Roxie paused just outside the door.
She turned, gently catching Dianna's hand. Her touch was feather-light. Her voice, quieter still.
"Can we… can we have a second?"
Dianna blinked. "Uh. Yeah?"
Roxie didn't speak right away. She just looked at her. Really looked.
And something shifted.
Whatever had been holding her up—the armor, the poise, the practiced smiles—wavered. Not dramatically. Just enough to let the weight through.
"I'm sorry," Roxie said.
Simple. Honest. No grand flourish. No tearful regret.
Just: "I'm sorry."
Dianna frowned, unsure. "For what?"
Roxie looked down. Just for a second.
"For *that*. I didn't ask," she said. "I didn't mean to take something from you."
Her eyes came back up, wide and serious, shimmering with something too deep to name. "You didn't tell me that was okay. I should have apologized immediately. Or said something. Or made sure."
And then—
"Oh my God."
The words barely left Dianna's lips.
Because Roxie—sweet, towering, careful Roxie—was trembling. Not visibly, not shaking apart, but Dianna could feel it. In the slight tremor of her fingers. In the way she couldn't quite meet her eyes. In the sudden, heartbreaking stillness.
And all at once, Dianna's brain screamed.
Oh no. She thinks I was freaked out. She thinks I'm upset. She thinks I didn't want it.
Her heart shot into her throat. Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.
You idiot. You said something dramatic and she's taking it literally and now she's spiraling because she thinks she hurt you and—
"Roxie—" she started.
But Roxie was already talking. Not fast. Just quietly, with a kind of desperate clarity.
"I never wanted to make you feel small," she said. "Or powerless. Or… like that wasn't yours to choose. What happened." Roxie shook her head and started talking with her hands. "I know I crossed a line. I just… I got carried away. And then I saw you and I realized I never made sure you were okay. And I should have."
Dianna couldn't stand it.
Couldn't stand the way Roxie was holding her breath like she was braced for judgment. Like Dianna might turn around and walk away.
So she stepped in.
And placed her hand over Roxie's. Not forceful. Not flirtatious.
Just there.
"I'm okay," she said. Soft. Steady. "Hey. I'm okay."
Roxie finally looked at her.
Dianna's voice dropped to a whisper.
"You didn't take anything."
Then, a faint smile, just enough to soften the crackle of her nerves.
"You just… drove like an angel and turned me into a puddle. That's all."
Roxie's lips twitched, like she almost believed her.
Almost.
So Dianna did what she never did. What terrified her more than lust, more than God, more than honesty.
She squeezed Roxie's hand.
And let it be held.
Roxie nodded, finally. Just once.
It was small, but real.
And Dianna felt the shift in her—the moment her breath evened out, the weight in her shoulders eased just a bit, like she'd been allowed to put something down. Not all of it. But enough.
They stood like that, just outside the door. Holding hands. Breathing.
And then it hit.
Like a crack of lightning behind Dianna's eyes.
Oh.
Oh God.
It hadn't occurred to her before—not through the heat of the ride, not the pulse of want, not even when Roxie looked at her like she was afraid she'd broken something sacred—
But now?
Now it settled into her chest like a stone in a lake.
That might've been her first time.
Not in the usual sense. But in this way.
Her first time making someone lose control. Her first time watching someone come apart at the seams because of her. Her first time holding that kind of power and seeing what it did.
And it had been her.
Dianna Annabeth Rodgers. Little Aussie punk gremlin. Queen of bad decisions. Dark Princess of Bite Me Harder.
She had been the first person Roxie made feel that way.
And Roxie wasn't brushing it off. She wasn't laughing. She wasn't pretending it didn't matter.
She was looking her in the eye and apologizing for taking something she hadn't been given.
Like she was holding a fragile thing that might break if she breathed wrong.
And Dianna realized, with a slow, creeping horror—
Roxie thought it meant something.
Not just the act. The feeling. The intention.
And she didn't know what to do with that. Dianna didn't know how to be the kind of person someone felt responsible for. She didn't know how to be the soft thing. The sacred thing.
She was supposed to be the storm. The danger. The one who wrecked hearts and strutted off smiling.
