Mao is, in fact, an asshole.

She's a massive orange tabby who takes one look at me dripping on Felix's kitchen floor and hisses like I've personally insulted her ancestors.

"She's territorial," Felix says, scooping her up. She immediately purrs like a motorboat, kneading his chest with her claws. "And a hypocrite."

"She has excellent taste in humans."

"You calling me an asshole?"

"If the shoe fits."

But I'm smiling when I say it, and he's grinning back, and this—this easy back-and-forth—feels like something I could get addicted to.

The something I've been running from my entire life.

His house smells like ginger and soy sauce and that cedar-orange scent that clings to his skin. Family photos cover every surface. Felix at various ages, always laughing. His parents on their wedding day. An elderly woman who must be his grandmother, stern-faced and beautiful.

"She lives with us," Felix says, following my gaze. "Pó po. She doesn't speak much English. I don't speak much Mandarin. We mostly communicate through food and disappointed looks."

"Sounds familiar."

"Yeah?"

I think of Dad's careful distance. The things we don't say.

"Yeah."

Felix loans me sweats and a hoodie that swallow me whole. I swim in his clothes, and something about that—about being wrapped in fabric that smells like him—makes my chest tight.

I'm not used to being taken care of.

I'm not sure I know how to let someone.

We spread our materials across his kitchen table. Attendance records from the guerrilla screening—Priya documented everything, bless her organized soul. Photos of the crowd. The petition we've been circulating, now boasting three hundred signatures. Testimonials from students about what the club means to them.

It should be enough.

But I know Sienna. I know her mother. They'll come armed with budget projections and utilization metrics and all the soulless corporate language that makes art sound frivolous.

"You need to speak," Felix says.

I look up from the petition. "What?"

"At the board meeting. You need to speak." His voice is gentle but firm. "I can present the data. Priya can show her documentary. But you're the president. You're Arthur's granddaughter. They need to hear from you."

My stomach drops.

"I can't—"

"You can." He reaches across the table, covering my hand with his. "You came to my house in the rain, Margot. You apologized without hiding behind Bogart. You can do this."

"That was different. That was just you."

"This is your club. Your legacy. Your fight." His thumb traces circles on my wrist. "I'll be there. I'll support you. But I can't be the only one fighting for this anymore."

The words land like a punch.

Because he's right.

I've been letting everyone else carry the weight. Priya with her organizational skills. Felix with his enthusiasm and ideas. Even the new members who showed up to the guerrilla screening—they fought for the club while I spiraled in my own fear.

I've been a ghost in my own life.

Again.

"I don't know what to say," I whisper.

"Tell them the truth." Felix squeezes my hand. "Tell them what the films mean to you. What your grandfather meant. Why this matters."

"What if I freeze?"

"Then I'll be right there to catch you." His eyes are steady on mine. "But you won't. You're braver than you think, Margot Reyes."

I want to believe him.

God, I want to believe him.

"Okay," I say. "I'll try."

"That's all I'm asking." He stands, pulling me up with him. "Now come on. I ordered dumplings. You can't write a world-changing speech on an empty stomach."

---

We work until midnight.

Felix handles the logistics—creating a presentation with our data, organizing the testimonials, confirming that Priya's documentary is ready. I stare at a blank document for two hours before finally typing the first sentence.

Silent films taught me that the most important things don't need words.

Then I delete it.

Too pretentious. Too film-club-president. Too much like I'm performing instead of speaking.

Felix watches me from across the table, patient. Mao has claimed his lap, purring obnoxiously.

"What did your grandfather actually teach you?" he asks.

I close my laptop.

"That I was worth listening to."

"Then start there."

I open it again. Type slowly.

My grandfather died two years ago, and I've been silent ever since.

The words blur.

I keep typing.

Not literally. I still talked. Still went through the motions. But I stopped saying anything that mattered. I stopped letting people see me. Because everyone I loved left—my mother, my grandfather—and I decided it was safer to love old movies than people who could disappear.

