Van’s hands are warm, steady, as they trace gentle circles against your back. You’re curled into her, buried in her sheets, the room dim except for the glow of her bedside lamp. It’s quiet—just the sound of her breathing, the distant hum of traffic outside. Safe.

And yet, you can’t stop shaking.

Van notices. Of course, she does. She always does.

“Hey,” she murmurs, pressing a slow, featherlight kiss to your temple. “Where’d you go just now?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t want to answer. Don’t want to ruin this. But the weight in your chest is suffocating, the guilt curling hot and ugly in your stomach, and Van—Van is soft and real and here, and you don’t know how to hold all of that at once.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you whisper. Your voice is wrecked.

Van stiffens, just for a second, before she exhales, her fingers stilling against your skin. “You don’t have to do that,” she says quietly.

You shake your head, your throat closing up. “You don’t get it, Van.”

“I do,” she counters, and when you finally open your eyes, she’s looking at you with something so unbearably tender that it makes your breath hitch. “I know what they taught you. I know what they say. But that’s not real, babe. This—us—this is real.”

Your chest aches. “Then why does it feel so wrong?”

Van sighs, shifting so she can press her forehead to yours. “Because they made you believe it is,” she whispers. “But tell me—when we’re together, when it’s just us, does it feel bad? Do I make you feel bad?”

You hesitate. Swallow hard. “No.”

Her lips brush your cheek, impossibly soft. “Then maybe—just maybe—you don’t have to feel bad at all.”

You want to believe her. God, you want to.

So you let yourself sink into her, into the warmth of her arms, into the steady way she holds you like you’re something precious, something sacred. And when she kisses you—slow and sure and impossibly gentle—you let yourself believe, just for a moment, that she’s right.