Chapter Text
The sun had barely crested over the rooftops when Izzy blinked awake to the unmistakable sound of tiny, chaotic footsteps thudding down the hallway. Her bedroom door creaked slightly — just a sliver — and she could hear whispering.
Luca, six years old and already trying to play leader, hissed, “No, Maya, don’t push it open yet!”
A softer voice, unmistakably Maya’s, whined back, “But I want to give it to her!”
Then came a giggle, louder than both of them, followed by the soft thud of something being dropped.
Tess.
Izzy smiled into her pillow, not moving, not opening her eyes. She waited.
The door burst open like a surprise they hadn’t coordinated well. All three of them tumbled into her room like a slow-motion wave of love and noise.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, IZZY!” they chorused — off-key, too loud, far too early.
Izzy laughed, pretending to stretch and yawn like she was waking up for the first time.
“Well, wow. What time is it? Is it… birthday o’clock already?”
Luca stepped forward with a folded paper in both hands, clearly proud. His hair was sticking up in every direction, and there was a faint red streak of marker on his cheek.
“I made this,” he said, handing it to her. “You’re a superhero. Like, with flying powers and… laser eyes.”
“Ohhh wow,” Izzy said, sitting up straighter in bed. She unfolded the paper. It was a crayon drawing of her wearing a red cape and boots, floating in the sky above a little house. On the roof were three stick figures labeled Luca, Maya, and Tess.
“I especially love how I have laser eyes,” she said seriously. “That’s a very underappreciated power.”
“They’re for melting the bad guys,” Luca added with a firm nod.
Maya stepped up next, holding something behind her back with both hands. She was bouncing on her toes.
“I made you a bracelet,” she said, thrusting it forward like she couldn’t wait anymore.
The bracelet was a tangled mix of string and mismatched plastic beads — some round, some cube-shaped with letters. The string was uneven, and the knot was slipping slightly. Izzy slipped it on immediately.
“I love it,” she said, raising her wrist in the air like it was a treasure. “It’s so colorful! Did you pick all the beads yourself?”
“I did!” Maya said proudly. “Even the ones that don’t match.”
“Especially those,” Izzy grinned.
Before she could say anything else, Tess waddled forward with something clenched in both hands — small, muddy fingers wrapped tightly around a smooth gray stone. She held it up with reverence.
“This is magic,” she said gravely. “You can make wishes now.”
Izzy blinked and took it carefully, like it was fragile glass.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Thank you, Tess.”
“You only get one wish,” Tess added with a frown, as if worried Izzy would squander it. “And you can’t wish for more wishes.”
“Dang,” Izzy said, “you’ve really thought this through.”
Tess nodded solemnly. “It’s the rules.”
Izzy pulled them all into a tight hug — one arm around Luca and Maya, the other pulling Tess into the middle. She squeezed them gently, her eyes suddenly wet.
“You guys are the best birthday present ever,” she said softly.
“Even better than cake?” Maya asked, peeking up at her.
“Way better than cake. Don’t tell cake I said that.”
They laughed. Tess giggled again and kissed her on the cheek, leaving behind a little smear of something that might’ve been peanut butter. Izzy didn’t even care.
A voice called from the other side of the house — scratchy and muffled.
“Keep it down, will you? I’m trying to sleep.”
The kids froze, glancing toward the hallway. Izzy gave them a tight smile and rubbed Luca’s back gently.
“It’s okay. Go play in the living room. I’ll be out in a sec.”
Luca gave her a look — almost protective — before nodding and grabbing Maya’s hand. Tess lingered, still staring at her, and then whispered, “Make a good wish, Izzy.”
“I will.”
Once they were gone, the house fell strangely silent.
Izzy stared down at the drawing, the bracelet, the rock.
Her heart ached. Not just from happiness — but from the weight of how much she loved them. How much they depended on her. And how little she could control what came next.
Fifteen minutes later, she padded into the kitchen, brushing her hair into a messy ponytail. Her mom was standing at the counter in a robe, lighting a cigarette by the open window.
“Morning,” Izzy said, cautious.
Her mom didn’t look up. “Happy birthday.”
“That’s it?” Izzy tried to say it lightly, but it came out a little flat.
“What do you want? A parade?” her mom muttered. “I’m tired, Izzy.”
