Kiara
Later that evening, as the sun melted into soft shades of orange and gold, Quin and I sprawled across my living room floor, our legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles like we'd just survived something dramatic.
Which, technically, we had.
I felt her staring before she even spoke.
"Sooo…" she dragged out, propping herself up on her elbows and narrowing her eyes at me. "It's time. I need the full report of today's adventure. But first—ice cream. Emotional support is required."
Without waiting for permission, she sprang up and disappeared into the kitchen. She returned moments later with a tub of ice cream and two oversized spoons that looked mildly dangerous.
She plopped down beside me, cracked open the lid, and held the tub between us like a sacred offering. I immediately stole the second spoon.
"Are you going to start," she demanded, "or do I need to interrogate you?"
"Relax," I said, scooping generously. "It wasn't that dramatic."
Thirty minutes later—
"It was extremely dramatic!" Quin gasped, clutching her spoon. "You went to a secret forest therapy resort with a green-eyed stranger and you don't even know the name of the place?"
I rolled my eyes. "That is literally what I just said."
"I know," she laughed. "I just can't believe you weren't curious enough to ask!"
"I was curious about a lot of things," I muttered, taking another bite. "The location just didn't make the priority list."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh really? What did make the list?"
"Shut up."
She grinned wickedly.
"Anyway," I continued, ignoring her expression, "he drove me home. Nothing dramatic happened."
She froze. "Nothing happened… in the car?"
"Quin."
"Not even a slightly prolonged goodbye hug? A meaningful stare? Shared breathing?"
"Shared breathing?" I blinked at her. "We are not in a romance novel."
She looked deeply disappointed.
"But," I added casually, "he did say our sessions will be daily."
Quin slapped her forehead dramatically. "Daily? Oh, this is just the pilot episode."
"It's therapy, not a series."
"It's both," she corrected confidently.
She suddenly straightened, her energy shifting.
"Okay, enough about your emotionally complicated forest man. My turn."
She stood up, spoon in hand like it was a microphone.
"His name," she announced with flair, "is Tristan Andre Hernandez."
I blinked. "That is a very powerful name."
"I know!" she squealed. "And yes, he's Mexican. And yes, he has the accent."
I placed my spoon down slowly. "An accent?"
"A subtle Spanish one," she clarified, dramatically fanning herself. "It should be illegal."
I laughed. "Go on."
"So," she began pacing like she was presenting a corporate briefing, "on my first day, he invited me to his office. Totally professional. Calm. Polished. Greyish eyes. I was trying to focus on quarterly projections and instead I was contemplating my entire future."
"You are unbelievable."
"I am honest," she corrected. "Then he gave me a tour."
"Of the office?"
"…And his apartment."
I shot upright. "Excuse me?"
"It was in a nearby building!" she defended quickly. "Very normal. Very respectable. He was just showing me the layout since some executives live there."
"Mm-hmm."
"And then," she lowered her voice dramatically, "we almost kissed in the kitchen."
I raised both hands. "Pause. That is concerning."
"It was an accident!"
"People don't accidentally almost kiss."
She flopped back onto the couch, clutching her heart. "You're so unsupportive."
"I'm protective," I corrected. "There's a difference."
She peeked at me from behind her hand. "But wouldn't you have wanted to?"
I sighed. "That's not the point."
"It is absolutely the point," she insisted. "But he's such a workaholic, I doubt he even noticed me like that."
"That," I said carefully, "might actually be a good sign."
Her eyes lit up. "You think he's single?"
"I think you need to finish your ice cream."
"Deflection," she accused.
We ended up laughing so loudly the walls practically vibrated. At one point, Quin nearly choked from laughing and accused me of trying to silence her permanently. It felt good—normal—to laugh like that.
Eventually, exhaustion caught up with us. We collapsed into my bed, as we had countless times before. Sharing space with Quin was as familiar as breathing.
The lights were off. The room was quiet.
"Kiara…" she said softly.
I turned toward her. She was already looking at me.
"If that therapist guy happens to like you," she continued gently, "I hope you give him a chance."
I blinked in surprise. "You know I don't want any—"
"Shh." She pressed a finger lightly to my lips. "Just this once… don't overthink everything. Let yourself be free."
Her words lingered in the darkness.
Let myself be free.
I wanted to ask her what she meant by that. But her breathing had already evened out, her hand falling back onto the pillow as she drifted to sleep.
I stared at the ceiling for a long time after that.
Free.
I wasn't sure I even remembered what that felt like.