Work Text:
Present day - NYC shared apartment
The apartment was quiet in the way only Sunday evenings could be - soft, lived-in, and kind of sad. Outside, New York hummed beneath the skyline, taxis honking like agitated geese, but inside, all was still except for the low drone of the oven fan and the occasional clang of a spoon against ceramic.
Beca Mitchell sat slumped on the worn-out couch they’d inherited from Chloe’s parents, a pair of her sweatpants barely clinging to her hips and an oversized sweatshirt that definitely wasn’t hers. It was Chloe’s. Or maybe it was one of those ambiguous “joint custody” items now. She didn’t care. It smelled like vanilla and faint lavender and… sunlight?
God, she was losing it.
Chloe Beale, in all her post-Barden, sunshine-in-human-form glory, was humming off-tune to some non-existent melody in the kitchen. Her hair was in a haphazard bun, soft wisps falling into her eyes every few seconds. She blew them away without missing a beat, balancing a near-empty container of hummus in one hand and… something vaguely green in the other.
“We have approximately one tortilla, some shredded mozzarella, this expired salsa, and a half-dead avocado,” she announced cheerfully, as if this were an exciting new episode of Chopped.
Beca groaned. “So, basically, dinner is chaos and gastrointestinal regret.”
Chloe chuckled. “No faith in me, Mitchell?”
“None. Zero. I trust you with many things. Driving isn’t one of them. Cooking ranks somewhere just above skydiving without a parachute.”
“And yet, I’m still feeding you.”
Beca squinted at her. “That’s… oddly threatening.”
“You’ll survive.” Chloe’s smile was soft, distracted. She didn’t even look up as she sprinkled salt like a chef who’d just been fired but refused to leave the building.
There was no music on at the moment, just the rhythm of Chloe being herself as she hummed, and the occasional kitchen sounds.
Beca watched her. Like really watched her. The kind of watching that catches you off guard, like slipping on ice you didn’t know was there.
Her heart tripped.
Because in the middle of this half-lit apartment, smelling faintly of burning cheese and dryer sheets, Chloe was glowing.
She always glowed, but this was different. It wasn’t the lighting. It wasn’t her new perfume. It wasn’t even the way her voice filled the space so effortlessly.
It was the goddamn tortilla. Or rather, what she was doing with it.
There she was, using what was left in their near-empty fridge to make something edible. For Beca. For no reason. Just because.
Because she always did things like this. Quiet, caring, completely unnecessary things that made Beca’s chest ache in ways she never let herself think too hard about.
It was the way Chloe always brought her a second mug of coffee without asking. The way she rotated Beca’s vinyls so she wouldn’t get stuck in a loop of moody synth-pop. The way she left sticky notes on the fridge that said things like “Don’t forget you’re amazing (and also to buy milk).”
She’d been doing it for years. Since Barden. Since long before they moved in together last fall.
Beca had just… never let herself name it.
But now, with Chloe standing five feet away in mismatched socks and a sweatshirt that said “Hot Mess Express,” arranging a sad little tortilla pizza like it was a Michelin-star creation, Beca felt it.
The naming. It landed somewhere beneath her ribs.
She was in love with Chloe Beale. Utterly, irreversibly, stupidly in love with her.
“What?”
Beca blinked. “Huh?”
Chloe looked over, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “You’re staring.”
“Oh.” Beca swallowed, heart thudding oddly against her chest. “No, I’m just - uh - watching your… cheese technique. Very aggressive.”
Chloe smirked. “It’s a signature move.”
“Right. Very… cheesy.”
“Wow. That was worse than usual. You okay?” she asked, concern flickering across her face as she stepped closer, her smile mixed with curious concern.
And there it was again.
The way Chloe always noticed. The way she tilted her head slightly when she was checking in, like she could see right through Beca’s sarcasm and self-deprecating armor. Like she cared.
Beca nodded, because if she opened her mouth again, she might say something idiotic like You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I just realized it while you were making a sad excuse for a pizza.
Instead, she watched as Chloe set the plate down in front of her on the coffee table - crispy tortilla with cheese that was probably more emotional support than actual food.
“There you go,” Chloe said, kneeling on the floor beside the couch. “Gourmet.”
“Thanks,” Beca murmured.
And Chloe… smiled again. That Chloe smile. The one that lit up her whole face and crinkled the edges of her eyes, and made something inside Beca’s chest tangle and melt all at once.