“Right.”
Izzy didn’t push. She just grabbed a granola bar from the nearly empty pantry and made a mental note to go grocery shopping the next day.
Before she could sit down, her phone buzzed in her back pocket.
Casey💛:
You still coming over later? You better. My mom’s already threatening to sing Happy Birthday at full volume and record it.
Izzy smiled to herself and typed back.
Izzy:
Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll escape around 5.
Casey:
Bring an appetite. We’re having lasagna and cake and mom even made garlic bread so it’s Serious.
Izzy:
Wow okay you’re showing off now.
Casey:
Always.
Izzy slipped her phone back into her pocket and turned toward the living room where the kids were already arguing over a stuffed dinosaur.
Her mom was gone again, bedroom door shut.
It was fine.
It had to be.
. Izzy sat near the back of her third-period Government class, her face angled toward the front, but her eyes on the window beside her. The early spring sun was sliding across the glass like it had better places to be.
The lecture droned on—something about constitutional law. Judge-so-and-so versus some other name she’d already forgotten.
She glanced down at her notes. They were mostly empty, except for a messy doodle in the margin: a girl in a cape, flying through the clouds, trailing stars behind her.
Her phone vibrated inside the pocket of her blazer. Just once. She knew she shouldn’t, but she slid it out low beneath the desk.
A message from Casey💛:
Cake confirmed. It’s chocolate. You’re legally required to show up tonight.
Izzy grinned. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before she typed back:
Can I still come over tonight? Or is your mom gonna be like, “Why is this girl always here?” 😅
The reply came back within seconds:
You’re family. Get over here before my mom starts singing “Happy Birthday” solo. Save us all.
She smiled again, this time broader. And softer.
She started typing a thank you, but the teacher’s voice suddenly cut sharp.
“Ms. Taylor, do you have something you’d like to share with the class?”
Izzy’s heart jumped. She straightened quickly, shoving the phone into her lap, face-down.
“No, sorry,” she mumbled.
The teacher narrowed her eyes for a second but moved on.
Izzy took a breath and stared at her notes.
Sure! Here’s the revised version of Scene 3 – Arriving at the Gardeners with Sam removed completely. All dialogue and moments involving him have been smoothed over, and the focus stays on Izzy, Casey, and Elsa for a more intimate dynamic.
The sky had dipped into shades of navy and deep gray by the time Izzy stepped off the sidewalk and onto the stone path leading up to the Gardeners’ front porch. The warm yellow glow spilling from the windows cut through the dark like a welcome sign. Music floated faintly through the walls—something jazzy and upbeat, not what she expected, but exactly what she needed.
She barely made it up the last step before the door flung open.
“Hey.”
Casey stood there barefoot in sweatpants and a faded Camp Somerhill tee. Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, and she had that tilted half-smile that always made Izzy’s stomach tighten and loosen at the same time.
“Hey,” Izzy echoed, not even pretending to play it cool.
Casey didn’t say happy birthday. She didn’t make a joke or a fuss.
She just opened her arms, and Izzy stepped in.
The hug was tight—real—the kind that said you don’t have to pretend here. Casey rested her chin on Izzy’s shoulder and held her for a long second longer than necessary. Neither of them said anything.
When they pulled apart, Casey brushed her thumb lightly over Izzy’s cheek like she was checking for signs of a crack. “You okay?”
Izzy gave a small shrug and a quieter smile. “Better now.”
“Good.” Casey stepped aside to let her in. “Also, you smell like old schoolbooks and overachievement.”
“Blame Clayton Prep,” Izzy said, stepping into the entryway. “I came straight from there. I didn’t even change. Can I steal a hoodie?”
“Obviously.” Casey was already walking toward the staircase. “You know the hoodie drawer. Help yourself.”
Izzy kicked off her flats and padded down the hall, rolling her shoulders once like she was shaking off her whole day. The air inside the Gardener house smelled like garlic, melted cheese, and roasted tomatoes. It was warm in a way that wasn’t just temperature—it was safe, like the whole building knew how to wrap you in a blanket.
There was laughter coming from the kitchen and a clatter of dishes. Someone—probably Elsa—was humming along with the jazz.
From the kitchen, Elsa’s voice rang out cheerfully: “Is that finally our guest of honor?”
