Duck Pajamas and Morning Afterglow, A Bold Move (Barefoot on Linoleum!), and Uh Oh, Did Someone Forget to Group Chat?.
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Author Note: Well, hello, awkward breakfast! Looks like someone had a very good night, and someone else is about to feel very left out. Prepare for the metaphorical tea to be spilled... and maybe a few actual tears. Friendship drama alert!
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"Well, well, well... look who finally decided to grace us with her presence," Melinda drawled, the corners of her lips curling into a sly, knowing smirk. Her tone was light and teasing, but her eyes sparkled with curiosity, amusement, and that unmistakable sharpness reserved only for the closest of friends.
She sat cross-legged at the kitchen table, already halfway through a golden slice of toast, crumbs scattered like confetti around her plate. The scent of strong, freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air—rich, warm, grounding.
Maggie appeared at the base of the stairs a few seconds later, her movements noticeably unhurried, tinged with a languid grace that hadn't been there the night before. She looked... different—not in a dramatic, external way, but in the kind of shift you only notice when you know someone well.
She was wrapped in an oversized black T-shirt, the cotton soft and worn, hanging loosely around her frame. Bold white lettering stamped across the front read "Rock Island," a souvenir from one of their spontaneous midnight escapades through the city—a night full of loud music, street laughter, and the kind of freedom that only exists between the hours of midnight and dawn.
The shirt reached just above her knees, exposing long, bare legs that moved with a lazy, almost feline rhythm. Her hair was tousled, left to fall however it pleased, and her cheeks carried a delicate flush that makeup couldn't fake. There was a glow in her skin, yes, but more telling was the softness in her expression—the subtle, content curve of her lips and the calm light that flickered behind her eyes.
It was the look of someone who'd let go. Someone who had been touched deeply—not just physically, but emotionally—and was still basking in the echo of it.
Melinda, still basking in the soft glow of the early morning light streaming through the kitchen window, looked every bit like a character from a cozy slice-of-life film. She was nestled into the cushioned seat with a steaming mug of coffee cradled in her hands, dressed in her favorite pink pajamas—adorably patterned with tiny white ducks that waddled across the fabric in playful disarray. Her feet were snuggled into fluffy white bunny slippers, complete with pink felt noses and droopy ears, giving her an almost comically innocent appearance despite the devilish gleam dancing in her eyes.
She raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her whole posture shifting with dramatic anticipation. The amused tilt of her head and the barely restrained smirk curling her lips made it very clear she was waiting for a story—one rich with detail, scandal, and all the delicious gossip a best friend could hope for.
Melinda raised an eyebrow, hiding her grin behind her coffee mug. "Sleep well?"
Maggie's smile widened, but she said nothing right away. Instead, she made her way to the table with the casual confidence of someone who had nothing left to prove.
Without a word, she pulled out the chair across from Melinda and dropped into it with a dramatic sigh, one that sounded far too satisfied to be about anything other than pure indulgence.
Then, with the nonchalance of someone who felt completely at ease in her own skin, she propped her legs onto the edge of the table. Her bare feet wiggled slightly in the morning light as she leaned back, hands resting behind her head.
"Define 'sleep,'" she replied at last, her voice raspy and low, the edges of sleep and something far more intimate still clinging to it.
Melinda nearly choked on her coffee.
"Oh my God, you didn't," she gasped, her tone somewhere between scandalized and delighted. "You actually—? Maggie!"
Maggie didn't respond. She just tilted her head, letting her silence do the talking. There was a softness in her gaze, a deep-set calm that hadn't been there yesterday.
It wasn't just about sex.
It was the way she carried herself now—loosened, grounded, like someone who had finally stepped out from beneath a weight she didn't even know she was carrying.
And Melinda saw it, too. She leaned back in her chair, grinning wide now, tapping her toast against the edge of her plate in mock approval.
"Well, damn," she said, lifting her coffee in a toast. "About time."
Maggie laughed then, a real laugh—light and unguarded.
She felt seen.
And she didn't mind it one bit.
