Once in a while, after her quiet mornings with books and sunlight by the beach, Emi would wander off somewhere, without a word, without Bonnie knowing where she went. Bonnie only found out when Emi returned. Today, she came back with lilies. Other days, it might be peonies or zinnias, always a mix of colors, gathered like small, deliberate secrets she brought home.

Bonnie only noticed once Emi had already finished, flowers resting in vases and tall glasses stationed quietly around the house. It wasn't until after her morning shower, with damp hair and bare feet, that she stepped into the kitchen and saw them. The most striking vase sat on the dining table, catching the morning light, as if waiting for someone to see it and offer a compliment with a trace of longing in their eyes.

Bonnie watched Emi stir noodles, only half-listening as Emi briefly mentioned being busy this morning. But when Emi casually outlined her plans for the day, Bonnie's mind immediately jumped to Theo, her childhood friend she'd reconnected with recently. Right then, she decided to text him, making her own plans. She mentioned these plans to Emi later, and true to form, Emi remained completely unfazed. That was exactly what Bonnie hated. She'd been waiting for a flicker, a hint of jealousy in Emi's eyes at the prospect of Bonnie going out with someone else.

But then, a wave of resentment washed over Bonnie, not for Emi, but for herself. What right did she have to expect such a reaction? What were they, anyway, to warrant something as potent as jealousy? She mocked herself for these idiotic, childish thoughts. And why did it even have to be jealousy? Bonnie was not in love with Emi, and she knew Emi felt no love for her either.

Bonnie hated everything about this summer. It felt miserable, and her own unpredictable emotions were only making it worse. She hated this feeling, this constant yearning for a reaction from Emi. It was to the point that she sometimes worried she was falling in love.

.

Bonnie met Theo at a café nestled near the spot where she and Emi had gone for their movie night, a place layered with soft memory. As she stirred her iced coffee, she pouted faintly, realizing she hadn't asked Emi what kind of errands she had today. Not that it was unusual; they had never made a habit of prying. Each of them only ever said what they wanted to share. Still, the silence today felt heavier than usual.

Theo asked a few questions about her parents, and Bonnie answered with careful restraint. She never liked talking much about her family, even though her father used to join Theo for beach volleyball back then, laughing, competing, while Bonnie played in the sand and her mother lounged nearby on their colorful striped beach mat.

The problem now was that whenever Bonnie thought of beach mats, her mind no longer pictured childhood. It pictured Emi; Emi in shorts, always beige; in fitted T-shirts, loose ones, worn-in ones, all in different forms and colors, yet somehow all unmistakably her. It was ridiculous. Bonnie wanted to smack herself. It could be time she spent a little more time without Emi.

"Do you still read a lot these days?" Theo asked, lifting his cup for a sip, though the latte had long gone cold. "I remember you always had a book with you. You know... boys kind of go for girls like that."

"You probably liked me back then, didn't you?" Bonnie teased, a faint smile playing on her lips as she leaned back in her chair. She already knew the answer, had always known. Still, she said it just to stir the surface a little, to feel some old, harmless power.

But the moment hung longer than she expected, and her smile faltered.

Because lately, around Emi, that kind of confidence slipped away. She doubted herself in ways she hadn't before. Not because of rejection, but because Emi made her want to be seen, and that was somehow more terrifying.

.

Besides reading books, Emi would sketch now and then, on the beach, with her back slightly curved forward in concentration, or the living room, leaning against the couch while a Lana Del Rey vinyl floated through the air. Her legs stretched out under the table, hand moving in quiet rhythm, scribbling lines and circles, shadows and structures. Bonnie never really saw what Emi was sketching, drawing, or writing, though she often tried to sneak a peek at the corner of the page. Nothing ever clearly revealed itself, but still. It was a fun little game in Bonnie's world.

She wondered if Emi had ever sketched her. The thought was fascinating. It would've sent a giggle bursting out of her from pure joy, like lying on a bed of soft peaches. But unfortunately, Emi hadn't. Bonnie figured it out later—the only things Emi ever drew were flowers. All the freaking flowers she bought, and the places she placed them.

"I'm a flower too, you know," Bonnie said sarcastically one day. Her mother always called her the most beautiful flower, and yet, Emi didn't draw her.

