Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Milk never liked flying.

It wasn’t the claustrophobic space or the disorienting altitude that bothered her, it was the waiting. The inevitable boredom that crawled into her bones, the restless hours trapped in between two places.

People around her buzzed with excitement, unaware of the internal drag she felt. For Milk, being stuck on a plane was like being suspended in a time loop, forced to exist somewhere between earth and sky, with nothing to do but observe the world from a distance.

Her gaze flickered over the cabin. Most people had already settled into their routines. Families chatting, couples with heads bent together, sharing small moments. And then there was her, alone with a glass of half-drunk white wine, absently scrolling through her phone.

It didn’t matter where they were going. She didn’t want to be here.

Milk was going to her cousin’s wedding. A wedding she didn’t want to attend. A wedding that had been forced upon her by family pressure and obligation.

The groom, Lucas, was her cousin, sure, but Milk had never been close with him. She’d been avoiding family events for the better part of a year now, slipping in and out of their lives like an uninvited shadow. She had no interest in his love story, in the happy couple, in the over-the-top celebration they were no doubt planning.

She took another sip of her wine, wincing slightly at the bitter aftertaste, and turned her gaze to the aisle.

A woman was sitting two rows ahead, striking red hair fell messily over her shoulders like a flame caught in motion, one of those kinds of people who looked effortlessly beautiful. It annoyed Milk, the ease with which some people existed.

The woman had her eyes closed, headphones over her ears, and despite the chaos of the flight, she looked serene, like she was perfectly at home in the world. The opposite of Milk.

She envied that quiet ease, but only for a second before quickly reminding herself that she shouldn't care. It’s none of my business, she told herself, trying to ignore the pull in her gut.

But somehow, even as Milk turned her attention back to her phone, her mind lingered on the woman. Her name, though—she didn’t know it. Didn’t care enough to find out. And yet, in the back of her mind, Milk couldn’t help but wonder what her story was. What could possibly bring someone so seemingly out of place on a flight like this?

The plane’s descent broke her thoughts, pulling her back into the present. She felt the subtle shift in her stomach, the pressure building, but it was just another thing to get through. Another thing that had to be done before she could get off and go to her destination.

It’s only a few days, she reminded herself, but the thought didn’t bring any comfort.

The plane touched down with a slight jolt, and Milk forced herself to stand, gathering her things. She was one of the first to shuffle off, moving through the airport in a blur of faces and fluorescent lights. She couldn’t shake the thought that this entire trip was pointless.

Maybe it would’ve been easier to just send her regrets and skip the wedding altogether. But no, her mother wouldn’t hear of it. She’d begged and pleaded, guilt-tripped her into making the trek. Family matters, Milk’s mother had said, though Milk hadn’t ever been certain what that meant.

Milk didn’t know what exactly she expected out of this weekend. It would be boring, she knew that much. Forced smiles, small talk, trying not to think about her cousin in the spotlight while everyone else clinked glasses and pretended everything was perfect.

She took a deep breath as she entered the terminal, following the signs to baggage claim. That was when she saw her again.

The woman.

She was standing near the luggage carousel, adjusting her oversized sunglasses. Milk was struck by how composed she looked, despite the chaos of the airport. She stood out in a way that made it hard to look away, short, poised, almost regal in the way she carried herself. Her red hair, somehow neater now, framed her expression in a way that made it unreadable. There was something vaguely familiar about her, though Milk couldn’t place it.

Milk didn’t approach her. She didn’t even make eye contact. Instead, she turned to the luggage belt, pretending to focus on the bags as they slid past. Her own suitcase finally appeared, and she yanked it off the belt with a little more force than necessary. But before she could move any further, she noticed the woman heading toward the exit, slipping through the crowd, effortlessly gliding toward a cab.

Milk watched, her eyes narrowing as she wondered where the hell this stranger was going. And then, just like that, she disappeared into the taxi, vanishing into the noise of the airport.

Milk had no idea why her mind lingered on the woman. It was just odd. The way someone could make such an impact with nothing more than an appearance.

Milk shuffled through the airport terminal, making her way outside to catch a taxi of her own. She was heading to the resort, her cousin’s wedding destination.

She needed a place to think, a place to distance herself from the thought of what was coming. The wedding. The people. The whole messy thing.

She climbed into the cab, somehow still thinking about the woman, she couldn’t help the feeling that the encounter hadn’t really been a coincidence. Maybe the universe had its own way of reminding people that they were never really alone.

She didn’t know why she even cared, but the thought lingered.

The driver started the engine, and Milk sank back into the seat, watching the lights of the city fade as they drove through the sprawling streets of the island.

She barely noticed the sharp turn into the resort area, the rows of palm trees, or the way the sun gleamed off the sparkling pools. Her head was still in the terminal.

The car slowed as they entered the gates of the resort. Milk exhaled sharply. There was a small, irrational part of her that wished she could get back on the plane and leave all of this behind. But that wasn’t an option. She was here for the wedding. And she couldn’t undo that.

The taxi finally pulled to a stop outside the entrance. Milk handed over the fare, pushing thoughts of the airport stranger from her mind as she grabbed her bag.

She wasn’t here for anyone but herself, anyway.

Chapter Text

The resort was beautiful. Of course it was.

It was the kind of place people wrote postcards about, white stone walls, tall palms swaying like they were performing for whoever walked past, and fountains that trickled as if sound itself had been choreographed.

A perfect backdrop for a perfect wedding.

Milk hated it immediately.

She rolled her suitcase across the polished floor, ignoring the cheerful staff member who held the door open for her with an exaggerated smile.

The lobby smelled faintly of vanilla and ocean salt, pleasant, but artificial, and the gleaming marble floors reflected the soft glow of chandelier lights. Everything felt too curated, too pristine, too wedding.

Her cousin had probably chosen this place because it looked good in pictures. Lucas always cared about pictures.

Milk slowed near a cluster of chairs where other guests were checking in. Her eyes instinctively scanned the room, she couldn’t help it, and her breath stuttered for a second.

There she was.

The woman from the airport, standing at the reception desk, suitcase at her side. That same quiet composure. That same effortless calm. Her short frame framed by a shock of red hair, loose and slightly tousled, catching the light as if it had been painted there.

Milk felt her steps falter, just slightly, before she forced herself forward.

Twice in a row, she thought. Coincidence.

She tried to shrug it off, but her gaze kept drifting back. The woman was signing something, speaking softly to the receptionist.

Milk couldn’t hear her voice, but she imagined it sounded smooth, controlled, maybe even warm.

Milk rolled her luggage to the other end of the counter, pretending she wasn’t paying attention.

The receptionist smiled at her. “Welcome! Checking in?”

Milk nodded, handing over her ID, though her attention drifted back to the woman. Why is she here too? The thought nagged at her, not irritated exactly, but persistent.

The receptionist tapped away at the keyboard. “You’re in Bungalow Five. A lovely oceanfront view. It’s one of our best rooms.”

Milk gave a dry, humorless laugh under her breath.

Great. Oceanfront self-loathing.

She took the key card and thanked the receptionist with a polite, unreadable expression before turning away.

The woman from the airport had already finished checking in and was rolling her suitcase toward the corridor leading to the bungalows.

The late afternoon sun streamed in through the large windows, outlining her silhouette in gold. The red of her hair glowed like embers, impossible not to notice. Milk watched her go longer than she meant to, blinking once before she tore her gaze away.

She headed in the same direction.

The path to the bungalows was lined with lanterns and bright flowers. Bougainvillea arched overhead, framing the walkway like something out of a romantic movie. The irony wasn’t lost on Milk.

She looked down at her key card. Bungalow Five.

The numbers flashed in her mind again when she reached the small plaque on one of the doors.

Five.

And then she noticed the one next to it.

Four.

And outside Four, the woman from the airport was fiddling with her own key card, her back turned slightly, her hair shifting in the breeze. Milk’s stomach tightened, surprise, maybe, or annoyance, or something much less clear.

What were the odds?

She walked past her, forcing her expression to remain indifferent, uninterested, unaffected, even though her mind wasn’t.

The woman glanced up, briefly meeting Milk’s eyes. A flicker of recognition passed between them, not dramatic, not meaningful, just a simple acknowledgment that this was the third time they’d crossed paths today.

Milk’s heartbeat ticked up a beat. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, then slipped into her bungalow before anything could be said.

Inside, the room was all white linens and warm light, airy curtains, and an absurdly large window facing the sea. Milk set down her luggage and dropped onto the edge of the bed.

A wave of exhaustion rolled through her, not from the travel, but from the weight of the whole damn weekend.

She ran a hand through her hair and let out a slow breath.

She’s staying next door, she thought, staring at the wall between them as if it could answer for her.

Why her? Why here? Why now?

She didn’t even know the woman’s name, but the universe seemed determined to throw them into the same spaces.

Milk didn’t believe in fate or signs, life was far too chaotic for that but she couldn’t ignore the restless curiosity curling in her chest.

It was stupid, she told herself. Meaningless.

Still, she found herself wondering what the woman was doing on the other side of the wall. Unpacking? Showering? Sitting on the bed like she was?

Milk shook her head, annoyed at herself for even caring.

