Page 33

MILLIE

Of course the perfect place is my aunt's coffee shop.

I don't even have to think about it—it's just where my body goes when the world gets too sharp around the edges.

It's the only place outside my own apartment and my moms' house that feels like it was built for me, not for the version of me that exists in headlines or highlight reels.

It's not just a bakery. It's Lauren's—and Lauren isn't just my aunt.

She's one of the only people in my life who's never asked me to be anything other than exactly who I am. Not a legacy. Not a brand. Just Millie.

But still, even here,

I'm not normal. I've never been normal.

I still remember the first time I really understood that.

I was thirteen, Aurora drove us here for pastries and quiet.

I remember us thinking we could pretend for an hour—sit at a regular table, drink something warm, and maybe laugh.

But we hadn't even been sitting five minutes before the windows started to fill with faces.

Cameras. Flashes. Voices yelling my moms' names, mine, Summer's. Rude words. Rude questions.

I remember how loud it got. How fast.

I remember being scared—but not letting it show.

My fists curled tight in my lap, breath caught behind my teeth, ready to fight whoever came too close.

I remember my voice shaking when I asked if they were allowed to do this.

I remember Summer moving in front of me, tense and steady, and Aurora stepping between us and the people with this terrifying calm in her spine.

She didn't yell. She dared them to come closer.

She looked every one of them in the eye and made it clear they weren't getting past her. Not to me. Not to Summer.

I remember the sound of Camille's voice before I even saw her—sharp, clipped, furious in a way that didn't raise its volume, just lowered the temperature. She told them they were harassing a child, that she was going to call the cops. It was all handled in under a minute.

Then Aunt Lauren appeared and I'll never forget the way she looked at Aurora. The words she said.

"You're not normal. You're famous, all of you. They could've hurt you. That's why I built the upstairs."

She'd made it before any of us knew we'd need it. A private space above the bakery—sealed off, quiet, safe. Not a loft. Not an office. A refuge. She made it for us— my sisters, my cousins, her kids. Because she knew what fame would mean for all of us.

So yeah—when I say this place is special, I mean it with my whole chest. And it means something to bring Harper here. Even if she's already technically part of this world. Even if she's Audrey's friend, and Lauren already loves her, and she's probably eaten half the menu already.

It's different when I bring her.

"So... your special place is actually Lauren's shop?" Harper asks as soon as we step inside, her voice light, familiar. She knows exactly where we are, but she still sounds like she's discovering it all over again.

She turns to me with that stupidly bright smile that gets under my skin in the worst and best ways, and even before I can answer, I feel the shift in the room.

Two women at a table by the window glance up, one nudges the other. A phone lifts in slow motion. I hear the click of a shutter. There's a little gasp, then the whisper of recognition, like someone just spotted an animal from a rare species.

They always come here.

Because they know we do.

"Yes," I say calmly, sliding my hand along the edge of the counter as we walk in. "But I bet you didn't go upstairs."

Harper stops, brows raised. "What's upstairs?"

I narrow my eyes at her playfully. "Thank God Audrey didn't take you up there. I would've been so jealous."

Her grin goes sideways and wicked. "That's kinda hot."

"What?"

"You. Jealous."

I roll my eyes, but I can already feel the way my cheeks heat. I hate how easily she does this—makes me soft, makes me feel like I'm caught mid-breath.

"I'm not jealous," I lie, and she absolutely knows it.

"Mmm," she hums, stepping a little closer, brushing her hand against mine. "Sure, Bennett."

Before I can retaliate, Lauren emerges from the back—hair up in a loose bun, apron streaked with almond paste and flour, gold hoops flashing. She glances at us and immediately smirks.

"Well, if it isn't the hockey goddess and the cupcake thief," she says, eyes flicking between us. "You two coming in for breakfast or just loitering in the doorway being gay and mysterious?"

Harper makes a mortified little sound, like she's been personally betrayed by the universe.

"Both," I reply easily, grinning. My cheeks are cold from the air outside, but everything in me warms just stepping through the door.

Lauren smells like sugar and cinnamon and vanilla—the kind of scent that clings to a person who's spent their whole life baking warmth into the world.

She doesn't hesitate. Just opens her arms like it's instinct, like she's been waiting, and I fold into her like I'm sixteen again and still figuring out how to survive in a world that wanted pieces of me before I even knew what those pieces were.

"Hi, baby Bennett," she murmurs against my hair, squeezing tight.