Not this.
Not this… preciousness.
Her throat went dry.
This girl is treating me like I matter.
Like I'm something she should've asked for.
Dianna looked up at Roxie, suddenly hyper-aware of how enormous she was, how tender her expression had become, how scared she'd been—not of rejection, but of hurting her.
And for the first time in a very long time, Dianna felt something she didn't have a name for.
It wasn't guilt.
It wasn't love. Not yet.
It was potential. And it was terrifying.
"...Oh," she whispered, the syllable slipping out before she could catch it.
Roxie tilted her head slightly, concern flickering in those soft dark eyes.
Dianna forced a grin. A sharp one. Defensive. "Nothin'. Just—uh—remembered we've got people waiting inside."
Her voice cracked just a bit.
Roxie smiled, small and warm. "Right."
She let Dianna's hand go gently, and Dianna just stood there for a second. Staring at her own palm like it had held something radioactive.
Because maybe it had.
Because maybe this woman was dangerous.
And maybe Dianna didn't know how to walk away from that.
The door swung open, and the world changed.
Neon hit her first—cheap pinks and greens, buzzing from old bulbs in plastic casings. Then the smell: popcorn grease, spilled beer, bleach. And the sound—oh, the sound. Microphone feedback. Laughter. A badly sung Bon Jovi chorus warbled from a back room like a dying siren.
It was awful.
It was perfect.
And Dianna was not okay.
Her feet moved automatically. One step. Then another. The others filtered in around her—Elizabeth, all poise and psychic precision, Jorge still slurping from his bucket-sized slushie and grinning like he'd stumbled into an episode of The L Word with bonus pyrotechnics.
Roxie followed last, a little too careful, a little too formal, like she wasn't sure she was allowed to exist in spaces like this. And Dianna—
Dianna felt like she was coming apart at the seams.
Because that conversation outside hadn't left her.
That tremble in Roxie's voice. That apology. That care. It clung to her skin like static. No, not static—like silk. Soft and expensive and so rare it made her nervous to even touch it.
She didn't know what to do with it.
She wanted to. She wanted to just lean into it, let herself be the girl who got treated like gold, the girl who was allowed to be precious.
But her body didn't know how to relax into that kind of softness.
Her soul didn't know how to believe it.
She'd been through too many nights with too many women who wanted nothing but the performance. The punk charm. The edge. The joke.
Roxie wanted something else. And Dianna didn't know who she was in that story.
She slid into a booth near the back, as the others faded back to go find the others. It was exactly what you expect in that kind of place. Dimly lit. Tacky faux-leather seating.
She could still feel Roxie's hand from outside.
I was her first. Not in the way that counted for most. But maybe in the way that counted most of all.
Roxie was standing there trying to figure out what she was supposed to do, like a girl who had wandered in by accident.
And then—
"WHOA… Hey big momma!"
The voice hit like a bass drop in a cathedral. Loud, smooth, and far too confident.
Roxie startled—just barely. Not enough to flinch, but enough for Dianna to see it. The subtle jerk of her shoulders. The way she turned too quickly on instinct, like she hadn't heard that tone directed at her in a long time. Or maybe ever.
And then—there he was.
Tyrel Scottsdale. Tiny.
Six and a half feet of beautiful chocolate nonsense in a sleeveless crop-top and leather pants. Dreadlocks pulled back with feathers woven in, big gold hoops swinging as he sauntered forward with the swagger of a man who had never once heard the word "humble."
He hadn't seen Dianna.
He didn't need to. Not when Roxie was standing there—seven feet two, in heels, black skirt swaying, the very picture of vintage glamour and Amazonian temptation. She practically glowed under the karaoke bar's cheap neon like a celestial pin-up from another dimension.
And Tiny?
Tiny was enchanted.
"Damn," he said, grinning. "What planet did you fall off of, gorgeous?"
Roxie blinked. She looked like someone had just whacked her with a Bible.
"Oh—I—um…" Her voice pitched upward, high and sweet, like someone trying very hard to pretend they were not being flirted with by a living protein shake. "Hi! Sorry. I'm—uh—"
"Oh, don't apologize, please don't apologize," he said, leaning an elbow casually on the bar near her. "That voice? That face? You could commit tax fraud and I'd let you off with a hug."