Izzy stepped in just in time to see Elsa wiping her hands on a tea towel, a big grin already plastered on her face.
“Hi, Elsa,” Izzy said, suddenly bashful despite everything.
Elsa crossed the kitchen in three quick steps and pulled Izzy into a full-on mom hug—one arm tight around her back, the other smoothing her hair like she’d done this Izzy’s whole life. It was warm and smelled like lemon hand soap and basil.
“Eighteen looks good on you,” Elsa said into her hair.
“Thanks. I owe it all to cheap mascara and last-minute essay deadlines.”
Elsa laughed, then stepped back and looked her over. “I see you’re still in that fancy school armor. Casey, get this girl something soft before she wrinkles into permanent stress.”
“Already on it,” Casey said, returning from upstairs with an oversized hoodie in hand.
She tossed it at Izzy, who caught it midair. It was navy blue and worn in just right—soft at the seams, sleeves too long. She tugged it over her blazer and let out a sigh that felt like an exhale from somewhere deeper than her lungs.
Elsa turned back to the kitchen, opening the oven to check the garlic bread. “Dinner’s just about ready. Lasagna, salad, bread, and a chocolate cake that’s probably a fire hazard with that many candles. Though don’t worry—Casey insisted we only light three. One for legal adulthood, one for surviving this year, and one because she likes fire.”
“I do,” Casey said. “Big fan.”
Izzy smiled, finally—shoulders loosening, tension unwinding from behind her eyes.
“Thanks for having me,” she said, a little softer.
Elsa didn’t turn around. “You’re not just ‘having dinner.’ You’re one of ours now. You don’t get to opt out of being loved around here.”
Izzy blinked. Her throat was suddenly tight.
“Cool,” she said, and quickly turned to follow Casey into the dining room.
Of course! Here’s the revised version of Scene 4 – Family Dinner with the detail about Sam and Doug in Antarctica updated — now it’s just a fun trip for Sam to see the penguins, and Izzy already knows about it:
The dining room wasn’t fancy — not even close — but it had its own kind of magic. The table was a little scratched in places, one chair had a wobble, and the overhead light flickered if you leaned on the dimmer too hard. But there was a candle in the center of the table, flickering warmly, and beside Izzy’s plate sat a small hand-drawn card.
It said:
“Happy 18th, Izz 💛”
…written in Casey’s unmistakable half-print, half-cursive scrawl. A tiny doodle of a cupcake with three candles sat in the corner.
Izzy picked it up slowly, smiling without meaning to.
“You made me a card?” she said, looking up at Casey.
Casey shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “You know. Arts and crafts. I contain multitudes.”
Elsa came in from the kitchen balancing a heavy casserole dish in oven mitts. “Clear the way, ladies. Hot cheese incoming.”
Casey pulled the salad bowl aside while Izzy helped move the garlic bread platter. The dish landed in the center of the table with a satisfying thump.
“Lasagna?” Izzy said, her eyes widening slightly. “That’s, like… your real food.”
“I only make it for big moments,” Elsa said dramatically, sitting down across from them. “High-stakes birthdays. College acceptances. That one time the Wi-Fi worked during a storm.”
“Truly a once-in-a-generation event,” Casey said, grinning.
Elsa poured glasses of iced tea and passed the salad around while Casey sliced the lasagna into melty, steaming slabs. Izzy didn’t realize how hungry she was until the smell hit her. The garlic, the herbs, the ridiculous amount of cheese.
They dug in.
Conversation flowed easily around her — mostly between Casey and Elsa at first. Talk of teachers, ridiculous school emails, a quiz Casey accidentally aced because she misread the instructions. Elsa teased her for overachieving by accident and told her she needed to get a hobby that involved being bad at something. Casey threw a green bean at her in retaliation.
Izzy smiled, chewing slowly, letting the warmth of the table soak into her.
It was loud, but not too loud. Energetic, but never tense. Jokes flew back and forth. Plates clinked. Forks scraped. No one was yelling. No one was drunk. No one was walking out the front door without saying when they’d be back.
She leaned back in her chair for a second and let herself breathe.
This was the kind of dinner people always said was normal — the kind that never felt real when she watched it on TV. But here it was. Not perfect, but good.
