By the time she touched down, her calves ached, her shoulders itched, and her patience had been wrung out like a sponge left in the sun.
The apartment was dark when she landed on the back patio—silent and empty, the sliding glass door closed but unlocked. Dianna never locked it. Didn't even know where the key to the thing was. The motion light above flickered to life, casting pale yellow across her tired frame.
She stepped inside.
Boots hit the tile with two heavy thuds. Helmet came off next, fingers fumbling at the catch beneath her jaw before tugging it free and tossing it onto the couch with more force than necessary.
The vest followed. Clattered onto the kitchen island like a slab of regret.
Roxie sighed.
"A Dodge Dart," she muttered, peeling the reinforced gloves off one finger at a time. "All that—all that—for a Dodge freaking Dart."
She dragged a hand through her helmet-damp locks, cringing at how sweat-slick they'd gotten beneath the helmet.
Apparently, some poor junkie with a metahuman balance disorder—or just a flair for the stupidly dramatic—had managed to wedge a stolen Dodge Dart perfectly atop a lamppost in the center of a roundabout on 34th and 22nd.
Not dangling.
Not half-on.
Parked.
Four wheels. One roof. Dead center. Like the world's dumbest angel had placed it there for judgment.
She kicked her boots off into the corner.
"They needed Enhanced intervention for that?" she grumbled. "I didn't even get to see him! He ran off before I landed. Left me standing there like an idiot in front of three squad cars and a tow truck crew taking selfies."
The bodysuit peeled down from her shoulders next, and she swore under her breath when the cheap fabric caught under her sports bra. She wrestled with it for a moment like it had personally offended her.
"We were having a nice night," she muttered to no one. "There was singing. There were mozzarella sticks. I—I was going to do it! I was!"
She finally freed one arm, nearly falling over in the process.
"I could've sung Katy Perry," she snapped at the ceiling. "I like that song. It's catchy. It has… spiritual undertones."
Her voice cracked halfway through the lie.
She sat down heavily on the couch, halfway out of the suit, halfway out of breath. This stupid suit was a size too small but she wasn't willing to complain about it to her higher-ups. Just the darkness and her own frustration.
"Okay. Not spiritual." She admitted to the too-quiet loft. "But it's fun."
She rested her elbows on her knees, helmet staring at her from the opposite cushion like a very judgmental pet.
"And she would've smiled," she said quietly. "Even if I butchered it. She would've smiled."
A pause.
A long, quiet one.
Then:
"I was going to do it…"
Roxie groaned and flopped backward onto the couch, the last of the bodysuit bunched around her calves like it had given up the ghost. The apartment lights stayed off, but the streetlamp outside cast long pale bars across the floor.
Her sports bra was soaked through. The elastic in her underwear was digging into her hip. She didn't care.
Somewhere between the roundabout and home, she'd lost her phone. Not dropped it.
Lost it.
Maybe it had slipped out mid-turn. Maybe it had flung off the magnetic clip when she broke the speed cap over the bay. Who knew?
All she knew was that she was unreachable.
And if she was unreachable…
"Oh great," she groaned. "They're gonna think I bolted." And wasn't that just symbolic of her whole life? A slammed door and complete unreachability. Queen of Don't Speak to Me.
She rubbed her face with both hands and sighed loud enough to rattle the blinds.
"Fantastic. Just—chef's kiss. Slam-dunk catastrophe."
She sat back up with a grunt, scooped up her helmet from where it had landed on the couch, and turned it in her hands.
Its polished black visor stared back at her, slightly warped by curve and light, but unmistakable.
Two glowing green lenses. Her own eyes, reflected in them.
"This is your fault, you know?" she muttered.
She stared into the mirrored face, green glinting back at green.
"Everyone's always thinking I'm the world's biggest flake. And why?"
She jabbed a finger at the visor.
"Because of you."
The helmet, unhelpfully, did not respond.