Lauren and Mom played on the same team for more than a decade before they both got pregnant the same year.

On purpose. Mama used to joke that she didn't trust the world with her daughters unless Lauren made her own personal backup.

I guess it was kind of true. Rory had Lucas.

Summer had Olivia and I had Audrey.

Audrey and I were born days apart and we've been in each other's pockets ever since.

Lauren's never been just my mom's best friend—she's my aunt in every way that matters.

She built this place after she retired while my mom built her own ice rink. So, I guess I grew up in both places.

Lauren pulls back and lifts an eyebrow at Harper. "You changing teams? I thought you were team Johnson," she says, mock stern.

Harper manages to half-laugh, half-wince, clearly flustered but trying to play it cool. "Hi, Lauren. Still terrifying, I see."

Lauren beams. "And proud of it. You hungry?"

"I could eat," Harper replies with a shrug, like her insides aren't doing a gymnastics routine.

We follow Lauren deeper into the bakery, past sunlit tables and the low murmur of regulars who are trying very hard not to look like they're watching us.

The walls are painted a soft honey yellow, with plants tucked into corners and recipe cards framed like art.

The front counter gleams with glass cases full of croissants and cinnamon rolls the size of a fist. There's chalkboard signs with Lauren's perfect looping handwriting—rosemary scones fresh, Audrey's favorite: Nutella-stuffed brioche, coffee refills free with bad news.

Harper slows at the display case like it might seduce her into staying forever.

"This place is gorgeous," she says under her breath.

"I know," I whisper back, brushing her hand with mine.

Upstairs, the light changes. Softer. Quieter.

It smells like old books and candle wax and the faint trace of childhood—hot chocolate powder, clean linen, the kind of comfort that can only come from being loved for a long, long time.

There's a sunroom at the back with a plush couch, a couple of armchairs, and an ancient record player that still works if you're patient.

The walls are filled with photos—some old, some new—of us.

Me and my sisters. Audrey and her siblings.

My moms.

There's a framed photo of me at three years old, fast asleep in Summer's lap, powdered sugar dusting my nose.

Another one shows Aurora holding me up like a trophy after one of my games, her grin bigger than mine.

And then there's a shot of Summer and Aurora as little kids—maybe eight and five—pressing a kiss against the glass while Mama does the same from the other side, lifting her stick like she'd just won the Cup.

In the corner, Mom's watching them with so much love in her eyes, it radiates right through the photo.

This was always our place. The hideaway. The fortress.

Harper takes it in slowly, walking to the window where the light pools golden on her face. "You grew up here," she says softly.

I nod. "When it got too loud everywhere else."

She turns toward me then, her eyes so open it makes my chest ache. "Thank you for bringing me."

"You're welcome," I murmur. And I mean it in a hundred ways I'm not brave enough to say out loud yet.

She crosses the room, stops in front of me, and reaches up to fix a curl that's fallen across my cheek. "This is the first time you've looked relaxed in days," she says.

"That obvious, huh?"

"Only to me."

I lean in without thinking, brushing my lips over hers. Just soft. Just enough to remind myself she's real.

"Wanna eat first," I whisper, "or let me kiss you until the scones go stale?"

Her smile turns slow and wicked. "I mean... do we have to choose?"

She says it with that look—half-innocent, half-dangerous—that makes my thoughts start scattering like puck drops. Her eyes flick to my mouth like she's already made her choice, and when I lean in again, she meets me halfway.

This kiss is slower. A little longer. Still soft, but firmer now, like we both know we've got time.

No one rushing us. No headlines. Just sunlight and sugar in the air, the quiet creak of floorboards under our feet.

Her hand drifts to my waist, fingertips catching on the hem of my hoodie—her hoodie, technically, though she wears mine more often these days.

I should say something about it, tease her for stealing all my best ones, but I don't. Not when she's kissing me like this. Like we're the only thing that exists.

When we finally break apart, I press my forehead to hers and breathe her in. Her breath's a little uneven. Mine too.

"You always this handsy on sacred ground?" I murmur.

She laughs softly, and her fingers trace lazy circles just under the edge of my shirt. "I wasn't the one who started the kissing."

"I brought you here for cinnamon rolls and safety. Not scandal."

"You brought me here," she says, voice quieter now, "because this is your real life. The part nobody gets to see."

My chest pulls tight. Yeah. That's exactly why. And she gets it.