Somewhere in the middle of the meal, Elsa let out a satisfied sigh. “You know, it’s too quiet around here without the boys.”
Izzy nodded. “I still can’t believe they actually went to Antarctica. Like—on purpose.”
Casey grinned. “Sam had one goal: see penguins. Doug had one goal: make it educational.”
“It’s weird without them,” Elsa said. “But I admit I’m enjoying the lack of video game noise and spontaneous science experiments in the living room.”
“They’ll be back in a few weeks, right?” Izzy asked, picking at her garlic bread.
“Three and a half, give or take,” Elsa said. “Assuming they don’t get distracted and adopt a penguin.”
Casey snorted. “They would. And name it something weird, like Toast.”
“Or Chair,” Izzy offered.
They burst into laughter, the kind that tumbles out easy and real, no edge to it.
Izzy let herself laugh with them. Her shoulders had dropped sometime between the first bite and now, and she hadn’t even noticed.
“I can’t remember the last time dinner wasn’t a war zone,” she said quietly, before she could stop herself.
The words sat in the space between bites and jokes — soft, but heavy.
Elsa didn’t react with pity, just gentleness. She refilled Izzy’s tea without a word, then said, like it was simple truth, “Well. You don’t have to fight for a seat here.”
Casey nudged her foot under the table again — a quick, quiet reminder: I’ve got you.
Izzy nodded. She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t need to.
Casey leaned forward slightly, resting her chin in her palm, and gave Izzy a small, curious smile.
“So,” she asked softly, “what’d the rest of your day look like? Before all this.”
Izzy looked down at her wrist and pushed her sleeve up an inch, revealing the bracelet. It was a haphazard mix of cracked beads, string, and a knotted button clasp that clearly had been tied — and untied — by small, impatient hands.
“Maya made me this,” she said, holding her arm out for Casey to see. “Pretty sure it’s held together by… hope and glue.”
Elsa leaned in from across the table, her mouth tugging into a grin. “Let me see that craftsmanship.”
Izzy extended her arm. Elsa took it gently and turned it side to side, inspecting the bracelet like a jeweler assessing a rare gem.
“Oh yes,” she said, mock-serious. “This is premium kindergarten couture.”
“Very exclusive,” Casey added. “One of a kind.”
Izzy smiled. “She woke me up with it this morning. Told me I had to wear it all day ‘so the world knows you’re special.’”
Elsa gave a soft, approving hum. “I like her already.”
“She’s the middle one?” Casey asked, still gently brushing her fingers over one of the loose beads.
“Yeah. Maya’s five.” Izzy reached into the front pocket of her backpack, which she’d tossed by the table earlier, and pulled out her phone. “Luca gave me this.”
She scrolled for a second, then turned the screen around to show them a photo.
It was a piece of paper, slightly crumpled, covered in bold crayon lines. The drawing showed a stick-figure Izzy in a cape, arms raised in the air. She was flying over a small square house with three tinier stick figures inside — one with a bow in her hair, one with a wide circle for a mouth, and one holding something that may have been a fork or a sword. In shaky kid letters across the top, it read:
“SUPER IZZY – BOSS OF THE HOUSE”
Casey let out a laugh — soft and full of affection. “Okay, that’s incredible.”
“He gave it to me before breakfast and said I’m basically a superhero now,” Izzy said, smiling as she looked at the picture. “Then he asked if that meant I could fly and why I never do it to school.”
“I really like him already,” Elsa said, leaning closer for another look.
“He’s six,” Izzy added. “Oldest of the crew. Very serious about defending the title of ‘man of the house.’”
Casey rested her head against Izzy’s shoulder for a beat, glancing at the screen again. “Clearly you have competition.”
Izzy laughed, then scrolled one more photo over. This one was blurry — a toddler hand mid-motion, a pink plastic bowl in the corner — and a small rock resting in Izzy’s palm.
“And then Tess gave me this,” she said, showing them the next image. “She picked it up from the yard and told me it was magic.”
Elsa let out a soft laugh. “How magic are we talking?”
“She didn’t say. Just handed it to me very seriously and went, ‘This is important, Izzy.’ Like the fate of the world depended on me putting it in my pocket.”
“She’s three?” Casey asked.
“Yup. Our tiny oracle.”
