Chapter 33: Where Her Fingers Rest
It rained the next morning.
The kind of rain that softened the world, not with violence but with gentle persistence. It fell like a lullaby across the rooftops and trees, and the scent of wet earth hung in the air like something sacred. Anya stood by her window, arms crossed, watching the droplets race each other down the glass. Her fingers itched with something she couldn't name—like a page half-drawn in her mind, waiting.
She touched her lips, still remembering the kiss.
Not just the feeling of it, but the moment after—the stillness, the quiet understanding that something had changed. That something beautiful had finally found its shape.
A vibration buzzed against her desk. She reached for her phone. A message from Oriana.
"Meet me by the greenhouse. I want to show you something."
There was a heart at the end. Not a cartoon one—one of the little black ones Oriana always used. Quiet love. Deep love. A heart that matched the way Anya felt when she was with her.
The walk to school was cold but peaceful. The rain had thinned into a mist, the kind that kissed your cheeks and hair rather than soaked them. The world smelled of new things. Washed things. Possibilities.
Anya's umbrella tilted slightly as she walked around puddles and leaves, her shoes brushing against the edge of silence. She wasn't hurrying—but she wasn't slow, either. Her heart led the pace.
The greenhouse sat behind the science wing, mostly forgotten by everyone except the club that maintained it. It was old—an uneven structure of glass and iron and soft green light, always a little too warm inside, like time stopped just outside its door.
Oriana stood by the entrance, hood down, rain in her hair. She smiled when she saw Anya, and Anya nearly slipped on the stairs.
"I almost didn't come," Anya whispered, stepping into the small sanctuary of leaves and glass.
"Why?"
"Because part of me didn't believe yesterday really happened."
Oriana stepped closer. "It did. And so will today."
They walked between the rows of plants—tiny tomatoes hanging heavy from vines, herbs in clay pots, even a single stubborn sunflower blooming out of season.
"I come here when the world gets too loud," Oriana said. "The plants don't talk back. They just keep growing. No matter what."
Anya nodded. "I like that."
They paused in front of a pot of chamomile—its small white petals trembling slightly from the warmth of the vents. Oriana crouched down, her fingers brushing against the soil.
"I used to think love was supposed to be huge," Oriana said. "Like fireworks or running through airports. But I don't think it is—not really."
Anya lowered herself beside her. "What is it, then?"
"This," Oriana whispered. "You, sitting next to me. Knowing what I mean before I say it. The way you hold your pencil like it's something living. The way you always walk a little behind people because you're scared of taking up space."
Anya didn't know what to say. So she didn't. Instead, she leaned forward and rested her head lightly on Oriana's shoulder.
That was the answer.
They stayed like that for a long while. The greenhouse creaked softly, warmed by the mist and the weight of things growing. Somewhere outside, a bird called once, then fell quiet.
"Do you want to come over later?" Oriana asked suddenly. "My mom's working a night shift. I'll make you tea."
Anya looked up, surprised. "Really?"
"Of course. I want to show you my room. The real one—not the clean version I pretend to have during video calls."
Anya laughed, then nodded. "Okay."
Oriana's house was tucked in a quiet street, not far from the edge of town. A simple place, with low fences and shoes lined up neatly by the door. Inside smelled like lavender and something sweet, maybe cinnamon. A family photo on the wall showed Oriana as a child, holding a teddy bear almost her size. She had the same smile.
"Sorry for the mess," Oriana said, kicking off her shoes. "I clean like a raccoon—only the shiny parts."
Anya giggled. "It's fine."
Oriana's room was a strange, lovely chaos—posters of indie bands, fairy lights strung around the ceiling, books in uneven piles, a desk covered in drawings and forgotten cups of tea. In the corner sat a keyboard, half-covered with a blanket.
"You play music?" Anya asked, touching one of the keys gently.
"Badly," Oriana admitted. "But it helps. Like drawing helps you."
Anya ran a finger along the edge of Oriana's desk. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything," Oriana said softly, and Anya felt her throat close around the emotion that bloomed there.
Tea came in mismatched mugs. They sat cross-legged on the bed, shoulders pressed together, the window slightly open to let the rain-scented air in.
"I like you here," Oriana whispered, staring at her fingers. "In this space. In my world."
Anya watched the way Oriana's thumb brushed against her mug, slow and thoughtful.
"I never thought I'd be in anyone's world," Anya said. "I always imagined I'd just orbit people quietly. Not really land anywhere."
Oriana set down her mug.
"Well," she said, turning toward her. "You've landed."
Then, without warning, she took Anya's hand and placed it on her chest, over her heart.
"Right here."
Anya felt the thump of it—steady, sure.
"I want you to know something," Oriana said. "This isn't just a crush for me. This isn't passing. You're not a phase. You're a season."
Anya blinked fast. "A season?"
"Yeah. The kind that changes everything after it ends."
There was something dizzying in the way Oriana looked at her. Not just affection—certainty.
Anya's voice came out quieter than she intended. "I've never had that before. I've never been someone's season."
"You are now."
They kissed again.
This time, it wasn't nervous. It wasn't a question. It was an answer, full and whole. Their mouths moved gently, slowly, as if savoring something fragile. Anya's hand found Oriana's cheek, and Oriana's fingers curled around the back of Anya's neck, anchoring them in the moment.
When they parted, both girls were breathless. Anya felt like a page turned in her chest. One she never wanted to write over.
"You know," Oriana said between breaths, "I used to think love would make me feel lost. But it doesn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I found you first."
Later, when the tea had cooled and the sky had folded itself into evening, Oriana lay back on the bed, her head tilted toward Anya.
"I could get used to this," she murmured. "You. Here. With me."
Anya lay beside her, fingers barely brushing.
"I already am," she whispered.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
But inside, something was still growing.