"Alright, spill the metaphorical tea, Margaret," she said, her tone sing-song with playful demand. "Don't hold back on the juicy details. How exactly was your little late-night rendezvous?"
As she spoke, she nudged Maggie's bare legs off the table with the sole of her slippered foot—gentle but insistent—before leaning in across the table, her elbow planted firmly as if ready to dissect every word like an academic unraveling a thesis.
Maggie let out a groan that was more performative than genuine, tossing her head back with exaggerated exasperation.
"Ugh, Melinda, absolutely not," she replied, her voice dripping with mock horror as she rubbed at her temples like a mother burdened with a nosy child. "There are some things even your insatiable curiosity doesn't need to know about."
But despite the dismissal, the corners of her mouth betrayed her, curling upward into a smirk that was soft, unguarded, and deeply telling. It wasn't just the grin of someone who had a secret—it was the kind of smile that bloomed from a memory so vivid, so satisfying, that it lingered in the body long after the moment had passed.
A faint blush colored her cheeks, barely noticeable but unmistakably there, and when she shifted in her seat, there was an unspoken tenderness to her movements—as though her body was still holding onto the remnants of something delicate, something intimate.
The previous night returned in fragmented flashes—his hands, his voice, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the universe that mattered. The heat of his skin, the murmured words shared in the quiet space between heartbeats.
Even now, just thinking about it sent a shiver spiraling down her spine, pooling low in her belly and warming her all over again.
And then, as if summoned by the sheer weight of her thoughts, Tod appeared at the top of the staircase.
He descended slowly, every step unhurried and fluid, like a man completely at ease in the morning quiet. He was shirtless, the filtered sunlight catching the toned definition of his chest and abs—strong, yes, but not sculpted for display. There was something grounded about the way he moved, as if every muscle in his body served a purpose and not just an aesthetic.
He wore a loose pair of grey sweatpants that clung low on his hips in a way that made Maggie involuntarily bite her lip, her gaze shamelessly trailing over him. But what really made her snort in barely restrained laughter was the sight of his footwear—bright yellow Crocs, worn without socks, a bold fashion choice that made absolutely no sense and yet somehow suited him perfectly.
The absurd contrast between his striking appearance and the ridiculousness of those shoes made something in her chest tighten and soften all at once.
Because that was Tod. Effortlessly magnetic and occasionally ridiculous. Beautiful and grounded. Sharp-eyed and unexpectedly gentle.
And in that moment—shirtless, sleepy-eyed, and wearing banana-colored Crocs—he was utterly, undeniably hers.
"Good morning, ladies," Tod greeted them, his voice carrying that unmistakable, rich morning huskiness that made it sound like a half-whispered promise. It was warm, intimate, unhurried—like velvet poured over gravel—and it sent a soft, involuntary shiver down Maggie's spine.
Still bleary-eyed from sleep but radiating that lazy confidence some people just seemed to wake up with, he made his way toward the small kitchen table where a modest breakfast had been arranged. Toast, sliced fruit, and a carafe of still-steaming coffee sat nestled between jars of jam and a half-empty plate of bacon. Nothing extravagant, just enough comfort to start the day.
Without hesitation, Tod leaned in toward Maggie, placing one hand gently on the back of her chair for balance. His other hand casually brushed her shoulder, his thumb grazing the curve of her neck as he pressed a lingering kiss to her lips. It wasn't hurried or performative—it was soft, slow, and laced with something deeper than physical affection.
His lips tasted faintly of mint and sleep, and she found herself smiling against his mouth, responding instinctively. Her fingers reached up into his tousled, still-damp hair, threading through the mess like it was something she'd done a hundred times before. The familiarity of the gesture wasn't planned—it simply happened, a reflection of the quiet comfort that had bloomed between them overnight.
For a moment, the room stood still, anchored by that quiet exchange.
Then came the unmistakable sound of someone loudly clearing their throat—exaggerated, theatrical, and clearly intended to be heard.
Melinda, still seated and watching them over the rim of her coffee mug, wore a comically scandalized expression. Her eyes were wide, her lips pursed in dramatic disapproval, though the twinkle of amusement in her gaze betrayed her true feelings.