"What are you talking about?" Emi looked up from her book, genuinely puzzled.

Bonnie made a face but quickly masked it. Emi hesitated, then said anyway.

"My friend invited me over for drinks and games. Wanna join?"

For the first time in that three-month-long summer vacation, Bonnie felt included in Emi's world. Funny, wasn't it? She had felt like everything was borrowed. Like Emi was borrowed. Like the house she lived in was borrowed, the air she breathed, the quiet, peaceful sound wrapping around her each morning. But at that moment, it didn't feel borrowed anymore.

Of course, Bonnie didn't reject the offer.

.

Emi's friend was that girl from the bookstore, the one whose name Bonnie had forgotten on purpose. Her bright smile and friendly aura felt just a little too polished for Bonnie's taste. Emi introduced her to the rest of the group, also all girls. Freaking hell. A girl like Emi, surrounded by girls, in a cozy little party? It screamed lesbians. Whatever.

Bonnie squinted through the dim lighting as everyone held a wine glass, everyone but her. She had lemon soda. Emi poured herself another glass, and the soft murmur of voices hummed through the room like a lullaby, no loud music, no clashing bass, just a silky thread of conversation winding through the air.

"Stand beside me, will you?" Emi asked, wine in hand.

That simple request tugged gently at Bonnie's heart. Like an invitation to relax. Like being told she could stay.

Emi was talkative that night. She mingled with everyone, laughed, and joked, eyes crinkling with mirth. Bonnie joined in here and there, just enough not to feel like a ghost in the room. These were Emi's people, older, kind, gentle. And by the seventh glass of wine, Emi was talking a little more loosely. Not drunk, just a little tipsy. Her words ran warm, and she swayed slightly when she stood. Bonnie noticed, and so she turned more attentive.

Even in a room full of strangers, Bonnie didn't feel out of place, not with Emi occasionally turning to her, leaning close for a whisper or a laugh, just enough to tether her in the moment. It was brief, but enough.

By the ninth glass, Emi said goodbye to her friends and walked home with Bonnie. Side by side along the coast, sand warm beneath their feet, the sound of waves folding into their ears. The wind tousled their hair. Emi carried her flat shoes in one hand, Bonnie's in the other. Both barefoot.

Emi's cheeks glowed from the alcohol. Bonnie didn't drink, so she was sober.

"I didn't know you could talk to people like that," Bonnie said. "You even laughed with your eyes."

"So which version of me do you like more?" Emi asked softly, the corners of her lips twitching, not quite a smile, not quite serious either. There was something underneath, though, like she was fishing for something but pretending not to care too much.

Bonnie slowed her steps, the sand brushing over her toes. "You mean the one who sketches flowers all day and pretends I'm not one of them?" she teased, but her voice faltered at the end, just enough to give her away.

Emi looked at her, wine-flushed cheeks lit faintly by the moon. "Maybe I didn't sketch you because I would get it wrong," she said. "Flowers don't move. You do."

Bonnie blinked. Neither of them said anything, and the waves filled the space in their place.

They got back home around 11 p.m. Emi wasn't exactly drunk, but she wasn't as clear-headed as Bonnie either. As usual, she moved toward the couch, her makeshift bed for the summer, while Bonnie had her room upstairs. But Bonnie hesitated. Emi was still warm from the wine, her steps a little loose. That couch was too small, too stiff, and if she spent the night curled on it like that, she would wake up sore and tired. Bonnie would not want that.

"You should take the bed tonight," Bonnie said. "I'll sleep on the couch."

Emi looked at her, calm and steady despite the flush in her cheeks. "Sleep with me then. The couch isn't comfortable," she said firmly

By the time Bonnie stepped out of the bathroom, towel still looped around her shoulders, Emi had already taken her shower. Her damp hair was tied loosely, her cheeks no longer flushed, but her eyes held the same sleep-heavy warmth from earlier.

Bonnie hesitated by the doorway. Emi was lying on the left side of the bed, which was Bonnie's usual side. Without a word, Bonnie walked over and slipped into the right.

The mattress dipped gently beneath them. The room was dark, save for the faint gold light leaking through the curtains, swaying with the wind. It painted soft shapes on the ceiling, and for a while, neither of them spoke.