Chloe didn’t sit next to her. She stayed on the floor, leaning back against the couch with a content sigh, eyes half-lidded and fingers brushing idly along Beca’s ankle.
It was nothing yet it was everything.
Affection. Quiet, grounding, constant.
Beca’s hands trembled as she lifted the plate. She didn’t eat it right away. She stared at the food like it had personally betrayed her by being the catalyst for this emotional implosion.
Chloe noticed - again. “You hate it,” she said lightly, but Beca could hear the flicker of disappointment under her usual warmth.
“No,” Beca croaked. “It’s good. It’s - it’s perfect.”
Chloe’s face softened, but Beca could see it now - the way she was always waiting. Not pushing, never demanding. Just… hoping. Quietly loving.
The weight of it made Beca dizzy and confused.
She put the plate down and shifted forward. She could see Chloe’s profile from above - cheek flushed from the heat of the oven, eyes scanning the tiny scuff mark on the coffee table they’d promised to fix months ago.
Beca opened her mouth, and her throat closed. A thoughtful look in a mid-pause, like a stolen shot. She tried again.
“Chlo?”
Chloe looked up instantly, blue eyes wide and open like they always were around her.
“Yeah?”
There were about 4,000 ways Beca could’ve fumbled through this. It was a while before some sort of sound finally escaped her mouth.
Flashbacks
Words of Affirmation - Senior Year, Worlds
It always started with her voice.
Not her singing voice, although that was magnetic in its own right. It was her other voice - the way Chloe Beale spoke when she meant something. When there was no audience, no performance, just space shared between two people. Chloe had this maddening, awe-inducing ability to sound like everything she said was true simply because she believed it so fully.
It had been a long week. Finals looming, the Bellas' rehearsals tightening like a vice around everyone’s nerves, and Beca’s own laptop screen staring back at her like it was mocking every half-baked idea she had for the new riff-off arrangement. She hadn’t moved in an hour. The glow of the screen barely lit the frown on her face.
She sat curled into the corner of the Bellas' couch, legs pulled up, hoodie sleeves covering half her hands, Ableton opened with layers, untouched.
Then, the couch dipped slightly beside her.
Beca didn’t need to look to know it was Chloe. She could tell by the scent - something faintly sweet, like coconut shampoo and orange tea - and the warmth that always seemed to radiate from her like a sun that didn’t know how to dim. Chloe settled on the arm of the couch, one bare foot tucked underneath her, cradling a chipped mug in her hands.
She didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Just took a sip, tilted her head to glance at Beca’s screen, then at Beca herself.
“You’re gonna change the world,” she said softly.
Beca blinked, throat tight with unsaid exhaustion. “…What?”
Chloe’s tone didn’t waver. “With your sound. Your vision. The way you pull things out of people, Beca. Out of us Bellas.”
Her words dropped like pebbles into a still lake. They didn’t ripple - they sank deep.
Beca looked down at her screen, suddenly aware of how tight her shoulders were. “I haven’t even done anything. This is trash,” she muttered, motioning toward the stalled track. “I’ve just been sitting here for forty minutes making the synth loop sound like robot garbage.”
Chloe shifted closer, her thigh brushing against Beca’s shoulder, her voice dipping quieter. “You always say that right before you make something that blows everyone away.”
There was no tease or performance in her tone. Just… belief.
And Beca didn’t know what to do with belief.
“I’m not even sure I’m good at this,” she admitted, softer than she intended. It came out tired, cracked at the edge. Honest.
Chloe didn’t flinch. Instead, she smiled. “You don’t have to believe it yet,” she said gently, eyes locking onto Beca’s like they were promising something. “I’ll believe it enough for both of us.”
Beca’s chest pulled tight. She scoffed to shake it off - classic deflection. “God, you’re such a sap.”
Chloe just shrugged and sipped her tea. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
It wasn’t and Beca knew it.She quietly reached forward, closed the laptop, and leaned back into the couch cushions - still frustrated, still uncertain, but not alone in it. That mattered more than she could say and she let the compliment stay.
-
It became a pattern after that.
Small, unspoken offerings. Chloe never forced them - never made a grand show - but her words lingered long after they were said. She’d drop them casually in hallways, in rehearsal breaks, during late-night snack runs. A quiet “that harmony you built in the second verse gave me chills” here, or a low, “I’m really proud of how you handled that” after Beca talked Emily down from a panic spiral.