"Ahem! Excuse me, you two!" she exclaimed, her voice rising with mock indignation as she set her mug down with an audible clink. "Some of us are trying to enjoy their perfectly adequate toast without being subjected to a full display of morning-after bliss. Honestly, trying to make me jealous before I've even finished my first cup of coffee?"
Her tone was sharp-edged but laced with unmistakable warmth. Beneath the sarcasm lay a genuine fondness—not just for the spectacle unfolding before her, but for the joy it represented. She had watched Maggie through heartbreak, doubt, and hesitation, and now she was witnessing something new: a gentle, blooming kind of happiness that was harder to fake.
Maggie turned toward her friend with a cheeky grin tugging at her lips, her face glowing in a way that couldn't be concealed.
"Perhaps just a little bit," she replied, her voice teasing but light, effortlessly matching Melinda's energy.
She reached for the bacon sandwich that had been calling to her since Tod's kiss—the crisp edges of the toasted bread golden brown, the scent of savory, smoky bacon wafting up with every movement. Her stomach gave a quiet growl in response, reminding her of just how much energy had been spent the night before.
And though she didn't say it aloud, the truth shimmered just beneath the surface: she felt full in a way she hadn't in a long time—not just with food, but with presence, with feeling, with the kind of warmth that lingered long after the lights went out.
Tod moved with the easy, unhurried grace of someone completely at ease in his surroundings—his every gesture quiet and unassuming, yet filled with an intimacy that was unmistakably rooted in comfort. There was no need for showmanship here, no need to impress. He was simply present, part of this quiet morning in a way that felt natural, like he belonged in this kitchen, with these people, in this moment.
He reached for the glass pitcher resting on the counter, its sides still beaded with condensation. Carefully, he poured himself a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, the vivid, sunlit orange liquid catching the light as it filled the clear tumbler. The sweet, tart scent of citrus burst into the air, blending seamlessly with the warmth of cinnamon, the richness of brewed coffee, and the savory smokiness of bacon.
Dressed in nothing more than his well-worn grey sweatpants and those ridiculous but oddly charming yellow Crocs, Tod looked almost comically domestic—yet the sight only made Maggie's chest flutter. There was something achingly tender in how unguarded he was in that moment.
He grabbed a slice of French toast from the nearby plate—its edges golden and crisp, with flecks of cinnamon dusted like brown sugar snow across the top. Steam still rose from it faintly, and as he took a bite, the crunch gave way to the soft, eggy center, sweet and warm and comforting. It was the kind of breakfast made not for show, but for the soul.
Meanwhile, Melinda—ever the functional one even in her slightly ridiculous duck-patterned pajamas—had claimed her spot at the table and was now fully focused on the colorful bowl of cereal she'd pulled toward herself. It was more than just flakes: a swirl of creamy vanilla yogurt settled in the center, artfully topped with vibrant red slices of fresh strawberries, their scent tangy and sweet.
She inspected it with a raised brow, giving it a cautious, almost skeptical look before spooning up a taste. Her lips curled into a small 'O' of surprise, and a soft, pleased hum escaped her throat.
"Mmm," she murmured, her tone thoughtful. "This actually looks rather appealing. Oh wow—this is surprisingly good!"
From across the room, Maggie—who had been watching with mild interest while nibbling on a piece of toast—perked up at the praise. She pushed back her chair with a scrape and hopped to her feet, the sluggish, luxurious energy from earlier replaced by a new spark of enthusiasm.
"Hey!" she called out, grinning like a kid denied dessert. "Save some of that deliciousness for me!"
Melinda didn't miss a beat. She leaned back in her chair with a devilish smile and a glint in her eye. "Not until you put on some proper attire, Miss 'Rock Island' chic," she replied, nodding toward Maggie's oversized T-shirt with a smirk.
Only then did Maggie realize just how revealing her outfit truly was—how the fabric barely skimmed the tops of her thighs, how one shoulder of the shirt had slipped down, exposing the strap of her bra. A blush rose quickly to her cheeks, warm and blooming, crawling from the base of her neck up to the tips of her ears.
