Chapter 3

The Uber pulled up to the Cantrall & Co. building at 9:21 AM, two minutes early, because Malia had been pacing her apartment since 7:45 and had finally given up and called the car. She sat in the backseat, knees bouncing, checking her phone every twelve seconds, until she saw the revolving doors spit out a figure in black ripped jeans and a white tank top, mullet still damp from the shower.

Kylie spotted the car immediately. Grinned that crooked grin. Jogged over and yanked the back door open before Malia could even reach for the handle.

“Hi,” Kylie breathed, sliding in close enough that their thighs touched. “Fuck, you look good.”

Malia had spent forty-five minutes deciding on an outfit. Settled on a soft lavender crop top and high-waisted jeans that Momo had convinced her to buy last summer and she’d never had the courage to wear. Her hair was half-up, secured with a clip that kept sliding down, and she’d put on lip gloss for the first time in months.

“You too,” Malia whispered, because Kylie did—Kylie looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine she was too cool to read, all sharp angles and silver jewelry and effortless swagger.

Kylie leaned in, close enough that Malia could smell her vanilla-cigarette scent, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Then another. Then a third, closer to the corner of her mouth, deliberate and teasing.

“Kylie—” Malia flushed, glancing at the driver, who was determinedly staring at the road.

“What? I missed you.” Kylie settled back, but her hand found Malia’s, fingers intertwining like they’d been doing it for years. “It’s been three days. Three days of texting and calling and falling asleep on the phone together. I needed to see you. Touch you. Make sure you’re real.”

“I’m real,” Malia said, squeezing her hand.

“Prove it.” Kylie’s thumb traced circles on Malia’s palm, slow and maddening. “Kiss me again. Not the cheek this time.”

Malia’s heart hammered. The driver. The morning traffic. The fact that they’d only met once, that this was insane, that she was supposed to be the quiet one, the careful one, the girl who didn’t take risks.

She leaned in anyway.

It was brief—just a brush of lips, soft and tentative, Kylie’s lip balm tasting like mint and something sweeter. But Kylie made a sound, low and wanting, and her free hand came up to cup Malia’s jaw, and for a moment they were the only two people in the world.

“Okay,” Kylie whispered against her mouth. “You’re real. I believe you.”

—

The mall was already crowded by the time they arrived, Saturday shoppers flooding the corridors with strollers and shopping bags and the particular chaos of weekend consumerism. Malia led Kylie through the north entrance, still holding her hand, still hyper-aware of every point of contact between them.

“They’re at the food court,” Malia said, checking her phone. “Momo’s been texting me since 8 AM. She’s—” she scrolled, winced, “—she’s excited.”

“Excited to interrogate me?”

“Excited to meet you.” Malia paused. “Also to interrogate you. Probably. She brought Josh for backup. Morgan said she’s ‘sizing you up.’ Dara made a spreadsheet.”

Kylie laughed, loud and unguarded, drawing the attention of a passing group of girls who did visible double-takes. “A spreadsheet?”

“Dara’s very organized.”

“I love her already.”

They rounded the corner to the food court, and Malia spotted them immediately—her people, clustered around three pushed-together tables near the fountain. Momo saw her first, elbowed Josh, and then they were all staring, all watching, all taking in the sight of Malia Baker holding hands with Kylie Cantrall like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Malia felt her anxiety spike. Her grip on Kylie’s hand tightened.

“Hey,” Kylie murmured, leaning down so her lips brushed Malia’s ear. “Breathe. I’m right here. You’re okay.”

Malia breathed.

“MALIA!” Momo shrieked, launching herself from her chair with the velocity of a small missile. She enveloped Malia in a hug that lifted her slightly off the ground, then released her just as quickly to turn sharp, assessing eyes on Kylie. “So. You’re the famous Kylie.”

“Famous?” Kylie echoed, glancing at Malia with amusement.

“Don’t,” Malia muttered.

“Ivory told us everything,” Momo continued, undeterred. She was wearing a neon yellow crop top and bike shorts, her dark hair in two high buns that made her look simultaneously twelve and terrifying. “The lobby. The cheek kiss. The all-night phone call. We’re very invested.”

“Invested,” Josh repeated, appearing at Momo’s shoulder. He was in a vintage band tee and eyeliner, looking Kylie up and down with the practiced eye of someone who appreciated aesthetics. “Hi. I’m Josh. I’m gay, I’m fabulous, and I will ruin you if you hurt her.”

“Noted,” Kylie said, not intimidated in the slightest. She stuck out her free hand—the one not currently holding Malia’s like a lifeline. “Kylie. I’m queer, I’m intense, and I have no intention of hurting her.”