"I get it," she said. "We've got responsibility. People need saving. The world is complicated. Firestarter was complicated."
She paused.
"Fine. Melting an overpass was complicated."
She sighed again, pressing her forehead against the cold curve of the visor.
"But for real? Could you not just give me one night? One night where nothing goes sideways. Where I get to eat cheese sticks and be awkward and maybe—maybe—kiss a girl who makes me feel like I'm not a walking divine accident with social anxiety?"
The helmet said nothing.
She shifted, curling into the couch, visor pressed to her chest like a scrying mirror she hated and couldn't let go of.
"Sometimes," she whispered, "I think you're more trouble than you're worth."
She began to think of an apology, and it started with the fridge.
A guilty glance, a tired step, and a resigned swing of the door.
Inside: cilantro, parsley, garlic, lemons, a stubborn half-onion in a baggie, and huge slabs of tilapia sealed in their chilled coffin like a dare.
Roxie chewed her lip.
Dinner.
They'd only had appetizers.
Well—appetizers and a Category 4 emotional implosion.
She reached in and pulled things out in careful succession, stacking them on the counter like chess pieces.
Sabzi polo.
She could do it again. But right this time.
Fresh herbs, a full wash of citrus, fish done crisp and golden on both sides. The way her mother had made it when they had something to celebrate. Something to atone for.
It still wouldn't be enough.
Not by half.
She leaned on the counter, staring at the fish like it owed her answers.
And then, quietly, she straightened.
Left the kitchen.
Moved barefoot down the hall and opened the closet door.
The red dress waited.
She had bought it at Lane Bryant with shaking hands and a laugh she hadn't quite believed in at the time. Halter style. Low-cut but never lewd. The fabric fell like water, just heavy enough to sway. And the slit—
That slit up the right thigh was there for dancing.
Not seduction. Not pageantry.
For joy.
She had seen it on the mannequin and her heart had skipped like it had remembered something her brain hadn't dared whisper yet:
That could be you.
She had worn the halter-top and skirt ensemble for Dianna before. The flirty, punky thing. The cute combo. But that wasn't this.
This was Roxie's idea of beauty.
Elegant.
Soft.
Earned.
She ran her fingers over the fabric now, reverent. As if afraid it might vanish if she blinked too hard. Finding something like this in her size was a minor miracle.
Then she took it down, careful not to crease it.
Because this wasn't just about looking good.
It was about showing up.
Fully.
Tenderly.
Maybe even, finally, truthfully.
She held the dress in her arms for a moment longer.
The weight of it. The promise of it.
But something tugged at her—gently, insistently. A thought she hadn't quite let herself follow until now.
The sketch.
That silly little charcoal thing she'd scribbled on a menu, half in rapture, half in instinct.
Music in a net.
She'd drawn it, had it stolen like a party trick. But it had been true.
And Dianna?
Dianna had lit up.
Not because it was technically good—God, it was barely even balanced—but because it had meant something. Because Roxie had seen something beautiful in her and turned it into image.
That had been the moment. The real one.
And if tonight was going to be her confession, then art had to be part of it.
A picture was worth a thousand words.
And Roxie had too many she didn't know how to say.
She laid the dress gently on the bed, smoothing the fabric with reverent fingers before stepping away.
"Later," she murmured, as if the dress were a patient lover waiting her turn.
Because first came dinner.
And the painting.
She blinked, took a breath, and moved.
Fast.
Thank God she was fast.
Sabzi polo started first—parsley, cilantro, dill, garlic chopped with military precision. Rice soaking in lemon water. Fish unwrapped, patted dry, seasoned like her mother used to do it: not too much, not too shy. Just right.
While the rice boiled, she pulled out the canvas.
Not a big one. Not one of her gallery frames. Just something small. Honest. But something snagged at her.
She hovered a moment too long over the drawer of small canvases.
No.
No, that wouldn't do.
What kind of confession lives on a ten-by-twelve?
