She comes on Sundays. That's all Adora knows about her.
Well, that’s a lie.
She comes on Sundays and orders a gallon of minestrone soup. An entire gallon. Every Sunday.
And she never pays.
There’s no order receipt that comes through Adora’s handy little iPad. No soup confirmation. Not even a call for an order of an outrageous amount of minestrone soup.
No, she comes every Sunday, calls the restaurant with a voice that sounds like gravel and smoke had a lovechild, and says, “The crow is in the nest.”
“What?” Adora barely gets out before the line clicks dead.
Adora hadn't known what that meant at first. She had written it off as a prank. A wrong number. A weirdo playing games. But the same number calls three more times, repeating the same stupid, cryptic phrase before the insults begin.
Adora wasn't even all that bothered. It was a good excuse to refuse checking her email. Pick up the phone, trying to get in a ‘what?’ before the person hangs up, then repeat.
The fourth call is the problem.
“It’s been twenty minutes, blondie. I’m waiting here.’
“I don't know what ‘crow is in the nest’ means” Adora stutters, whipping around at the customers in the olive garden. None of them are looking her way. None of them are even on the phone. None of them look like they know how to use anything but a landline. No one here is under the age of 89.
"How did you know I’m blonde?”
“I'm waiting outside, idiot. Your hair is reflecting the sun like a fucking mirror. Did all that hair dye seep into your brain?”
Adora is so surprised she stutters like she used to as a kid. Her mouth keeps her from saying completely reasonable sentences. “S-seep?! I'm a na-natural b-blonde!”
From across the restaurant, Scorpia, who’s been clearing tables, looks up at the sudden shift in octave. She lifts a curious brow but says nothing. Adora glares out the front doors at the only car in the lot—an absolute junker, probably older than she is.
Depending on the ten pack a day smoker voice this woman on the phone might be too.
“Could have fooled me” the decidedly rude voice clicks her tongue. “Look your stutter is cute and all but you must be new, just tell Angela the crow is in the nest.”
“I will not-” the phone hangs up and leaves Adora staring at the 2000’s landline like an idiot. She almost wants to check her email instead of dealing with the asshole on the line.
“Who was it?” Scorpia asks. She’s holding her bucket of dirty dishes with a white splotchy rag thrown over her shoulder. She would tower over Adora threateningly if Adora hadn't known her to be such a big softy.
“Just a really rude customer,” Adora says, slamming the receiver back down. She slips her phone from her pocket, finger lingering over her email app.
Scorpia laughs, “let me guess, the crow is in the nest?”
Adora looks up surprised. How had Scorpia heard that from across the dinning hall floor? “Well, yeah, actually.”
“go tell Angella. She’ll get you sorted out”
“Tell Angella?” she slaps her phone down and plants her hands on her hips, glaring at the junker outside the door. A Toyota highlander, silver. “it's obviously just a prank call”
“Tell Angella, Wildcat is here and harassing the new girl” Scorpia laughs, lugging her box of dishes back into the kitchen. “She’ll know what to do!” she calls across the floor.
Adora sighs, finding a familiar face amongst the tables and gestures for Glimmer to take the host's station. Glimmer rolls her eyes from across the dining hall but gives a thumbs up over her customers head. She isn't even writing orders down anymore. Adora doesn't know how she has them memorized.
It isn't hard to find Angella. The woman is usually sitting in her uncomfortable leather desk chair and trying to look like she isn't sleeping. She’s gotten pretty good at it. It would be useful if everyone didn't know what she was doing, (and didn't care)
Adora is only slightly impressed by the way her eyes are open as she snores away. She doesn't register Adora as she enters the office. Blank sleeping eyes. It's almost creepy. A horror movie waiting to happen.
Adora has to clap her hands three times for Angella to nearly fly back in her chair.
“Adora dear” she smiles and stands hurriedly shuffling papers on her desk like she’s been awake the whole time. “What can I do for you?”
“Uhm. this is going to sound crazy”
“We work at the olive garden I have heard it all” Angella waves her hand away.
“There’s a customer outside who keeps calling the restaurant just to say ‘the crow is in the nest’ and then hangs up.”
Angella smiles widely and clasps her hands together.. “Oh, she’s late.” she stands from her chair with a flourish of wings and she pulls Adora with her into the kitchen, nodding to Scorpia at the sink as she goes.
“What?” Adora stares. “You know her?”
Angella laughs, ladling soup in a gallon plastic bucket. She clicks the lid on and then tucks it neatly into a cardboard bag.
“Who is she?”
Angella doesn’t answer. Instead, she grabs the gallon of soup and hands it to Adora. “Take this out to the car.”
Adora gapes at the container in her hands, then at her boss. “Are you serious? I could be getting kidnapped! I don’t know whose in there. ”
“Very serious.” Angella smiles and wanders back to her office. “And tell her I’m docking her pay for being late.”