Roxie sputtered.
Dianna, behind them, very quietly imploded.
She didn't say a word.
She couldn't.
Because she was still a step behind, still processing the emotional whiplash of almost breaking apart on the sidewalk outside—and now watching some walking thirst trap try to pick up her… what? Crush? Roommate? Everything but girlfriend?
Roxie wasn't stopping him.
She was being nice.
Because of course she was. That's who she was. Soft-spoken. Polite. Unsure what to do with attention like this but too sweet to shut it down hard.
And Tiny? He wasn't being gross. Not really. He was just… loud. Flirty. Beautiful. Charming in the most himbo way imaginable.
Which made it worse.
Because he wasn't being inappropriate. He was just seeing something radiant and responding with honest awe.
The same way Dianna had.
Which meant he wasn't wrong.
And that… that burned.
Dianna's hands curled into fists at her sides. Her stomach knotted. Her pulse kicked up like it wanted to bolt out of her neck and go hit a wall.
She was not mad at Tiny.
He hadn't done anything wrong.
He didn't know.
He didn't know that this impossibly beautiful woman he was throwing his best lines at had just nearly begged Dianna to take her home.
That Roxie's voice had shaken when she said she wouldn't say no.
That she'd touched Dianna like she was afraid she'd break her.
That she'd apologized, with gospel sincerity in her eyes, for giving Dianna too much pleasure.
He didn't know that Dianna had almost fallen in love right there on the sidewalk.
He just saw a hot girl and said hi.
And Dianna?
Dianna suddenly hated everything.
She hated her fluttering chest. Hated her spiraling brain. Hated how small she felt in this moment, and how badly she wanted to shove herself between them and say, No. No, she's mine.
But Roxie wasn't hers.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But she wanted to be so... so she shot out of the booth like a mesh-wrapped cannon round.
Roxie's breath had caught. Dianna could tell Her entire brain had blue-screened.
She blinked.
"Pardon…?"
"You walk in here lookin' like a dream someone had in a jazz club," he said, tone low and playful, not crude—just admiring. "What's your name, darlin'? You got a man?"
Roxie opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Her face, already pink, went crimson. She ducked her head with a soft, helpless little laugh—half mortified, half charmed—and was clearly scrambling for anything to say.
And that was when Dianna rushed in, a gallant knight in fishnets and leather.
She put a stop to it with the joyless clarity of a woman watching her favorite toy being eyed by someone with much bigger arms.
She stepped right into the space between them with a grin sharp as a box cutter.
"Oh, no you don't."
Tiny blinked. "Huh?"
Dianna slipped her arm around Roxie's waist and leaned in like a jungle cat with a wedding ring.
"Hands off, Stretch. This tall glass of 'Jesus take the wheel' is mine tonight."
Roxie made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. Dianna's hand at her hip sent her heart into full-blown Gregorian chant. Dianna felt bad... Well not really. A wolfish grin spread across her lips.
Tiny raised both hands with a grin. "My bad, boss lady!"He reached out and tousled Dianna's hair, eliciting a playful hiss from Dianna. "Didn't see the warning label."
"She's seven feet tall and glowing," Dianna deadpanned. "I've only been describing that for weeks."
"Sorry," he said with a laugh. "The room went fuzzy after the height."
"She's wearing heels and I still had to work for that. Go flirt with someone less likely to make me kill you." she told him, pointing to her own eyes then his.
Tiny mock-saluted. "You're terrifying. I respect that. I'm gonna go get a beer and reevaluate my life choices."
He turned and strolled toward the bar, hands in pockets, chuckling to himself.
Dianna let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
Then realized her arm was still around Roxie.
Who was melting.
"Oh," Roxie whispered. "You—um…"
Dianna leaned in and whispered, just for her: "What? I saw a man about to make a very poor decision."
Roxie's lips parted.
And Dianna—feeling a little like the queen of the world and a little like she might actually cry—said, soft and stupid:
"C'mon, babe. Let's go sing something loud and terrible before I explode."
