Dianna blinked blearily awake, face still mashed against something warm and breathing and vaguely vanilla-scented. Velvet under her cheek. A heartbeat in her ear. She didn't need to lift her head to know whose lap she was in.
For one disoriented, blissed-out second, she thought she'd died.
Not in the dramatic, ballad-worthy way. Just quietly. Slipped off into the good dark while curled up in the plushest chest this side of heaven.
Then Lizzy's voice cut through the static.
Soft. Measured. Not teasing.
"Di? You need to see this."
She pried one eye open, like a stuck garage door. She was so comfy...
Lizzy sat there, holding something out. Folded paper, edges blackened with smudge. It looked like the back of a menu that had gone through a minor war. Definitely not something printed. Definitely not something meant to be seen.
Which made it worse.
Which made it better.
Which made her hands shake just a little as she took it.
Charcoal met fingertips.
She braced herself.
And then saw it.
Saw her.
Drawn in black and gray like the ghost of a dream. Fishnets and boots and stupid velvet. Chin tucked to collarbone. Legs curled just so. Like a street punk who'd wandered into a stained-glass window and decided to nap there forever.
And it hurt.
It hurt, because—
Because holy shit, this was how Roxie saw her?
Not as a flirt. Not as a punchline. Not as the girl who once made out with someone behind a Waffle House wearing glitter eyeliner and shame. Though the kiss and the discount had been fun...
No. This Dianna was soft. Sacred. Like she'd finally run out of fight and someone had caught her mid-fall.
She glanced at the neon clock above the bar.
Ten minutes.
She'd been out cold for ten fuckin' minutes.
And this? This was what Roxie had done in the meantime?
On the back of a menu?
She felt something come loose in her chest. Not break, just… rattle. Like an old key finding the right lock.
Because this wasn't performative. Wasn't some dumbass poem from a girl who wanted to seem deep while fumbling at her bra clasp.
This was private.
This was what Roxie drew when no one was supposed to see.
Dianna remembered. That first night. Their little kitchen island and a sketchbook full of too-perfect art.
"What would you draw if no one ever saw it?" she'd asked.
"Something real," Roxie had said. "But I don't think I'm brave enough for that yet."
Well.
Guess she was now.
Dianna swallowed around the stupid lump in her throat.
Because here she was. Charcoal and shadow and just enough softness to feel like forgiveness. Like maybe—just maybe—she wasn't as monstrous as she thought.
She bit her lip.
Sucked in a breath.
And looked up.
Roxie looked like she was about to bolt. Wide-eyed. Hands twitching. Ready to snatch the paper and incinerate it with laser vision she didn't have.
And Dianna—
Dianna didn't have the words.
Didn't need the words.
The art had already said all of them.
She looked at Roxie, expecting a speech but no. Roxie was *terrified*. Roxie looked like she was about to confess to arson or pissing in the holy water.
Hands twitching, beautiful moss green eyes wide and wounded, in that soft alabaster face. Roxie's fingers inched toward the sketch like it was radioactive. "I—I didn't ask," she mumbled. "I didn't have your permission to draw you."
Dianna blinked. Uh oh. Roxie continued, scared absolutely to death. "It wasn't right. I'm sorry. I'll tear it up. I swear. I should've asked first—"
And that's when Dianna's whole survival system kicked in. "The fuck you will." She barked in a panic, sharper than she'd meant to. Shit.
Roxie froze. Like a raccoon caught stealing communion wafers.
"Destroy it?" Dianna laughed sharply. "Are you—no. No. This is mine now."
And before she could think about how insane it sounded—or how her heart was trying to climb out of her throat—Dianna snatched the paper back like it was the last pack of smokes in the apocalypse.
No hesitation.
She folded it up with all the grace of someone trying to hide a diamond in a bar fight.
Then, with a quick glance—pure muscle memory from a hundred gigs and three dozen club brawls—she shoved it into her bra.
Directly against her heart, because why the hell not?
