Chapter 1

ONE

T he rain comes in as Cricket does, casting early autumn Boston into a damp, grey haze. Moriah Becker waits as long as she can before sliding her window shut— she'll sacrifice the glaze of water on the ledge for the fresh air and comforting petrichor scent that fills her small apartment.

She lights a candle in the kitchen— beeswax and honeysuckle in a recycled metal tin that she got in a subscription box— right under the range hood. Moriah flicks the kitchen fan to the highest setting and sets a timer on her phone: thirty minutes. Just long enough for the scent to spread but not long enough that the flame will begin to grow fierce with melted wax and folded wick. Another reason to let the rain dampen her furniture: less chance of a fire.

( clothes and wood and flesh, burnt into unrecognizable viscera, consumed by licking flames darting through the halls, sirens grow near but not fast enough, not fast enough — )

The lighter is returned to the junk drawer, safety carefully flicked, and Moriah smooths her palms over her floral skirt.

She's met Cricket a few times in passing— the main occasion being at Simon's apartment, when she helped him pack up for his final move to Caerlloyd— and it only took one conversation for Moriah to develop something of a crush on her despite not knowing her very well.

What she does know is that she's beautiful, with fiery red hair, gold-green eyes, and soft curves over layers of toned muscle. She knows that she's funny, from all the things that Simon has texted her over the past few months since he left Boston for good. She has her number, after Simon decided that they needed a group chat ‘just in case' which is now only used to send pictures of Davey Jones and occasionally Woolf, Moriah's tortoiseshell baby who is currently nowhere to be seen.

It's the first time someone besides Simon has stayed with her in years, since significantly before the pandemic. It makes her stomach turn to consider. She hadn't hesitated to say yes when Cricket asked— it's only a day, anyways, with the New England Bed and Breakfast Association's awards ceremony scheduled for tomorrow evening— but now, she almost wishes she had.

Even if Cricket is stunning, charming, and everything Moriah likes in a woman, it still stings to open up her safe space to someone she barely knows.

Even if she's been nursing a quiet crush on the woman since the first time Simon sent her a video of Cricket hauling a massive fish up onto her kitchen counter, and a real one since the moment they met.

Even if Moriah hasn't gotten laid in over three years, and hasn't felt a caring touch in months.

Moriah shakes her head to clear it, takes a long breath, and taps on her phone, opening the video feed from the callbox downstairs. Cricket climbs out of an Uber with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She squints at her phone, then the door, and then climbs the three short, brick steps to the small front stoop.

The doorbell to Moriah's apartment buzzes, and she gives it a few seconds to not seem like she was watching the woman arrive. Her phone vibrates in her hand and she sees a text from Cricket: "I'm here!"

Moriah presses the button that unlocks the main entrance and sets her phone on the kitchen counter, trying to look like she hasn't been waiting nervously for the last hour. When Cricket knocks, she gives it another second or so before opening the door.

The woman seems somehow brighter than Moriah remembers. Her hair is tied in two long braids, some shorter strands falling out around her face, and her smile lights up the small hallway. Her scuffed rubber boots are wet from the rain.

"Hey," Cricket says, and Moriah can't help but smile back.

"Come in, come in," Moriah says and steps out of the door. Cricket toes her boots off, revealing striped knit socks, sets them on the small mat next to the door, then hangs her canvas coat on the antique coat rack Moriah thrifted and refinished. "Here, I'll take your bag."

"You don't have to do that," Cricket says, but Moriah knows it's one of those things that people just say to be polite, as she also immediately hands Moriah her bag. Their fingers brush, and Moriah feels Cricket's skin, cold from the air outside but warm beneath, and has to suppress a shiver.

"I have you set up in the living room, I hope that's okay," Moriah says and leads the woman through the small apartment.

It isn't much. Sitting at barely six hundred square feet, it was at the top of Moriah's price range when she moved out of her dorms at Wellesley, but it has what she needs. A small galley kitchen is directly to the right of the door, with a small counter facing outwards that she has wedged two barstools underneath to eat breakfast and sip coffee at. There's a thrifted console table separating the small living room from the entryway, and the bulk of the living space is taken up by a yellow foldout couch, a TV stand Moriah got out of a dumpster in college and repainted a deep brick color, and one of her biggest splurges, a massive, sprawling cat tree designed to look like a series of houseplants.