She stood, pulled her suitcase onto the small bench, and started unpacking slowly, methodically, trying to create some semblance of order in a situation she already knew she wouldn’t like. Her thoughts drifted to the wedding schedule tucked into her bag.

Welcome dinner tonight.

She groaned.

There would be small talk, relatives she barely remembered, forced mingling, and now, a stranger staying next door who had already carved out more space in her thoughts than she should.

Milk snapped her suitcase shut with a little more force than necessary and threw herself back onto the bed.

Maybe it was jet lag.

Maybe boredom.

Maybe she just needed sleep.

But as she stared up at the ceiling, listening to the faint sound of the waves and the distant chatter of guests outside, her mind kept circling back to the woman in Bungalow Four.

The third time seeing her today.

Slowly, too slowly, the thought took shape. Why does it feel like this won’t be the last?

Chapter Text

Milk knew she didn’t belong here the moment she reached the restaurant terrace.

Weddings had a way of manufacturing joy, string lights, curated playlists, overpriced flower arrangements, all of it working overtime to convince people that love was a guarantee and not a gamble.

Milk didn’t buy it. She doubted she ever had.

The terrace overlooked the sea, painted gold by the sinking sun. Round tables draped in white linen filled the space, each one decorated with flickering candles and tiny cards announcing assigned seating.

“Fantastic,” Milk muttered under her breath. “A social prison with labels.”

She scanned the arrangement, searching for her name with the dread of someone expecting bad news. When she found it, her stomach dropped.

Her seat was at a table near the front. Next to her—of course—was her.

The woman from the airport. The woman from the lobby. The woman from next door.

Tonight, she wore a soft linen dress in a muted terracotta shade, elegant without trying, the kind of outfit that made the warm light cling to her in a way Milk immediately pretended not to notice.

Great. Just great.

Milk approached the chair slowly, rehearsing a dozen exit strategies she knew she wouldn’t use. The woman sat already, posture straight, fingers resting lightly on the edge of her water glass. She looked up when Milk arrived, her expression polite, open, a stark contrast to Milk’s neutral glare.

Milk slid into her seat with a sigh, eyes fixed on the table. If she didn’t start a conversation, maybe the universe would finally take a hint.

It didn’t.

“Hi,” the woman said softly, turning toward her. “We’ve crossed paths a lot today.”

Milk blinked. So she noticed. Of course she did.

“Coincidence,” Milk answered flatly. “Or poor event planning.”

The woman let out a small laugh, gentle, almost surprised. “I guess it would be too weird if I said it felt intentional.”

“It would be inaccurate,” Milk replied, deadpan.

Another laugh. Less surprised this time.

Milk looked straight ahead, annoyed at the sound, and at herself for liking it.

Guests filtered around them, chatting, hugging, taking photos. Milk focused on her napkin, folding and refolding it, pretending not to feel the woman’s eyes occasionally drift in her direction.

After a moment, the woman cleared her throat lightly. “So… are you here for the bride or groom?”

Milk finally turned, just enough to look at her. “Unfortunately, blood.”

“Family?”

“If you can call them that.”

The woman smiled understandingly. “Rough dynamic?”

Milk raised an eyebrow. “You’re surprisingly nosy for someone who doesn’t know my name.”

“That’s fair,” she admitted, cheeks warming slightly. “I’m just trying to make this a little less awkward.”

“It’s not awkward,” Milk said. “It’s avoidable.”

She took a sip of water. The woman bit the inside of her cheek, an expression that looked like she was trying not to smile.

“Okay,” she said lightly. “Then I’ll start over.”

She straightened, offered her hand, and said with a soft, hopeful confidence, “I’m Love.”

Milk stared at the hand but didn’t take it. “…that’s a lot to live up to.”

Love blinked. “Meaning?”

“It’s a name,” Milk said, deadpan. “Not a personality test.”

Love’s mouth fell open in a small, incredulous laugh, one she tried and failed to hold back. Milk looked away, pretending she hadn’t been aiming for that reaction.

“And you?” Love asked once she recovered. “What should I call you?”

“Milk.”

Love tilted her head, amused. “That’s unexpected.”

“Good,” Milk replied. “Expectation is where disappointment begins.”

Love laughed again, quietly, warmly, like Milk had said something both ridiculous and painfully honest.

Something about it made Milk’s chest tighten strangely. She didn’t like the feeling, but she didn’t hate it either.

“So, Milk,” Love continued, “what exactly did your family do to make you come here against your will?”

“They exist.”

Love smiled softly. “That sounds exhausting.”

“You have no idea.”

A moment passed, quiet, not uncomfortable. Milk picked up her fork, tapping it lightly against the table. Love looked down at her water glass, twisting it slightly. And for a fleeting second, they were simply two people stuck somewhere they didn’t ask to be.

Then Love spoke again, her voice lower, more hesitant.
“I’m not really here by choice either.”

Milk glanced sideways. “Family guilt?”

Love shook her head. “No. More like unfinished business.” She hesitated. “The groom and I dated. A long time ago.”

Milk stared at her. Hard. “You came to your ex’s destination wedding?”

Love’s shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug. “The bride invited me. She said she wanted closure.”

Milk blinked. “That’s the most manipulative invitation I’ve ever heard.”

“Trust me,” Love sighed. “It felt like a trap when I got it.”

“And you still came?”

Love offered a sad, crooked smile. “I thought it might be good to prove —to myself—that I’m over it.”

Milk looked at her for a long, quiet beat. Almost too long.

“…Well,” she finally said, “that was a terrible decision.”

Love laughed again, not brightly this time, but gratefully, like Milk had somehow relieved the pressure in her chest.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “I’m starting to think so.”

The first course arrived, clinking and steaming, interrupting them. Milk leaned back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest as she forced her expression back into neutrality.

But inside, something simmered, curiosity, irritation, interest, something unnamed.

Love glanced at her again, and this time Milk didn’t look away quite fast enough.

The air between them shifted, unsettling, electric, new.

Milk stabbed a piece of food she didn’t actually want. Love smiled into her glass.

And the night moved forward around them, but neither woman seemed fully part of it.

The rest of the table fell into lively chatter, stories, toasts, clumsy jokes that made the aunts cackle, but none of it seemed to touch their side of the table.

Milk pretended to focus on her plate, pushing food around as if rearranging it would make it more edible. Love pretended to listen to the conversation across from her, nodding politely, smiling when appropriate. But both kept drifting back to the quiet orbit between them.

Milk’s thoughts were sharp, unwillingly fixated.

Why would anyone come to their ex’s wedding? Why would anyone let an ex come? Why would anyone still look that composed while sitting in the blast radius of old heartbreak?

She didn’t understand it. Which only made her want to understand it more.

Love broke the silence first, not surprising.

“If you could be anywhere else in the world right now, where would you be?” she ask, her voice kept low,

“My bungalow,” Milk answered instantly.

Love huffed a tiny laugh. “That’s a pretty modest answer.”

“I’m a modest person.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

Love’s laugh came softer this time, like she didn’t want the rest of the table to hear it. Milk glanced at her, annoyed at how easily the sound settled under her skin.

“And you?” Milk asked, surprising even herself. “Where would you be?”

Love hesitated. “Home.”

Milk expected something poetic or cliché. But Love’s tone wasn’t dreamy, it was tired. Honest.

“Home,” Milk repeated.

“Yeah.” Love traced the rim of her water glass. “But not because I want to hide. Just because I want to be somewhere I don’t have to pretend.”

Milk didn’t answer. Love didn’t push.

The next course arrived, sea bass with citrus glaze, and Milk instantly hated it. Or maybe she just hated the fact that Love’s shoulder brushed hers when the server leaned between them.

Lucas showed up halfway through the meal, smile too bright, energy too high.

“Ladies!” he said. “Everything good here?”

Milk didn’t bother replying.

Love’s polite smile tightened. “We’re fine, Lucas.”

“You sure?” His eyes darted between them, landing a bit too long on Love, then flicking nervously to Milk, as if hoping she’d offer some anchor of normalcy.

She didn’t.

Lucas cleared his throat. “Great! Perfect. Enjoy!”

He left quickly.

Love let out a slow breath. “He’s stressed.”

“He’s guilty,” Milk corrected.

Love’s lips parted. “What makes you say that?”

“He avoids looking directly at you for more than two seconds,” Milk said. “Classic guilt pattern.”

Love blinked. “You got all that from this interaction?”

Milk shrugged. “People are readable.”

“Not everyone,” Love murmured.

Milk looked at her—really looked at her. At the strength behind the softness. At the tired resilience in her eyes. At the way she held herself together with quiet dignity.

“No,” Milk said softly. “Not everyone.”

Love’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

The rest of dinner slipped by in a strange, fragile rhythm, quiet questions, sideways glances, the kind of accidental intimacy that sneaks up on people who weren’t looking for it.

By the time dessert was served, Milk had stopped pretending she wasn’t listening to Love. And Love had stopped pretending she wasn’t paying attention to Milk.

When the tables finally began to empty and guests wandered off into the warm night, Love stood and smoothed her dress.

Milk followed her lead without thinking.

They didn’t speak as they left the terrace. They didn’t need to.