"That's staying with me," she said, cheeks already on fire. "Forever. You hear me? You think I'm gonna let you rip up a sketch that makes me—me of all bloody people—look like a goddamn angel in fishnets? Get bent."
Roxie opened her mouth.
Closed it again.
Dianna leveled a finger at her.
"Don't even try the humble act. You caught me sleeping in a bar booth looking like a club gremlin and made me look like something Botticelli would've carved into a church wall."
She sat back, breath catching in her chest.
"You don't just throw that out, Rox. You frame that shit. You tattoo it on your soul. You put it in a museum that only I have the key to."
She crossed her arms, still red-faced, still flustered—but holding that grin. The one that didn't come out often. The one that was all teeth and tenderness in equal measure.
"So. Yeah. Mine."
And she snuggled up against the goofy oversized altar server. Like she belonged there... Because she did. Dammit. And she nearly wept when Roxie wrapped her in those big soft arms and whispered
"Do you really like it?"
Because yea, yea she did. And the too sweet bitch that made it, too.
----
Tyrel Scottsdale had never been much for loud feelings.
He was a drummer, and he did dirty vocals. That was it. He was a backbone, not a spotlight. The kind of man who held steady while the world went flailing off into sound and fury. And that was just fine by him. He'd made peace with his role years ago: keep the rhythm, hold the line, and when all else failed—catch the ones who fell.
Dianna Annabeth Rodgers had been falling since the day they met.
Falling upward, mostly. Wild and terrible and dazzling, like a Roman candle shot sideways into the moon. She was chaos with a smirk, bruised knuckles in glitter eyeliner, and the kind of laugh that could ruin your posture if you weren't ready for it.
And Lord, Tiny had fallen right in step behind her. Quietly. Completely.
He'd carried a candle for her. Not a torch—no, that was too flashy, too desperate. A candle. Small and steady. Something you could tuck in your chest and guard with your hands when the wind came howling through.
He never expected it to light the way.
She didn't go for boys. Not really. Not unless she was hurting. And those nights, when the hurt ran deep enough to trick her into reaching for someone like him—those nights shattered her.
He'd held her through one of those.
Once.
They didn't speak of it.
So he stayed. As friend, as shield, as fool.
And he loved her, in the way men like him do best—without expectation, without possession. Just love, the doing of it, like a beat you keep under every song.
But now.
Now he watched her, curled up like a cat on Roxie's lap, with a look on her face so peaceful it near-about broke him.
That big girl—Roxie, the one with the chapel eyes and the guilt-riddled heart—was holding Dianna like she was made of glass and thunder, both at once. Looking down at her like she was some sacred thing that had wandered into her hands by accident.
And Dianna?
Dianna was glowing.
Not in the spotlight sense, not with the old punk fire that scorched and seared.
No. She glowed like embers in a hearth. Like warmth you didn't know you needed until your fingers stopped shaking.
Tiny felt it, then. Quiet and final.
The candle he'd carried all this time flickered once… and went out.
And he didn't fight it.
Didn't cry or rage or sulk like some heartbroken sap in a country song.
He just watched. And smiled. And tipped his invisible hat to the woman who'd done what he never could.
Because some folks, when they get scored on by Gretzky—when Jordan dunks on 'em, when Ali kisses their jaw with God's own left hook—they don't get bitter.
They tip their chin back, whistle low, and say, damn.
Because you don't curse the greatest of all time.
You just feel grateful you got to be on the court.
And then—
A hand found his.
Elizabeth.
Of course it was Elizabeth.
No fanfare. No look. Just her hand reaching for his beneath the table like a lifeline slipped into a pocket.
Asking, without asking, You okay?
Tiny gave her fingers a squeeze. Not quite yes. But not no, either. Just a little beat. A rhythm in place of words. Not yet. But I will be.
Because sometimes love wasn't a fight. Sometimes it was a surrender. A slow, rhythmic letting go. And Lord, did it hurt.