Josh shook her hand, held it a beat longer than necessary, and finally smiled. “Okay. I like her.”

“Of course you do,” Morgan said, leaning back in her chair with the lazy confidence of someone who had already decided her opinion and was in no rush to share it. She was twenty-two, the oldest of the group, with box braids and a resting expression that could stop traffic. “She’s pretty. Malia has good taste.”

“She has excellent taste,” Kylie agreed, and Malia felt herself flush.

“Sit,” Dara commanded, gesturing to the empty chairs. She was at the head of the table, a tablet in front of her that was definitely not displaying a spreadsheet but probably could have been. At nineteen, Dara had the maternal energy of someone who had been parenting since birth, all soft curves and softer voice and eyes that missed nothing. “Malia, you look like you’re about to pass out. Sit down. Kylie, you sit next to her. Freya, move your bag. MK, stop staring at Ivory, it’s creepy.”

“I wasn’t—” MK started, then deflated under Dara’s look. “Okay, I was. Sorry.”

Ivory, seated between Morgan and Freya, rolled her eyes with the world-weary exhaustion of a fifteen-year-old who had been dealing with MK’s crush for three years. “Hi, Kylie. Welcome to the circus.”

“Thanks,” Kylie said, pulling out a chair for Malia before sitting herself. The gesture was automatic, unthinking, and Malia saw Momo and Josh exchange a look that meant we’re definitely talking about this later.

They settled in. Kylie immediately stretched her arm across the back of Malia’s chair, her fingers finding the ends of Malia’s hair, playing with them in a way that was somehow both casual and deeply possessive. Malia leaned into her, unable to help herself, her body seeking Kylie’s warmth like a plant seeking sun.

“So,” Momo said, leaning forward with predatory focus. “Kylie. UCLA. Business major. Famous mullet. Tell us your intentions.”

“My intentions,” Kylie repeated, her fingers still tangled in Malia’s hair, “are to take Malia on many dates. To learn everything about her. To make her feel safe and seen and—” she glanced at Malia, something soft and fierce in her whiskey-colored eyes, “—wanted. Always wanted.”

The table went quiet.

“Fuck,” Josh whispered. “That’s romantic.”

“That’s intense,” Morgan corrected, but she was smiling.

“That’s exactly what Malia needs,” Dara said quietly, and Malia felt tears prick her eyes.

Momo studied Kylie for a long moment, then nodded once, decisively. “Okay. You’re in. But if you—”

“I know,” Kylie interrupted gently. “You’ll ruin me. I heard.”

Momo grinned, satisfied, and the interrogation shifted to easier topics—classes, music, the best skate spots in the city. Kylie talked easily with all of them, her arm never leaving Malia’s chair, her fingers never stilling in Malia’s hair. She asked Morgan about her nursing program, complimented Dara’s spreadsheet skills (which turned out to be real, organized by color and priority), teased MK about his obvious crush until he turned the color of a tomato.

And Malia watched her, something warm and terrifying unfolding in her chest. Kylie fit. With her loud laugh and her casual cursing and the way she kept glancing at Malia like she was checking she was still there, still real, still hers.

“Food,” Dara announced around 10:30, standing up and smoothing her skirt. “I’m getting Thai. Who wants what?”

Orders were placed, money exchanged, Dara and Morgan heading off to navigate the lunch rush. The rest of them stayed, conversation flowing easier now, Kylie somehow already integrated, already essential.

Malia shifted closer. She couldn’t help it. Kylie’s arm came down from the chair back to wrap around her waist, pulling her in until Malia was practically in her lap, her head resting on Kylie’s shoulder.

“Hi,” Kylie murmured, lips against Malia’s temple.

“Hi,” Malia whispered back.

“You good?”

“Yeah.” Malia nuzzled into her neck, breathing her in. “You’re good with them.”

“They’re good people. You have good people.” Kylie’s hand rubbed slow circles on Malia’s hip. “I’m glad. You deserve good people.”

Malia pressed a kiss to Kylie’s jaw. Then another, lower, near the pulse point in her neck. Kylie shivered, visible and involuntary, and Malia felt a surge of something—power, maybe, or desire, or the simple intoxication of being wanted.

“Keep doing that,” Kylie breathed, “and I’m going to do something inappropriate in public.”

Malia giggled, breathless, and kissed her cheek again. And again. She couldn’t stop. Kylie’s skin was warm and smelled like vanilla and she was right there, solid and real and hers.

“You’re clingy,” Kylie observed, but she was smiling, delighted, her arm tightening around Malia’s waist.

“Is that okay?”