The path to the bungalows was lit with low lanterns that cast long shadows across the sand-colored stone. They walked close enough for their arms to occasionally brush, neither pulling away.

Love glanced over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Tonight wasn’t as terrible as I expected.”

Milk snorted. “Your standards must be low.”

Love giggled. “You helped,” she said quietly.

Milk’s pulse stuttered. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You didn’t pity me,” Love replied. “You didn’t make it awkward. You were just honest.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“It is to me.”

Milk looked away quickly.

They reached their doors, side by side, just like every accidental coincidence today. Love paused with her hand on her doorknob and turned to her.

“Goodnight, Milk.”

Milk swallowed, forcing her voice to stay even. “Goodnight, Love.”

Love slipped inside her bungalow. Milk stood there another moment, staring at the door after it closed.

She wasn’t sure when exactly tonight had shifted, from tolerable to interesting, from irritating to something else.

She just knew she didn’t like it. And she didn’t hate it.

And that was the part that scared her.

Chapter Text

Milk woke up to sunlight stabbing directly into her eyes.

She groaned, rolled over, and immediately regretted every decision that had brought her to this wedding. The soft crash of waves filtered through the open window, deceptively peaceful. The kind of sound that made normal people feel relaxed.

Milk felt trapped.

She dragged herself upright, hair a mess, sleep still clinging to her limbs. Last night tugged at her memory, Love’s laugh, Love’s honesty, the quiet way they’d walked back together. A strange warmth bloomed in her chest, and Milk shoved it down so fast her head hurt.

Nope. Absolutely not. She did not do 'warmth.'

She showered, threw on a 'don’t talk to me' outfit, loose black linen pants and a crisp white shirt she didn’t bother buttoning all the way, and stepped outside, desperate for caffeine strong enough to erase feelings.

She took two steps toward the path and froze.

The door to Bungalow Four opened at the same time.

Love stepped out, blinking against the sunlight. Her red hair was pulled half-up in a way that made her look accidentally elegant. She wore a soft cream blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers, simple, clean lines, but with a quiet confidence Milk wasn’t expecting this early in the morning.

Their eyes met. Too early. Too unprepared. Too something.

“Good morning,” Love said softly, offering a small smile that felt unfairly gentle.

Milk grunted. “Is it?”

Love laughed under her breath. “Not a morning person?”

“No. Or an afternoon person. Or an evening person.”

Love bit her lip, trying not to smile. “So what time of day does work for you?”

“None.”

“That sounds lonely.”

Milk’s eyebrow twitched. “It’s efficient.”

They started walking, somehow without discussing it, somehow in the same direction, down the stone path shaded by bougainvillea. Milk tried to increase her pace enough to out-walk the conversation but not enough to look like she was fleeing.

Love matched her step effortlessly.

“Umm,” Love said, gaze focused on the ocean ahead, “are you going to keep avoiding eye contact with me today?”

Milk nearly tripped. “I’m not avoiding anything.”

“You just sped up like someone lit a fire behind you.”

“That’s called walking. My legs are just longer than yours.”

Love hummed, unconvinced.

They reached the outdoor café, a charming little spot overlooking the beach. Couples and family groups were scattered around, laughing, flipping through their schedules for the day.

Milk stared at the menu board like it had personally offended her.

Love spoke first. “Do you want to sit together? If not, that’s okay, I can...”

“It doesn’t matter,” Milk cut in, a little too fast.

Love blinked. Then smiled.

They chose a small table near the railing. Milk ordered the strongest thing on the menu. Love ordered green tea with honey.

Of course she did.

When the drinks arrived, Love cupped her hands around her mug like the warmth meant something to her. Milk watched the motion longer than she meant to before catching herself and staring aggressively at her coffee.

“You seem..” Love paused, choosing her words delicately. “Different from last night.”

Milk stiffened. “How so?”

“Quieter.”

“That’s the goal.”

Love tapped her teaspoon against the rim of her mug. “I didn’t mean it as a bad thing.”

Milk didn’t respond.

Love tried again, gentler. “Did I say something wrong yesterday?”

Milk frowned. “No.”

“Did you say something you regret?”

Milk glared at her coffee as if it might answer for her. “I don’t regret things. It’s inefficient.”

Love smiled, soft, amused. “You keep using that word.”

“It applies.”

“Does it?”

Milk finally looked up, annoyed at the persistent warmth in Love’s eyes. “Why are you so determined to have conversation with me?”

Love blinked, surprised by the honesty of the question. Then she spoke just as honestly, “Because you don’t make me feel like a walking tragedy.”

Milk stared.

Love swallowed, fingers tracing the edge of her mug. “Everyone here either avoids me, or overcompensates, or looks at me like I might cry at any moment. You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile.”

“I don’t treat anyone like they’re fragile.”

“I know,” Love said softly. “It’s kind of refreshing.”

Milk’s stomach tightened. She didn’t know how to respond to something that felt dangerously close to a compliment.

Thankfully—or unthankfully—footsteps approached.

Lucas.

Milk’s jaw clenched.

“Morning, you two!” he said, too bright, too cheerful. “I was hoping I’d bump into you.”

His eyes landed on Love, then darted away. Always a tell.

Love straightened subtly, polite but distant.

Milk sipped her coffee, unimpressed.

“So,” Lucas continued, “the bride set up this thing.” He waved vaguely. “A resort tasting tour. Local wines, desserts, fruit, pastries. It’s supposed to be fun. Bonding. Culture or whatever.”

Milk blinked slowly. “A guided walk through carbohydrates.”

Lucas laughed, though it sounded more like panic. “You don’t have to go, but appearances… you know…”

Milk shot him a look. “Manipulation acknowledged.”

Lucas winced.

He turned to Love, softer. “You’ll be there?”

Love hesitated, only for a breath. But Milk caught it. She always did.

“Yes,” Love said. “I’ll go.”

Lucas exhaled, relieved. “Great. Really great. Starts in twenty minutes. Don’t be late.”

He hurried off.

Love let out a long, resigned breath.

Milk raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to go.”

“No,” Love admitted. “But if I skip it, people will talk. And I’m tired of being the topic.”

Milk understood that more than she wanted to.

Love glanced at her. “You’re not going, are you?”

Milk opened her mouth to say Absolutely not, but the words stuck.

Love’s eyes were hopeful in a way she probably didn’t mean to show.

Milk looked away. “I hate tours.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Milk’s pulse thudded.

“No,” she said finally. “I’m not going.”

Love nodded, accepting it with a small, careful smile. “Okay.”

But something in her expression flickered, not disappointment exactly but something adjacent.

Milk hated how much it bothered her.

They finished their drinks in quiet companionship, the kind that felt unearned but strangely natural. When they stood, their shoulders brushed again, sending a tiny jolt through Milk’s nerves she immediately denied internally.

As they reached the split in the path, one way leading to the central garden where the tour group was gathering, the other back to the bungalows, Love paused.

“Thank you for sitting with me,” she said. “Even if mornings are inefficient.”

Milk almost smiled. Almost. “Don’t read into it.”

Love laughed softly. “I won’t.”

She lingered a second too long. Then she turned toward the gathering crowd.

Milk watched her go.

She didn’t know why. She didn’t want to know why.

She just knew the morning felt quieter after Love left. And she hated that.

But she didn’t hate it enough.

She stared at the path to the bungalows.

Then at the path Love had taken.

Her jaw tightened.

“…Damn it.”

And Milk followed.

Chapter Text

Milk followed the group reluctantly, keeping a careful distance from Love. She refused to acknowledge that she was scanning the crowd just to make sure Love was still there, safe, smiling, annoyingly human.

The resort guide clapped her hands together. “Welcome, everyone! Today we’ll explore the finest local flavors, wines, cheeses, fruits, pastries. Take notes, take photos, and most importantly, enjoy!”

Milk muttered under her breath, “Enjoy… the illusion of civility.”

Love, walking a few steps ahead, turned slightly and laughed. “You really say everything that comes to mind, don’t you?”

Milk ignored her. Loudly.

They approached the first station: a display of local cheeses. Milk picked one up, sniffed it, and made a face that could have been mistaken for faint disgust or deep contemplation, it was hard to tell.

“This...,” she muttered, holding a wedge like a crime scene evidence, “tastes like someone tried to make cows feel guilty.”

Love chuckled. “Maybe it’s supposed to challenge our palates.”

Milk raised an eyebrow. “Palates are fine. Humanity is the problem.”

Love laughed outright, loud enough to make Milk glance at her sideways. It was warm and genuine, and Milk found herself oddly appreciative.

Next came the wines. The guide poured a delicate splash into tiny glasses. Milk sniffed, swirled, and sipped carefully.

“Tastes like overconfidence,” she said.

Love giggled. “You’re entertaining.”

Milk shot her a look. “I try.”

Someone approached and Love turned politely to greet them. Milk noticed, and for the first time, felt a pang of irritation? Not jealousy exactly, more like territorial confusion.

“Why are you even polite to them?” Milk asked quietly as they moved toward the fruit station.

Love tilted her head. “I don’t know. Manners? Habit? Because it’s nice?”

Milk snorted. “Nice is overrated.”