Izzy locked her phone and set it face down beside her plate, still smiling — but a little more quietly now. She traced the rim of her cup with one finger.
“I almost cried,” she said after a pause. Her voice was low. “I didn’t, though.”
Casey bumped her shoulder gently. “You’re allowed to cry, birthday girl.”
Izzy looked over at her — not embarrassed, just tired in that deeply honest way that slips through when you finally stop bracing yourself. Her eyes shimmered, but nothing fell.
“I think I just didn’t want to ruin it,” she said. “It was a good morning. And those don’t happen a lot.”
Elsa reached over and gently set her hand over Izzy’s for a second. “Then I’m glad you had one.”
Izzy gave a small nod. “Me too.”
The quiet settled again, soft and full. Outside, the first few stars peeked through the sky.
Then Casey stood up abruptly and clapped her hands once. “Alright, no more feelings. Time for cake.”
Izzy blinked. “Wait—what?”
Elsa was already heading toward the kitchen, calling back over her shoulder, “We’re not monsters, Izzy. Of course there’s cake.”
Casey grinned at her. “Hope you like chocolate.”
Izzy blinked again — overwhelmed, but smiling.
“…I really do.”
Izzy was leaning back against the kitchen counter, her arms folded loosely across her chest, still wearing the borrowed hoodie Casey had handed her after she got home from school. The sleeves were too long, and she kept tugging at the cuffs without noticing.
Elsa reappeared from the hallway with a small dessert plate in her hands.
A single slice of chocolate cake.
One pink birthday candle stuck right in the center — a little crooked, already dripping wax.
Izzy blinked. “I thought the cake was the celebration.”
Elsa grinned, walking it over. “Cake is cake. This is a wish.”
She set the plate down on the kitchen island in front of Izzy and handed her a lighter.
Izzy hesitated. “You want me to light it and blow it out? That feels like cheating.”
Elsa raised a brow. “You’re 18. You’ve earned it.”
Izzy smiled, flicked the lighter on, and touched it to the candle’s wick.
The flame bloomed to life with a soft hiss.
The room fell quiet again, in that almost ceremonial way — not heavy, but reverent. It was just a candle, just a piece of cake. But the moment felt bigger than that, somehow. Maybe because of everything left unsaid. Maybe because they all knew, deep down, this birthday wasn’t just about being 18.
Elsa leaned against the counter nearby, arms crossed, watching Izzy.
“You only get one wish,” she said softly. “Make it count.”
Izzy didn’t respond.
She just looked at the candle for a long moment, eyes reflecting the tiny flickering light. Her expression flickered too — something unreadable passing through her face like a shadow.
Casey watched her closely. She didn’t speak, didn’t ask. Just stood beside her, still and present.
She’d seen that look before. Not often — just in flashes. On days when Izzy was trying to smile through something she couldn’t name yet. When she looked like she was holding her breath and holding the world together at the same time.
After a few more seconds, Izzy leaned forward slightly and blew the candle out.
The flame vanished.
Elsa clapped once. “Boom. Legal adult. No going back.”
Izzy let out a breath — half a laugh, half exhaustion. “Great. Now I can vote and pay taxes.”
“Truly, the American dream,” Casey murmured.
No one asked what she wished for.
No one had to.
Casey didn’t press, but when Izzy looked over at her — just for a second — Casey was already looking back. Steady, warm, and open. The kind of gaze that said I don’t need to know, but I care anyway.
Izzy blinked. Then shrugged, like she could brush off the moment before it stuck too deep.
“Thanks for the cake,” she said.
“Thanks for being born,” Elsa replied, already gathering dishes with a smile.
Izzy glanced up.
“My mom was actually home this morning,” she said, like she was mentioning the weather. “Weird, right?”
She tried to say it lightly, like it didn’t mean anything. Like it was just an odd fact. But her tone gave her away — brittle around the edges.
Casey didn’t answer right away.
She didn’t nod. Didn’t change the subject. Just looked at Izzy — soft, steady, quiet. Her expression didn’t ask for more, but it didn’t shut the door either. She rested her chin in her hand, listening.
That kind of silence — the safe kind — made it harder for Izzy to hide. And for a second, it looked like she might say something else. Her lips parted like she’d add more. Fill in the blanks. Let the pieces fall.