They weren't close. A careful sliver of distance remained between their bodies, enough to feel the absence of touch. Bonnie lay on her side, facing away, listening. Emi's breathing was steady, but not quite deep enough to be asleep. At quite intervals, she shifted, a small turn, a breath drawn longer, then exhaled.

"Are you still up?" Bonnie asked into the dark.

Her voice barely rose above the hum of the fan at the end of the bed, carried through the thick summer air. Emi shifted beside her. Her bare foot brushed lightly against Bonnie's, not pulling away. Just that small touch sent a quiet shiver down Bonnie's spine.

She waited a few breaths before speaking again.

"Do you remember what I said... about wanting a hug to sleep?"

She said it like a throwaway thought, like she didn't even care if Emi was listening.

"I meant it," Bonnie whispered. "I know it's summer and all, but... I like the kind of warmth you can wrap around your body. Not the hot air kind. The... human kind," she held her breath after that, not daring to look, half-regretting even saying it out loud.

The clock ticked on. Each second felt heavier than the last. Bonnie closed her eyes, trying to sleep. The bed creaked quietly as Emi shifted again, and then, without a word, she slipped an arm beneath Bonnie's neck and gently pulled her into a hug. A quiet, soft kind of summer hug.

Bonnie's heart thudded so loudly she was sure Emi could hear it. It filled the silence, pulsing through the dark. She turned her head slightly, trying to read Emi's face, but all she saw was the flicker of golden haze slipping through the curtains, resting softly on Emi's closed eyes.

"This is because of the wine," Emi murmured, her voice thick with sleep. "Goodnight, Bonnie."

.

Bonnie woke up alone in bed. No trace of the other person who had held her through the night. She let out a quiet groan, though it carried an undertone of reluctant understanding. The soft clicking sounds downstairs reminded her: Emi was her housekeeper, and of course, at a little past eight, she would already be in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Nut milk, as always.

Bonnie stepped into the kitchen, her eyes landing first on the vase of lilies by the window. They were beginning to wear out, petals slumped under the sunlight, edges curling just slightly. It had been a few days since Emi brought them home.

On the table sat a familiar arrangement: eggs and bacon on a warmed plate, a cup of chilled almond milk on the side. Knife and fork neatly placed. Salt and pepper aligned just right.

It was always like that, full of everything. And yet still missing something.

"I've got some errands to run today. I'll be back a little past noon," Emi said, leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee, the other resting at the edge.

"Okay. I don't have any plans," Bonnie replied lazily. "I usually don't."
She had two books left on her summer list, and a wave to earth vinyl waiting by the player. Maybe, she thought, today could be one of those rare quiet days, just her and the soft hush of time moving slowly.

And she did. She savored those four quiet hours alone, comforted by her bookmarked novel, the soft hum of wave to earth playing in the background, and the sound of real waves outside, pressing against the shore in rhythm with the heavy summer air.

Every so often, her mind drifted to Emi. To Emi's long fingers, how they had twitched lightly where they rested near her shoulder the night before. To the slow, steady breath brushing her cheek, warm and quiet, when Emi held her close. And then, Bonnie quietly smiled to herself, somewhere between the lines of the book resting in her hands. She hated the feeling, though. It was just a bit too loud, too vivid, to pass for something as simple as fondness.

Emi came back carrying a large bag of freshly laundered clothes. The soft scent of lavender trailed in behind her, weaving into the air as she stepped through the door. She winced a little, it looked heavy.

Bonnie stood up to offer help, but Emi just waved her off and walked back outside again, leaving Bonnie slightly confused.

Moments later, she returned, this time holding two large plastic cups.

"I got you smoothies," Emi said, handing one to Bonnie. "Figured you'd want one. I did. It's hell out there." Emi didn't usually speak like that, slipping a curse in the middle of a sentence, but maybe the heat really was that unbearable.

Their hands brushed briefly as Bonnie took the cup, and something about the contact made her grip it a little tighter than necessary.

They didn't say much more. Emi started putting away the laundry she brought in. Bonnie returned to her book, but the words blurred a little now. Not unreadable, just softer at the edges.