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That was eight months ago. Now, Eli is curled up on June’s couch while rain streaks the windows. The pothos—now thriving, thank you very much—trails from a shelf above them. June is reading aloud from a book of queer poetry, her voice drowsy and warm. Eli has her head in June’s lap, and June’s free hand is absently playing with Eli’s hair.

It wasn’t like the first time with Margo. That had been frantic, hungry, desperate for proof. This was slow. Deliberate. June pulled back to look at Eli, her thumb tracing Eli’s jawline.

“You’re staring,” Eli whispered.

Eli laughed. It was a surprised, snorting laugh that she usually hated. June looked up then, and her eyes—warm brown, flecked with gold—widened just slightly.

“No,” Eli said, feeling her face heat. “I definitely do.”

For three weeks, Eli found excuses to go back. The pothos looks yellow. Is that bad? (June texted back: Stop overwatering it. And stop looking for reasons to see me. ) Eli’s heart stopped. Then June texted again: Just come over Saturday. We can water it together.

“The snake plants are in the back,” June said, not looking up. “But if you want something that actually likes you back, get a pothos.”