But embarrassment quickly gave way to mischief.
With a laugh, Maggie launched herself at Melinda, arms outstretched in mock outrage. "Give me the bowl, woman!"
Melinda squealed and lifted the bowl above her head, just out of reach, laughing so hard her body shook. Maggie struggled and leapt, half-heartedly wrestling with her friend in a whirlwind of flailing arms, giggles, and exaggerated groans of protest.
The sound of their laughter echoed through the small apartment—genuine, unfiltered, and full of life. The kind of laughter that fills spaces with memory and marks the moment as one worth keeping.
In that brief, chaotic scuffle over cereal and pride, there was something bigger at play. A sense of belonging. Of home.
⁕
"Babe?"
Tod's voice cut through the room's warm bubble of laughter like a ripple disturbing calm water. Though it was spoken casually—almost offhand—the subtle shift in tone wasn't lost on either of the girls. There was something in the way he said it. Something unspoken, threaded just beneath the surface of that single word.
The playful wrestling between Melinda and Maggie came to an abrupt halt, the energy in the room changing instantly. It was as if the air itself took pause. Both women turned their heads in perfect synchrony, their laughter falling away as easily as a dropped blanket.
"Babe?" they echoed in near unison.
The word hung in the air like a foreign object, heavy with implication. It felt misplaced, out of context—like it had slipped in from another conversation, another room, another world entirely. It didn't belong in the established rhythm of their friendship, not yet, and certainly not without warning.
Tod's cheeks colored slightly, a slow blush creeping across his face. It wasn't theatrical or dramatic, just a faint, real warmth that made his normally confident posture soften. He looked away, breaking eye contact for a moment, and rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture that betrayed his unease.
Then, after a short pause, he cleared his throat.
"Don't… don't you think it's probably a good time to, uh, tell her?"
His voice was quiet now, tentative, and the question—though directed at Maggie—was spoken loud enough for Melinda to hear. His eyes returned to Maggie, searching hers with something like hope, or maybe just the need for support.
Melinda's brows furrowed as she sat upright, the remains of her lightheartedness slipping from her face like a mask removed. Her fingers, previously curled around the cereal bowl, slowly loosened as she placed it back down on the table with deliberate care.
Her gaze sharpened.
"Tell me what exactly is going on here?"
Her voice was calm, but edged with something more serious now—a thread of unease and expectation coiled tightly within.
Maggie's shoulders tensed visibly. She glanced down, avoiding both pairs of eyes now, her fingers nervously tugging at the hem of her oversized "Rock Island" T-shirt. The fabric bunched in her hands, her grip tight, like it could somehow shield her from the moment she knew had finally arrived.
She swallowed hard.
"I have…" She paused, her voice cracking slightly. "I mean—we…"
She looked over at Tod, who gave a subtle nod, encouraging her silently.
Maggie inhaled slowly, trying to ground herself in the quiet kitchen that only moments ago had been full of laughter. Her heart beat faster with every word, her courage flickering like a candle in uncertain wind.
"Tod and I… we kind of decided that I'm going to go see my dad today."
The sentence landed softly, but the silence that followed made it echo louder than anything else in the room.
"And, um… the plan is that I'll… you know…"
She took another breath, this one shakier than the last. Her fingers clenched tighter at her shirt, her gaze still glued to the floor beneath her bare feet.
"…ask him for his permission. To, uh…"
Her voice had dropped to barely above a whisper now.
"…to move in with Tod."
And just like that, it was said.
The truth laid bare in the space between them—fragile, trembling, and waiting to be accepted or shattered.
"Move in with Tod?"
Melinda's voice rang out sharply, slicing through the kitchen's earlier warmth like a sudden gust of cold wind. There was disbelief in her tone, yes—but more than that, a piercing sense of betrayal threaded through her words, subtle but unmistakable.
Maggie flinched slightly at the sound, but didn't shy away. Instead, she nodded quickly, as if speed might soften the blow.
"Permanently," she said, the word catching slightly in her throat.
