First Impressions

The apartment was quiet when Esme got home, save for the ticking of the old kitchen clock and the hum of distant traffic. It used to be the kind of quiet that meant Meg was out doing something ridiculous with Flynn, or stretched out on the fire escape sunbathing in her old high school track shorts and a T-shirt she definitely stole from him, pretending she wasn't eavesdropping on the neighbours.

Lately, the quiet felt heavier.
Like Meg had taken something with her when she left the room - and hadn't brought it back.

Esme had filed three stories that week and deleted twice as many half-written texts to Meg. She told herself they were both just busy. That life was shifting, not ending.

She kicked the fridge door shut after grabbing a seltzer and let her bag drop with a thud. Something had been off with Meg for weeks. Not bad, exactly. Just... elsewhere. Like she was living somewhere Esme didn't have the address for.

There was music playing faintly down the hall. Jazz, maybe? Soft and unexpected.

Esme followed the sound and knocked once on Meg's bedroom door.

"Come in," came Meg's voice - brighter than Esme had heard in a while.

She opened the door and paused.

Meg was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook open, a half-finished charcoal portrait in progress. Her hair was a mess, but her face was bright - lit from inside, like something had taken root and was blooming quietly, just for her. The room smelled faintly of pencil shavings and something citrusy. New perfume, maybe.

"Well, this is a mood shift," Esme said, folding her arms and learning against the door frame.

Meg grinned over her shoulder and grinned. "Hi to you, too."

Esme raised a brow. "You're alive and drawing? I was about to call the non-emergency line."

"Yeah, yeah." Meg waved a hand. "I've been… around."

Esme stepped further in, stealing a glance at the sketch. It wasn't like Meg's usual work. This one was softer. Looser. Almost tender.

"Is that someone?" she asked.

Meg hesitated. Then: "Maybe."

Esme narrowed her eyes. "Okay, what's his name?"

Meg laughed. Actually laughed. "God, you're never 'off' are you?"

Esme's eyes lit up. "So there is a name."

Meg gave a half-shrug, trying for nonchalance and failing. "Theon."

"Theon," Esme repeated slowly, testing the shape of it. "Let me guess - mysterious, brooding, quotes Rilke at parties?"

"He's not like that," Meg said, but the corners of her mouth were still lifted. "He's an artist. And smart. And kind of a mess, but in a way that makes sense."

Esme sat on the bed, sipping her drink. "And you like him."

Meg didn't deny it. "I like how I feel around him."

There was a pause. Something in Esme's chest twisted a little - quiet and unspoken.

"I'm sorry I've not been around much. I'm not trying to disappear," Meg added, quieter now. "I just… I feel like I'm finally waking up again."

Esme softened. "That's good. You should feel that way."

Meg glanced at her. "You don't hate him yet?"

"I haven't met him" Esme said. "Though I reserve the right to hate him immediately on principle."

Meg smirked. "You won't."

"We'll see."

Esme stood, stretching. "You want to grab dinner later?"

Meg hesitated. "Can I rain check? I think I'm seeing him again tonight."

Esme tried to keep her face neutral. "Sure. Just don't forget I'm still your longest relationship."

Meg smiled. "Wouldn't dream of it."

But when Esme left the room, she paused in the hallway. The laughter. The slight blush in Meg's cheeks. The sketch on the floor.

It should've been a good sign.
So why did it still feel like something was slipping away

Later

Esme wasn't expecting the rooftop.

She followed Meg up the last flight of creaking stairs, a breeze curling around them through the half-open door above. The building was old - chipped paint, crooked light fixtures - but the view it offered was breathtaking.

"You didn't tell me this was a date," Esme murmured as they stepped out into the open air.

"It's not," Meg said. "It's an introduction."

Theon was already there, leaning against the railing, cigarette smouldering between his fingers, a beat-up sketchbook tucked under one arm. He turned as they stepped through the door, and for a split second, Esme saw Meg through his eyes - wind-tousled, flushed with anticipation.

"Theon," Meg said, "this is Esme. My best friend-slash-conscience."

"Emphasis on conscience," Esme added with a wry smile.

Theon stepped forward, easy in his skin. "I've heard good things. Mostly."

His handshake was light but steady. Present, not performative. Esme clocked that.

The air carried the faint chill of early autumn - clean, crisp, and just sharp enough to feel new. Below them, the city buzzed - horns, music, the distant hum of a train. Up here, it felt paused.

They settled on a ledge together, takeaway drinks between them. Meg perched beside Theon, their shoulders brushing. Esme didn't miss that either.

"So," Esme said, slipping into her journalist tone, "what's your deal?"

Theon chuckled. "Direct. I like that."

"She's a reporter," Meg said. "Interrogation comes free of charge."

"I just like to know who's sweeping my best friend off her feet," Esme said.

Meg groaned. "Please stop."

Theon's smile twitched, thoughtful. "I'm a painter," he said. "Mostly abstracts, sometimes figures. I work out of a studio in Clinton Hill I can barely afford. I teach some community classes to cover the bills I pretend I didn't see."

Esme tilted her head. "Sounds… romantic."

"Sounds broke," he said, laughing. "But yeah. It's a good kind of broke."

There was a moment.
Theon glanced at Meg.
"It's the only thing that makes sense to me," he added, quietly.

The way he said it - low, certain - reminded Esme of people who already knew what they were painting before the brush ever touched the canvas.

Meg's eyes flicked down, like that meant more than it should've.

Esme watched them - this thread pulling taut between them. Not restless, like with Flynn. Not defensive. Softer. But something unsteady hummed beneath it.

"So how did you two meet?" she asked, watching Meg more than Theon.

Meg answered before he could. "His art show."

Theon added, smiling. "She spent ten minutes critiquing one of my pieces before realising I was standing behind her."

Meg shrugged. "I stand by everything I said."

Esme smirked. "And he still asked you out?"

"I appreciated the honesty," Theon said, leaning back. "Most people just nod and say 'interesting composition.'"

Esme let the moment stretch. Then, lightly, "You know if you break her heart I'll print your face all over the city, right?"

Theon grinned. "I'd expect nothing less."

They stayed until the sky turned violet, the lights of the city flickering awake beneath them. Theon got up to grab them more drinks from downstairs. When he disappeared, Esme leaned over to Meg.

"He's not what I expected," she said.

Meg looked at her sideways. "Good or bad?"

Esme hesitated. "I don't know yet. But he looks at you like you're the only real thing in the room."

Meg's expression faltered for half a breath. Then she smiled.

And Esme felt it again - that quiet, inevitable shift.

Only this time, it didn't feel like a phase.
It felt like a line they'd already crossed.
And Esme wasn't sure Meg even knew.

Author's Note:

I have had such a lovely run of engagement, comments and feedback since I posted my last chapter. Honestly, I can't thank you enough; it really means so much. It also makes me so thrilled to update as I have so many moments I'm excited to share in this fic, while also trying to let the smaller ones simmer.

When I wrote the line: "It's the only thing that makes sense to me" - I visibly cringed because I hated it so much. But it stayed because Theon is just the type of guy to say that unironically. I'm just glad Flynn wasn't around to hear it.

Recommended Listening is back! For this chapter, it's definitely: 'It's Not You, It's Here' - Alekesam. Jazzy, sexy.

I'll be working through some replies to wonderful comments this weekend. But I wanted to post this before I get stuck into work.

Thanks always - always grateful!
CB