She said them like facts. Like Beca’s worth wasn’t up for debate and Beca never knew how to respond.
So, mostly, she didn’t. She’d nod or grunt or change the subject. But something about the way Chloe looked at her during those moments - like Beca was something rare and golden and worth steady attention - stuck in the back of her ribs like a bookmark.
-
Then came Worlds.
Their suitcases were stacked at the door. Fat Amy was loudly debating whether she could sneak an entire wheel of cheese through international customs. Aubrey was triple-checking their itinerary like the fate of the world depended on it. Chloe was leaning against the kitchen counter, quietly folding and refolding a scarf, eyes drifting often to Beca.
Beca was jittery. Nervous in a way she couldn’t articulate. Worlds wasn’t just a competition - it was pressure, expectation, the kind of stage that made you wonder if you were enough, and of course, the fate of the Barden Bellas depended on it
When they arrived in Denmark and Beca unzipped her suitcase, a note fluttered out from between her rolled-up hoodie and her sheet music folder.
A small, square slip of paper. Chloe’s handwriting, unmistakable.
No matter where we are in the world,
you’re still the one I’d pick to sing beside.
Every time.Beca stared at it for a long time. Her heart felt like it was folding in on itself, quiet and stunned.
She didn’t show or mention it to anyone. Instead, she slid it into the inner mesh pocket of the suitcase and zipped it up again like it was treasure. She moved it to a new suitcase after graduation. And again, when she packed for New York, when she and Chloe ended up living together a year later, just friends, just roommates.
She never said a word but she remembered. Every single time.
Acts of Service - NYC, First Winter Post-Barden Bellas
Moving to New York had been a beautiful disaster.
Not the cinematic kind - the one with indie songs and hopeful montages - but the real, exhausting and annoying kind. They found a decent Brooklyn apartment that smelled like radiator heat and old wood. It was narrow, a little crooked, and entirely theirs.
It was also the first real leap they’d taken post-Barden. Chloe had applied to vet tech school and somehow landed a spot in an intensive program in the city that had her juggling labs, online coursework, and shadowing shifts. Beca, meanwhile, had landed a job at BFD Music, thanks to her internship recommendation. Technically, she was a junior producer, which mostly meant she cleaned up other people’s messy files, and worked with irritating one-hit social media wonders, and tried not to visibly flinch when the senior execs shouted across office rooms, but still. It was real. It was happening.
The days were long and the nights were longer.
Their schedules were barely aligned - Chloe had an 8am anatomy class and three-hour late afternoon lectures, while Beca worked late into the night editing vocal stems for minor tiktok artists and hyper-pop rappers. Some days, they didn’t see each other at all. Other days, they passed like two satellites in orbit - brief alignments in the kitchen or at the bathroom sink, mumbling half-awake greetings and sharing the last of the cereal.
But still, somehow, Chloe always managed to be there.
-
It started in the smallest of ways.
Beca would come home past midnight, hoodie half-zipped, headphones still around her neck, smelling like burnt coffee and Manhattan subway air, and the lights in the apartment would be soft - warm glow from the living room lamp, candles flickering on the counter. A note would be left by the microwave: Soup in the fridge. Heat it slowly, don’t burn your tongue again. - C
There’d be toast wrapped in foil. Or reheated curry. Or a sandwich built exactly the way Beca liked it - mayo on one side, mustard on the other, no soggy lettuce.
She’d open the fridge to find her energy drinks restocked. The Brita full. Her laundry somehow folded on her desk chair with another note: *Your socks were staging a rebellion. You’re welcome :) - C
Beca didn’t know how Chloe had the time.
Vet tech coursework was brutal, she knew that much. Chloe would sit at the kitchen table surrounded by textbooks, flashcards, and animal diagrams. Beca would glance at her sometimes on her way to refill coffee, watching as Chloe highlighted dense paragraphs on canine physiology like it was second nature. And yet, somehow, even with all that, she still managed to quietly take care of everything else. Like the world didn’t get to Beca unless Chloe let it.
-
One night, Beca came home to find Chloe kneeling beside the bathroom cabinet, the drawer pulled completely out and resting against the tub, screwdriver clutched in one hand, a furrow between her brows.
“You fighting our furniture now?”