“Not when you’re sitting next to someone like me,” Love teased, eyes sparkling.

Milk nearly choked on a slice of melon. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Love said quickly, hiding a smile. “It’s an observation. Harmless.”

Milk narrowed her eyes, but her lips twitched.

By the time they reached the pastries, Milk had stopped walking several times just to make pointed, biting comments about flaky textures, suspicious fillings, and the 'illusion of sweetness.' Love laughed at nearly every one, though sometimes softly enough that Milk had to pretend she didn’t notice.

At some point, Milk realized that they had unconsciously fallen into step side by side. Their shoulders brushed occasionally. Milk pretended it was an accident. Love didn’t pretend anything.

“You’re suddenly quiet,” Love said at one station, glancing sideways.

“I’m conserving energy,” Milk replied. “For disappointment.”

“You’re strange,” Love said, smiling.

“And you’re ridiculous.”

There. That was the easy, safe banter they both understood. Milk didn’t have to like it. She didn’t have to feel anything. She could just be.

The final stop was the juice tasting, a line of tropical fruits and blended drinks. Milk reluctantly tried a sample.

“It’s… acceptable,” she muttered.

"Finally." Love laughed and touched her elbow lightly. “I think you secretly like some things here.”

Milk stiffened. “You are just making assumptions.”

“I’m not,” Love said, smiling. “I promise.”

They lingered for a moment, watching the waves crash against the shore in the distance. Milk kept her gaze pointed at the horizon. Love didn’t. She watched Milk.

Milk didn’t notice at first. Then she felt it, the soft, persistent awareness of someone choosing to notice her without expecting anything in return. She almost pretended she hated the feeling.

“Let’s walk back together?” Love asked softly.

Milk hesitated. But then she shrugged. “Fine. Just don’t talk too much.”

“You mean ‘don’t talk as much as usual,’” Love said, grinning.

Milk rolled her eyes. “Fine. As much as usual it is.”

They walked side by side in quiet company, the rest of the group ahead and behind, and Milk let herself realized she didn’t mind the warmth brushing against her arm, or the way Love’s presence made the world feel slightly less sharp.

At the bungalow split, Love paused. “See you at dinner?”

Milk’s throat tightened, and she said flatly, “…See you.”

Love smiled and turned toward her room, the sun glinting off her hair, her step light and confident.

Milk watched her go, pretending she wasn’t thinking about the next time she would see her.

Pretending was hard. But necessary.

Chapter Text

Milk sensed immediately that tonight wasn’t just another dinner.

The terrace was dressed in a softer kind of anticipation, quieter voices, slower movements, like everyone was subconsciously aware tomorrow would cement lives together.

Candles flickered in tall glass holders, their glow brushing against polished cutlery and half-full glasses of wine. Even the ocean sounded subdued, as if respectfully stepping back.

Milk’s mouth tightened. Weddings were exhausting even from a distance.

She spotted her seat—of course, next to Love—and felt something sharp and unspoken twist low in her stomach.

Love wore dark linen pants and a silky rust-colored top that draped effortlessly, understated but striking in the candlelight. Milk tried not to notice how seamlessly the warm tones of the terrace clung to her skin.

As she sat, Love glanced at her with a kind of amused familiarity, like she’d been expecting her. “You have that look,” she murmured.

“What look.”

“Like you’re deciding whether to stay or fake a medical emergency.”

Milk didn’t smile, but her exhale wasn’t as irritated as she wanted it to be. “You’re assuming I haven’t already planned my escape.”

Love hummed, a quiet laugh behind it. “And yet you’re still here.”

“So are you,” Milk countered.

Love’s eyes flickered, acknowledging the jab, accepting it, not retreating from it.

The dinner moved around them, voices rising in pockets, laughter drifting between clinking glasses. Milk watched everything with that sharp, detached awareness of someone who rarely feels part of the scene.

Love, on the other hand, seemed to gently orbit everything without fully entering it. Her smile was kind, but her focus kept drifting back to Milk.

“Would you say you hate weddings?” Love finally asked, voice low so only Milk would hear.

Milk didn’t answer right away. She watched a couple across the terrace posing for a picture, both smiling too widely to be real.

“I hate the pretending,” Milk said. “The performance of joy. The speeches about forever. The promises people make because the lighting is flattering.”

Love turned slightly toward her, listening, not disagreeing. Just present.

Milk went on, quieter now. “Once, maybe, I thought marriage meant something. But I’ve watched too many people—my family included—care more about pictures than the marriage. They’re obsessed with appearances. The image of love. The brand of it.”

Love’s brows softened, her expression gentle but not intrusive.

“And you don’t fit that picture,” Love said softly.

Milk swallowed, eyes fixed on her untouched glass of wine. “No. I never have.”

Love didn’t rush to comfort her. Didn’t say she understood. She simply let the truth settle between them, giving it space instead of solving it.

Milk felt strangely steadied by that.

“You don’t trust promises,” Love said, not guessing, but seeing.

“I trust actions,” Milk corrected. “And most people are terrible at keeping up with the things they swear they’ll always do.”

Love’s gaze flickered, something like recognition or guilt or old history. “Okay, so weddings don't make sense to you.”

Milk looked out over the terrace, the candles, the string lights, the curated romance of it all.

“Nope,” she finally said. “I think they’re elaborate productions designed to convince everyone that love is permanent. And that people don’t change. It’s statistically optimistic.”

Love tilted her head. “Don't you believe in happy endings?”

“I believe in endings,” Milk said simply.

Love let out a soft breath, not offended, just thoughtful. “That’s sad.”

“It’s realistic.”

“Maybe both,” Love murmured. “Maybe that’s okay.”

Milk paused. For some reason, that simple answer, gentle, accepting, hit somewhere she didn’t have defenses for.

Love turned her glass slowly between her hands. “I used to think weddings were everything,” she admitted. “Commitment, security, belonging.” She exhaled. “But then I was engaged once. To Lucas.”

Milk’s gaze snapped to her, sharp. “He proposed?”

“Mmhm. Three years ago.”

Milk’s stomach twisted as if someone had reached inside and wrung it. Her breath hitched, just a fraction, but enough that she felt exposed, caught off guard by a feeling she couldn’t immediately name and absolutely didn’t want to examine. "You said yes?”

Love gave a small, almost embarrassed nod. “I did. Even though something in me knew it wasn’t right.”

Milk didn’t mock. Didn’t scoff. She surprised herself with how steady her voice came out. “Why stay?”

Love’s eyes drifted down to her hands. “Because I thought leaving made me the problem. And staying made me loyal.”

Milk’s chest tightened just faintly. “And then?”

“He broke it off,” Love said. “Very calm. Very polite. And I was… relieved.” She looked at Milk then, eyes warm and painfully honest. “I didn’t want the life he wanted. It wasn’t love anymore. More like habit.”

Milk studied her, slow and deliberate. “That doesn’t make you the problem.”

Love seemed to absorb that, not as reassurance, but as clarity. “Thank you,” she said softly.

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. It felt like the kind of silence that only existed between two people who had stopped pretending.

Dinner wound down, conversation around them dulling into background noise. Love glanced toward the beach, where the moon lit the shore in long silver ribbons.

Love set her napkin down. “Do you want to leave for a bit? Just walk? The air feels heavy.”

“No,” Milk said automatically.

Love nodded, accepting it without disappointment.

But when she rose, Milk rose too.

They walked side by side down the lantern-lit path, neither commenting on the contradiction. The air was cooler near the water, the breeze brushing lightly across their skin. Sand softened their steps.

For a while, they didn’t speak.

Then Love said quietly, “You know… for someone who claims she hates weddings, you’re surprisingly gentle about it.”

Milk gave her a look. “I didn't claim anything. Besides, I’m just being realistic. Not cruel.”

“That’s what I mean.” Love smiled. “Most people who are skeptical are angry. You’re…” She searched for the word.

Milk braced.

“…sad,” Love finished softly.

Milk’s chest tightened, but she didn’t deny it.

They kept walking, the tide pulling softly at the shore, the moon scattering silver across the water.

Love nudged a small shell with the tip of her shoe. “Can I ask you something?”

“No.”

Love smiled. “I’ll be gentle.”

Milk sighed, long-suffering. “One question.”

Love’s voice softened. “Did you think you’d ever want this? A wedding? Your own, I mean.”

Milk snorted. “What a bad question”

“Oh, come on,” Love said, eyes bright with mischief and sincerity. “You said one.”

Milk held her silence for a long moment long enough that Love almost apologized for asking.

“…When I was younger,” Milk finally said. Her voice was quieter than before, more like confession than commentary. “I thought I’d meet someone who made everything feel less loud. Someone who made wanting things feel safe.”

Love’s heartbeat stuttered, just a little.

“And then?” she asked.

“Then I grew up.” Milk’s tone wasn’t bitter, just matter-of-fact. “Turns out wanting things is an excellent way to get disappointed.”

Love walked a few steps in silence, absorbing that.

“That doesn’t mean wanting is wrong,” she said softly.

“It means I’m not built for it.”

Love glanced at her, sharp, perceptive. “Or it means the people you wanted weren’t good at being wanted.”

Milk slowed, not expecting that. It hit deeper than she liked.