We end up curled together on the sunroom couch, half on top of each other like we've done this a hundred times before.

My legs are over hers, and she's got one arm draped behind my shoulders, her other hand trailing light paths along my knee.

I tuck into her without thinking, the way I used to curl into Summer on bad nights when I couldn't sleep.

But this is different. This is warm in a new way.

Wanting, not just comfort. Her thumb keeps brushing back and forth on my leg, slow and absentminded, like she doesn't even realize she's doing it.

"I still can't believe I'm allowed up here," she says after a long beat, looking around like the space might change if she stares long enough. "This feels like... sacred territory."

I smirk. "It is."

"So why me?"

"I don't know," I say honestly. "Maybe because you didn't ask.

" She glances at me. "Everyone wants to know the secret stuff," I continue.

"What it's like growing up with my moms. If they're intense.

If we have private family rituals. If I ever got grounded.

They ask like it's a game, like my whole life is a behind-the-scenes tour they're entitled to. But you didn't."

"I didn't want to take," she says softly. "I just wanted to know you."

She leans in and presses a kiss to my temple, then rests her cheek against my hair. "But... Were you ever grounded?"

I laugh. "Technically, yes. Once. I was twelve and my moms were doing this big interview.

National TV. Live. And I don't know—some asshole in the crowd yelled something disgusting at my mom, and I just..

. I snapped. Stormed right out from backstage and told him to go fuck himself. Loud. Into a mic."

Harper jerks back, blinking at me like I've grown wings. "What?!"

I shrug, trying not to smile. "The worst part is, they didn't even hear what he said. It just looked like I lost it for no reason. So there I am, twelve years old, publicly unhinged, middle finger up on national television."

She slaps a hand over her mouth, laughing before she can stop it. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Oh my god, Millie."

"They made me write a public apology. Not because of what I said, but how I said it. Mama sat me down like, 'Next time, cuss them out in private like a professional, baby.'"

She's full-on giggling now, tilting her head back a little, and I don't even try to stop the warmth blooming in my chest. It's like watching sunlight settle on her face. She reaches for my hand on instinct, like she doesn't even realize she's doing it.

"She really said that?" she asks, still breathless.

"Verbatim," I say. "Then Mom tried to ground me—'no ice time, no Audrey'—but that same night we all went to the rink together. We ended up playing a pickup game against the Johnsons. We won, obviously. And after that, it was like it never happened."

She's still smiling, but it fades a little—just enough to let something softer in.

"I love that," she says. "That your family... forgives like that. Like love comes first."

I nod. "It always does."

We fall into a quiet stretch, not awkward, just full.

Her thumb strokes mine, slow and idle, and her legs brush against mine where we're curled up on the cushioned bench.

The upstairs room is still warm with the smell of cinnamon and sugar, the hum of distant conversation and clinking mugs below us.

No cameras. No questions. Just her, just me.

"I keep thinking this is gonna feel strange," Harper says after a moment, her voice low. "Being here. With you. In a real moment. But it doesn't."

I glance at her. "No?"

She shakes her head, short hair swaying gently. "It feels easy. Scary, but easy. That makes no sense."

"It makes sense to me," I say. "It's been like that with you since the beginning. Like I'm not pretending, even when we're technically pretending."

She looks at me for a long beat, like she's trying to memorize the shape of my face. "I didn't expect you to be like this."

"Like what?"

Her lips tilt up in this slow, crooked smile. "Warm. Soft. A little feral. Kind of perfect."

My heart does something reckless in my chest.

"You think I'm perfect?"

She leans in again, mouth near mine but not touching. Her breath is warm. "I think I'm in trouble."

I'm the one who closes the space, just a little, just enough. "Same."

She kisses me again like it's the most natural thing in the world and I melt into her. Her hand slides into my hair, mine rests on her thigh, and the world melts away. It's slow and dizzy and sure.

When we pull apart, we stay close. Downstairs, someone calls out a coffee order. The sound is distant, irrelevant.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," Harper whispers, eyes still closed like she doesn't want to break the spell.

I let the silence stretch for a few beats, let her warmth settle into my skin.

"I used to sneak out to sleep with my moms until I was... nine? Ten?" I laugh under my breath, just enough for her to feel it against her mouth. "And I always begged Mama—Luna not to kiss Mom in front of me. I'd get so mad about it. I told her Mom was mine."