It wasn't just a confirmation—it was a finality. A quiet line drawn in the sand, one that neither of them had seen coming until now. The word hung in the space between them like heavy fog, dense and suffocating, filled with all the things that hadn't yet been said.
Melinda blinked once. Then again.
It was as if her brain had momentarily stopped functioning, as though it refused to accept the information being fed into it. She stared first at Tod, who suddenly found the swirling patterns on the surface of the dining table worthy of deep academic study, then at Maggie—who stood awkwardly, bare toes scuffing shyly against the faded linoleum. Her foot made little invisible circles, as though she was trying to disappear into the floor.
The silence stretched uncomfortably. The brightness of the morning—the scent of cinnamon and coffee, the echo of recent laughter—was fading like a dream being chased away by reality.
Melinda drew in a breath, but it wasn't enough to soothe the tightness growing in her chest.
"Just… give us a single minute, Tod," she said, voice low but firm, brooking no argument. There was no fire in her tone, only a calm that was somehow more unsettling than anger.
Tod, wisely, didn't protest.
Melinda stepped forward and reached for Maggie's arm. Her fingers, though gentle, left no doubt—they were moving, now. She didn't pull Maggie roughly, but there was a quiet authority in the gesture, the kind that made resistance feel pointless.
Maggie followed, her heart beating erratically, her mouth suddenly dry.
Melinda led her down the hallway with brisk steps, the rhythm of her footfalls echoing on the old wooden floor like a ticking clock. Neither of them spoke. The tension was thick, pressing in on all sides.
They stopped in front of a narrow door. Melinda pushed it open without hesitation, the aged hinges letting out a protesting creak that sounded too loud in the silence.
She gestured inside.
"Get in here, Margaret," she said flatly.
Her use of Maggie's full name carried weight—like a childhood memory summoned for discipline. Her voice didn't rise, but it didn't need to. The sharpness of her tone left no room for protest.
Maggie hesitated at the threshold, staring into the small, dimly lit room. It was empty, save for a chair by the window and a folded blanket on the floor. But the room wasn't the point—it was the boundary. A place away from Tod. A place where truth could be laid bare.
With a silent nod, Maggie stepped inside.
Maggie stepped cautiously into the small, sparsely furnished room, her bare feet soundless against the floorboards. The once-lighthearted spark that had danced in her eyes just minutes ago had vanished completely, replaced now by a heavy blend of guilt, unease, and something close to dread. The silence between her and Melinda was immediate and suffocating—thick enough to press against her chest like a weight.
She turned slowly, not daring to take more than a few steps from the door. Her fingers fidgeted nervously at the hem of her oversized T-shirt, and her eyes searched Melinda's face for any sign of softness, any flicker of the friend she had laughed with that morning.
"Melinda, before you say anything—anything at all—please," she began, her voice hushed and raw, quivering with restrained desperation. "Just hear me out. Just give me a few minutes. That's all I'm asking."
Her words came out in a breath, as if speaking them too loudly would make the moment shatter.
Melinda didn't respond at first. She remained near the doorway, still and silent, her posture eerily calm. One arm hung at her side, limp and unmoving. Her expression was unreadable—lips drawn in a tight line, eyes narrowed but unreadable, a mask of control that only someone like Maggie, someone who had known her for years, could sense was hiding a storm underneath.
If Melinda still had both arms, Maggie thought bitterly, she would have them crossed by now—shoulders squared, jaw set, disapproval radiating from every inch of her being. That memory stung.
But Melinda just stared, letting the silence stretch between them like a warning.
Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, she spoke. Her voice was low, flat, edged with cool restraint.
"Alright, Margaret," she said, using Maggie's full name with chilling precision. "You have exactly one minute. Try and explain this… whatever this is. This reckless, completely irrational situation you've suddenly decided to throw yourself into."
Maggie winced but nodded. She could feel the weight of Melinda's judgment, and she didn't blame her. Not really.