Felix has gone very still.

The film club was supposed to be my refuge. My last piece of him. But I turned it into a tomb. I let it die rather than risk letting people in. I was so afraid of losing something else that I destroyed it myself.

My hands are shaking.

But then someone showed up who wouldn't let me hide. Who saw through every defense and every quote and every wall I built. Who made me realize that my grandfather didn't leave me the club so I could worship his memory. He left it so I could do what he did—use film to connect. To communicate. To find people worth fighting for.

I look up. Felix is watching me with an expression that makes my heart stutter.

These films matter because they remind us that we're not alone. That people have been loving and losing and fighting and surviving for as long as cameras have existed. That our stories matter. That we matter.

And I'm done being silent about what matters.

I save the document. Close the laptop.

"That's good," Felix says quietly. "That's really good, Margot."

"It's terrifying."

"The best things usually are."

He's right.

He's been right about everything.

"Felix?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you." The words feel inadequate. "For not giving up on me. For making me fight."

"You're worth fighting for." He says it like it's the simplest truth in the world. "Even when you don't believe it yourself."

Something cracks open in my chest.

I stand. Walk around the table. Mao hisses and leaps away, offended.

Felix looks up at me, confused. "Margot?"

I kiss him.

Not like in the doorway earlier—desperate and apologetic and still half-terrified. This is different. Deliberate. A choice I'm making with my whole self.

He makes a surprised sound against my mouth, then his hands are on my waist, pulling me closer. I end up in his lap, straddling him, and the kitchen chair creaks ominously but neither of us cares.

"Upstairs," I breathe against his lips.

He pulls back just enough to search my face. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Because earlier you ran—"

"I'm not running now." I frame his face with my hands. "I'm choosing this. I'm choosing you."

His eyes go dark.

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

---

His room smells like him. Cedar and orange and something indefinably Felix. There's a workbench in the corner covered in half-finished wood projects. Movie posters on the walls—mostly kung fu films and Wong Kar-wai. A guitar leaning against the bed.

"You play?" I ask.

"Badly." He closes the door. Locks it. "My parents are out, but Pó po has walked in on me before and I'm not risking—"

I kiss him again.

This time he doesn't hold back. His hands slide under the borrowed hoodie—his hoodie—and I shiver as his fingers trace my spine. We stumble toward the bed, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter.

"Wait," he says, pulling back. "I need you to know something."

I'm already reaching for his shirt. "Can it wait?"

"No." He catches my hands. "Margot. I need you to know that I'm in this. All the way. Not just tonight. Not just until the board meeting. I'm in this."

The words should scare me.

They don't.

"So am I," I say. "That's what I'm trying to show you."

"I know. But I need to hear you say it." His voice is rough. Vulnerable. "I need to know this isn't just you proving something to yourself. That I'm not just—"

"You're not." I press my palm to his chest, feel his heart racing. "Felix Zhang, I am terrified and probably going to mess this up and completely out of my depth. But I want this. I want you. Not as a distraction. Not as rebellion. Just—you."

He exhales shakily.

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Shut up and kiss me, Reyes."

I laugh. "So romantic."

"I'll give you romantic."

He does.

He lays me back on his bed with a gentleness that makes my throat tight. Kisses me like he has all the time in the world. His hands map my body with careful attention, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me arch into his touch.

When he pulls off my borrowed hoodie, I don't freeze.

When his mouth traces my collarbone, I don't disappear into my head.

I stay.

Present. Here. Choosing this with every breath.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs against my skin.

"You're biased."

"I'm right." He looks up at me, eyes dark and sincere. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

I pull him up, kiss him hard.

"Less talking," I say. "More—"

He grins. "More what?"

"You know what."

"Say it."

"Felix—"

"Come on, film girl. Use your words."

I could hide behind innuendo. A movie quote. Deflection.