Harper grins, but she doesn't open her eyes. "You were jealous?"

"Ridiculously," I say. "They still tease me about it. Said I was always a Mommy's girl—for Mia. And I guess I was. I mean, I'd shadow her around the house like a puppy, if anyone said anything mean about them, I'd lose it."

She opens her eyes now, just enough to look at me. "You were protective of them."

I nod. "Always. I think I thought if I kept them safe, the world wouldn't get in. That no one could twist anything. That we'd stay like that forever—just us."

"That's so you," she says, brushing a finger lightly down the line of my jaw. "Fierce. Loyal. A little possessive."

I smirk. "You like that?"

"I'm not saying I don't."

Her thumb grazes the corner of my mouth, and the look in her eyes makes everything go soft again. Warm. She tucks her legs up under her and leans her head against my shoulder like she's done it a thousand times before.

"Okay," she says. "My turn."

I tilt my head, curious. "Something you've never told anyone?"

She nods. "I used to lie about having sleepovers when I was a kid."

I blink. "Why?"

She shrugs, like it's obvious and sad and small all at once. "Because no one invited me to real ones. So I'd tell my mom I was going, then go to the park and read until it got dark. I'd eat candy I bought with chore money and pretend I was anywhere else."

My chest tightens, slow and painful. "Harper..."

"I was such a weird kid," she says with a laugh that doesn't quite cover the ache. "Too quiet, too intense, always taking pictures. Other kids didn't really know what to do with me."

I take her hand and kiss her knuckles, one by one.

"They were idiots."

She looks down at our hands like she's not used to being touched so gently. "I think maybe I was just waiting to be found by the right people."

"You found me," I say, quiet but certain.

She exhales like she's been holding her breath. And then she leans into me again, this time curling up like she belongs there, like she always has.

We stay like that for a while—legs tangled, the blanket warm over our laps, the world below distant.

I can hear the soft hum of Lauren's espresso machine downstairs, the clink of cups, the occasional laugh from customers.

But it all feels far away. Like we're suspended in this little space above the world, untouched.

Harper's thumb starts tracing circles on my wrist. Absentminded, soft. "Do you think your moms would've liked me if we were kids?"

"They already love you," I say.

"That's different."

"No," I say. "It's not. You're steady. Kind. Smart. A little weird. They live for weird."

She laughs against my shoulder, and I think I could live off that sound.

The stairs creak. Harper sits up a little, blinking the sleep from her eyes, but she keeps one of her hands tucked in mine. Lauren appears around the corner holding a tray with two mismatched mugs, a basket of pastries, and a dramatic smirk like she's walked in on something she fully expected.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite fake couple," she says. "Still pretending you don't like each other or are we finally telling the truth?"

Harper groans, immediately trying to burrow under the blanket. "Oh my god."

I grin. "We're on a very platonic date, thank you."

Lauren sets the tray down in front of us, raises an eyebrow, and gestures to our intertwined fingers. "Sure you are. So platonic I brought croissants to prevent you from making out on my loveseat."

"Respectfully," I say, "you're the one who made this entire upstairs a hideout for emotionally fragile queer kids, so this is actually your fault."

She beams. "You're welcome."

Harper peeks out from under the blanket, already reaching for a chocolate croissant. "You're scary observant."

Lauren leans against the doorway, sipping her own coffee now. "I used to play hockey. It's literally my job to track people. And besides—Audrey warned me."

I raise an eyebrow. "Warned you about what?"

She waves a hand. "That a fake relationship was about to combust in my bakery."

Harper gives a half-horrified, half-smitten laugh. "She didn't."

"She absolutely did," Lauren says, deadpan. "And she was right."

Harper hides behind her croissant again, and I nudge her knee with mine. She bumps mine right back. Lauren gives us one last knowing look, then disappears back downstairs with a soft "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," tossed over her shoulder.

We fall into a quiet again—only now it's warmer. Easier. I sip my coffee and watch Harper break off a corner of her pastry and offer it to me like it's just a normal thing she does.

"I like it here," she says.

"I know," I say. "Me too."

And I mean here, in this room. In this moment. With her. She nudges closer and whispers like it's a secret, "Can we stay a little longer?"

"As long as you want."

And we do.

We stay until the light shifts golden through the windows, until the coffee goes cold, until she's half-asleep again with her head on my shoulder and my fingers in her hair. And even then, we don't really leave.

I'm in my safe place.