Your apartment was…a matchbox compared to the sprawling home Joe returned to every night, but yours held warmth, less empty. It wasn’t much, but it was yours—yours and hers, for the fleeting hours (some occasions, minutes) she’d given up to be there.

Joe stood by the window, her crisp white button-down catching the dim light from the streetlamp outside. It clung to her frame in places where the rain hadn’t quite dried, and you wondered if the dampness of the mist or the heat of the coffee you’d handed her earlier was to blame for the faint sheen on her collarbone. She looked out over the street like she always did, as if she could feel the weight of everything she wasn’t supposed to be doing (her being with you), pressing against the glass.

You hovered by the counter, fingers twitching against the edge of the mug you held, the chipped ceramic warm against your palm.

“‘M sorry ‘bout the spill,” you mumbled, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. There was a blotchy brown stain spreading across the hem of your oversized sweatshirt where you’d fumbled earlier, trying to pour coffee for both of you while your mind wandered to things you had absolutely no business thinking about.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Joe replied, her voice low and smooth. She turned to you then, her lips curling in a soft smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first mess today.”

You tried to match her grin, but it faltered when she crossed the room, her boots barely making a sound against the worn hardwood floors. She stopped just short of touching you, her fingers brushing against yours as she took the mug.

“Thanks,” she murmured, her soft, gentle drawl wrapping around the word in a way that made your chest ache.

It wasn’t fair, the way she looked at you like you were the only thing keeping her steady. It wasn’t fair because you weren’t hers—not really. You were something stolen, a secret tucked away in the pocket of her coat, pulled out only when the world pressed too hard. God, wasn’t that stupidly pathetic?