Chapter 33
chapter thirty-three
Christine lay sprawled across the couch, the glow of the TV flickering against the walls, casting long shadows over the room. The volume was low, but the words still cut through, sharp as glass.
“Governor Tate signed the Marriage Restoration Act into law this morning, officially revoking same-sex marriage across the state. All unions deemed non-compliant with the new legislation will be nullified?—”
Christine grabbed the remote and flung it across the couch like it was on fire. Like the words coming from the screen might burn her if she held onto them a second longer. It landed with a dull thud against the cushions, but the sick feeling twisting in her stomach didn’t budge.
From his spot on the floor, Gruit lifted his head, ears twitching at the sudden movement.
The old mutt was dozing, curled up in the corner, but now he huffed, pushed himself up, and stretched before trotting over.
He nosed at her knee, then pressed his head against her leg with the solid weight of a creature who didn’t understand laws or politics but knew when his person was upset.
Christine ran a hand over his head, scratching behind his ears. “Yeah, I know,” she muttered. “I’m fine.”
Gruit let out a deep sigh, clearly unconvinced, before flopping onto the couch beside her, his massive head resting against her thigh.
The silence that followed was suffocating. She knew this was coming, but it didn’t make her any less sick.
Her phone buzzed repeatedly on the table beside her, the screen lighting up with notifications—no doubt messages from friends, group chats filled with anger, fear, and disbelief.
She ignored it.
Not because she didn’t care, God, she cared, but because she couldn’t stomach seeing their panic reflected on her. She already knew what they’d say.
Did you see this? What do we do? How is this even legal?
She didn’t have answers.
The beer she opened earlier sat untouched on the table, condensation pooling around the base. Her stomach wouldn’t let her drink it.
This wasn’t a surprise to her, of course. The writing was on the wall. She learned about it from Oakland’s father during the dinner from hell. But seeing it—hearing it, watching it announced like it was just another piece of routine legislation—made it feel different.
It made it feel real.
She glanced at her phone again, fighting the urge to turn it over.
She sent Oakland a message over a week ago after learning about her dad’s heart attack:
Christine
Hey, I'm thinking about you.
I hope your dad is okay.
I’m really sorry for everything.
There was no response.
A few days later, another one:
Christine
It's been a while. Let me know how you’re holding up.
Still nothing.
Maybe that was it. Maybe Oakland realized what they were, what she was, and decided it wasn’t worth the fallout.
Maybe Christine was just something Oakland needed once.
A fleeting moment in the dark before retreating to the life she was destined for.
A life wrapped in certainty, in community, in belonging.
A life that would remain untouched, unshaken, immune to the kind of erasure that Christine’s existence was constantly at war with.
A sharp knock at the door broke through her thoughts.
Gruit was up in an instant. Ears perked, body alert. But instead of his usual warning growl, he trotted to the door, tail wagging with an almost unsettling enthusiasm.
She stood, pulse suddenly in her throat. She undid the latch, pulled it open?—
* * *
Oakland stood in the doorway, and for a moment, Christine forgot how to breathe.
There was something about her—something changed. It wasn’t loud or showy but deep and elemental. She looked taller somehow, more rooted, like the ground answered to her now. The nervous stillness that once clung to her was gone, carved away, and replaced with something quiet and unshakable.
Christine had seen something like this before. Years ago, on a reckless trip to Florence she could barely afford, she wandered into a gallery and stood in front of half-finished figures trapped in marble. Arms reaching. Faces straining. Not yet free but fighting their way into the world. Becoming.
That’s what Oakland looked like now—like someone mid-emergence. Like a soul that had carved its way out of stillness.
Her black jeans hugged her long legs, tucked into worn boots that grounded her with effortless power. A leather jacket fell open over a slate V-neck, and Christine’s eyes were drawn—helplessly—to the curve of her collarbones, to the warm skin just below it, kissed gold by the light.
It was too much. It was everything.
They didn’t need words. Christine already knew that everything was about to change.
Then Oakland’s blue eyes met hers.
Bold. Unwavering. Ready.
“I told my dad.”
Christine’s eyes flicked up.
“You—”
“That I’m gay.”
Christine froze.
“…You what?”
Oakland exhaled, sharp and unsteady, like the words were still echoing through her chest—like speaking them out loud made them real in a way she couldn’t undo.
“And I left the church. I’m done. I choose us.”