“Wildcat doest work here ma’am!” Scorpia shouts to the back.
"Well she better start to work off all this pay I’v been docking.” Adora stands flabbergasted until Angella calls from her office, “let me know if you get kidnapped, Adora!”
Adora stomps out the side door, soup in hand. Coming up behind the car she can see the head of the driver. Twitching feline ears and a short cropped mane of hair. The bumper stickers are fucking outrages. ‘Honk if you like anal’, ‘if you can read this congrats your literate and way to fucking close to me’, ‘blow deisal smoke at me and I’ll blow you up’
It’s only when she reaches the driver side window, she finally sees the woman inside.
“Catra?!”
Catra grins, sharp and amused. “The one and only.”
She’s dressed like Satan’s wet dream. Adora hates to admit it but it is totally hot. It's a far cry from Shadow Weaver’s pink dresses and tight shoes. A ripped sleeveless, black, t-shirt. Piercings for days. Cargo pants covered in holes and bracelets and rings that scream punk wannabe,
She pulls it off so well. For someone who dresses herself like a teenage christian girl, Adora is so turned on.
Unfortunately the first thing that comes out of Adora’s mouth is:
“Y-you know I’m a na-natural blonde!” Adora growls. Her menacing effect is ruined by her childhood stutter that has decided today is the best day to come back and ruin her life.
Catra shrugs. “I dunno, it’s been years. Your DNA could’ve changed.”
Catra smirked evilly, flashing silver snake bite piercings through her bottom lip. Silver piercings that are not totally hot.
Adora glares. “That’s not how DNA works.”
Catra smirks harder, revealing a fucking tongue piercing. “Aw, have you learned something since I last saw you? And they say dumb dogs can’t learn new tricks.”
“I-it’s old dogs!” Adora splutters. “You can’t teach old dogs new tricks!”
“Oh, Adora,” Catra sighs, squinting at her. “You’re not old yet. Those wrinkles will go away if you just put some moisturizer on them.”
The top of Adora’s head nearly flies off in rage. She almost reaches up to check to make sure it didn't.
“I-I’m barely twenty-five!” she sputters, seething. The stuttering is getting to her and she clenches her fists. “How i-is it that I only stutter when I’m ar-arguing with you?”
Catra grins. “You could just tell me I’m pretty, darling.” She leans against her car door, head resting on her arm. “You’re not the only girl I leave at a loss for words.”
Adora fights the urge to dump the entire gallon of soup on her.
“Why are you even here?”
Catra gestures at the soup. “Ordering food?”
“An entire gallon of soup?”
Catra looks at her like she just said something offensive. “Minestrone soup.”
Adora throws her hands up. “What does that have to do with anything?!”
“It’s the best soup to grace this damn earth. Maybe that hair dye really is affecting your brain.”
That’s it. Adora doesn’t fight the urge. She shoves the soup at Catra, who fumbles to catch it. In the process, she bangs her head against her car door and hisses, rubbing at her forehead while clutching the soup.
“Real classy, Adora.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear customer,” Adora says sweetly, clasping her hands together. “But you’re holding up the takeout line.”
Catra gestures at the empty lot. “There is no line.”
Adora spins on her heel and marches back inside.
She doesn’t have time for this.
(She totally has time for this.)
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You met Catra,” Glimmer pops her gum and leans against Adora’s host stand. Adora herself is slouched on her stool, head in her hands, slumped over the host’s table like she wants to sink into it and disappear.
Her phone is open to her email app to no new notifications. It's a sense of relief then disappointment.
“Mhm.” Adora barely lifts her head.
“What did you think?” Glimmer presses, eyes gleaming. She’s practically vibrating with excitement, like a dog with a bone at the scent of gossip. “I was totally thinking of setting you guys up. Goodie two shoes and the devil incarnate. What a cute ship-”
Adora exhales heavily. “I knew her.”
“What?” Glimmer straightens immediately, her curiosity amped up. “You knew her?”
“Just a little,” Adora even holds up her hand, pinching her fingers together.
Glimmer narrows her eyes. “How? Class? College?”
Adora shifts uncomfortably. “Well, no. We, uh… We were in foster care together.”
Glimmer gapes. “A little?!” She slaps Adora’s shoulder, and Adora hisses, rubbing the spot with a glare. For a high schooler, Glimmer is surprisingly strong. Must be all those rugby games.
“Catra was in foster care most of her life!” Glimmer exclaims.
Adora freezes. “How do you know that?”
Glimmer hesitates, mid-unwrapping an Andes mint. “Oh, well. Catra is my sister.”