But God above, was it beautiful.
Elizabeth looked at him, to make sure, and he just grinned slow and easy. He jerked his chin at the two women cuddled up across the booth, whispering to each other like they were the only ones in the world. His motion was a statement. Look at that. Then he shrugged, letting go of Elizabeth's hand. What man worth a shit could be mad at that. He grabbed his beer and downed it.
GG, Big Momma. GG.
-----
Roxie was tracing circles on Dianna's arm. Absent-minded, like she didn't even know she was doing it. And Dianna… well, she was trying very hard not to melt like a popsicle in a car.
The booth was warm. Safe. Pressed in around them like the whole world had taken a breath and decided to give them five minutes to figure it out.
"You smell like lavender and static cling," Dianna murmured, voice gravel-low. "Like… cheap shampoo and a thunderstorm. Real cozy apocalypse vibes."
Roxie laughed—soft and startled—and Dianna felt it in her chest.
"I think that's Suave," Roxie said sheepishly. "The lavender one."
"Makes sense," Dianna muttered. "Weaponized wholesomeness. You smell like a church pew during summer break."
Roxie blushed, that soft-sunset color that made Dianna want to sin just to see more of it. She wanted to kiss her. Or write a song about her. Or maybe just sit here and keep breathing her in like she was made of old hymns and lightning.
And then—
Roxie's voice shifted. Dropped an octave. Like something serious was trying to crawl out.
"You confused me, Di."
That made her sit up a bit. "What, tonight?"
"No." Roxie shook her head. Her eyes stayed down, lashes trembling like a nervous prayer. "From the start."
There was a beat. A hesitation. And then Roxie whispered:
"You make me feel… fluttery. Like I don't have to be strong all the time. Like I'm not a mistake."
Dianna's brain tripped.
"I'm seven feet tall and weigh almost 300 pounds.," Roxie continued, voice like glass. "Most people see me and think tank. Or monster. Or some holy warrior thing. Not a girl. Not someone soft. But you…"
She looked up then.
And it hit like a punch.
Those eyes. Moss green and brimming with fear and hope and something so tender it made Dianna want to throw furniture.
"You make me feel like I could just be…me," Roxie said. "And that maybe, that could be enough."
Dianna was floored. One to the dome. Here lies Dianna Rodgers, drowned in green eyes.
"I think I might have a crush on you," Roxie whispered. "And I don't know what to do with that."
Shitting fuck.
What was Dianna supposed to do against the world's most innocent assault?! Was there a Geneva Convention clause for this kind of thing? Some treaty against unprovoked kindness?!
This was bad.
Because she meant it.
Roxie wasn't playing. Wasn't being cute or coy or sly. She wasn't fishing. She wasn't fumbling for a maybe.
She was just saying it. Like handing over her heart wrapped in tissue paper, hoping Dianna wouldn't crush it by accident.
And Dianna?
Bollocks.
Bollocks, bollocks, BOLLOCKS.
Her chest was full of fireworks and wannabe-better guilt. Her mouth was dry. Her stomach had fully Houdini'd. And now she was supposed to do what, exactly?
She opened her mouth.
"Hey, so Rox—"
No. No. Too soft. Too casual. This wasn't a pub chat. This was a fuckin' reckoning. She closed her mouth. Clenched her fists. Tried again.
Because she couldn't take it anymore.
Fuck it.
Just—fuck it.
She was done being clever. Done pretending she wasn't already halfway ruined by this girl's kindness and softness and fuckin' lavender thunderstorm aura. She didn't care if the others teased her. She didn't care if they called her whipped, or dramatic, or a goddamn Hallmark card in fishnets.
They could laugh. Let 'em laugh. Let 'em call her the world's biggest U-Haul lesbian. She was. Congratulations. Ten points and a toaster oven.
She didn't care.
She was gonna say it.
Right here, right now. In front of the Flying Spaghetti Monster and the whole fuckin' Pack. Three little words.
