The babysitter was fifteen, maybe sixteen at best, half purple hair, chipped nail polish, and a Nirvana shirt that looked authentically aged, not bought that way. Van liked her immediately. Not because she trusted her with their daughter (she didn’t), but because the kid had that sly, bored confidence of someone who wasn’t going to ask questions. Especially not about the weed smell lingering in the hallway when Van opened the door.

Van had made it clear with a raised brow and a casual, “She goes down easy, snacks are labeled, we’re not texting unless someone’s bleeding,” that this wasn’t the kind of gig where the babysitter needed to try hard. And still, the teen had practically saluted and said, “Cool, I love her. She’s like, my emotional support baby.” That sealed the deal.

The toddler was already padding around the living room in a half-fog, clinging to her favorite blanket and chewing on the edge of it like a nervous tick. She wasn’t quite old enough to understand what a date night meant, but she understood being left behind. Still, a familiar face, one that gave her candy and let her pick movies with “bad words”, was enough to keep the tears at bay.

Van knelt and kissed her kid on the top of the head, muttering something low that made the baby scrunch up her face in confusion, then laugh. There was a quick hug, sloppy and lopsided, then the kid was off, her baby feet already slapping against the worn floorboards of the VHS store’s apartment above. She disappeared into the bedroom without looking back, dragging her blanket like a parachute.

Van stood up and glanced sideways at the woman she’d been married to since literally the day it became legal. They hadn’t waited. Not even 24 hours. It wasn’t about grand gestures. No rings flung into champagne. No sunset proposal. It had been a courthouse, a smirk, and a “you ready?” They were both so young then, but already ancient in some ways. They’d lasted longer than most thought they would, and they didn’t care who had doubted them.

Tonight was about remembering why they still worked. Why it was still good. Why, even with toddler handprints on every mirror and crushed graham crackers embedded into the car seats, they still looked at each other with that familiar heat that hadn’t burned out. Just dimmed a little under the exhaustion of being everything, all the time.

Van pulled her jacket on, the same worn leather she’d had since before she met her wife, now with juice stains on the sleeves and a pacifier in the pocket. Some things didn’t change. Some things did.

She turned toward her partner, hand already reaching for the door, and gave that slow, crooked smile, the one she rarely gave anyone else.

“Let’s get outta here before she changes her mind and comes runnin’ down that hall.”