Adora’s brain short-circuits. “Catra has a family?” she murmurs. “Then why was she in foster—”
“Well, she got fostered with us right before she aged out. Mom adopted her,” Glimmer shrugs, tucking her order pad into her apron. Not that she ever seems to use it. “But she wouldn’t want me sharing shit like that.”
Adora blinks, the information sinking in like a slow-moving tidal wave. Catra had been fostered with Glimmer? Adopted? Had a family all this time? Why hadn’t she ever reached out? Adora had given her a number. A sharp pang hits Adora in the chest—a strange mix of regret and resentment she can’t quite untangle.
Glimmer snaps her fingers in front of Adora’s face. “Hey! Earth to Adora! You good?”
Adora swallows. “Yeah, I just… I just didn’t know.”
Glimmer frowns, studying her with a suspicious glint. “Yeah, well, now you do.” She pats Adora on the shoulder and pushes off from the hosts desk.
“Wait, where are you going?’
“Table four is snapping their damn fingers at me” Glimmer rolls her eyes but then slaps Adora shoulder again. Adora barely refrains from swearing.
“Would you stop hitting me?” she grumbles, rubbing the sore spot.
“Not until you spill,” Glimmer calls over her shoulder, already weaving through the tables. “And if you don’t, I’ll torture it out of you!”
Adora watches her go, a scowl settling onto her face. She almost regrets ever making friends with the teenager. Almost. But more than that, she regrets the sharp, unshakable ache in her chest at the realization that Catra had found a home.
And Adora hadn’t been a part of it.
Not that she can feel that way. Adora had found a home herself hasn't she? Less found and more born into. It was her who had left first. It was her who moved three states away.
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Glimmer really doesn't let Adora off the hook. She and Bow, who doesn't even work at Olive Garden, show up at her cramped apartment at nearly midnight with buckets of ice cream and more horror movies.
Adora hates horror movies. The fact that she can’t tear her eyes away from them, and that they are her go to genre says nothing about her.
She slouches on her worn-out couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the screen. The glow of the TV flickers against the walls, casting eerie shadows in the dimly lit apartment. A horror movie plays in the background, low-budget screams mixing with the occasional creak of the old pipes. Glimmer and Bow sit cross-legged on the floor, digging into gallon tubs of ice cream, making themselves at home in her tiny living space. What is with this group and gallon tubs of food?
"Well, we all are a bit confused, to be honest," Glimmer admits, taking a dramatic bite of her ice cream.
"About what?" Adora asks, sinking deeper into her blanket but unable to look away from the screen.
"Why are you even working at Olive Garden," Bow says, and Adora freezes. “Crappy pay and crappy tips. The only people who go to olive garden are over the age of 150”
“Hey don't shit on the olive garden. The food is great”
"You're like two days away from your acceptance to medical school. You should be living it up," Glimmer says.
"I have student loans," Adora grumbles.
“Yeah I'm sure olive garden pay checks are making a dent in that.”mBow says.
"Pssh, no one pays those off. They'll probably get forgiven anyway," Glimmer waves her spoon dismissively.
"I don't think you know how student loans work," Adora deadpans.
"we’re in high school," Bow retorts.
"Read a book," Adora sighs.
Glimmer slaps Bow’s shoulder. "Don’t let a nerd tell you what to do." she hisses.
“I'm pretty sure that’s exactly what Elon musk told Donald trump when he wanted to impose tariffs.” Adora retorts. "And I was talking to you, idiot," Adora counters.
"You're surprisingly strong," Bow winces, rubbing his arm and glaring at Glimmer.
"It’s rugby," Adora and Glimmer say in unison.
"I want to know how you know Catra," Glimmer says suddenly, changing the subject.
"I already told you," Adora says, shifting uncomfortably.
"You didn’t tell me," Bow chimes in.
"They were in foster care together," Glimmer answers for her.
"I didn’t know you were in foster care," Bow says, eyes widening.
"Only for a couple of years until my moms could get custody back," Adora explains, fiddling with the edge of her blanket.
"You have two moms?" Bow asks.
"Gay," Glimmer says without missing a beat.
"Alright then," Adora mutters, rolling her eyes.
"Why did they lose custody?" Glimmer presses.
"Glimmer!" Bow hisses, shooting her a look.
"They didn’t have enough money," Adora admits, her voice quieter now.
"What?" Bow asks, spoon pausing mid-air.
"They couldn’t take care of me. Social services got involved. It was whatever," Adora shrugs, pretending it doesn't still sting.
"Oh, that’s why you want to be a doctor," Glimmer realizes, eyes lighting up with understanding.
"What?" Adora asks, narrowing her eyes.
"What?" Glimmer repeats, feigning innocence.
Bow, sensing the moment is ripe for chaos, leans forward. "So… you and Catra were in love or what?" Then he sticks his fork into Glimmer’s ice cream and sends them both into a wrestling match over ice cream.