I love you.
She could say that. She had said that. She'd said it to get laid, to end fights, to open doors and shut mouths.
But this time? This time she'd mean it. And that made it worse! Some part of her, way down in the basement where the monsters lived, was screaming: No! Stop! Are you INSANE?!
But her heart had already committed the crime.
She was just drunk enough to have the courage.
And just sober enough to mean every last syllable.
She grabbed Roxie's hand under the table. Tight. Warm. Big.
And she opened her mouth to say it—
And that's when the damn speakers crackled to life.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" boomed a voice overhead—too loud, too chipper, and unmistakably drunk on its own drama.
"We have a surprise local celebrity guest with us tonight at Confessionals!"
Dianna froze.
No. No no no no NO.
"The lead singer of a fantastic local act!"
She turned slowly. Like a horror movie girl realizing she'd just said what could go wrong?
"You know her, you love her, some of you have definitely gotten naked for her—"
"Let's give it up for Florida's own BLOOD-SOAKED GODDESS…"
"Oh you absolute cockwaffle," Dianna whispered, wide-eyed.
"The ravishing Ravnos! The seductress of all our darkest desires! With fangs like knives and a voice to match—"
Elizabeth put a hand over her mouth, already shaking with laughter.
Tiny whispered, "Oh no."
"The DREAD PRINCE OF ORLANDO… VIOLET SHADOWBORN!! Performing Diary of Jane!"
The crowd went nuts.
The Pack exploded into whoops and cheers and a few theatrical howls from the twin Garou players in the group.
And Dianna?
Dianna sat there. Still holding Roxie's hand. Still mid-confession. Still short-circuiting like a toaster in a bathtub.
She closed her eyes. Sighed through her nose, and muttered, "I am going to kill Jorge."
Dianna sat frozen, fingers still curled around Roxie's.
That had been her moment. Her moment!
And Jorge, bless his chaotic little soul, had yanked the spotlight sideways with both hands like a clown steering a flaming parade float.
Blood-soaked goddess.
Seductress of darkest desires.
The fucking Dread Prince of Orlando.
She could hear her own reputation stomping toward her on eight-inch heels and a trail of metaphorical glitter.
The Pack was losing their minds.
Roxie was looking at her like she was about to ask what the hell a Ravnos was. "Di," she said softly, "You ok?"
Dianna… didn't move.
Not right away.
She just sat there. Heart hammering. Words still caught in her throat. Halfway between I love you and What in the actual flying spaghetti fuck just happened.
And then—
She laughed.
Just once. Quiet. A little breath through her nose. Because this? This was her life. Of course it was. The universe was so committed to the fucking bit. But maybe… maybe this was okay. Maybe this was better.
She looked at Roxie. Really looked. Roxie, who smelled like lavender and ozone and good decisions Dianna absolutely didn't make. Roxie, who had just told her she felt like a girl around her. Not a monster. Not a tank. A girl.
Sweet. Vulnerable. Holy.
And now Dianna was going to show her the other side. Because if this was going to be anything—real, lasting—then Roxie had to see it all. The rough edges. The shadow teeth. The fucking Prince.
"Yea, nah. I'm good." Dianna replied and slid off Roxie's lap.
All or nothing.
Her eyes narrowed, and her smirk came back crooked. Alright then.
"Guess we're doin' this the loud way," she muttered.
She readied herself. Reached into the dark hateful parts of herself where Violet called home. Smoothed her skirt. Reached into her clutch with fingers that didn't shake anymore.
Red contacts. Click.
Veneers. Snap.
The boots on her feet suddenly felt three inches taller.
Her spine straightened. Her hips rolled.
And Violet Shadowborn began her walk to the stage.
But somewhere, deep inside all that swagger and smoke, Dianna Rodgers was still holding three little words.
And she'd find a way to say them. With every note. Every breath. Every damn scream if she had to.
Can you love all of me?
Let's find out.