“You hungry?” Yuki asks. “We can have leftovers for lunch if my roommates haven’t eaten them all.”

Grace cranes her head to take it all in. “You haven’t told me about your roommates,” she says distractedly. Somewhere in the distance, she can pick out the familiar smell of hair grease and burning curling irons. Maw Maw always did her hair when she was younger, always told her to hold your ear and that’s just the steam, girl, calm down. Portland is many things, but it tucks away all the things that remind Grace of herself in secret corners and shadows.

“Are you listening to me?” Yuki asks, and Grace turns.

“No,” she says honestly, and Yuki sticks her tongue out. “I was having some culture feelings, sorry. Wasn’t expecting it.”

“Ah,” Yuki says, following her line of sight. “Is this your hashtag Asian rep moment, Grace Porter?”

“Maybe,” she confesses. She turns to Yuki, who’s staring back at her. “Okay, quick. Tell me about your roommates before I meet them.”

Yuki leans against the stoop railing. “They’re a little weird,” she says. “My weird, queer family I made myself. I thought it would be too much, living with three guys, but we make it work.”

Grace blinks. “You live with three guys?” she asks.

Yuki shrugs, a small, shy smile on her face. “We make it work,” she says. “And they’re not assholes, I swear.” She scrunches her nose up as she thinks that over. “Not unbearable assholes. I would have smothered them in their sleep otherwise.”

She turns toward the front door, and Grace takes in the apartment building in full. It’s crumbling in places, but there are flower boxes hanging from every window, little pink and purple blossoms that bloom in hello. From the flagpole hangs a rainbow flag with the black and brown stripes. There’s a sign taped to the first-floor window that says “God welcomes all, regardless of color or creed.” There’s a welcome mat on the front porch that says “All love welcome here.”

Yuki pinks up. She looks embarrassed. “Our landlady is a little much,” she says quietly. “But we got really lucky with her.”

“She seems pretty fucking cool,” Grace says. “How long have you lived here?”

Yuki ushers them inside and up the stairs. “Long enough that Auntie Anna Mae—that’s our landlady—knows way too much of my business.” They stop in front of apartment 206. “This is me,” she says, looking nervous. “I’m not responsible for anything my roommates say or do. You’re not allowed to divorce me if you hate them.”

Grace frowns, feeling her edges to see if the gel is still holding her baby hairs down. “What if they hate me?” she asks, her mind racing with worst-case scenarios. Maybe they’ll take one look at her and know Yuki made a terrible mistake.

Yuki waits for silent permission before she runs soft, gentle fingers through the ends of Grace’s gold-honey strands. “All this hair,” she says softly. “It’s all I could remember for so long. All this gold hair. The sun did want you to stand out.”

Grace groans, pushing her hands away. “I should have never told you that. It’s such mom bullshit.”

Someone raps on the door from the inside. “You told us to make sure we were all home, and now you’re gonna make us wait while you stare into each other’s eyes like a Harlequin novel?” There’s muffled curses and a muted thump. “I’ve been silenced,” the voice calls out. “Oppression wins again.”

Yuki shuts her eyes tight. “They’re all awful,” she confesses. “I lied. They’re all total assholes.” She opens the door.

Three people are spread out. There’s a white guy sitting cross-legged on the floor, glitter in his long shaggy hair as he folds paper hearts.

There’s a dark-skinned Black guy sitting on their kitchen counter. It’s not so much a kitchen as much as the insides of a kitchen pushed against the wall. But there he sits, alternating between eating out of a huge mixing bowl between his legs and throwing glitter at the guy with the hearts. Little mini paper hearts are tucked in the strands of his dreads like flowers.

In the very front of it all, hands on hips, is a guy with his chin tipped up in defiance. His right eye is bruised and black, and his long shiny black hair hangs in a thick braid on his shoulder. Somehow, he is completely free of glitter and hearts. His only decorations are the pinkish-red indents in his deep brown skin from his chest binder.

“I cut my MMA training short for this,” he huffs, eyes flicking over Grace. “And,” he says, thumb pointing back at the glitter and hearts behind him, “I’ve had to supervise arts and crafts time. So many hearts! It’s not even Valentine’s Day! It’s June!”

“You sound bitter,” Heart Guy says. “Plus, I like hearts. Hearts are love and all that shit I have to teach to my first-graders.” He looks up and gives Grace a salute with his scissors. “Are you the wifey?”

Grace shoots Yuki a look. “I think so? Most people just call me Grace. Or Porter. I answer to both, I guess.”

“But which one do you like?” he asks. “Which one feels like you?”

“Jesus,” the guy on the counter says. Another clump of glitter goes flying through the air. “She just got here. At least let her sit down before you make her question her entire existence.”