Chloe huffed, tucking a flyaway curl behind her ear without looking up. “You’ve been complaining about this drawer sticking for weeks.”
Beca leaned against the doorframe. “I was just gonna live with it.”
“Of course you were,” Chloe said with a grin, twisting a screw loose. “But we’re not doing that anymore.”
Beca didn’t say anything. Just watched as Chloe fixed the damn drawer like it was the easiest thing in the world.
-
When the flu hit, it hit hard.
It started with a scratchy throat that Beca ignored. Then a fever she brushed off as exhaustion. Then, one morning, she woke up unable to move - head throbbing, muscles aching, her limbs uncooperative. Her phone buzzed somewhere near the floor, and she didn’t even try to reach it.
She woke later to a tray on her nightstand: medications, lukewarm tea with honey, buttered toast, and a folded napkin with Chloe’s handwriting.
Rest. Hydrate. No producing while fevered. Doctor’s orders (the vet tech version). xo - C
Beca stared at the note like it held answers to questions she hadn’t dared ask.
That night, when Chloe came to check on her again, Beca didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. She simply scooted over on the bed, lifted the blanket wordlessly, and let Chloe curl beside her, fully clothed, radiating warmth like a sunbeam.
She didn’t know if Chloe heard her whisper quietly, “Thank you.”
Quality Time - NYC, Pre-USO Tour
Beca had been sitting on the living room floor, hunched over her laptop with a scowl that hadn’t lifted in an hour. The synth pattern she’d built sounded like actual garbage, her posture was starting to resemble a turtle, and she’d long since forgotten what time it was. The studio deadline had crept closer than she liked, and the city noise outside their window had softened into the low hush of after-midnight lull.
Then Chloe padded in, barefoot, hair pulled back into a low ponytail, hoodie sleeves half-covering her hands. She didn’t say anything. Just crossed the room quietly, placed a warm mug of chamomile tea beside Beca’s laptop, and sank onto the floor opposite her. Back against the wall. Legs crossed. Eyes forward.
No TV, no school books, no headphones. Just her.
Beca had blinked at the tea, then at Chloe. “You hate chamomile,” she muttered.
“You like it,” Chloe had said, smiling without looking over. And that was it.
-
It kept happening.
Not the tea specifically - though that returned, too - but the quiet appearances. The unannounced joining. The subtle weight of someone choosing to exist beside her, without expectation.
Chloe had a full schedule. Vet tech rotations, midterms, late-night flashcards scribbled with tiny diagrams of cat kidneys. She was constantly studying, constantly moving. Still, she found time.
Time to bring back two coffees from her walk without asking what Beca wanted. Time to pause her studying just to sit beside Beca for twenty minutes while she mixed, silent but near. Time to fold the laundry they were both ignoring and drop a fresh pair of socks on Beca’s desk with a scribbled note: You own too many black ones. Here’s something less depressing :)
Sometimes, Beca would glance at her and feel this quiet tightness in her chest - something she didn’t have the vocabulary for.
Sometimes, she’d open her mouth to ask why Chloe did all this and then close it again. Because she didn’t really want to question it. She liked the calm it brought, the softness that enveloped the air. She just didn’t know what to do with it.
So instead, she stayed quiet. Let Chloe stay, too.
-
It was always Chloe who made space for it.
Every Sunday, without fail, Chloe would reclaim the day. No alarms, no schedules, no studio time. She’d tug Beca off the couch and into the world - through farmers markets, through bookstore aisles, through twenty-minute walks that lasted hours because Chloe wanted to stop and listen to a violinist busking on the corner.
And Beca, despite the constant refrain of I have work, I need to finish this mix, I should email Theo back .
Because she didn’t want to say no. Not to Chloe, even if she never admitted it.
-
One particularly miserable work day, the city was swallowed by cold drizzle and Beca had barely made it home in one piece. Her subway train had stalled for half an hour. Her phone had died. Her jacket was soaked. And the rough draft she’d sent to her senior producer at BFD had come back with so many red notes it looked like a murder scene.
She wanted to crawl into her bed and pretend music didn’t exist.
Instead, she found Chloe in the kitchen, finishing up something on her tablet, hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing Beca’s oldest hoodie - the faded navy one with the ripped cuff she never let anyone borrow. Except Chloe because she had borrowed it once and never gave it back, and Beca never asked.