Farther in is Moriah's desk. She works from home, doing marketing for a huge construction supply corporation, and it's fine. It's easy, and she doesn't mind writing emails or fidgeting with their newsletter for forty hours— give or take a dozen she spends watching TV, gardening, or crocheting— every week. She has a comfortable chair, and one of those coasters that doubles as a mug warmer, and her desk sits right up against the glass door to the balcony, so she can see the birds.

Filled with lush plants, a trellis that crawls up the side wall, and a half-dozen pots that she's just begun to cull from her summer garden, the balcony feels like a tropical paradise. The string lights that weave back and forth overhead cast a gentle glow over the small table and chair that she managed to fit in, allowing her to sit and read, or drink her coffee outside, but safely.

With nobody else.

Occasionally, Woolf will accompany her, but she's allowed to do anything she wants forever. She's perfect.

The only other part of the apartment is Moriah's bedroom, but the door off of the kitchen is mostly shut. It isn't a mess or anything— she makes her bed every morning, as a part of her routine (shout out to Frank, her therapist)— but still, it felt…private, somehow.

Moriah knows she's a bit of a control freak. She's always wanted everything in her life to feel completely within her grasp, and keeping her bedroom as one little pocket of her space that is preserved (except for the crack in the door for Woolf to come and go via) is her way of doing that, even if it's just for one night. Frank would be proud of her.

"The couch folds out," Moriah says as she moves into the living room, "I've already put sheets on it and everything, so all you have to do is pull on this." She tugs on the handle for the couch bed and sets Cricket's duffel bag on the couch itself. "The bathroom is right over there, just across from the front door."

She straightens up, turns around, and Cricket is looking at her bookshelf.

Her bookshelf, which is 60 percent smutty romance novels, 20 percent depressing poetry collections and literary classics, and 20 percent exceedingly violent horror novels.

Moriah flushes red.

"You read a lot?" Cricket asks after a moment, hands on her hips. Moriah tries desperately not to look at her shoulders, but she's wearing a soft-looking t-shirt, in an off-white color that makes her eyes look like emeralds and her strong shoulders look like— like—

"I do, a bit," Moriah fumbles. She taps a rhythm on her thigh, counting along with the beats. One two three, one two three, one two— her finger twitches, and she starts over. One two three, one two three.

"You have good taste," Cricket says and finally faces her. There's a small, private smile on her face, like she knows something she isn't saying, and Moriah has to swallow down her reply before it flies out of her mouth— you read much romance?

One, two, three.

"Thank you," she finally says. "Uh, well—"

"Oh!" Cricket interrupts and crouches, and Moriah tries very hard not to look at her plush thighs, emphasized by wide-legged jeans that hug her legs above the knee. She has seen the style time and time again, a staple of every crunchy New England lesbian's closet, but for some reason, Moriah's eyes are drawn to the soft lines of fat and muscle under Cricket's skin like a magnet. "Who is this little friend?"

Woolf, the little traitor, is rolled over on her back with her paws curled in front of her chest, showing off the pale fur of her stomach. She meows, a little chirp, and Cricket sinks her fingers into the cat's soft tummy.

"This is Woolf," Moriah exhales.

"She's such a sweetheart," Cricket coos at the cat, rubbing up her chest to pet over each of her soft ears.

"When she wants to be," Moriah replies, and Cricket turns her head to look up at Moriah, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Cats, huh," she says sympathetically. Moriah grins back. She's almost unable to look away, drawn to Cricket like the sun. She's almost as blinding, too.

"Well, uh," Moriah says and smooths her skirt, a nervous tick she's had for a while, one of few that hasn't morphed into a violent compulsion yet. She pulls her hands away as soon as she does it, not allowing herself the end of her pattern— two, three. "I'll let you get settled, I'm going to go make some tea, if you want any."

"That sounds lovely," Cricket replies and finally looks away. Moriah could swear there's a stain on her vision, a sunspot lingering in the space Cricket's face had been occupying. A blind spot, a distraction. "Thank you, Moriah. For letting me stay the night."

