Chapter 5: The Weight of Money

The first cold snap of October comes early, seeping through old window glass and forcing Nawana to raid Jordan’s stash of giant hoodies. She likes the way they smell after a long day—synthetic, a little like sweat, a little like the gross hand sanitizer Jordan keeps everywhere. They wear matching ones now, sprawled on the couch watching a documentary on serial killers that Jordan’s already seen twice. Nawana’s only pretending to watch, her mind circling the same ugly thought, round and round:

Maybe you’re not enough. Not clever enough for her, not ambitious enough, not interesting enough to compete with the next crisis or the next Mia.

Jordan is more herself on nights like this, safe and loose, feet up on the coffee table, hair twisted into a bun that keeps falling apart. She pops open another can of La Croix and offers it to Nawana with a grin.

“You want some?” she asks.

“Not unless you spiked it,” Nawana says.

Jordan shrugs. “We still have vodka. If you want to get reckless.”

The word reckless hangs in the room, daring someone to touch it.

“I’ve got class in the morning,” Nawana says. “Portfolio review. I’m supposed to sound professional.”

Jordan laughs, but it’s soft, distracted. “You are professional. All those contracts and NDAs—you’re like a corporate shaman at this point.”

“Yeah, but I actually have to show up,” Nawana says, voice tight. “It’s different from hiding in a Discord server.”

Jordan slides closer, pressing their bodies together along the length of the couch. “If anyone gives you shit, tell them your girlfriend will stab them with a pipette.”

It’s such a dumb threat that Nawana can’t help but laugh, tension bleeding out of her shoulders. She presses her face into Jordan’s neck, inhaling the honest, animal warmth of skin.

“Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re not nervous?” Nawana murmurs.

Jordan considers it, hands finding the hem of the hoodie Nawana’s borrowed. “I don’t think I’ve ever not been nervous. I ... push it down.”

“It’s easier for you,” Nawana says. “You’re, like, the queen of performing competence.”

Jordan draws a slow circle on Nawana’s thigh. “It’s an act. My mother says the best surgeons are the ones who can act like nothing’s wrong while the patient’s bleeding out.”

“Nice,” Nawana says. “So you’re basically the sociopath of medicine.”

Jordan grins, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Only on days ending in ‘Y.’”

They fall into silence, not the comfortable kind but the heavy, shifting sort where every touch feels like a test. Nawana keeps thinking about the upcoming review, about all the eyes on her work, about the feeling that no matter what she puts on the wall, it’ll never add up to more than a pretty diversion for people who actually matter. She’s still chewing it when Jordan leans in and kisses her—slow and deliberate, like she’s mapping a new route every time.

Nawana lets herself get lost in the rhythm of it, the heat of Jordan’s mouth, the way her hand is already under the hoodie, fingers tracing along the waistband of her pajama shorts.

“You sure?” Jordan whispers, breath warm against Nawana’s ear.

“I want to,” Nawana says. “I just ... don’t want to fight again.”

Jordan freezes, lips just above her collarbone. “We’re not fighting.”

Nawana laughs, thin and bitter. “We’re always fighting, even when we’re not.”

Jordan sighs. “Maybe we could not, for one night.”

“Yeah,” Nawana says, “maybe.”