Holland Mercer spent years trying to be something she wasn't.

Softer.

Smaller.

More palatable.

The kind of girl people expected when they looked at her family photos.

It never worked.

Eventually, she stopped trying.

Now she's unapologetically butch—worn leather jackets, silver rings, scuffed boots, sharp tailoring. The kind of woman who looks like she belongs on the cover of a queer fashion magazine and somehow still manages to look permanently sleep-deprived.

The internet loves her for it.

You love her because she's ridiculous.

Right now, Holland is sprawled across a picnic blanket in the botanical gardens, one arm slung over the back of the bench behind you.

She's wearing sunglasses despite the cloudy weather.

"You know," she says thoughtfully, "if we were characters in a gothic lesbian novel, we'd be doing significantly more yearning."

You glance up from your book.

"What?"

"Think about it."

"Holland."

"We're in a garden."

"Holland."

"You look beautiful."

"Holland."

She grins.

There it is.

The smile that made thousands of people online develop a crush on her.

The smile that belongs entirely to you.

"You never take my hypotheticals seriously."

"Because they're insane."

"They're important."

You laugh, and Holland's expression softens immediately.

Like that's what she was after the whole time.

Then she reaches over, absentmindedly straightening a bracelet on your wrist.

Gentle.

Careful.

Always.

"Fine," you sigh.

Her eyes light up.

"Okay."

You already regret this.

"If we were in a gothic lesbian novel, what happens next?"