"Melinda, please," she repeated, taking a step forward, though she still kept a respectful distance. Her hands were slightly raised, palms out, as if trying to calm a wild animal—or maybe a storm. "I know how it looks. I know it's sudden and maybe even stupid. But I swear to you, this isn't some passing crush or… or rebellion. It's real. I feel—"
Her voice cracked for the first time. She swallowed, took a shaky breath, and forced herself to go on.
"I feel… something I've never felt before. This sense of peace. Of freedom. Like I've been carrying a weight my whole life and, suddenly, I set it down without realizing. With Tod, it's not about the rush or the romance—it's about this strange, quiet sense that I belong somewhere. With him. And it terrifies me, but it also feels right in a way I can't explain."
Melinda's eyes darkened. Her lips pressed tighter.
"You met him two days ago," she said slowly, enunciating every syllable. "thats like Friday, Maggie. You don't know him. Not his past, not his habits, not his true intentions. You don't know if he's dangerous, or manipulative, or—hell—even human."
The sharp edge in her tone sent a chill down Maggie's spine.
"He could be anyone. A sweet-talking sociopath. A charming predator. A damn serial killer for all we know. Or worse," she added, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "He could be a hunter, Maggie."
That last word landed like a blow.
Maggie flinched.
Melinda's face was tight with emotion—concern laced with something fierce and maternal. This wasn't just suspicion; this was fear. The fear of losing someone she loved to a threat she couldn't see clearly, couldn't predict, couldn't control.
"You have no idea who's out there," Melinda continued, her voice trembling now with urgency, "and you've just decided to trust him with everything? With you? You're not being brave, Maggie. You're being reckless."
Silence fell again—thicker than before, heavier with everything that remained unsaid.
"Seriously, Mel? A serial killer? Tod?" Maggie's voice rose with incredulous disbelief, her brows shooting upward as her mouth fell slightly open. The absurdity of the accusation hit her like a slap. "You honestly think that's even remotely possible?" she asked, her tone laced with hurt and defensive confusion.
There was more beneath her words than just disagreement. It wasn't just that Melinda had said it—it was who had said it. Someone who was supposed to know her, trust her judgment, even if they didn't understand it.
Melinda's expression didn't soften. Instead, it hardened. Her jaw clenched tightly, and her narrowed eyes flashed with frustration.
"Maggie, that's not the damn point, is it?" she snapped, her voice cutting through the air like a whip. The control she had been holding onto with a white-knuckled grip was finally starting to crack.
"You're missing what I'm trying to say." Her arms hung stiffly at her sides, her body visibly tense. "This isn't just about Tod being a threat, it's about how fast this is moving, and how little you know him. I don't trust this guy. Not even a little. Something about him just… doesn't sit right with me. He's too…"
She paused, searching for the right words, but they didn't come easily. Her mouth opened, then closed again, the frustration thick on her tongue.
"Too what?" Maggie fired back, arms folded protectively over her chest. Her voice had lost its earlier softness, replaced now with rising heat and raw emotion. "Too nice? Too good-looking? Too… what—successful? Rich? Just spit it out, Mel. What's the real problem here?"
Melinda's face tightened at the interruption. She exhaled slowly—deep and ragged—like someone carrying a burden too heavy for too long. Her shoulders sank just a little, and for the first time, the tough exterior began to slip.
"Listen to me," she said, her voice lower now, steadier but tinged with exhaustion. "I know you're a grown woman. I'm not trying to control your life or tell you how to feel. You're allowed to fall in love or whatever this is. You're allowed to be happy."
She paused, swallowing, as if the next words pained her.
"But, Maggie, this is happening way too fast. You've barely had time to breathe around this man, and now you're talking about moving in? That's not romance, that's a whirlwind. And it can leave damage if you're not careful."
Melinda's voice softened at the edges—her frustration still present, but now shadowed by something more vulnerable. Something closer to fear. "Please… just slow down. Take a breath. Take time. A real amount of time. For yourself. For clarity."
Maggie opened her mouth to respond, her emotions tangled in her throat—guilt, anger, longing, defiance—but before she could form a single word, a sudden knock shattered the moment.
Sharp and deliberate, it echoed through the door like a lightning strike.
Both women froze.