Without saying a word, Chloe turned off her tablet, stood, and pulled a blanket down from the back of the couch. She draped it over Beca’s shoulders gently, then nudged her to sit. A moment later, she returned with a grilled cheese sandwich and a hot mug of tomato soup. It was basic. Comfort food.
It felt like warmth on a day that had tried its best to strip her of it.
Beca didn’t speak. Just took the mug slowly, eyes lowered. Her voice, when it came, was barely there. “Thanks.”
Chloe smiled, soft and nonchalant, and joined her on the couch without a word.
Later that night, Beca was back at her setup in the corner, headphones around her neck, trying to fix the mix that had torn her to shreds earlier.
She didn’t hear Chloe come in again. She only noticed when her tea was refilled. Only looked over when the couch shifted, and Chloe settled beside her with her legs curled under her, silent, phone face-down on the table, her entire body angled toward Beca even if she wasn’t watching her work.
“You don’t have to sit with me, you know,” Beca muttered, glancing sideways.
“I know,” Chloe said, that same quiet certainty in her voice.
And that was it.
Hours passed like that.
Beca got lost in the details. The reverb. The snare curve. The breath before a chorus.
And when she finally pieced it together, when the song clicked in her headphones and she turned, grinning, ready to share the win -
Chloe was asleep.
Curled up on the couch, her hand still loosely tucked under her chin, face pressed against the throw pillow, breathing slow and soft. Her feet were tangled in the blanket. Her other hand rested near Beca’s, as if she’d been reaching out before slipping under.
Giving Gifts - DJ Khaled Signing, Week of the Single Launch
Beca had never liked being celebrated.
She was the kind of person who recoiled from attention on principle, who ducked behind speakers at her own birthday parties and deflected praise with dry humor and arched eyebrows. Compliments made her itchy. Big gestures made her suspicious. Her idea of success wasn’t champagne and applause - it was silence in her headphones and goosebumps when a mix finally clicked.
So when her first official track under DJ Khaled’s label dropped - her name tucked in the producer credits of a major debut like a quiet promise - she didn’t expect anything from Chloe.
Which was exactly why it landed so hard.
-
It was a Wednesday.
Cold but clear, the kind of late-November morning that smelled like subway steam and roasted chestnuts on every other corner. Beca had spent most of the day at the BFD offices, dodging half-sincere high-fives from studio interns and nodding vaguely through a team lunch she hadn’t wanted but couldn’t avoid. She appreciated the congratulations. She just didn’t know what to do with them.
By the time she walked through the door of the apartment, her shoulders were tight from the weight of it. From being seen.
Chloe wasn’t in the living room. The lights were warm, the heater humming softly, and the faint scent of something sweet drifted from the kitchen. Beca dropped her bag by the door, unzipped her jacket, and paused mid-shrug when she saw the box.
It was small.
Plain matte black, no ribbon, no tag. Just sitting there on the kitchen counter like it had always been there, even though it hadn’t been there this morning.
Beca approached it slowly, cautiously, like it might bite.
She lifted the lid. Inside, nestled against soft fabric, was a bracelet. Simple leather, deep charcoal brown. Not flashy nor loud.
Etched into the inside of the band, in clean serif lettering, were four words: Keep going, Beca.
She blinked. Then read the message again.
Inside the lid, in Chloe’s unmistakable handwriting - neat but with just enough curve to feel personal - was another line: In case you forget what you’re made of.
Beca stood there too long. Her fingers hovered above the bracelet, not touching it at first, as if she wasn’t sure she was allowed. Her chest pulled tight, breath uneven in a way she didn’t show on her face. It wasn’t just a gift. It was a moment . A snapshot of Chloe’s quiet knowing. Of all the ways she saw her.
She heard Chloe’s voice before she saw her. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” Beca muttered, still staring down, voice quieter than she meant it to be.
Chloe leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, dressed in sweatpants and a frayed sweatshirt that made her look softer than usual. She didn’t meet Beca’s eyes.
“I know.” That was it.
No explanation. No smile fishing for a reaction. Just the truth. Beca looked back down at the bracelet. She slipped it on. It fit perfectly.
She didn’t say thank you - not because she wasn’t grateful, but because her throat was too full. Chloe didn’t seem to need her to say it. That was the thing about her. She never did things to be acknowledged.
She just gave.
And kept giving.
-
It wasn’t the first gift and it wouldn’t be the last.
