outdated in aesthetic, but not in function. Well-maintained. Loved.
Like the bones of the place still remembered the woman who'd installed it all.
Roxie murmured a test phrase—"oven preheat, 350." The panel blinked green in reply. The stovetop coils hummed to life with a smooth, obedient warmth. A low chime signaled compliance. She lit the burner smoothly.
She smiled.
There was something weirdly comforting about the efficiency. It was so different from the prayer-laced rituals of her mother's kitchen, where every act was half-instinct, half-tradition. But there was a rhythm here too, even in the silence.
She opened the fridge and found more than she expected—eggs, leafy greens sealed tight in vacuum drawers, a half-loaf of multigrain, a jar of something suspiciously homemade labeled lemon pickles, 2024. A pantry drawer beneath the sink revealed rice. Lentils. Olive oil. And spices—fresh, even if the labels had faded with time.
Not a student's kitchen. Not stocked for show.
This was a home.
Roxie washed her hands at the copper sink, water activating with the flick of her fingers. It warmed instantly. She rolled up her sleeves, tied her unruly black mane back with the black hair tie always around her wrist, and let the rhythm begin.
Something simple. Nourishing.
Sabzi polo, if she could manage it—herbs and rice, chopped fine and folded in layers. She hummed softly as she worked, pulling half-remembered gestures from the corners of her childhood, like threads tugged through old fabric. Her fingers moved before her thoughts caught up. The motions soothed her. Grounded her.
From the living room, music floated in—an old playlist Dianna must've activated with a voice command. Soft rock, lazy and low, undercut by something rougher. A little punky. A little out of place. It made Roxie smile anyway.
Then—mid-chop, mid-stir—a sudden panic struck.
"Oh… oh no," she said aloud, glancing down at the mixing bowl. "Do you have yogurt? I didn't even think to look…" She stepped toward the fridge again, flustered. "I'm sorry—I should have checked—"