“Fuck yes. Cling to me. Never let go.” Kylie pressed a kiss to Malia’s forehead, then her nose, then the corner of her mouth, each one brief and burning. “I want you clingy. I want you everywhere. I want—”

“Food’s here!” Momo announced, and they sprang apart, Malia’s face flaming, Kylie coughing to hide her laugh.

Dara and Morgan returned with trays of Thai food, distributing containers with the efficiency of a military operation. Malia had ordered pad thai, her usual, but when she opened it she found herself staring at Kylie’s container instead—green curry, rich and fragrant, with vegetables arranged in a way that looked almost artistic.

“Yours looks sooo much better,” Malia said, pouting slightly, the words out before she could stop them.

Kylie looked at her. Looked at her pad thai. Looked back at Malia’s pout, which she was definitely doing on purpose now, something she’d never done before, something that felt dangerously like flirting.

“You’re kidding,” Kylie said.

“No.” Malia leaned closer, close enough to smell the curry, close enough to feel Kylie’s breath hitch. “Yours looks amazing. Mine’s boring.”

“So get green curry next time.”

“But I want yours now.”

Kylie stared at her. Then, slowly, she pushed her container toward Malia, pulled Malia’s pad thai toward herself, and said, “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re feeding me,” Malia pointed out, already digging into the curry with Kylie’s fork.

“I’m spoiling you,” Kylie corrected, but she was grinning, watching Malia eat with an expression that was half-fondness, half-something darker. “I like it. I like spoiling you.”

“You haven’t even started on the spoiling yet,” Morgan observed, mouth full of spring roll. “Wait until she finds out about the black card.”

“The what?” Malia asked, mid-bite.

Kylie shrugged, trying to look casual and failing. “My dad’s card. He gave it to me for emergencies. Food court Thai doesn’t technically qualify, but—” she gestured at Malia, at the curry, at everything, “—for you? Anything.”

“Kylie—”

“Already done.” Kylie pulled out her wallet, flashed the black card with a flourish, and tucked it away. “I bought everyone’s lunch. Consider it a bribe for accepting me into your weird little family.”

“You didn’t have to—” Dara started.

“I wanted to.” Kylie’s hand found Malia’s again, their fingers weaving together on the table where everyone could see. “Let me do this. Let me take care of her. Of all of you, if you’ll let me.”

The table was quiet. Then Josh raised his iced coffee in a toast. “To Kylie. And her black card. And her excellent taste in women.”

“To Kylie,” they echoed, and Malia felt herself glow.

—

They wandered the mall after lunch, the group splintering and reforming like a living organism. MK and Ivory disappeared into a gaming store, Morgan and Dara went to browse a home goods shop, Freya dragged Momo and Josh toward a makeup kiosk. That left Malia and Kylie alone in the corridor, surrounded by the echo of footsteps and distant music.

Kylie stopped in front of a boutique window, something catching her eye. “Wait here.”

“Kylie—”

But she was already gone, slipping into the store with the confidence of someone who had never been told no. Malia waited, shifting from foot to foot, until Kylie emerged two minutes later with a shopping bag and a grin that could power the city.

“For you,” she said, thrusting the bag at Malia.

Malia peeked inside. A hoodie—oversized, soft-looking, black with a small embroidered rose on the chest. She pulled it out, held it up, felt the weight of it.

“It’s—” she started.

“It’s mine,” Kylie said. “I mean, I just bought it, but it’s my style. I want you to wear it. I want—” she ran a hand through her mullet, suddenly awkward, suddenly young, “—I want everyone to know you’re with me. That you’re mine. That I’m—”

She broke off. Malia looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the vulnerability beneath the swagger, the fear of rejection, the desperate hope.

Malia pulled the hoodie over her head. It was enormous on her, swallowing her frame, the hem falling to mid-thigh, the sleeves covering her hands. It smelled like the store, like new cotton, but she imagined it smelling like Kylie, like vanilla and cigarettes and safety.

“Yours,” she said, looking up at Kylie through the curtain of her hair. “I’m yours.”

Kylie’s breath caught. She stepped forward, cupped Malia’s face in both hands, and kissed her—properly this time, not a brush or a peck but a real kiss, deep and slow and devastating, right there in the middle of the mall corridor where anyone could see.

When they broke apart, Malia was dizzy. Kylie was smiling, that crooked, dangerous smile, and her thumbs were stroking Malia’s cheeks like she couldn’t stop touching her either.

“Mine,” Kylie whispered. “Yeah. You’re mine.”