Beca didn’t always notice them at first. But over the years, they built up like quiet stars in the background of her life.
There was the extra charger Chloe slid into her backpack when she lost hers for the fifth time in a month - already unwrapped, already used once to make sure it worked, because Chloe knew Beca hated breaking the plastic off things.
There was the rare vinyl Chloe found on a trip to Spain - an original pressing of an obscure soul artist Beca had once offhandedly mentioned during a road trip. She didn’t even remember saying it. Chloe did.
There was a sticker. Bright, ridiculous, slapped onto the back of Beca’s laptop one afternoon when Chloe thought she was napping: World’s Most Emotionally Constipated DJ.
Beca hadn’t removed it. Not because she liked it - she didn’t. But because it made Chloe laugh when she opened her laptop during meetings. And because part of her liked the way Chloe teased her without cruelty. Like she knew her and liked her anyway.
Beca never asked for these things, but she kept every single one.
-
She didn’t really understand it until one rainy Tuesday a few weeks later.
She’d come home drenched, umbrella blown inside out, bag soaked. Her hands were shaking - not from the cold, but from frustration. She’d bombed a pitch meeting. One of the new artists had pulled their demo. Her producer had told her to “toughen up,” like vulnerability wasn’t part of the sound they were selling.
She hadn’t said a word when she walked in. She just kicked off her boots, peeled off her coat, and dropped onto the edge of the couch like gravity had given up on her too.
Chloe didn’t hover. Didn’t ask.
Instead, she disappeared into her room for a moment, returned with something wrapped in tissue paper, and placed it on the coffee table in front of her without a word.
Beca glanced up. “Chlo - what are you - ”
“Just open it.”
She hesitated.
Then peeled back the paper.
Inside was a small black Moleskine notebook. On the inside cover, Chloe had taped a post-it note in the shape of a heart.
You don’t have to make everything into music. But you do have things worth saying. Write them somewhere.
Beca stared at it, blinking fast.
“I didn’t know if you’d like it,” Chloe said softly, arms crossed like she was shielding herself from the vulnerability of it. “It’s just - sometimes you look like you’ve got a storm inside you. And I thought maybe it’d help to have somewhere to put it.”
Beca opened the notebook. Blank pages and clean lines.
She didn’t speak. She just nodded.
Physical Touch - NYC, Post-Single Launch
It was 3 a.m. The kind of hour when even New York felt muted, when the usual hum of the streets dimmed to an occasional car passing through the slush and the neon of the corner deli flickered like it, too, was tired. Beca hadn’t planned on being outside - hadn’t planned on anything but finishing the vocal layering session she’d promised Theo and Khaled. But then the fire alarm went off, shrill and relentless, echoing off the studio walls like afternoon construction.
The floor was evacuated within minutes. No one knew if it was real or just another false trigger from the faulty wiring, but protocol was protocol. So there Beca stood - on the icy sidewalk, hair in a haphazard bun, sweatshirt thin enough for the chill to sink straight into her bones. She realized, with grim humor, that her socks didn’t match. One navy, one gray. No coat either. It was still at the dry cleaners because she hadn’t picked it up. She jammed her hands into her pockets, shivering under the pale streetlight.
And then Chloe arrived.
-
Ten minutes. That was all it took. Ten minutes, and Chloe was there in front of her, breath visible in the cold, red hair spilling out from under a beanie, boots laced and puffed-up coat zipped high against the biting wind. She held out a spare scarf - navy blue, soft, still warm from wherever she’d grabbed it - and without waiting for permission, wrapped it snugly around Beca’s neck.
Beca blinked up at her, thrown by the quiet certainty of the gesture. “How did you even - ? I didn’t text you.”
“You don’t answer your texts when you’re mixing,” Chloe said matter-of-factly, adjusting the scarf like she’d done this a hundred times. “I figured you needed someone to bring you warmth and common sense.”
Beca huffed a small laugh, which came out in a puff of cold air. “You sound like my mom.”
“Your mom isn’t here,” Chloe said softly, her gloved fingers brushing against Beca’s jaw for a fraction of a second. “So you’re stuck with me.”
Before Beca could form a sarcastic comeback, Chloe pulled her into her arms.
It was warm. Shockingly warm. Not just from the coat or the scarf, but from Chloe herself - the way her arms locked around Beca’s shoulders, the way she held her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Tight, grounding. Beca’s cheek pressed against the firm line of Chloe’s collarbone, and for a brief moment, she let herself melt into it.