Dianna guided her back to the booth by the hand and let Roxie climb in first. Roxie sank into the corner booth, her long legs folding with a practiced grace that didn't quite mask how shaken she still was. She exhaled slowly, trying to ground herself, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear as she glanced up—and there Dianna was.
For a beat, neither of them spoke.
Then Dianna's body moved without asking permission.
One second she was standing. The next, she was sliding in—into Roxie. Onto her. Straddling her lap like it was the most obvious seat in the world. Not beside her. Not across from her. On her.
And then time stopped.
Roxie froze mid-breath, hands fluttering up like she wasn't sure whether to catch Dianna or just keep existing.
And Dianna? She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't believe what she'd just done.
Oh my God oh my God what the fuck are you doing Rodgers—
You just sat on a walking cathedral.
Her thoughts screamed for an escape hatch. Do something, anything—laugh, lie, pretend it was a dare, yell "surprise cuddle attack," just move! But her body? Her traitorous, stupid, so-comfortable body?
It liked where it was.
She could feel Roxie's arms, hesitating like a question—hovering at her waist but not holding. Not yet. Not until Dianna gave some kind of sign.
She could feel her own pulse thundering in her neck. She could feel Roxie breathe.
Dianna stayed very, very still.
Abort mission. Reverse mount. Exit the cuddle throne before the archangels descend—
And then Roxie touched her. Softly. Steady. Two hands at her waist, not grabbing or clinging—just holding. Like it was okay. Like she was okay.
That was worse. That was so much worse.
Because now she felt warm. Safe. Held. And she could hear Roxie's heartbeat, slow and sure beneath her ear, steady as a drumbeat in a sacred procession.
This woman. This towering, blushing contradiction of soft strength and quiet faith. This girl who could walk like thunder and pray like a monk and make pancakes that ruined lives.
Dianna lowered her head against Roxie's shoulder, just for a second. Just to breathe her in. She smelled like lavender and fresh air and ozone, and everything inside Dianna fluttered like kicked-up dust.
And then—half laughing, half whispering, more prayer than statement—she let the words fall out of her mouth:
"…I am so screwed."
---
Roxie startled—just a hitch of breath, a blink too long—but she didn't flinch.
She didn't move at first. Didn't even raise her hands. Like if she made a single wrong motion, Dianna would take off like a feral cat that had realized it was being cuddled.
But then, slowly—so slowly—it became a decision.
She moved her hands with care, palms hovering just long enough to ask for permission without words. Then she shifted Dianna, just a little, cradling her with impossible ease. Dianna barely weighed more than a sketchbook in her arms. Roxie had carried entire steel beams with less reverence.
She guided her, gently—like handling something precious and wild—until Dianna's back settled against her chest.
And then Roxie wrapped her arms around her.
Not tightly. Not possessively.
Just… enough.
A quiet brace at the waist. A careful stillness. The kind of hold that said: You don't have to do anything right now. You're allowed to just be. Right here. With me.
She didn't say a word.
Didn't dare.
But everything about the way she moved—the tilt of her head, the soft exhale, the way her hands stilled once they found their place—spoke volumes.
You're safe.
You're wanted.
I don't mind.
Dianna didn't lean back at first.
But then, slowly, she did.
And Roxie—towering, trembling, terrified Roxie—let herself breathe.
This wasn't what she expected.
It was better. And Dianna had defended her from the charming cocoa god, so if this made Dianna happy... She had earned it.
---
Dianna barely had time to react before she was in motion.
Roxie shifted her like she weighed nothing. Like she was a soft little throw pillow instead of a svelte chaos goblin filled with sarcasm and poor life choices. There was no effort, no grunt of exertion. Just warm hands, gentle adjustments, and a seamless realignment of the universe that ended with Dianna nestled back-first against a very solid, very still chest.
Oh.
Oh shit.
She could feel every inch of Roxie against her now. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every subtle shift of muscle. The quiet strength wrapped around her like a safety harness, arms tucked just right, one hand at her waist, the other folded just under her ribs. She'd never been held like this. Not gently. Not like she was something worth keeping still and safe.
