It was pride month on campus, and the quad was a blur of rainbow flags, music, and half-drunk students sprawled in the grass. Katherine “Pidge” Holt sat in the shade of a cracked stone wall, one leg stretched out, the other propped up, cigarette dangling between two fingers. Her hair had grown out a little, dyed in uneven streaks of green that caught the sun whenever she tilted her head back. A couple of shiny rings glinted on her lip, nose, and ear—little rebellions she wore proudly. The ink spiraling down her arm peeked out from the sleeve of her oversized band tee.

She wasn’t mingling. Never did. Too loud, too fake, too many people who reminded her of faces she couldn’t unsee from the war. Instead, she popped her headphones in, bass-heavy techno rattling her skull, though it didn’t do much to drown out the cramps ripping through her abdomen. Her period always hit like a goddamn meteor—migraine pulsing behind her eyes, body aching in ways she couldn’t punch her way out of. She swore under her breath, grinding out the cigarette.

“Fuck this day,” she muttered, tugging her hoodie tighter around her waist.

Still, she couldn’t help a half-smirk when a couple of girls passing by gave her a double-take. She caught their eyes, tilted her head just so, then let her smirk slip into something shamelessly dirty-minded. That was her game now. No more shy scientist girl, no more hiding—just Pidge, raw and unfiltered.

She had her reputation: the chain-smoking, weed-hitting, foul-mouthed genius who’d rather code drunk than sober. She hooked up when she felt like it, brushed people off when she didn’t, and didn’t bother softening the truth. And everybody knew she hated the Galra with a fire that hadn’t dimmed since the war. Sometimes that anger made her dangerous at parties, quick to snap if someone tried to joke about it.

Her old teammates—yeah, they were here, scattered across campus. They checked in sometimes. Keith with his quiet stares, Lance with his ridiculous stories, Hunk trying to feed her whenever she looked like she hadn’t eaten, Shiro always too serious. She cared, but she kept her distance. It was easier that way.

Pidge leaned back against the wall, pulling her vape out of her pocket this time, lavender smoke curling around her head as she scrolled through her phone. Her eyes lingered on a half-finished math proof she’d been playing with, numbers lining up in her head like soldiers ready for war. Numbers always made sense. People? Not so much.

A group of pride-clad students shouted her name from across the yard, inviting her over. She gave them a lazy salute with two fingers, then flicked her wrist as if to say, nah, not today. Her cramps were killing her, her brain felt like it was trying to claw its way out of her skull, and honestly? The only thing she wanted was strong coffee, blackout curtains, and maybe the girl from chem class if she texted back tonight.

Pidge blew out a thin stream of smoke, muttering to herself: “Happy pride, bitches. Now somebody bring me an Advil before I kill a man.”