“I hate the cold,” Beca muttered, voice muffled against Chloe’s chest.
“You don’t have to hate it alone,” Chloe murmured back, her chin lightly resting on the top of Beca’s head.
It wasn’t sexual nor performative. It was just warm, familiar touch.
Beca didn’t move until the fire department confirmed the all-clear and everyone shuffled back inside.
-
The morning rush was brutal, the cars crammed so tight that Beca could barely breathe. Chloe stood behind her, hand gently pressing between her shoulder blades to steady her as the train lurched forward. It was nothing, really - a small, fleeting thing - but Beca felt her entire body relax at the pressure of that hand. Like Chloe was silently saying, I’ve got you.
When the train came to a sudden stop, Beca stumbled back, and Chloe’s arm instinctively wrapped around her waist. Beca turned, startled, cheeks burning. Chloe didn’t even flinch, her face calm, eyes soft as she asked, “You okay?” And Beca just nodded okay.
-
There was another night - a week later - when the city was drenched in rain. They’d gone out for groceries and got caught in a downpour on the way home. By the time they reached the apartment, both of them were soaked through, hair plastered to their faces, jeans heavy with water. Chloe grabbed Beca’s hand without warning as they dashed up the steps, laughing through the rain.
The second they were inside, Chloe didn’t let go. She pulled Beca toward her, wiping rain from her cheek with her thumb before either of them had a chance to think.
Present day - NYC shared apartment
“You’re in love with me, aren’t you?” Beca finally said after a lengthy pause with all the flashbacks replaying so quickly in her head.
The silence after was immediate. Like if a pin dropped in a quiet room, everyone would have heard it. It was thick.
Chloe blinked once, twice. Her mouth parted, but no words came out. Instead, her face crumpled. Eyes glassy, tears at bay and slowly made its way down her cheeks as she struggled to wipe it away fast. It wasn’t a loud cry or sobbing. Her expression folded in on itself like she’d been holding something heavy for too long and it finally gave.
“Hey, hey, I - shit - ” Beca slid off the couch in a scramble, reaching out but stopping short of touching her. “I didn’t mean - I mean - I meant it, I just - don’t cry - oh god, are you mad?”
Chloe shook her head, a tear slipping down her cheek. “No,” she whispered.
“Okay. Okay, good. Because I suck at comforting people unless it’s with memes.”
A watery laugh broke through Chloe’s throat.
“I’m not mad.” Beca let out a breath. “Because I just realized like… an hour ago that I’m in love with you, and I’m having a very quiet meltdown.”
Chloe’s eyes snapped to hers, lips parted in confusion and shock.
Beca shrugged, cheeks burning. “I thought it was the tortilla at first. But no. It’s you. It’s… it’s always been you and what I’ve just realized is you showing me all the love languages there is, your way.”
For a moment, Chloe didn’t say anything. She just reached out and finally, finally touched Beca’s face - gentle, grounding, warm.
Her voice was barely a whisper as she said, “I didn’t want to ruin anything.”
“You didn’t,” Beca said, leaning into the touch. “You’re the only thing holding me together most days.”
Chloe choked out a small, disbelieving laugh.
“I mean it,” Beca said, quieter now. “You’ve been loving me this whole time, haven’t you?”
Chloe nodded, eyes red. “Since sophomore year.”
“God,” Beca exhaled, eyes shutting. “I’m such an idiot.”
Chloe leaned in, “I was hoping you’d catch up eventually.”
And then, with the softest smile, Chloe kissed her and Beca let her.
It wasn’t like Mia Thermopolis’s version of a foot-popping kind of kiss. It was slower than that, and softer, and delicate. It’s like finally curling into bed after a long day and being held.
When they broke apart, Beca’s forehead stayed pressed against Chloe’s.
“So…” Beca murmured, noses touching. “Does this mean you’ll keep making me tortilla pizzas?”
Chloe grinned through her tears. “Only if you keep letting me love you in ridiculous, quiet ways. And now, loud ways.”
“Deal.” Beca smiled, thumb brushing Chloe’s cheek. “And maybe… Sometimes… I’ll love you back out loud.”
“I’d like that.”
And in their tiny kitchen-scented apartment, with no background music and half a tortilla left on the table, Beca finally let herself fall. Completely. Silently.
Utterly in love.