But then she stopped. Swallowed. And forced a smile.
“Anyway,” she said, pushing the last bite of cake onto her fork. “Lasagna was amazing. I’m stealing the leftovers.”
Casey let her pivot. Didn’t call her out on it. Just smiled back — a little sad, but mostly warm. “Only if you beat me to them.”
Just then, Elsa walked by, wiping her hands with a dishtowel. She caught the tail end of the conversation and grinned.
“Only if you fight Casey for them,” she said, flicking Izzy lightly on the shoulder as she passed. “I’ve seen that girl go to war over baked ziti. You’ve been warned.”
Izzy let out a small laugh — real, if a little tired. The tension passed like a wave that never fully broke. She leaned back in her chair and looked around the kitchen again — the soft light, the clean counters, the plate of cut strawberries Elsa had quietly set out while no one was looking.
It was so far from home it made her chest ache.
But for tonight, just for now, she let herself pretend this was normal.
“Guess I’ll have to sleep with one eye open,” she said, flicking her fork in Casey’s direction.
Casey grinned. “Wise choice.”
Elsa reappeared in the doorway again, this time holding a folded blanket. “You two planning to stay up all night talking, or should I go ahead and set up the couch?”
Izzy hesitated.
Casey didn’t.
“She’s staying,” she said, not even looking up. “It’s a birthday sleepover. It’s tradition.”
Elsa didn’t argue. Just smiled knowingly and nodded. “Blanket’s clean. Extra pillows are in the hall closet.”
Izzy looked at Casey. “Do I get the couch or the floor?”
Casey raised a brow. “You get the bed. I get the floor.”
“Wow,” Izzy said, smirking. “A true gentleman.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.“
The night had settled softly over the Gardners’ house, the hum of the dishwasher filling the quiet in the background. Most of the lights were off now, except for the warm glow of a lamp in the corner of the living room and the faint flicker from a candle Elsa hadn’t yet blown out.
Izzy and Casey were curled up on the couch, legs tangled lazily beneath the soft weight of a navy-blue throw blanket. The room smelled faintly of cinnamon and lemon — something Elsa had wiped the counters with, probably — and the faintest notes of music still played from the kitchen speaker.
Casey’s socks had slipped halfway down her feet. Izzy’s hair was a little frizzy from the hoodie she’d pulled over her head. Neither of them seemed to care.
Izzy leaned her head on Casey’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world — like it had always belonged there.
“So,” Casey said softly, breaking the comfortable silence, “I saw a TikTok today where this guy tried to eat an entire lemon with the rind still on.”
Izzy gave a sleepy snort of laughter. “Why?”
“He said it was for science.”
Izzy tilted her head up slightly to look at her. “Did it work?”
“No. He gagged. Twice.”
Izzy laughed again — a small, breathy sound that warmed the space between them. “Sounds like something you’d try if you had enough caffeine and a bad idea.”
“Excuse me,” Casey said, mock-offended. “I have great ideas.”
“You once tried to make spaghetti in a coffee pot.”
“It could have worked.”
“It absolutely could not have.”
They giggled together, the kind of easy laughter that bubbled up without warning and faded just as gently. Casey’s arm shifted, wrapping around Izzy’s shoulders, drawing her just a little closer.
Izzy let her eyes drift closed for a moment, her cheek resting against Casey’s collarbone. Her voice was quieter now.
“You know what I miss?”
Casey tilted her head down. “What?”
“Getting in trouble for talking too much in homeroom.”
Casey smiled. “You mean you talking too much in homeroom.”
“I mean us talking too much. Don’t leave me alone in the blame.”
“I always took the heat for it. You just blinked innocently like, ‘I’m just here to learn, sir.’”
Izzy grinned, not denying it.
The lamp’s golden light softened the angles of her face, casting warm shadows over her cheeks and lashes. She shifted again, a little closer, until her nose just barely brushed Casey’s.
Their breathing stilled — not tense, just quiet. Charged.
Then Izzy lifted her gaze, searching Casey’s eyes.
“You’re really warm,” she murmured.
Casey smiled, voice almost a whisper. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
For a second, neither of them moved. The moment held itself, suspended.
Then Casey leaned in — gently, slowly — and pressed a kiss to Izzy’s lips.