“You talk like wanting is simple,” Milk murmured.

“No,” Love corrected gently. “I talk like connection is rare. And worth trying for.”

Milk’s pulse jumped. She hated that it did.

To steady herself, she changed the subject. “You still believe in happily-ever-after?”

Love inhaled, thoughtful. “I believe in something like it. Not perfect happiness. Not forever, even. Just choosing someone. And having them choose you back.”

Milk looked at her then. Love’s profile in the moonlight was soft, strong, heartbreakingly earnest.

“And after Lucas?” Milk asked quietly.

Love blinked, surprised. “You want to know?”

“No,” Milk said, looking away. “Not really.”

A small smile tugged at Love’s lips, touched, warm.

“Like I said, I stayed with Lucas because I wanted to believe wanting him was the same as loving him. I thought if I tried hard enough, it would eventually make sense. That I’d eventually fit.”

Milk’s voice was low, almost protective. “You shouldn’t have to shrink to fit someone.”

Love stopped walking. Milk did too, reluctantly.

Love turned to her. “You say things like that so easily. Like you don’t even realize how kind you sound.”

Milk stepped back, not physically, but internally. “It isn’t kindness. It’s truth.”

Love’s gaze softened even more, and it unnerved Milk enough that she resumed walking.

Love followed, quiet for a beat before speaking again.

“Can I confess something to you?”

“No.”

“I’m going to tell you anyway.”

Milk groaned. “Of course you are.”

Love grinned. “When Lucas ended the engagement, my first thought wasn’t heartbreak, or sadness, or anything like that. It was something like… ‘Oh. So I wasn’t imagining it.’”

Milk didn’t respond. Her throat felt too tight.

Love continued, softer, “I stayed too long because I wanted to be chosen. Not because he was right for me.”

Milk’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He wasn’t.”

Love looked at her, deep and searching. “You say that like you’re sure.”

“I am.”

Silence stretched, warm and fragile. The shoreline was nearly empty, the sand cool beneath their feet, the distant music from the terrace blending with the waves. The moon hung low and wide above the water, brighter than the lanterns strung along the path.

For a while, they just walked.

Then Love spoke quietly. “I don’t feel anxious around you.”

Milk blinked, thrown by the directness. “Thank you… I think?”

“It’s just nice,” Love said. “You’re not trying to entertain me. You’re not pretending. It feels easy.”

Milk swallowed. The truth came out before she could stop it. “I don’t feel suffocated around you.”

Love looked over at her, soft, surprised, open. Like she wasn’t expecting anything back.

Milk looked away.

They kept walking until Love stumbled suddenly, staring down at her feet. “Ow! okay ow ow”

Milk blinked. “What now.”

“Oh, no.”

Milk turned. “What.”

“I think I just hit something,” Love admitted. “I can’t feel two of my toes.”

Milk stared, unimpressed. “You’ll survive.”

“I think,” Love added, barely above a whisper, “my feet might start bleeding.”

Milk stared.

Love frowned at her feet. “Could you… maybe… carry me back?”

“No.”

Love laughed under her breath. “Okay, but hear me out..”

“No,” Milk repeated.

Love bit her lip, trying not to grin. “Okay. I respect your boundaries.”

Milk turned to continue walking then stopped. Closed her eyes. Let out a sound that was definitely not a growl but lived close to one.

A moment later, without ceremony, she crouched down.

Love blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Get on before I change my mind.”

Love climbed onto her back gently, careful and warm, her arms looping around Milk’s shoulders. She wasn’t heavy, just present. Too present. Milk adjusted her grip, her face dangerously close to Love’s hand, and began walking.

Love’s chin rested lightly against her shoulder. “You’re surprisingly strong.”

“Don’t talk.”

Love laughed softly, the sound brushing Milk’s ear like a secret.

The world shrank to footsteps, sand, and the warmth of someone who felt too close and not close enough at the same time.

When they reached the bungalows, Love slid down slowly, her hands lingering for a heartbeat on Milk’s arms before dropping away.

She shifted her weight onto her good foot, then looked at Milk with something quiet and bright in her eyes.

“Tonight felt different,” Love said.

Milk swallowed. “Yes.”

“And tomorrow…” Love hesitated, not nervous, just aware.

“Tomorrow will be a lot,” Milk finished for her.

Love’s smile was small, tender. “Thank you for walking with me.”

Milk didn’t trust her voice, so she only nodded.

Love opened her door. Paused. Looked back with that same gentle warmth that unsettled Milk in ways she couldn’t name. “Rest, okay?”

Milk’s answer came low, steady. “You too.”

Love slipped inside. The door clicked softly behind her.

Milk stood there longer than she intended, listening to the distant waves, feeling the ghost of Love’s arms around her shoulders, wondering when exactly she’d started letting someone in without meaning to.

Chapter Text

Milk woke to laughter.

Not real laughter but wedding laughter. The kind that sounded like it had been ironed and staged and trimmed to the appropriate level of joy. It drifted through the morning air like confetti she hadn’t asked for.

She dressed slowly, deliberately. A black tailored jumpsuit, minimalist and sharp, with clean lines that shaped her like a boundary more than an outfit. The fabric was smooth, structured, refusing softness. Milk liked that about it. It made sense. It didn’t pretend to be anything else.

She looked in the mirror and nodded once, like she was confirming she still existed beneath the chaos of the weekend.

Then she stepped outside.

The resort had transformed overnight. Every surface glowed: white flowers bursting from railings, sheer draped fabrics billowing in the breeze, strings of tiny pearls hanging from palm branches like they’d grown there.

Milk exhaled through her nose, bracing herself, then she saw her.

Love stood at the edge of the path leading toward the ceremony lawn.

And Milk’s breath caught.

She wore a dusty rose silk two-piece: a soft sleeveless blouse tied gently at one shoulder and fluid wide-leg trousers that shimmered when the light touched them. The color warmed her skin, softening her red hair, which was loosely pinned with a few strands falling around her face.

She looked like she belonged in this kind of morning light. Or maybe the light belonged around her.

Love noticed her and smiled, small, soft, honest.

“Hi,” she said.

Milk swallowed. “Hi.”

Love’s eyes traveled over Milk’s outfit, lingering for a second too long. “You look elegant.”

Milk blinked at her. “I’m just wearing black.”

“That’s universal for elegant.”

Milk almost said something sharp, but her throat tightened instead.

They fell into step as the guests drifted toward the ceremony lawn.

Love’s silk trousers whispered as she walked.

Milk kept her gaze fixed ahead, pretending she didn’t hear it.

“Sleep okay?” Love asked.

“No.”

Love huffed a tiny laugh. “Me neither.”

They walked through the decorated pathway, petals underfoot, the air smelling like sugar and saltwater. Every corner of the resort buzzed with anticipation, the almost-sacred, almost-suffocating kind of energy that hung before a big event.

Love tugged lightly at her blouse. “This place looks unreal.”

“It looks expensive,” Milk corrected.

“Same thing sometimes.”

Milk didn’t argue.

They kept walking, the light brushing against Love’s silk trousers, the fabric shifting like she was walking through a sunbeam.

Milk forced herself not to look directly. Much.

“I hate weddings.” Love said suddenly.

Milk paused. “I didn't get that yesterday.”

“…Okay, I don't but I hate this one.”

“Better.”

Love held in a laugh. “Thank you for your approval.”

“I didn’t approve anything.”

“You said ‘better.’ That’s like… Milk for ‘I relate,.’”

Milk scowled. “Don’t analyze me.”

Love smiled. “Can’t help it.”

Milk hated that the corner of her mouth almost twitched.

They reached the edge of the lawn where staff buzzed around like frantic bees. Rows of chairs faced an altar dripping in flowers so white they looked aggressively pure.

Love exhaled sharply. “This is going to be something.”

Milk stared at the setup. “A delusion. Wrapped in lace.”

Love laughed, it slipped out, uncontrollable, like the sound surprised even her. She covered her mouth.

“Don’t make me laugh before a wedding,” she whispered. “People will think I’m mentally unwell.”

“They already think that. You came to your ex’s wedding.”

Love pressed her lips together like she was trying not to smile. “Please. I don’t need you to remind me of my poor decisions.”

Milk hummed, barely turning toward her. “You asked.”

Love nudged her gently, intentional. “And you always answer literally.”

“Someone has to.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Speak like the world is a contract.”

Milk wasn’t expecting the question. Or the tone.

She inhaled slowly. Quietly.

“I just... don’t say things I don’t mean.”

Love slowed, not enough for anyone else to notice, but Milk felt the shift beside her like a change in temperature.

Milk watched her out of the corner of her eye as Love’s attention snagged on the wedding lawn ahead. The brightness of the setup reflected in her expression, softening it, but there was something else there too. Something quieter. A subtle pause in the easy, floating way she usually carried herself.

When Love finally looked at her, the gentleness in her eyes was unexpected enough that Milk had to resist the urge to look away first.

Love’s voice came softer than before. “I get it, Milk. It’s easier, isn’t it? To say things you do mean… because everything else feels like a risk.”

Milk felt the words more than she processed them, like they moved through her before she could block them.