Their heads turned in unison, their gazes locked on the closed door with startled eyes. The room, already heavy with tension, thickened with the weight of the unknown.
There was no mistaking it—whoever was on the other side had been listening. Or waiting.
And neither of them was ready for what would come next.
"Maggie? Everything alright in there?"
Tod's voice filtered in through the closed wooden door, muffled but unmistakable. It carried a warmth, a kind of gentle concern that might have sounded sweet to a stranger, but to Melinda, it was laced with something else—something harder to place.
Inside the small room, Maggie's shoulders tensed. She turned slightly toward the door, her mouth parting as if to answer, then hesitated. The moment stretched thin.
"Yeah… just… give me one more minute, Tod," she finally called out, her voice faltering at the edges. It came out tighter than she intended—strained, as if she were trying too hard to sound casual.
She turned back to Melinda slowly, and her entire expression softened. Her defenses slipped, revealing something gentler, more vulnerable beneath. Her brows lifted slightly, and the corners of her mouth pulled into a small, earnest smile.
"Melinda," she began, voice steady but thick with emotion, "I know you're only saying all of this because you care. Because you're scared for me. I see that. I do."
She stepped closer, her gaze unwavering. "You've always had my back. Through everything. And I need you to know how much I value that. I don't take it for granted, not for one second."
She reached out carefully, taking Melinda's hand in her own. The contact was gentle, reassuring—deliberate. Her thumb moved in a slow, comforting circle across her friend's skin.
"But you don't have to worry about me right now," Maggie continued, her voice deepening with conviction. "Not this time. I've really thought about it, more than you might realize. And… I've made up my mind."
Her lips quirked into a small, nostalgic smile. "This feels right, Mel. Not just exciting or new—but right. I don't know how to explain it. It's not just butterflies… it's peace. When I'm around him, I feel like I can finally breathe."
She leaned in and pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to Melinda's cheek—soft, sisterly, familiar. It was a gesture meant to bridge the emotional distance that had crept between them. A silent plea not to let this moment become a wall.
Then, drawing in a steadying breath, Maggie turned toward the door.
She opened it slowly, and there he was.
Tod stood just outside, leaning casually against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world. His smile was effortless, every bit the image of a man who knew he was welcome. Confidence clung to him like an expensive cologne—elegant, practiced, and just faintly disarming.
"Everything okay?" he asked softly, his tone smooth and friendly.
Melinda's eyes narrowed just slightly, catching the way his gaze flicked to her, then back to Maggie. He offered a small wave, nothing overly familiar—just a polite gesture. But there was something in the way his green eyes lingered on her for a beat too long. It wasn't overt. It wasn't rude.
But it was calculated.
Melinda's instincts, honed over years of reading people's intentions beneath their words, tightened like a warning bell in her chest.
"We were thinking of heading out to do a little shopping," Tod said, his attention shifting fully to Maggie now, his voice light, casual. "Is there anything you might need while we're out?"
On the surface, it was a harmless question—thoughtful, even.
But Melinda wasn't watching his words. She was watching his eyes.
And something in the way they lingered, in the unspoken understanding that seemed to pass between him and Maggie, made her skin prickle with unease.
It was subtle. Fleeting.
But Melinda had learned long ago that sometimes, the most dangerous truths hid in those fleeting moments—just beneath a perfect smile.
Melinda's sharp gaze flicked between them—first to Maggie's soft, almost dreamy expression, then to Tod's easy, too-perfect smile. Her eyes narrowed the slightest bit, not in overt aggression, but in quiet suspicion.
Something inside her stirred, and not in a way she welcomed.
A sudden prickling sensation ran down her spine, subtle at first but growing in intensity, like cold fingers tracing the length of her back. It was the kind of feeling that didn't come with an explanation, only instinct—deep, ancient, and urgent.
She couldn't place the source of it. Not exactly. Tod's expression was friendly, even warm. His posture was relaxed, unthreatening. On the surface, he was everything a woman might want—charming, considerate, and undeniably attractive.
But Melinda wasn't a woman who judged by surface appearances. She couldn't afford to be.
