But June’s fingers are in her hair, and the rain is soft, and there is no landing. Just this: floating, together, in air that has always been water.

For three weeks, Eli found excuses to go back. The pothos looks yellow. Is that bad? (June texted back: Stop overwatering it. And stop looking for reasons to see me. ) Eli’s heart stopped. Then June texted again: Just come over Saturday. We can water it together.

That girl’s name was Margo, and she had bitten her lipstick off during a physics exam. They met in the bathroom. Margo was crying because she’d failed a test; Eli was hiding from the pep rally. By the end of the period, they were sharing a single earbud and listening to a band Eli had never heard of. By the end of the week, Eli had rewritten her entire understanding of the word home .

June works at a plant shop called Frond . Eli wandered in on a rainy Tuesday, looking for a snake plant—something unkillable because she had once accidentally murdered a cactus. June was behind the counter, repotting a fern, with dirt smudged on her cheek and her dark curls escaping a messy bun.

That was eight months ago. Now, Eli is curled up on June’s couch while rain streaks the windows. The pothos—now thriving, thank you very much—trails from a shelf above them. June is reading aloud from a book of queer poetry, her voice drowsy and warm. Eli has her head in June’s lap, and June’s free hand is absently playing with Eli’s hair.

“No,” Eli said, feeling her face heat. “I definitely do.”

“I know,” June says, smiling that small, crooked smile. Then she leans down and kisses Eli’s forehead. “I love you too. Even when you overwater the plants.”

It wasn’t like the first time with Margo. That had been frantic, hungry, desperate for proof. This was slow. Deliberate. June pulled back to look at Eli, her thumb tracing Eli’s jawline.