Love held her gaze for a beat too long, enough that Milk felt it, sharp and warm, under her skin. Then Love exhaled, a tiny breath that bordered on a laugh, and looked away as if breaking the moment on purpose.

“I think I could use a little more of that honesty in my life.”

There was an unbearable warmth in the way she say that, Milk didn’t know what to do with it. “You okay?” she managed the words.

Love gave a small, defeated shrug. “I should be.”

“That answer is vague and unconvincing.”

“…Yeah,” Love admitted. “It is.”

She stepped closer without meaning to, her silk trousers brushing lightly against Milk’s jumpsuit as they waited for the seating instructions.

Milk pretended she didn’t notice.

Love spoke quieter, “Maybe the reason this feels so heavy is because everyone’s pretending not to be terrified.”

Milk frowned. “Terrified of what?”

“Being wrong.”

Milk didn’t reply right away.

Love continued, “Everyone today is smiling like it’s simple. Like love is a strategy instead of a risk.”

Milk finally said, “You don’t speak like someone who believes in fairy tales.”

Love smiled, soft, wounded. “I don’t. I believe in people. But people are complicated.”

Milk swallowed. “I believe in patterns.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Milk said, “people choose what feels safe. Familiar. Even if it hurts them.”

Love blinked. “You make it sound inevitable.”

“It usually is.”

Love nudged her again. “Sometimes you pretend realism is the same as protection.”

Milk’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know me.”

Love’s voice softened. “I’m starting to.”

Milk looked away quickly, pulse stumbling.

The seating coordinator called out instructions. They followed.

Milk found her name near the middle. Love’s card was beside hers.

Love blinked at the arrangement. “Assigned seats again.”

“Apparently they want us to suffer.”

“At least we suffer together.”

Milk didn’t respond. She just sat.

The ceremony began. Music swelled. Everyone turned toward the aisle.

Except Milk and Love.

Their eyes met at the same moment, soft, startled, something warm blooming in the hush of the crowd.

Not a confession. Not even flirtation. Just connection.

Quiet. Unmistakable.

Love inhaled like she felt it too.

Milk stared ahead, hands gripping her seat.

Whatever this was. Whatever was happening. It wasn’t supposed to start here.

But it had.

Chapter Text

Milk leaned back in her chair, arms folded tightly across her chest. She was sure the wine would wear off soon, but for now, it helped dull the edges of the room.

Everything felt far too loud. Far too much. She noticed the way the guests’ mouths moved, the way they smiled too hard, the way they clinked their glasses in another toast to eternal love.

“Ah, the speeches have begun,” Love murmured, leaning slightly toward Milk. Her tone was amused, almost conspiratorial. “Brace yourself.”

Milk raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m ready. Nothing says eternal happiness like someone’s third cousin reminiscing about college pranks.”

Love laughed quietly. “You’re enjoying this more than you admit.”

“Enjoying? I’m surviving,” Milk said, her tone dry, but her eyes flicked toward Love anyway. Something in her warmth was disarming.

They exchanged a string of light banter through the speeches, Milk’s sarcastic comments cutting through the overly sentimental lines, Love countering gently, teasing her, nudging back with smiles and witty retorts. Milk found herself laughing despite herself, the sound strange and foreign in the midst of her usual detachment.

Just as Milk was about to say something, a familiar face loomed over them.

Lucas stood at their table, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Milk didn’t say anything immediately, but Love’s posture stiffened.

There was a strange tension in the air, like the echo of something that had already happened and was now being ignored.

Milk could feel Love’s discomfort even before she looked at her. Lucas didn’t meet Love’s eyes, he couldn’t, not quite. He kept his focus on the table between them, his voice stiff and careful. “Hey, just check in. You two doing okay? Everything good?”

Milk answered for them, her voice dry. “Yeah, we’re good. A little too much wine, but we’re surviving.”

Lucas finally glanced up at her, but only briefly. Then his eyes shot to Love, only for a second too long before quickly darting away. It didn’t take a genius to realize how hard he was trying to keep the conversation casual. His shoulders were tight, his hands in his pockets like he was trying not to show how tense he was.

"We're fine, Lucas. Congratulations." Love gave a small nod.

The words came even, but Milk could see the way her hands tightened in her lap. Her eyes flicked to Lucas, and for a moment, the air between them felt loaded with something unspoken. A question neither of them could answer.

"Thank you" Lucas started again, his voice cracking slightly. “Well, enjoy the evening, okay?”

Before anyone could say anything else, he was gone, retreating back to his new wife, the soft buzz of their conversation lost to the noise of the reception. Milk turned her attention back to Love, and for a beat, neither of them spoke.

Milk reached for her glass and took a slow sip, trying to put distance between the moment and everything it meant. But she couldn’t help noticing the way Love’s fingers twitched, how she let out a small, relieved breath once Lucas was out of sight.

“You okay?” Milk asked quietly, more out of habit than concern.

Love looked at her, and for the first time that evening, Milk saw the softness slip into something deeper, something harder to name. “Yeah,” Love said, but there was a hesitation in her voice. “It's just strange, you know?”

Milk nodded, not trusting herself to say more.

The conversation about Lucas, about the awkwardness between them, wasn’t something Milk was ready to revisit. She didn’t need to. They were here for a reason: for the wedding, for the weekend, and then…

There was a crash across the room, a chair tipped over as someone stumbled, laughing too loud. It sent a ripple of awkwardness through the crowd, and Milk and Love both turned instinctively toward the sound. As the chaos settled, Milk accidentally brushed against Love’s arm.

The touch was small, barely more than an accidental nudge. But when Love’s hand brushed against hers in return, the space between them seemed to close in a way that made Milk’s heart stutter. Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments, longer than either of them meant to.

For a split second, Milk could see everything in the depths of Love’s gaze: the tension of the evening, the energy between them, something more that neither of them wanted to name. It was fleeting, but it stayed with Milk even after their hands separated and returned to their sides.

It wasn’t long before a new figure appeared at their table. A young man, smiling far too widely, exuding charm in waves, and leaning just a little too close to Love.

“Oh, hey,” he said, his voice much too high for the occasion, his hand reaching over to rest on Love’s shoulder in a gesture that was far too familiar. Milk’s stomach tightened.

He started conversation with Love, soft laughing, easy small talk. Milk could barely catch the words coming from his mouth and then, “I’ve been meaning to ask you…” he was saying, eyes practically sparkling with mischief. “Do you want to dance?”

Love tilted her head, giving a soft, polite smile. “Thank you, but I’m good. Not tonight.”

The man didn’t seem to take the rejection well, but it didn’t matter; he shot them both a grin and walked away. Milk felt the sharp edge of that moment, the lingering heat of jealousy she hadn’t expected to feel.

When the man was gone, Love turned back to Milk, but the energy between them had shifted. The easy humor that had been there just moments ago was gone.

Milk stared at the glass in front of her, eyes focused somewhere far off. “What’s next?” she asked, her voice flat.

Love watched her for a beat before she spoke again. “I guess we just wait for the dance floor to open up.”

“Great,” Milk muttered, but it was more to herself than anything else. “Can’t wait.”

Silence settled between them, thick with things unsaid, questions unasked. It wasn’t the easy banter they’d been sharing earlier. It was colder now, like the warmth had been sucked out of the conversation.

After a long pause, Love leaned back, her eyes catching Milk’s. “Wanna dance with me?”

It was almost a whisper. A quiet invitation. And it hit Milk harder than she’d expected.

“No,” Milk said quickly. But there was a shift in her gaze, something unspoken in the way she looked at Love, something that held her in place. The words left her mouth, but her heart wanted to argue. Her body wanted to say yes, to feel that closeness.

But she didn’t.

Love nodded, unfazed. She simply accepted the no, as she always did. “Alright,” she said quietly, her voice almost too soft, too understanding.

The party raged on around them, loud and full of movement. But in that moment, all Milk could hear was the absence of sound between her and Love. She didn’t want it to end. She didn’t want to be left behind.

Love’s chair scraped against the floor as she stood. “I need some air,” she said, her voice still soft but with an unmistakable finality to it.

She didn’t invite Milk to join her. She didn’t need to. It was clear this was something she had to do alone. And yet, Milk felt her chest tighten, felt the weight of the moment settle over her.

Love walked away, the sound of her heels fading into the crowd, until it was just the hum of the reception again.

Milk’s heart pounded, and for a second, she almost stood to follow.

But she didn’t. She stayed.

She watched Love disappear into the crowd, and the weight of everything hit her all at once. This weekend. This connection. It was all temporary. Tomorrow, they’d go their separate ways, and she’d never see Love again.

But she didn’t want that. She didn’t know why. All she knew was that she was sitting here, stuck in this moment, unable to move but unable to leave it behind.

And so she stayed. Eyes fixed on the space Love had occupied, unwilling to admit to herself what this all meant. The weekend was almost over. And with it, whatever this was between them.

Chapter Text

The party had ended, the last echoes of laughter drifting away on the evening breeze, but Milk still felt the weight of it, lingering in her chest.

The air was cooler now, the resort emptying out around her, the quiet broken only by the occasional murmur of a late-night guest heading to their room.

