“Fornaskr? Shika? Where are you?!

  ....What the hell happened just now?”

  Holly?

  Holly flipped the channel absentmindedly, sprawled sideways across the couch with her phone balanced on her stomach. A half-empty mug of coffee sat on the end table, long since gone cold. The late afternoon light filtering through the curtains painted the room in muted gold, dust motes drifting lazily with every stir of the air.

  “Are you seriously just doomscrolling?” Heather’s voice floated in from the kitchen. The sound of a bag rustling followed, then the sharp crunch of a potato chip.

  Holly tilted her head back over the armrest until her blonde hair dangled. “Better than what you’re doing. That’s your third bag today.”

  Heather appeared in the doorway, red curls bouncing as she wagged the bag like evidence. “Correction. Third half bag. This one was already open. Technically, that makes it recycling.”

  Holly snorted. “That’s not how recycling works.”

  Heather plopped onto the couch beside her, the cushions sinking as she claimed the spot with all the authority of a cat. “Then enlighten me, o wise one. How does it work?”

  Holly squinted at her. “You put the chips down.”

  Heather answered by shoving a handful into her mouth and speaking through the crumbs. “Nope. Invalid argument.”

  Holly rolled her eyes, then reached over and stole a chip out of Heather’s bag anyway. “You’re impossible.”

  “Compliment accepted,” Heather said, grinning. She brushed the crumbs from her hands onto her jeans, ignoring Holly’s theatrical groan of disgust.

  For a while, they sat in companionable quiet. The TV murmured something meaningless, background noise to the rhythm of their chewing and scrolling. Holly shifted, pulling her legs into Heather’s lap, who obligingly balanced them without complaint. It was easy. Comfortable. The kind of quiet they had fallen into a thousand times before.

  “Hey,” Holly said suddenly, breaking the calm. “Remember that time you dragged me to that midnight horror marathon?”

  Heather snorted, nearly choking on a chip. “Dragged you? Please. You begged me to take you because you didn’t want to look like a coward in front of Megan.”

  “Okay, first of all, uncalled for.” Holly tossed a couch pillow at her, which Heather caught one-handed. “Second of all, I still watched all three movies without leaving once.”

  “You watched them,” Heather said, “through your fingers. And you clung to my arm like I was a seatbelt in a car crash.”

  Holly’s cheeks warmed at the memory, though she tried to mask it with a smirk. “Seatbelts save lives.”

  “Mmhm,” Heather said, leaning back with a smug smile. “You’re welcome.”

  Holly shoved her lightly, but her grin lingered. The memory wrapped around her like a blanket. It felt good to laugh about it now, even if at the time she’d been shaking for hours afterward.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Want to do something?” Heather asked after a while, stretching her arms above her head. “Like… not sit here and waste away?”

  “I’m already wasting away,” Holly said dramatically, flopping back against the cushions. “Look at me. Pure atrophy.”

  Heather leaned over and poked her side, making her squirm. “Atrophy doesn’t giggle.”

  “Maybe it does,” Holly protested between laughs. “You don’t know!”

  “Fine,” Heather said, smirking. “But seriously. Arcade? Walk? Bake something? We’ve got, like, three bags of flour sitting in the pantry because you panic-bought during that sale.”

  Holly groaned. “I don’t bake. I just wanted the security of knowing I could.”

  “That’s not how flour works,” Heather teased.

  “Shut up,” Holly said, but her smile gave her away.

  They bickered their way into a decision, finally landing on a walk. The late sun followed them out the door, the air brisk with the faint smell of rain carried on the wind. They moved at an easy pace, shoulders brushing now and then, their conversation winding from one trivial topic to the next. Neighbors waved, and they waved back. Shutters rattled faintly in the breeze. Somewhere, a dog barked.

  Heather pointed toward the park down the street. “Bet you five bucks the swing set is still broken.”

  “Bet you ten the slide still shocks you when you touch it,” Holly countered.

  By the time they reached the park, both had won. The swings sat lopsided, chains squealing with every gust. And when Holly touched the slide experimentally, a jolt zipped up her hand.

  “See?” Heather said, smug as ever.

  “Fine,” Holly admitted. “You win. But I’m not paying you.”

  “You never do.”

  “Then why do you keep betting me?”

  Heather smirked, climbing onto the half-broken swing. “Because I always win.”

  Holly laughed, shaking her head as she sat on the neighboring swing. They swayed gently, the sun dipping lower, painting the world in orange and rose. For a moment, it felt like nothing could touch them, like the world beyond the quiet park didn’t exist.

  It was, for now, enough.

  When they returned home, Heather was the first to kick off her shoes and head straight for the kitchen. Holly barely had time to hang up her coat before Heather’s voice rang out: “So, about those three bags of flour. Time to put your apocalypse stash to use.”

  Holly groaned. “Heather, no. I don’t bake. I burn.”

  Heather leaned against the counter, arms folded over her plush middle, grinning like a cat who’d already won. “You don’t have to bake. I’ll do the heavy lifting. You just stir and lick the spoon.”

  “That’s not how brownies work.”

  “It’s exactly how brownies work,” Heather countered. “Besides, if you don’t help me, I’ll eat the entire pan myself, and then you’ll have to roll me out the door.” She patted her hip with a laugh.

  Holly leaned against the doorway, trying to look unimpressed, but her smile betrayed her. “You’d eat the whole pan even if I did help.”

  Heather raised a finger. “Correct. But then you wouldn’t get any.”

  That sealed it. With an exaggerated sigh, Holly crossed the kitchen and tied an apron around her waist. “Fine. But if the smoke alarm goes off, you’re explaining it to the neighbors.”

  They fell into the rhythm of it quickly. Heather measured out cocoa and sugar with theatrical seriousness, while Holly clumsily cracked eggs and muttered about shell fragments. Flour dusted the counter, Heather’s shirt, and eventually Holly’s nose when Heather flicked a bit at her. Holly retaliated with a smear of chocolate on Heather’s cheek, which only made her laugh harder.

  By the time the pan slid into the oven, both of them were sticky-fingered and giggling. Heather leaned back against the counter, licking the last bit of batter off the spoon, her eyes bright. “See? Not so bad.”

  Holly, cheeks warm and hair messy, gave her a look that was half exasperated, half fond. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculously right,” Heather said, tapping the spoon against Holly’s shoulder.

  They curled up on the couch while the smell of baking brownies filled the apartment, richer and warmer by the minute. Holly let her head rest against Heather’s shoulder, and for a while, the world outside the four walls didn’t matter. Just the two of them, waiting for something sweet.