Christine’s breath caught.
“Oaks…” Her hand reached out, voice soft, trembling. “Are you?—”
But she didn’t get the chance to finish.
Oakland grabbed her and kissed her, fast and deep and sure.
Like the truth had cracked something wide open.
Like she needed Christine more than air.
And Christine didn’t hesitate.
She caught Oakland’s face in her hands and kissed her back just as fiercely as if she could hold her together. Whatever came next, whatever storm they had to face, Christine wasn’t letting go.
The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was messy, rushed, a little out of sync—but that only made it feel more real. Christine tilted her head, adjusting, guiding Oakland through it, slowing her down, deepening it.
There was something about it, something unfamiliar, a quiet urgency that sent a rush through Christine’s chest.
She could feel the hesitation in Oakland’s hands, the way they stayed light at first, like she was afraid to push too far. But it wasn’t about force.
It was about discovery.
About being allowed to feel.
Christine’s hands found Oakland’s hips, steadying her, guiding her backward into the bedroom until she was pressed against the dresser. Then, with effortless strength, she lifted her—hands curling under Oakland’s thighs, placing her on the edge like she weighed nothing.
Oakland let out a startled squeak, legs instinctively wrapping around Christine’s waist as she caught her breath.
Christine grinned against her lips, wicked and warm.
“Warn me next time,” Oakland laughed, breathless, shifting beneath her, trying to find balance as Christine settled between her thighs like she was made to fit there.
Christine’s grin only widened.
She reached for the hem of her own shirt, slow and confident, her gaze never leaving Oakland’s eyes. She peeled it off with a smooth motion, baring herself without hesitation—shoulders, collarbones, the soft swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath.
Oakland stared. She didn’t mean to, but she did. Her fingers twitched, unsure—aching to touch, terrified to move.
Christine noticed.
Wordlessly, she reached for Oakland’s hands, guiding them upward—placing one gently on her waist, the other just beneath the curve of her breast. “It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice soft, coaxing. “I want you to.”
Oakland swallowed hard. Her hand trembled as her palm brushed over warm, bare skin—softer than she expected, impossibly smooth.
The weight of it filled her hand as she finally cupped it, tentative, reverent.
Her thumb grazed the peak, and Christine inhaled sharply, the sound threading through Oakland and catching low in her belly.
A rush of heat bloomed under her skin.
Christine didn’t push—she just let her explore and feel. Oakland’s touch grew bolder, fueled by Christine’s quiet, shivering reactions and by their unspoken trust.
And when Oakland finally looked up, wide-eyed and breathless, Christine was watching her—gaze molten, lips parted, like the sight of her was too much and not enough all at once.
Something shifted in Oakland then. Like a fuse had been lit. The fear was still there, flickering quietly at the edges but drowned out by something more potent.
Her hands moved lower, gliding down Christine’s sides, fingertips brushing the warm skin of her stomach, then settling at the waistband of her jeans.
She hesitated momentarily, then popped the button open with a flick of her fingers. The sound was soft but charged, like a promise. She looked up again—voice low, steady, hungry.
“Take these off.”
Christine’s breath caught. The smirk was gone now, replaced by something quieter.
Without a word, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband and eased the jeans and underwear down her hips in one slow, fluid motion.
They pooled at her feet, and she stepped free, completely bare, standing in the soft light like a painting Oakland shouldn’t touch.
But she did.
Her hand reached out, fingers trailing just below Christine’s navel, slow and trembling. She let them linger there, just above the line of heat. The skin was warm, smooth, and impossibly soft beneath her touch.
Then she paused.
Her breath caught in her throat as her fingers stilled, suspended just above where she ached to go. The need was dizzying, and yet Oakland couldn’t move.
The moment stretched, delicate, and electric.
Fuck.
She wanted this. God, she wanted this. But how? Where? How much pressure? What if she?—
Christine noticed. Instantly.
Her voice came smooth and low, the kind of soft that left a shiver lingering beneath Oakland’s skin.
“Are you nervous?”
Oakland’s stomach tightened. Her throat felt thick, her pulse a drumbeat beneath her skin.
Christine wasn’t teasing. She wasn’t smirking. She was just… waiting. Holding space. Letting Oakland answer without pressure, without shame.
Oakland’s fingers twitched against her skin. She swallowed hard.
“…A little,” she whispered. “You know I’ve never…”