It wasn’t rushed or dramatic. Just soft. Careful. Familiar.
Izzy melted into it, her hand reaching up to cup Casey’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly along her jaw. They kissed again, slower this time, and then again — their breaths falling into rhythm.
When they pulled apart, Izzy stayed close, forehead resting against Casey’s. Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke.
“I’m glad I came tonight.”
Casey’s hand slid down her back, anchoring her there. “Yeah?” she whispered.
“Yeah.” Izzy let out a slow breath. “I needed it more than I realized.”
Casey didn’t say anything for a moment. She just leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth
It was quiet in the neighborhood — the kind of suburban silence where porch lights were still glowing but the world felt tucked in, like it had already gone to bed.
Casey had insisted on walking Izzy at least halfway home, even though it was barely a ten-minute stroll. “It’s a birthday rule,” she’d said, grabbing her jacket. “You don’t walk alone after cake.”
Izzy hadn’t argued. Honestly, she didn’t want to be alone yet.
They walked slowly, not because they had to, but because neither of them wanted to reach the corner too quickly — the place where Izzy would turn toward her block, and the warmth of the evening would finally give way to reality.
“Okay,” Casey said, her hands buried in the pockets of her coat. “Important question.”
Izzy glanced over. “Go on.”
“If you had to fight one of the following — a goose with a grudge or a raccoon with a PhD in mischief — which would you pick?”
Izzy blinked, then snorted. “What kind of messed up wildlife would even earn a PhD?”
“Raccoons are clever. He studied at Trashcan U.”
Izzy laughed, bumping her shoulder lightly into Casey’s. “Okay, well… I’d go with the raccoon. Because if I make peace with him, he could help me with my chemistry homework.”
“Oh my god,” Casey groaned. “You’re flirting through hypothetical animal combat.”
Izzy raised a brow. “It’s called multitasking.”
They laughed again, but it was gentler this time. The kind that settled quietly between them as their steps slowed near the corner — the spot where the sidewalk split, and the world behind her started to change.
Izzy looked ahead toward her street. Darker. Narrower. The houses spaced further apart. The windows less lit.
Casey must’ve noticed the way her smile faded, even if just slightly.
“Hey,” she said, stopping. “Can I ask you something?”
Izzy stopped too. “Yeah.”
Casey turned to face her fully, one hand still in her pocket, the other brushing hair out of her face. “Is everything okay at home?”
Izzy froze for a heartbeat.
Then — so quickly and gently that it sounded practiced — she said, “Yeah. Same as usual.”
Her voice didn’t crack. Her expression didn’t shift much.
But Casey didn’t miss the pause before it.
She didn’t call it out, didn’t press. Just held her gaze for a second longer than she normally would. Like she knew there was more behind the curtain, but also knew Izzy wasn’t ready to open it yet.
“Okay,” Casey said softly. “Well… text me when you’re in. And don’t disappear tomorrow, alright? I mean it.”
Izzy’s expression softened. “I won’t. Promise.”
There was something so simple in the way she said it, but it hit Casey right in the chest anyway. She wanted to believe her. She mostly did.
But something in her gut still tugged.
Izzy shifted closer, tugging the sleeves down again out of habit. “Thanks for today,” she murmured. “I don’t know if I said that yet.”
“You did,” Casey said, stepping into her space.
They stood there for a moment, close but not quite touching.
Then Casey wrapped her arms around her — slow and sure — and Izzy melted into it like the hug was magnetic.
It lasted longer than a goodbye usually does. Neither of them seemed to care.
Izzy’s hands gripped the back of Casey’s coat, her cheek resting against her shoulder. She didn’t want to pull away yet. Not when this felt safer than whatever waited two blocks away.
Casey whispered into her hair, “Eighteen looks really good on you.”
Izzy smiled, eyes still closed. “Only because I’m wearing your hoodie.”
“That hoodie looks good on you,” Casey whispered back.
They didn’t kiss — not this time — but the energy was there, humming just beneath the surface. Soft and unspoken. A tension made of longing, comfort, and all the words they hadn’t said yet.
When they finally pulled apart, Izzy took a breath and stepped back.
“Goodnight,” she said, her voice a little quieter now.
Casey gave her a crooked smile. “Night, Taylor.”
