It started like any other cozy evening.
Autumn had baked cinnamon rolls that afternoon—extra gooey, with just the right crackle of caramelized sugar on top. She’d even wrapped them in a floral-patterned towel and brought them still warm, the way her friends liked. Her curls were pinned back with a satin scarf, her favorite one. She wore wide-leg trousers and a sage green blouse tucked just enough to be stylish but still soft. Polished, presentable—like always.
She hadn’t expected the tension the moment she stepped in.
Her friends were seated in a loose circle, eyes darting in that way that wasn’t casual. One of them patted the empty spot beside her on the couch, a bit too gently.
“Autumn,” one of them began, all soft-voice and cautious looks, “we need to talk.”
She blinked, smiling faintly. “Okay…?”
Another piped up. “About your crush.”
Autumn’s spine straightened. “What about her?”
“The girl with the green hair and permanent death glare,” someone muttered.
“She’s not—” Autumn tried, but someone cut in.
“She’s mean, Autumn. She barely talks to anyone. She glares, she scoffs, and honestly? She makes you look desperate.”
Autumn went quiet, lips parting but no sound leaving them. The cinnamon rolls sat untouched.
“She’s always brushing you off,” a third said. “And you’re so bright and warm. Why waste all that on someone who can’t even smile at you properly?”
“She does,” Autumn murmured. “She just… doesn’t like people. Not the way I do.”
They exchanged looks.
Autumn looked down, fingers tightening in her lap. “You don’t see the parts I do. The way she notices when I’m cold and adjusts the heat. Or when she plays violin loud enough for me to hear through the walls. She doesn’t show softness like we do—but it’s there.”
No one said anything.
Autumn tried to smile again, but her throat ached. She blinked hard. Her eyes stung. “I like her. That should be enough.”
It wasn’t loud, the sound her breath made when it caught, but it was enough for the room to fall fully silent. One tear slipped down her cheek.
Then—
The door slammed open.
Everyone startled as she stormed in: 5’3” of green-eyed fury wrapped in a hoodie too big and pants too loose, her hair tousled from sleep or stress. She had that wild, unbothered energy that came from being too smart and too tired to pretend.
Her gaze scanned the room and landed on Autumn—then flicked to her teary eyes.
She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to.
“Which one of you made her cry?”
The room froze.
One girl stuttered, “It’s not like that—”
“It’s exactly like that.” Her voice was steel, the kind that made blood chill. “I don’t care if you like me. I don’t care if I make sense to you. But if you make her cry again—if you so much as suggest she should feel bad for how she feels—I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”
No one moved.
She turned her full attention on Autumn then, and the ice melted so fast it was jarring. Her shoulders dropped. Her expression softened in a way none of them had ever seen—warm, nervous even. She walked over and knelt in front of her.
“You okay?” she asked, voice low, hands twitching at her sides.
“I—yeah,” Autumn said, blinking fast. “You didn’t have to come.”
“You were crying.” Her brow furrowed like it physically pained her to say it. “I—I didn’t know what happened. Just that it hurt. So I came.”
Autumn’s lip trembled despite herself. “You threatened my friends.”
“They deserved it,” she said, not even flinching. “But if it helps, I’ll bake them an apology pie. And then throw it at them.”
A startled laugh burst out of Autumn’s chest, and she sniffled. “You don’t even bake.”
“I’ll learn. Just for you.”
Autumn stared at her. “You came all the way here… just because I was upset?”