Dianna deserved better than napkin margins and notebook sketches.
She deserved space.
Roxie turned and crossed the room in three long strides, flipped open the tall cabinet where she kept the big ones—her Sunday canvases. The ones she saved for when her chest ached too much to speak and her hands were the only thing that could make sense of it.
There it was.
Forty-eight by twenty-four.
Tall enough to stand at. Wide enough to move with. Big enough to feel.
She set it down on the easel with a thunk that echoed in the apartment.
"That's more like it," she murmured.
Because if she was going to confess tonight—if she was going to say what she didn't know how to say—then she needed to say it loud.
Not with noise.
But with gesture.
Broad strokes.
Open space.
Room enough for Dianna to see herself in the image. For Roxie to build a bridge made of paint and hope.
And besides—
Big canvases were faster.
She wouldn't have to fight for the details. Wouldn't have to trap her meaning in tiny corners. She could let her hands move.
Sabzi polo bubbled softly in the background.
The fish was thawing beside the sink.
She dipped the brush.
Drew the first line.
And prayed that the rest of the night held still long enough for her to finish.
The clock was not on her side.
So she moved faster.
Rice, stir. Sketch. She didn't need a reference. She held it in her mind like a steel trap.
Fish, flip. Ink the outline. Stir again.
She worked like she was chasing sunlight.
When the timer buzzed, she cursed softly and set the brush down, checked the rice, lifted the lid with a flourish of citrus-scented steam.
Not done yet. But close.
Neither was the painting.
She could do both.
She had to do both.
Then—
shower.
A real one. Not a rinse, not a "Cape wipes and prayers" rush job.
She would clean herself.
Use the lavender conditioner. The one Di had offhandedly said smelled like "a meadow made for naps." The one she'd pretended not to care about, but always sniffed twice when Roxie passed.
She'd use the whole damn bottle if she had to.
And then—dress.
Dinner.
And maybe, if grace held—
A second chance.
Roxie looked at the little half-finished painting. Then at the table she hadn't even begun to set.
"Hallmark," she muttered, tying her apron tighter, "eat your heart out."
The brush hit the easel one last time.
Roxie stepped back, chest heaving, paint drying fast and crooked in the warm apartment air. She didn't look at it too long. Didn't second guess.
She turned away.
Time now for something else.
She padded barefoot into the bathroom, pulled the door halfway shut behind her, and peeled away what remained of herself.
Charcoal dust clung to her collarbone. Paint had found its way into the crease of her elbow. Her knees still bore the faint indentation of the couch where she'd curled up with regret not long ago.
She turned the knobs.
Hot water roared to life like forgiveness.
The mirror began to fog.
She stepped under and let it all go.
Not a quick rinse. Not a scrub-and-done. This was baptism.
She washed until her skin felt like her own again. Until her shoulders uncoiled from their knots. Until her ribs stopped bracing for some future disaster.
Then she reached for the lavender conditioner.
The good one.
The one she rationed like holy oil because Dianna had once murmured, barely audible, "You smell like something God didn't finish making yet."
She emptied the bottle.
Every drop.
By the time she stepped out, her hair was heavy and perfumed. The steam clung to her like silk.
She dried slow. Careful.
And then—when the time felt right—she opened the linen closet and pulled out the little mesh bag she kept tucked in the back behind the towels.
Dried rose petals.
Soft. Faintly crimson. Faintly pink.
She'd meant them for a bath, for some distant day of self-care.
But tonight wasn't about her.
Tonight, she scattered them across the entry.
Down the hallway.
A soft trail that whispered this is where love lives.
She lit candles—real ones, not the fake flickering LED kind. One on the table. One in the kitchen window. Two by the painting.
Warm light flickered to life like a promise.
And still barefoot, still wrapped in that soft warmth that came only after true effort, she turned toward the bedroom.
The dress waited.
And soon, so would Dianna.