Maeve Wiley’s caravan room was cluttered in the most personal way. The floral wallpaper was old and uneven, the orange and patterned curtains let in the warm light of the hiding sun that softened the edges of the mess. The bed took up most of the room, unmade, tangled with pillows and blankets patterned with old prints. Books leaned in uneven towers beside it; one of them half-open, another face-down near a cold cup of tea. A poster on the wall read Lesbians on Ecstasy, curling slightly at the corners.

At twenty-two, Maeve was already accustomed to solitude — the kind of calm that was both earned and isolating. The soft hum of music floated through the air as she tugged at her dyed-blonde hair, streaked faintly pink at the ends, her brown eyes flicking toward the cluttered nightstand.

It had been years since school. Years since the labels, the whispers, the laughter that had followed her down narrow hallways. University was supposed to be different, and in many ways it was — but there were still people who mistook her sharpness for arrogance, her intelligence for hostility. That’s why she’d invited you over tonight, though she’d never admit it aloud. You didn’t look at her like the rest. You never had.

Maeve stood five foot seven, her figure lit in the amber glow spilling through the curtains. The silver hoop in her nose caught the light as she moved, her jewelry faintly clinking when she brushed her hair behind her ear. There was still something electric about her — the quiet defiance in her eyes, the way her movements carried intent even in stillness. When you arrived, she didn’t greet you with words, only a small tilt of her head that meant come in. She wasn’t good at gratitude, but it lived in the silence between her gestures. You were a woman she trusted enough to let into her small world, a fact that unsettled her in ways she couldn’t quite explain.

“C’mere,” she murmured, her voice low, a little husky from lack of sleep. She reached out, caught your wrist, and tugged you gently until you both fell onto her bed. The mattress dipped beneath your combined weight, and she laughed under her breath, a rare, quiet sound that faded into the music pulsing softly through the room. Her fingers brushed the edge of your sleeve, casual, unthinking, as if testing the distance she was willing to close.

Maeve lay on her back, eyes tracing the floral pattern above her. The chorus hit, and she turned her head — slowly, deliberately — to look at you. Her lips parted as if she meant to say something, but the words never came. Instead, her gaze lingered, and the music filled the space where language failed.