She had wanted to leave earlier, but something kept her rooted to the spot, a strange tension hanging in the air long after the music had stopped.

Milk slipped out of the reception hall, her black tailored jumpsuit hugging her frame as she walked down the path toward the rooms. Her heels clicked softly against the stone, a small, rhythmic sound that was the only sign of life in the otherwise quiet resort.

She had expected to be alone, but as she rounded the corner toward the rows of rooms, she spotted Love ahead of her, leaning against a stone railing overlooking the water. She was the picture of quiet contemplation.

Milk stopped for a moment, watching her. It felt like everything around them had settled into a quiet lull, as if even the world was holding its breath.

“Hey,” Milk called softly, her voice breaking the silence.

Love turned, her smile warm but tired. “Hey” She glanced at the path leading toward their rooms. “Party is over.”

Milk nodded. “Yeah.” She didn’t know why, but she found herself standing there, unable to move, as if something was holding her in place.

They stood in silence for a few moments, side by side but not saying anything. It was the kind of silence that felt comfortable, but there was a layer beneath it that neither of them could quite touch.

Finally, Love spoke again, her voice quiet but steady. “I’m going to head back to my room.” She paused, then added, almost hesitant, "Wanna join me? We could talk, I don’t want to go to bed just yet. Not yet.”

Milk’s heart skipped, but she didn’t let it show. “No, thanks,” she said, her voice steady, as though the refusal didn’t hurt more than it should. She wasn’t sure why she’d said it, but it felt easier than saying yes.

Love tilted her head slightly, studying Milk for a moment, and Milk wondered if she could see through her deflection. Then, with a small smile, Love nodded. “Okay. But if you change your mind, I'm next door” she trailed off, her gaze lingering just a little longer than necessary.

Milk swallowed hard, but before she could say anything more, Love was already turning toward the path to her room.

Milk watched her go, a strange tightness in her chest that she hadn’t felt before. After a beat, she found herself following.

She didn’t know why she did it, but somehow, her feet carried her to Love’s room, the door slightly ajar as if waiting for her.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the lamps casting a warm light on the plush bed and delicate touches around the room. Love had already opened a bottle of wine from the minibar, the faint pop of the cork signaling an invitation to stay.

Milk stood near the door for a moment, unsure of herself, before Love gestured toward the bed. “Come on, sit.”

Milk didn’t argue. Instead, she sat, crossing her legs on the edge of the bed. Love poured the wine into two glasses, handing one to Milk, who took it gratefully. She wasn’t used to being in close quarters with anyone, especially not after a day like this.

“So,” Love started, settling beside Milk on the bed, “I guess we don’t have to talk about the wedding anymore.” Her voice was light, but there was a trace of something deeper in it, something that Milk couldn’t quite place.

Milk glanced at her. “No, I think we’ve covered that topic enough.” She took a slow sip of the wine, savoring the warmth that spread through her chest.

Love smiled, the gesture genuine but tinged with exhaustion. “Good."

Milk’s gaze softened, but she didn’t comment on it. Instead, she let the silence settle between them again, allowing the atmosphere to shift into something quieter, more personal.

Love hesitated then asked something softer than expected.
“Do you ever feel like you’re hard to love?”

Milk didn’t react at first. She kept her gaze fixed on her wine, expression unreadable.

“You... make really intense questions.”

“I'm sorry,” Love said quietly. “I just wonder sometimes.”

Milk paused, then instead of answering she asked back. “You?”

Love let out a breath, twisting her fingers around her glass. “I’m afraid I’m either too much or not enough. Depending on the day.”

Milk looked at her. “For who?”

Love shrugged. “People. Men I’ve dated. My family. Myself.”

Milk’s voice was gentle in that sharply honest way only she could manage. “Maybe the problem isn’t you. Maybe it’s that you kept choosing people who only liked the parts of you that were convenient.”

Love’s breath hitched, surprised, stung, grateful all at once.

“I like the way you say things like that, and I know you don’t even realize how they land.”

Milk looked away quickly. “I’m not trying to land anything.”

“I know,” Love whispered. “That’s why it feels real.”

Milk didn't look at Love, she just took another sip of her wine.

Love asked again, softer now, “So? Do you ever feel hard to love?”

Milk didn’t answer right away. Her throat worked.

“I feel... hard to understand,” she admitted. “People assume I don’t care because I don’t perform it the way they want.”

Love kept her eyes on her, warmth blooming across her features. “That’s not the same as not caring.”

Milk’s breath stilled.

Love continued, “You’re guarded, not cold.”

Milk shook her head. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know the parts you let show,” Love said. “And I like those parts.”

Milk blinked, startled, almost defensive. “You shouldn’t.”

“Too late,” Love murmured.

A thud went through her chest, small but undeniable.

Milk straightened subtly, as if posture alone could force her heartbeat back into order.

She needed space. Space to think. Space to not feel whatever this was.

Then, Love spoke again “I used to think I knew what I wanted,” she said. “I used to think I had everything figured out. But now… I don’t know.” She laughed softly, but it lacked any real humor. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just… floating through life, you know?”

Milk studied her, the wine glass now resting empty in her hands as she listened carefully. Love seemed vulnerable, unsure, almost sad. And it made Milk’s chest tighten in a way she wasn’t prepared for.

“Yeah, I know,” Milk said slowly, her voice more serious than it had been all night, “but you’re not hopeless, Love”

Love looked at her, eyes soft with surprise. “What?”

Milk set her glass aside, leaning slightly, her gaze steady. “You’ve got a lot going for you,” she began, her voice softer now, but full of conviction. “You’re kind, and patient, more than you let on. You’re strong, but maybe not in the way people would expect. You don’t force your presence on others, but you know exactly when to take charge. I believe you notice things most people miss: details about people, their moods, their intentions.” She paused, her eyes locking with Love’s, soft but intense. “You care about closeness, without being afraid to let people have their space. You don’t need to be the center of everything, but you don’t hide from the things that matter, either.”

Love’s breath caught for a moment, as though Milk’s words had reached somewhere deeper than she'd expected.

Maybe it was the wine, but Milk kept her gaze on Love this time, unwavering, the sincerity in her voice palpable. “You don’t always say everything on your mind, but when you do, it’s with purpose. You don’t just follow the crowd, you see things the way they really are.”

Love’s cheeks flushed, and for a moment, there was nothing but the quiet hum of the ocean between them. Milk had said what needed to be said, and Love was listening in a way she hadn’t before.

After a beat, Love spoke, her voice softer than usual. “Do you want me to say what I see in you, too?”

Milk froze for just a moment, then shook her head, quickly pulling away. “No.”

Love laughed softly, a real laugh this time, her tone light and teasing. “I’m just asking.”

Milk just shrugged, but it wasn’t dismissive, it was more like an acknowledgment that, no matter what Love saw in her, she wasn’t ready to hear it.

But Love wasn’t about to let it go. She shifted slightly on the bed, leaning back on her elbows, still looking at Milk with that soft gaze.

“I see someone who’s been through a lot. Someone who doesn’t let people in, but who doesn’t stop trying, either. I see someone who could act like they don’t care about anything, but who really does care more than anyone else. I see someone who’s always looking for the next thing, but who’s also afraid to move on.”

Milk’s chest tightened as she processed Love’s words. She didn’t say anything in response, she didn’t need to. Love’s gaze never wavered, and neither did hers.

The air between them felt thick, heavier now. The weight of the moment was suffocating, but neither of them seemed to want to move.

Milk held Love’s gaze a heartbeat longer than she meant to, enough for it to mean something, long enough for her to feel it.

Then she blinked, a slow, deliberate break in the moment.

Love caught it, softened, and let her voice turn lighter.
“Alright, then. What do you enjoy doing? What’s your thing?”

Milk’s brow furrowed, confused but thankful for the change in topic. "I don't know," she took a moment to think. “Baking, I guess. I like exercising, too. And watching anime.”

Love raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Anime? You? I never would’ve guessed.”

Milk rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her smile. “What’s wrong with anime?”

Love smirked, staring at her for a moment too long. “I thought you were too ‘grown-up’ for cartoons.”

Milk gave her a pointed look. “Anime isn’t the same as cartoons. They’re more… layered. More complicated. It’s art, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” Love teased, her laughter light and easy, before falling into a more comfortable silence.

Milk shifted slightly, studying her. The question sat on her tongue longer than it should have, it feel like a risk. But curiosity tugged harder than caution.

She cleared her throat. “And you?” Her voice came out softer than intended. “What’s... your thing?”

Love blinked, surprised for half a second before a smile curved at her lips, gentle, pleased. “Me?”

Milk nodded once, trying not to look as invested as she felt.

Love tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Hmm… I like reading,” she said, almost shyly. “Cooking. Or...” her smile widened, self-aware, “if I’m honest, maybe just the eating part.”

Milk huffed a quiet laugh.

“And I love animals,” Love added, her tone brightening. “Any of them. All of them. It’s a problem.”

Milk’s expression softened without permission. “Mmhm, It fits,” she said quietly.

Love tilted her head. “how?”

Milk looked away, a tiny shrug her only answer, because saying the truth out loud felt too raw: because you’re someone who sees the world gently.

But she didn’t say it. Love didn’t need to hear it to know.