Her brain immediately exploded.
Holy crap she is strong.
The Imp—her ever-horny inner monologue—went feral.
> She could bend you in half like a fortune cookie. Do it. Ask her. Ask her if you can live in her arms forever. Climb her like a palm tree. Give her a hickey shaped like the Virgin Mary. Beg to be picked up again.<
"Shut up," she hissed internally, blinking fast.
She shoved the Imp back into its mental cage with the kind of force that should've registered on the Richter scale, took a breath, and forced herself to just… relax.
And oh, God.
Oh no.
It was so comfy.
Like being wrapped in a warm weighted blanket with moral integrity and lavender conditioner. Roxie smelled like some combination of clean linen and the aftermath of a thunderstorm—like ozone and holy water and heartbreak waiting to happen.
Dianna let her head rest against Roxie's breasts.
And just breathed.
If she thought about it too hard, she'd combust. But if she didn't? If she just let herself be here, in this moment, against this woman?
Yeah.
She could get used to this.
The quiet, fragile moment between Roxie and Dianna shattered spectacularly as the Pack of None barreled into the booth like a herd of glitter-studded buffalo.
Ashley and Emily had arrived together—different in every visible way, but moving in perfect, unthinking synchronicity. Like twin souls from alternate dimensions. One thrift-store chaos, the other wild-eyed punk magic. They slid into the booth at the same time, with the exact same shrug, the same glance exchanged like a telepathic joke.
Roxie's eyes caught on Ashley first—and widened. The girl was unmistakably powered. E-Class, maybe D at a stretch, but her features were wrong in a way that made Roxie's instincts flare. Not monstrous—just other. Dog ears twitched atop her head, half-hidden by unkempt hair. A tail—a literal tail—brushed against the bench as she scooted in. Her fingernails were thick, claw-like, more horn than keratin, and when she smiled? Fangs. Honest-to-God fangs.
She grinned with casual mischief, ears flicking as she took in Roxie's stunned expression and Dianna perched in Roxie's lap. "Well, would you look at that. Little Dianna Rodgers is actually capable of intimacy. Who knew?"
"Shut up, Johnson," Dianna mumbled, cheeks blazing scarlet.
Emily flopped down beside her, the embodiment of pastel anarchy. Her look was chaos curated—a Frankenstein mix of mall goth, cottagecore, and something that might've fallen out of a Victorian dumpster. She gave Roxie a wide, delighted smile, as if she'd just spotted a unicorn.
"She's real!" she stage-whispered to Ashley. "And huge. Like, she could bench press your emotional baggage."
Elizabeth slid in gracefully across from them, serene and composed, eyeing Roxie with subtle amusement. "Hello again, Roxie." Her voice was a melodic ripple, calm amidst the chaos.
Roxie smiled shyly. "Hi, Elizabeth."
Then came Jorge, still clutching his enormous slushie, sliding into the booth beside Elizabeth, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. He gave Roxie a quick, excited wave. "Hey, Roxie! The gang's all here! Are you ready to survive the full Pack experience?"
Roxie opened her mouth to answer, but Emily was quicker, leaning conspiratorially across the table. "Did you know Dianna used to say she was immune to feelings? Claimed it was a genetic Aussie trait."
"Emily!" Dianna hissed.
"Oh, relax," Ashley laughed, nudging Dianna's shoulder playfully. "She should know what she's getting into." She turned her sharp, curious gaze on Roxie. "So, tall, gorgeous, and apparently brave as hell—what's your secret? How'd you get through those legendary defenses?"
Before Roxie could fumble through a reply, a booming voice announced Tiny's return. "Alright, alright, make room!" He appeared with two pitchers of neon-colored drinks, sliding them onto the table with theatrical flair before squeezing in beside Emily. "I see everyone met my future wife."
Roxie startled visibly as the huge chocolate man settled into the seat across from her. Not in fear—more like someone who'd just witnessed an avalanche park itself politely at her dinner table. Her breath hitched, posture straightening, eyes wide as she tried to comprehend just how much space Tiny took up with his grin, his voice, his sheer presence.
