“It was cute,” she says quietly. “It was. No one’s ever done that for me.”

“What?” Yuki asks. “Nobody’s ever made a total ass of themselves the morning after they got married to you in Vegas?”

“Nope,” she says. “You’re the first.”

Yuki makes a satisfied little noise. “Congratulations,” she says. “You married an innovator.”

It’s quiet. Maybe it’s that word. Married, said aloud in an alleyway, in a deserted kitchen, between two coasts. Married. It makes her laugh. She laughs like she has buzzing fireflies tickling her ribs.

“What?” Yuki demands. She sounds so petulant. “What’s so funny?”

Grace smiles. “Married,” she says lightly. “I mean. That happened. What the fuck?”

“What the fuck?” Yuki agrees. “I came home, and it felt like—” She pauses here, and in the stillness, Grace catches dozens of words unsaid.

“What?” Grace asks, suddenly desperate to be let into Yuki’s thoughts.

“It felt like a dream,” Yuki confesses quietly. “It felt like one of the stories I talk about on my show, you know? Like, there’s no way I married this beautiful girl and was so fantastically happy, and it was real.”

“It felt like that for me, too,” Grace tells her, like a secret. “In my head you—”

“Tell me,” Yuki presses.

“You bloomed,” Grace says. “In my head you bloomed like the flowers that were stuck in my hair. You had—you had rosebuds, growing on your cheeks, you know? That’s all I could think about. The girl who bloomed roses. The girl who held my hand and danced with me and—”

“Got married to you,” Yuki finishes. “That was mad beautiful, Grace Porter. I almost hate to tell you the roses you’re imagining were probably just the Asian flush. Not half as romantic.”

Grace laughs. “That makes you more real and less like the champagne-bubble girl in my head.”

“Champagne-bubble girl,” Yuki says softly. “Cute. You were Honey Girl in mine. When I pictured you, it was just honey, everywhere. I woke up next to you, and I swear it was like buzzing bees. That sounds ridiculous.”

“A little,” Grace admits, and Yuki lets out an indignant “Hey.” “It was just my hair,” she says, separating her curls with careful fingers. “It’s not blonde, not brown. It’s gold,” she says. “My mom used to say the sun took a liking to me.”

Yuki hums, and Grace relaxes. “Sounds like something moms say,” she answers. “Do you think she was right?”

“About what?”

“The sun,” Yuki says impatiently. “Do you think it took a liking to you?”

“No more than anyone else,” Grace says.

There’s shuffling and noise again, like Yuki’s opened the door back to the real world. “I don’t know, Grace Porter. It would be nice to be married to someone like that.” Her voice goes muffled. “Yeah, yeah, I know it was longer than I said. Hold on a goddamn minute.”

“Someone like what?” Grace asks, terrified suddenly that if they hang up, it will be for good.

“Chosen by the sun,” Yuki says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Honey gold, melted sweet under the summer sun. Real poetic, you know? Oh my God, I said I’m coming.”

“Yes,” Grace says, listening to Yuki move farther and farther away. “That does sound nice.”

“You’ll do for now,” Yuki tells her. “Listen, I have to get back to work. Can I—can I call you? Next time?”

Grace lets out a breath, and in it, the fear begins to dissolve.

“You can call me,” she says. “We can take turns.”

“Marriage is all about compromise. I gotta go.”

“Okay.” Grace closes her eyes. “I’ll talk to you soon?”

“Isn’t that what I said?” Yuki teases. “I’m hanging up now. We can’t be one of those couples that banter instead of hanging up.”

“We’re a couple?”

“We’re married,” Yuki says, and the word starts to sound familiar. “And I’m hanging up, Grace Porter.”

“I’m hanging up, too, Yuki Yamamoto.”

“That’s cute,” Yuki says. “Is that going to be our thing?”

“This is starting to sound like banter,” Grace points out.

Yuki hangs up.

Grace saves the number in her phone.

“Come home with me,” Grace says to Raj and Meera after their shift.

Ximena and Agnes are out on one of their totally not-a-date dates, so Grace has the apartment to herself. Baba Vihaan lets them go early. Raj piggybacks Meera on the walk home, and they all tumble into Grace’s bed and put on the comfy clothes they keep in a drawer for nights like this.

“What’s up, Gracie?” Raj asks. His hair has been put into a neat bun on top of his head, and the face mask they concocted in the kitchen cracks when he speaks. “Not that I don’t love sleepovers with you two.”

Meera curls up on Grace’s lap, buried under the covers. “I’m sensing some sarcasm there, Rajesh,” she murmurs. “Some big brother you are.”