They were completely lay back on the bed by now, wine glasses long empty. The conversation drifted away from anything heavy, and soon they were just lying there, side by side, staring at the ceiling, letting the quiet between them stretch on.

But then, after what felt like an eternity, Love whispered, her voice barely audible. “You know, sometimes I wish I could just stop. Just let go of everything for a little while.”

Milk’s heart skipped a beat, the words hanging in the air between them, an unspoken question in her voice.

But when she finally gathered the courage to turn her head toward Love, she found her already asleep, her soft breathing the only sound in the room.

Milk stayed still, her heart aching with something she couldn’t name, just watching Love’s peaceful expression. Her fingers itched to reach out, and without thinking, she gently cupped Love’s cheek.

Love smiled softly in her sleep, and Milk’s chest tightened again, that unfamiliar ache growing.

Milk stayed there, watching her sleep, feeling the kind of longing that was deep and real, but so painfully impossible to act on.

Eventually, her own eyes fluttered shut, and the last thing she felt was the warmth of Love next to her, the sound of her steady breathing, and the quiet certainty that tomorrow was coming, whether they were ready or not.

Chapter Text

A knock came suddenly, slicing through the stillness of the bungalow.

Milk’s eyes fluttered open, her mind slow to settle into wakefulness. The warmth of the sheets clung to her, but instead of comfort, it felt like something slipping through her fingers, an echo of something she wasn’t ready to name.

Beside her, Love lay just inches away.

They were in the same soft arrangement as the night before, close, but not quite touching, the faint scent of wine lingering between them like a reminder carved into the air rather than memory.

Milk stared at the ceiling, the weight of the night settling over her with quiet insistence. She wasn’t used to waking beside someone, nor spending nights like this, the kind that left something raw and delicate exposed.

She shifted carefully, but even the subtle movement stirred Love. Her arm slipped from where it had rested loosely around Milk’s waist, and her eyes blinked open, unguarded, soft.

“Good morning,” Love murmured, voice warm with sleep. There was a quiet tenderness in her eyes that made Milk feel suddenly transparent, as if Love could see all the tension she was desperately trying to hide.

Milk sat up, avoiding her gaze. Her voice came out smaller than she expected. “We should… get ready for check-out.”

Love nodded, gentle understanding in her expression, yet something else too, subtle and unreadable. Something that made Milk feel like she’d stepped out of her own skin.

Love didn’t move right away. She just watched her, patient, as though she knew Milk was holding something fragile in place.

Milk rose quickly, her legs unsteady, as if the floor wasn’t quite committed to being solid. She kept her eyes away from Love. She needed space, distance, something firm to stand on.

“I’ll go back to my room,” she muttered. “I need a shower.”

Love didn’t stop her. A small smile curved on her lips, tender and distant all at once. “I’ll see you soon.”

Milk stepped out into the cool morning air. Each step toward her own bungalow felt heavier, like something was quietly pulling her backward even as she tried to move forward.

Inside, the quiet felt stark. The room was cold, empty in a way that made the absence of Love almost palpable. She went through the motions: shower, dress, pack, but her thoughts stayed elsewhere, snagged on the night she couldn’t quite untangle.

When she finally zipped her suitcase, her reflection caught her eye. The woman staring back seemed… altered. Carrying something she didn’t know how to define. This weekend had pressed itself into her in ways she hadn’t expected.

The weekend was over. No more wedding, no more pretending, no more borrowed time. This was where the unraveling began. The last page of a story she hadn’t wanted to finish.

When she stepped out, she nearly collided with Love. Love looked radiant in a yellow dress, her hair falling in easy waves, her expression calm, but her eyes held something deeper, something that made Milk’s pulse stutter into a strange rhythm.

They walked together toward the restaurant. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; it was full, careful, like a thread pulled too tightly.

“Breakfast?” Love asked eventually, voice light but edged with something quieter, more fragile.

Milk nodded.

There was a confort in their silence as they walked, a quiet understanding that they didn’t need to force the conversation.

The restaurant was almost empty, the morning light coming through the windows soft and warm. They sat at a small table by the window, the usual hum of breakfast chatter filling the background.

“So,” Love said after a moment, her eyes flicking over to Milk. “I guess I’ll have something to tell my students when I get back.”

Milk glanced up, surprised. “Your students?” she echoed softly, her voice just a little too eager, betraying her curiosity.

Love smiled, the movement fleeting. She stirred her untouched tea, the motion slow and measured. "Mmhm. They always beg me for stories. It’ll be nice to give them something other than grading mishaps and attendance battles."

Milk blinked, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth without her meaning it to. “So you’re a teacher.”

“Kind of.” Love tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes. “High school. Literature.”

Of course. The warmth in her voice, the way she listened with her whole body. Milk felt a soft ache in her chest, like a delicate crack forming.

Love continued, her voice light and conversational, but there was something lingering beneath it, a weight to her words. “They’ll ask what I did over the weekend. I’ll have to talk about this beautiful resort and maybe about a mystery woman who pretended she doesn’t know she’s funny.”

Milk froze for a moment, her fork pausing halfway to her lips. “I’m not... funny.”

Love’s smile softened, but her eyes were warm, teasing, like she knew something Milk didn’t want to admit. “You are. Just in a way that sneaks up on people.”

Milk’s cheeks warmed, but she kept her eyes lowered, pushing her food around on her plate. Love’s words lingered, soft, easy, but full of something Milk couldn’t quite place.

They fell into small talk after that. Love talked, Milk listened. It felt safe, in a way, like the calm before a storm, or maybe like a final breath before everything was gone.

After breakfast, they checked out together. Milk braced herself for the goodbye, but Love turned to her instead, suitcase at her side.

“You’re going to the airport now, right?”

Milk nodded.

“Want to go together?”

The question was casual, but there was vulnerability in the cracks between the words.

Milk felt something unclench inside her. “Sure… yeah.”

Love’s smile softened. “Good. I’m better with company.”

They walked out into the sunlight, and for a brief moment, Milk let herself imagine a version of the day that didn’t end in goodbye.

At the airport, the noise and bustle buzzed around them, but somehow it all felt distant.

Milk followed a step behind Love, letting herself fall into the quiet comfort of trailing her through the crowd.

Love spoke again, light but thoughtful. “There’s this tiny café near Gate 13. Their iced matcha is the best! There’s one two blocks from my school, too. My students swear I’m keeping them in business.”

Milk listened quietly, storing each piece without meaning to.

Love continued, voice warm. “School ends around four most days. After that, I wander a bit. There’s a park nearby I love, it always feels like the city softens there. It’s a good place to read. Or just… breathe.”

None of these were confessions. None were dramatic.
But they were breadcrumbs. Soft, intentional, easy-to-remember things.

“It’s tiring sometimes,” Love added, her tone more serious, “but I always take the long way home. Makes it feel like the day hasn’t slipped away too fast.”

“Sounds like you really like it,” Milk said quietly, nudging the conversation forward.

“I do.” A spark lit in Love’s eyes then, genuine, unfiltered. “It’s funny, though. Students don’t always appreciate it the way I want them to. Not that I blame them. Half the time I’m just trying to get them to sit long enough to care about a story.”

Milk leaned back slightly, feeling something settle within her. “I’m sure they appreciate more than they let on. If you make them laugh, or think, or feel… that’s enough.”

Love held her gaze for a long second. Something unspoken hovered in the space between them, a quiet shift neither of them acknowledged.

They boarded, their sits next to each other one more time— or maybe, one last time.

In the cool cabin air, Love shivered. Milk noticed immediately. Before she could think too hard, she placed her blanket over Love’s shoulders.

Love’s smile was small, warm, and soft around the edges. “Thank you.”

Milk only nodded.

Love eventually leaned into her shoulder, her breathing steady and even. Milk stayed tense at first, overwhelmed by the nearness, but gradually she let herself melt the smallest bit into the moment, long enough to memorize the scent of Love’s perfume, sweet and familiar.

She looked out the window at the floating clouds and let the quiet truth settle inside her: She didn’t want the moment to end. But she had no idea what she would do if it didn’t.

When they landed, the warmth of the weekend evaporated.

The terminal was cold, sterile, humming with fluorescent reality. They stood near the exit, suitcases beside them, suspended in a moment that felt like the last breath before a door shut.

Love turned to her, eyes soft enough to make something in Milk twist painfully.

“I guess this is it,” she said quietly. “It was truly wonderful meeting you, Milk.”

The sincerity in her voice was almost too much.

Before Milk could respond, Love stepped forward and wrapped her in a slow, intimate hug. Milk froze for a heartbeat, then let herself return it, uncertain, hesitant.

Love drew back only enough to press a gentle kiss to Milk’s cheek. The warmth stayed even as she stepped away.

Milk couldn’t speak.

Love gave her one last, aching smile. “Take care, Milk.”

Then she turned, wheeled her suitcase toward the taxis, and disappeared into one with the same quiet determination she had shown all weekend.

Milk stood there, watching the taxi slip into the flow of traffic, just as she had the first morning. Watching Love go. Feeling the pull of something she couldn’t name, wishing she didn’t want to follow.

Whatever this had been, it was already gone.