"Absolutely not," Dianna growled, immediately protective. "Hands off, Scottsdale."
Tiny raised his hands again in mock surrender, a wide smile splitting his handsome features. "Relax, Di. She's clearly smitten with your punk-ass charm." He winked extravagantly at Roxie. "But if you change your mind—"
"I won't," Roxie murmured, cheeks flaming.
Dianna bit her lip, suppressing a grin. "See?" She narrowed her eyes playfully at Tiny. "Mine."
"Adorable," Ashley teased, pouring drinks for everyone. "But we came here to celebrate and meet the new girl thing, right? So let's get to it!"
Elizabeth lifted her glass, smiling warmly at Roxie and Dianna. "To new faces, questionable life choices, and unforgettable nights."
The Pack of None cheered raucously, glasses raised, and for a moment the noisy, chaotic swirl around them was exactly the sanctuary Dianna needed—vibrant, unpredictable, and blissfully distracting.
And Roxie, nestled at the heart of it all, felt her smile bloom despite herself, realizing maybe, just maybe, she'd stumbled into exactly where she belonged.
Then the table quieted—just for a moment. A lull, like the collective breath before a stage dive.
Jorge cleared his throat, grinning like a ringmaster about to unveil his prize act.
"Okay, okay," he said, sitting up straighter. "Since nobody's gonna do it, I'll be the hype man. Roxie, meet the weirdos."
He gestured grandly. "These are the twins—Ashley Johnson and Emily Wexford. Lead and rhythm guitar, respectively. They'll shred your heart and soul and if they have too much to drink, they'll start fucking on any horizontal surface."
"Fuck you, Jorge!" came the perfectly synchronized reply, middle fingers raised in perfect harmony.
Roxie blinked.
She couldn't tell which was which. Not really. Not when they moved like two halves of the same chaotic whole—one with a tail, the other with a parasol handle sticking out of her satchel. Ashley's punk sneer and Emily's gothic whimsy might as well have been a costume swap. It was uncanny. Beautiful. Deeply unsettling.
"They've been like that since they met," Jorge added cheerfully. "We've just stopped asking questions."
He didn't pause long.
"And this," he continued, one hand sweeping dramatically toward the woman beside him, "is Elizabeth Morris. Cardigan-clad librarian chic with the soul of a war widow and the voice of a Victorian ghost. Also known as the most beautiful woman on the East Coast, and a savant on anything that involves strings or classical notation."
Elizabeth gave a small wave, smiling faintly. Her eyes twinkled with just enough menace to make Jorge clear his throat.
"She is also," he added, a touch more reverently, "the absolute love of my life."
Roxie blinked again, eyes flicking from Jorge's excitable grin to Elizabeth's quiet, composed presence. The contrast was almost comical. Where he was neon and exclamation points, she was soft wool and well-placed semicolons. But it worked. Somehow, impossibly, it worked. The two of them leaned, almost unconsciously toward each other. Not a lot, but visible in their body language. Like gravity was slowly pulling them towards each other.
"Charmed," Elizabeth said simply, the corner of her mouth quirking upward. "Don't let him scare you. He gets overexcited when he's had sugar."
"And last but absolutely never least—" Jorge gestured toward the giant man across from Roxie. "Tyrel Scottsdale. But we call him Tiny. Best drummer on planet earth. Screams like God called for artillery support. And the only man I've ever seen down a gallon of milk and keep a straight face."
Tiny leaned back with a casual grin, one arm slung across the booth's backrest. He gave Roxie a slow, theatrical wink.
"Oh, me and Big Momma have met," he said, voice like melted chocolate with an Alabama drawl.
Roxie made a sound that was absolutely not a squeak.
"Terrifying," Elizabeth murmured into her drink.
"Legendary," Ashley corrected.
Dianna just buried her face in her hands.
Tiny grinned wider. "Don't worry, baby bat. I know she's yours. But I'll be here. In case you mess up."
Jorge clapped a hand over his chest like he'd been shot. "God, you're beautiful."
"I know," Tiny replied, utterly shameless.
Roxie did not realize she had just stepped into the gauntlet.