Years of navigating the unpredictable dangers of the supernatural world had sharpened her senses to a razor's edge. Her witch instincts, though invisible to the ordinary eye, had been her lifeline—always reliable, always right. They whispered now, low and insistent, urging her to look closer, to not be swayed by appearances or casual conversation.
There was something off about him. Something too smooth. Too polished.
A subtle dissonance lived beneath the charm he wore like a well-tailored suit. It was like listening to a beautiful melody played ever-so-slightly off-key—easy to miss, unless you knew what to listen for.
And Melinda was listening.
Her heart tightened as she glanced once more at Maggie, whose defenses were clearly lowered, whose heart was clearly open. Maggie, who had always been Melinda's protector in their younger, messier years. Who had held her hand through nightmares, through heartbreaks, through moments where the world made less sense than magic ever could.
And now… it was Melinda's turn.
She couldn't explain it—not yet—but her gut was screaming. And she had learned, sometimes painfully, that ignoring those warnings came with a cost. One she wasn't willing to risk. Not when Maggie was involved. Not when Maggie's happiness—or safety—might be hanging in the balance.
"Actually, you know what?"
Melinda's voice cut through the air, cool and sharp like the blade of a knife.
"I think I'll come with you both."
The way she said it left no room for debate. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a declaration.
Before either Tod or Maggie could respond, she moved forward, brushing past her friend with determined steps. As she reached the doorway, her shoulder knocked hard against Tod's—intentionally, unmistakably.
The contact wasn't accidental. It was a silent message.
A warning.
Melinda didn't flinch.
Tod barely moved, but the flicker in his eyes—brief, too fast for Maggie to catch—didn't escape her notice. It was subtle, but she saw it. The way his jaw tensed for a split second. The flash of something colder, something less practiced behind his smooth mask.
And just like that, Melinda knew.
Her instincts weren't wrong.
Something was there. And she was going to find out exactly what.
Tod winced—barely. Just the faintest recoil. But it was there, a tiny crack in an otherwise flawless exterior. For a brief moment, the charm slipped. The confident, practiced smile faltered, his features tightening ever so slightly in response to the sharp contact of Melinda's shoulder against his.
It wasn't pain that crossed his face—it was the shock of being challenged. A twitch of discomfort, a flicker of something that passed so quickly most wouldn't notice. But Melinda wasn't most people.
She caught it.
And she didn't look away.
Her one good eye fixed on him with the unflinching intensity of someone who had seen too much, who had fought battles in shadows most people never knew existed. The way she stared at him—sharp, calculating, quietly fierce—made it impossible to dismiss her as just a friend tagging along.
She wasn't merely tagging along. She was guarding.
Her gaze held no kindness, no attempt at civility. Only suspicion—cold and deliberate.
Then, without making a sound, her lips moved.
Slow. Controlled. Intentionally clear.
I'm watching you.
The words weren't spoken, but they echoed between them louder than any shout could. The air in the narrow hallway thickened, the tension stretching between them like a drawn wire, ready to snap.
Tod didn't respond with words either. He didn't need to. He gave a small nod—almost imperceptible—just enough to acknowledge her silent challenge without escalating it.
His expression remained neutral. Too neutral. His smile had returned, but it lacked warmth now, stretched across his face like something stitched on rather than felt.
Melinda caught that, too.
She didn't smile back.
Instead, she simply stood there for an extra second, letting her presence settle like a weight in the air before turning to follow Maggie down the hall. Her entire posture radiated purpose—rigid shoulders, steady gait, head held high.
She wasn't going anywhere.
Not until she understood who Tod really was. Not until she was sure Maggie wasn't about to step into something she wouldn't be able to crawl out of.
She would be the shadow behind them, watching his hands, his words, his expressions.
Because someone had to be.
And if he even thought about hurting her best friend…
She would be ready.
******
Note: The City Council of Unexpected Roommate Agreements would like to advise all parties involved that major life decisions should ideally be discussed before the morning after. Side effects of spontaneous cohabitation proposals may include hurt feelings and weaponized breakfast cereal.