Instead, I meet his eyes.

"I want you," I say clearly. "I want this. Please."

His expression shifts. Goes soft and hungry at once.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, okay."

---

After, we lie tangled in his sheets, sweaty and breathless. My head is on his chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder.

I should feel exposed.

Vulnerable.

Instead, I feel safe.

"Margot?" His voice rumbles under my ear.

"Mm?"

"Stay with me tonight. Not just—I mean, yes, that was incredible, but I mean actually stay. Sleep here. Wake up with me."

I lift my head to look at him.

He's nervous. I can see it in the tension around his eyes.

He's asking me to stay in every sense of the word.

"I'll have to text my dad," I say.

"Is that a yes?"

I kiss his jaw. His throat. The hollow of his collarbone.

"That's a yes."

His arms tighten around me.

"Good," he says. "Because I'm not done with you yet."

"Oh?"

He rolls us over, bracing himself above me. His hair falls into his eyes. He's grinning like a fool.

"I want to hear you say it," he says.

"Say what?"

"You know what."

My heart stutters.

Because I do know.

And I could deflect. Could make a joke. Could hide behind Bogart and Bacall and every romantic quote I've memorized.

But I promised myself I'd stop running.

"I love you," I say.

Just like that.

No Casablanca. No Breakfast at Tiffany's. No armor.

Just me.

His eyes go wide. "Margot—"

"I love you," I say again, stronger. "I'm probably going to be a disaster about it. I'm going to panic and overthink and probably try to run again. But I love you, Felix Zhang. And I'm choosing to stay."

He kisses me so hard we both forget to breathe.

When he pulls back, his eyes are bright.

"I love you too," he says. "In case that wasn't obvious."

"It was a little subtle."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

He does.

---

The morning of the board meeting, I wake up in Felix's bed with his cat on my chest and his arm around my waist.

Mao glares at me like I'm a home invader.

"Your cat hates me," I mumble.

"She hates everyone." Felix's voice is sleep-rough. "It's a sign of respect."

I try to move. Mao's claws dig in warningly.

"I'm trapped."

"Yep."

"Felix."

"This is your life now. You chose this."

I did.

I chose this.

The thought should terrify me.

Instead, I feel something unfamiliar blooming in my chest.

Hope.

---

We arrive at the administration building an hour early. Priya is already there, laptop open, documentary queued. She takes one look at us—at my rumpled clothes, Felix's dopey grin, our intertwined hands—and smirks.

"Finally," is all she says.

Students start filtering in. Members of the film club, old and new. People from the guerrilla screening. Even some who just signed the petition.

They're here.

For the club. For the fight.

For something that matters.

Sienna arrives fifteen minutes before the meeting, flanked by her mother and two other board members. She's wearing a power suit and her signature vanilla perfume. When she sees the crowd, something flickers across her face.

Surprise.

Maybe even concern.

Good.

"Margot." Her smile is sharp. "Quite the turnout."

"People care about things that matter."

"We'll see what the board thinks matters." She glances at Felix, at our joined hands. "I hope you're not expecting special treatment just because you brought your boyfriend."

Felix opens his mouth—probably to say something that will get us disqualified—but I squeeze his hand.

"We're expecting fair consideration," I say evenly. "That's all."

Sienna's eyes narrow.

Then the board secretary opens the doors.

"We're ready for you."

Felix turns to me. "You've got this."

"We've got this," I correct.

He grins. "Damn right."

We walk in together.

The board sits behind a long table—five members including Sienna's mother, who radiates the same polished hostility as her daughter. The room is packed. Standing room only.

My hands are shaking.

I grip my notes tighter.

Felix squeezes my shoulder once. Then takes his seat.

Priya cues up her documentary.

And I step up to the microphone, heart in my throat, and prepare to fight for everything that matters.

"My name is Margot Reyes," I begin.

My voice doesn't shake.

"And I'm here to tell you why you made a mistake."