Izzy rolled her eyes, grinning, then turned and walked slowly toward her house. She didn’t look back — but only because she knew Casey was still watching.
Casey waited at the corner until she saw the porch light flick on.
Her phone buzzed a few seconds later.
Izzy: home. hoodie still secured. cake high activated. goodnight <3
Casey smiled down at the screen.
Casey: sweet dreams, superhero.
The front door creaked open just wide enough for Izzy to slip through. She shut it behind her with careful hands, twisting the deadbolt into place as quietly as she could.
The house was dim. Not dark — the glow from the TV painted flickering light across the floor — but the kind of dim that felt empty.
She dropped her keys into the chipped bowl by the door and took a deep breath through her nose.
The smell hit immediately — something sour underneath the usual tangle of crayons, old carpet, and leftover microwave dinners. The sharp, stale bite of alcohol still clung faintly to the air, like a warning.
The living room was quiet, but not clean.
Blankets were thrown haphazardly across the couch and floor, a bowl of dry cereal had spilled its contents across the coffee table, and a half-filled cup of juice teetered dangerously close to the edge.
In the middle of it all, her three siblings were asleep.
Tess was curled up on the couch, one thumb near her mouth and the other hand gripping a dishtowel like it was a stuffed animal. Maya was on the floor beside her, wrapped in a pink throw blanket with her feet sticking out. Luca was splayed out on the carpet on his back, arms flopped wide like he’d just collapsed.
Izzy’s chest tightened.
She walked toward them slowly, eyes scanning the room like she was counting — making sure they were breathing, warm, okay.
She crouched next to Tess first. The little girl stirred slightly, murmuring something that sounded like “juice,” but didn’t wake. Izzy carefully lifted her up, adjusting the oversized dishtowel in her arms, and stood.
On her way down the hall, she passed the master bedroom.
The door was shut. A soft yellow glow bled out from under the frame. A faint, rhythmic hum — maybe the TV, or music — came from inside. But no voices. No footsteps. No acknowledgement that three small children had been left to fall asleep alone.
Izzy didn’t even pause.
She brought Tess into the kids’ room and gently lowered her into the small bed she shared with Maya. She returned for Maya next, then Luca. Each one a small, sleepy weight Izzy bore like it was second nature — not a burden, but a responsibility she’d accepted long before anyone asked her to.
Once they were tucked in, Izzy lingered in the doorway for a moment.
Maya had rolled toward Tess, both of them breathing softly, their cheeks flushed and hair mussed. Luca had turned onto his side, holding a battered action figure like it was armor.
They were safe now. Fed, if not well. Asleep, at least.
Izzy turned away.
In the kitchen, she sat down heavily at the small table and stared blankly at the scarred wood. The bracelet Maya had made — the one with the frayed string and the uneven beads — was still on her wrist. She rolled it between her fingers, slowly, mechanically.
She looked toward the fridge.
The lightbulb inside was dimmer than it used to be. Inside, there was a box of baking soda, a half-used bottle of ketchup, a single yogurt cup, and an open carton of orange juice with a questionably sticky lid.
The rest was mostly air.
Taped to the fridge with a butterfly-shaped magnet was a torn piece of notepad paper — her mom’s handwriting, messy and slanted:
Gas due on the 10th. Don’t forget this time.
No “please.” No “love you.” No mention of where she was going, when she’d be back, or why her children had to eat cereal for dinner and fall asleep in front of a rerun of Jeopardy.
Izzy let her head drop into her hands.
She sat like that for a long moment — elbows on the table, fingers pressed into her eyes, willing herself not to cry.
She couldn’t. There was no one to hand it off to if she fell apart.
She exhaled slowly, dropped her hands, and looked down at her phone.
A text from Casey lit up the screen:
Casey: Text me when you’re home safe. Sweet dreams, love you 💛
Izzy stared at it.
She didn’t answer.
She just tapped the screen off and placed the phone face down beside the bracelet, her fingers now resting lightly on the table’s chipped edge.
Outside, a car drove past. Inside, the fridge hummed. Somewhere in the back of the house, a muffled laugh filtered through the bedroom wall — her mother, probably watching some late-night reality show through a haze of boxed wine.
Izzy closed her eyes and inhaled again.