—

They rejoined the group at a bench near the fountain. Kylie sat down, pulled Malia into her lap without asking, and wrapped both arms around her waist. Malia settled in, back against Kylie’s chest, the hoodie enveloping her like a cocoon. She felt Kylie’s chin rest on her shoulder, felt her breath warm against her neck.

“Comfortable?” Kylie murmured.

“Yeah.” Malia turned her head, kissed Kylie’s cheek, then her jaw, then the corner of her mouth. “You’re warm.”

“You’re wearing my hoodie. Of course I’m warm. I’m basically hugging myself.”

Malia giggled, settled deeper, and let herself be held.

The conversation flowed around them—Momo recounting a disastrous date, Josh analyzing some reality show drama, Morgan and Dara debating the best nursing specialties. Kylie participated with one hand, the other tracing patterns on Malia’s thigh through the denim, but Malia could feel her attention fracturing, feel her focus narrowing to the space between them, to the heat of Malia’s body, to the rhythm of her breathing.

Malia wanted more.

She reached up, found the chain around Kylie’s neck—a thin silver necklace with a small pendant, something Kylie had mentioned her mother gave her before she left. Malia wrapped her fingers around it, tugged gently.

Kylie didn’t respond. She was laughing at something Josh said, her head thrown back, throat exposed.

Malia tugged harder.

“Ow—” Kylie broke off, looked down at her, confused. “Malia?”

Malia pouted. It was becoming a habit, this pouting, this deliberate acting out. She didn’t recognize herself. She liked it. “You’re not paying attention to me.”

Kylie’s expression shifted—surprise, then delight, then something hot and hungry. “I’m literally holding you.”

“You’re talking to Josh.”

“I’m capable of multitasking.”

“You’re not looking at me.”

Kylie looked at her. Really looked at her, eyes dark and intent, the rest of the world fading to background noise.

“Better?” she asked, voice low.

Malia tugged the chain again, pulling Kylie’s face closer. “Better.”

She kissed her, right there in front of everyone, deep and slow and claiming. When she pulled back, Kylie was breathless, pupils blown wide, her hands gripping Malia’s hips hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck,” Kylie whispered. “Okay. Attention. You have all of it. Forever.”

“Good,” Malia said, and settled back against her chest, fingers still wrapped around the chain, holding Kylie close.

Momo was staring, open-mouthed. Josh was fanning himself dramatically. Morgan looked impressed. Dara looked pleased.

“Well,” Dara said, breaking the silence. “That happened.”

“That keeps happening,” Momo corrected. “They’ve been like this all day. It’s disgusting. I love it.”

“It’s romantic,” Josh sighed. “I want someone to tug my chain.”

“Later,” Morgan said, standing up and stretching. “I’m getting boba. Who’s coming?”

They all went, eventually, drifting toward the food court again like mall gravity demanded it. Kylie bought Malia boba—taro, her favorite, which she’d mentioned once in passing during their 3 AM conversations and Kylie had remembered. She bought her a pretzel too, and a cinnamon roll, and a stuffed animal from a claw machine that she won on her first try while Malia cheered.

And through it all, Malia wore Kylie’s hoodie. Kylie’s arm stayed around her waist. Kylie’s fingers played with her hair, her chain, the hem of the hoodie. They kissed in corridors, in line for food, on benches while the fountain sprayed behind them. They acted like a couple because they were a couple, because three days of texting and one night of phone calls and one morning of touching had made them something real, something undeniable, something that didn’t need explanation.

“You’re different,” Morgan observed, as the afternoon light slanted gold through the skylights. She’d pulled Malia aside while Kylie was in the bathroom, her expression serious but not unkind. “With her. You’re louder. Bolder. You ask for what you want.”

“Is that bad?” Malia asked, clutching the front of Kylie’s hoodie.

“No.” Morgan smiled, rare and genuine. “It’s good, Malia. It’s really good. She brings it out in you. Don’t let go of that.”

“I won’t,” Malia promised, and she meant it.

Kylie returned, spotted them, and made a beeline for Malia. Her hand found Malia’s immediately, her thumb tracing the pulse point on her wrist.

“Everything okay?” Kylie asked, eyes flicking between them.

“Everything’s perfect,” Malia said, and stood on her toes to kiss Kylie’s cheek, then her jaw, then the corner of her mouth, because she could, because Kylie was hers, because she was never going to stop.

Kylie made that sound—that low, wanting sound—and pulled her closer.

“Mine,” Kylie whispered against her lips.

“Yours,” Malia agreed.

And in the middle of the mall, surrounded by her friends and her sister and the boy who loved her sister and the girl who had crashed into her life like a meteor, Malia Baker felt, for the first time in her anxious, quiet, careful existence, completely and utterly seen.