"It's not a problem," Moriah says, but it tastes like a lie. "Really. You're basically my best friend-in-law."

Cricket laughs, like a peal of bells, like dandelion fluff being separated from its bud, like the first blooms of spring. She tosses a strand of red hair over her shoulder. "Yeah. Our mutual gay idiots made sure of that."

Moriah's heart calms a little bit at the thought of Simon, her best friend, coworker, and favorite person on the planet, but when Cricket stands up again and stretches her hands over her head, Moriah's eyes follow the small strip of freckled skin revealed as her tank top lifts up.

"Tea!" she exclaims with red cheeks and whirls around, rushing into the kitchen. She noisily grabs her kettle and two small sachets of herbal tea— a sweet-smelling, peach flavored tea with no caffeine that tastes especially delicious with a bit of honey melted in the bottom of the cup.

It's only for one night, Moriah reminds herself as she fills the kettle and sets it on the stove. It's only for today and tomorrow morning, and then Cricket will be on her way back to Caerlloyd by tomorrow night, after the awards ceremony. She repeats it to herself as she pours a bit of honey into two mugs and tucks the teabags on top. It's only a few hours, really. They'll be sleeping for most of it, she thinks aggressively as she pours hot water over each bag.

She stands there for a long moment, allowing both the tea and herself to cool off. Her face still feels warm, despite being away from the object of her affections, and she chances a glance over the counter and the half wall by the door to see Cricket's duffel bag open on the couch and Cricket nowhere to be seen. The bathroom door is closed, and Woolf is curled up on the round rug outside the door, so Moriah takes a long breath and brings the tea into the living room.

Cricket emerges a moment later with her cheeks pink and her eyes looking refreshed. Some of the little baby hairs around her face are damp and curly, like she splashed water on her face, and Moriah wants to tuck them back into place as they spring out.

"Here," Moriah offers. "It's an herbal peach tea with honey."

"It's like you read my mind," Cricket replies with a twinkle in her eye and raises the cup to her lips, inhaling deeply of the steam coming off the top. "This smells amazing, thank you Moriah." Her phone rings in her pocket, and she sets the mug down on the side table.

She uses a coaster, Moriah notices, and gets embarrassed when that makes her heart skip a beat. Conscientiousness, the greatest of turn ons.

"Hello?" Cricket answers the phone, and Moriah busies herself picking up a few small spring toys that Woolf has scattered since she cleaned— only semi-obsessively— for Cricket's arrival. "Wait, Sunday? Seriously?"

Moriah's stomach twists and she almost drops the toy in her hand.

"I don't have— I didn't prepare to be in Boston that long. I took a train down here," Cricket argues. She lowers her tone and turns away from Moriah. "Yeah, yeah. I understand. I'll be there. Thank you for giving me a call."

She hangs up and immediately buries her face in her hands.

"Everything okay?" Moriah asks, even though Cricket's body language tells her everything she needs to know.

"They've had to move the ceremony to Sunday evening," Cricket sighs. "Something about the venue, and the board members— I didn't follow the whole thing, I don't know."

A wave of nausea comes over Moriah as the thought occurs to her, but she vocalizes it before she can talk herself out of it. "You can stay here."

Cricket glances at Moriah through a gap in her fingers.

"You don't have to—"

"It's not a big deal," Moriah lies. "I don't have work until Monday, I took tomorrow off so I wouldn't have to worry about it. It's totally fine."

Cricket doesn't look like she believes her. "It's really okay, I can get a hotel, or—"

"No, I don't want to put you out," Moriah says and waves it off like this isn't a big deal, like opening her home, her safe space, to someone she not only doesn't know very well but also daydreams about pathetically after only a few short interactions, truly isn't a big deal. It isn't.

For a well adjusted person, it wouldn't be.

For Moriah? Well.

She supposes she'll see.

"Alright," Cricket agrees, and Moriah swallows the anxiety that rises in her throat.

The timer in the kitchen goes off, and Moriah blows out the candle. The nerves don't dissipate, even as the smoke curls into the stove fan.