He Would've Been Proud Of Us

Kenzie couldn't watch it anymore. River was buried in school work—papers, deadlines, committees—like the calendar itself could keep her from cracking open. The funeral's dust still hung in the house, but no one said the word. Kenzie sat on the edge of River's bed, palms damp. "We've never been the closest," she started, voice low, "but I'm still your stepmom. I give a damn if you're happy." She waited. River didn't look up. Kenzie's hand slid along River's thigh, slow, deliberate. She gave the muscle a soft squeeze. River froze, eyebrows shooting up. "Sex?" she managed, barely a whisper. Kenzie leaned closer. Heat. "You don't have to bury yourself alive to prove you're fine," she murmured. "Bodies speak when mouths won't." River's pulse kicked under Kenzie's fingers, sudden, alive. The silence stretched thin, then River nodded once, fast. It felt dirty. It felt honest. Her legs shifted. They tumbled into the heat that grief leaves in its wake.