Adora is left flabbergasted on the couch. Adora chokes and slaps her hand down on the remote. Turning off the movie, “what?!”
"That’s a yes," Glimmer mutters, fighting off Bow’s spoon with her own as he tries to steal a bite of her ice cream.
"I-I wa-as not—"
"The stuttering is only reinforcing our beliefs," Bow sings, grinning.
"It’s a speech impediment!"
"One that becomes apparent in the face of a very hot feline," Glimmer teases.
"Why are there two high school students bullying me in my own apartment?" Adora groans, standing up and throwing the lid of their ice cream tubs back at them. "Leave, feral gremlins. LEAVE."
"It’s your own fault for making friends with people two decades younger than you," Glimmer grins.
"I’m 25!" Adora yells.
"Yeah, old as hell," Glimmer quips, dodging another ice cream lid.
"I actually do have a curfew soon," Bow says, checking his phone.
Adora stares at them, utterly dismayed. "I am friends with people who have a curfew. This is my life now."
Glimmer pats her shoulder with mock sympathy. "It’s okay, Grandma, we still love you."
“You do need friends your own age.” Bow says as he puts the lid back on both his and Glimmer’s ice cream tubs and carries them to Adora’s freezer.
“I have friends my own age” Adora grumbles, Picking up spoons on her way back to the kitchen.
“College friends don't count,” Glimmer sings, twirling her keys on her ring finger.
“Those are the best kinds of friends!” Adora retorts.
“Not when they live two thousand miles away.”
Adora has to refrain from killing the two teenagers in her apartment.
--------)0(--------
She’s back the next Sunday.
Adora only knows because the second she picks up the phone, before she can even get out a tired, “Welcome to Olive Garden—”
“Crow is in the nest.”
Then, a fucking dial tone.
Adora stares at the receiver like it personally insulted her before slamming it back down. It’s the stupidest fucking saying in the world but Adora can’t even laugh.
She slams the phone back into the receiver.
“Catra?” Glimmer asks, barely looking up from where she’s punching in an order, but her eyes flick to Adora’s trembling hands.
Adora groans in response, ignoring the knowing smirk creeping onto Glimmer’s face. She stands and snatches the tub of soup from the kitchen counter , a terrible “wildcat” with a smiley face scrawled on the side, and stalks out of the kitchen.
She flips the teenager off and she walks out the front door.
“Have fun!” Glimmer calls after her, far too amused for Adora’s liking.
The night outside is sharp and biting, the kind of cold that seeps through fabric and gnaws at skin. The Olive Garden parking lot is near empty, the pavement glistening faintly under the streetlights from an earlier frost. Adora pulls her thin work cardigan tighter around herself, regretting for the hundredth time that she never remembers to bring a proper jacket.
It feels almost as if its about to snow.
Above her, the neon Olive Garden sign buzzes and flickers, struggling against the cold. A stray gust of wind kicks up a few dead leaves, sending them scraping across the asphalt. The only other sound's the distant hum of traffic from the main road and the muffled chatter from inside the restaurant.
And then there’s her.
Catra.
She’s already rolled down her window, one arm lazily draped over the edge, fingers tapping idly against the rusted frame of her junker. Her headlights are dim, the right one slightly flickering, and there’s a faint scent of old leather and cigarette smoke clinging to the air around her car—though Adora is fairly certain Catra doesn’t smoke. She just somehow always smells like she does.
“If you wanted to see me so bad you could have just asked,” Catra says as she rolls down her window.
“You came to my place of work. Not the other way around” Adora pulls the tub away when Catra reaches for it. The feline raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “It looks like someone is desperate to see me.”
“It's not my fault you chose to work at the only place that gives me free food” Catra retorts.
Catra leans back in her seat, stretching her arms over her head, her tank top riding up slightly to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. Adora looks away. Not because she noticed, but because she didn’t need to.
“I heard you were adopted,” she blurts instead.
Silence.
Catra’s smirk falters, only for a split second before she tilts her head. “What about it?”
It’s all the confirmation Adora needs. Catra is happy as hell with them. She can hear it in the way her voice is too casual, too forced. If Catra had been miserable she wouldn't have hesitated to share it. She only holds back when she’s ecstatic.
She plays off her question with a joke.
“You get adopted by a filthy fucking rich family, but you still drive around in a junker older than Abraham Lincoln?”
Catra snorts. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but recycling is good for the environment.”
Adora gestures to the hunk of metal she’s somehow calling a car. “I’m pretty sure upgrading to a more fuel-efficient car is better for the environment than driving around this gas-guzzler.”
“You would know,” Catra retorts, smirking again. “I heard you got a tree fucker degree.”
Adora groans. “I know your brain is permanently thirteen years old, but it’s called a tree hugger degree. I’m flattered to hear you’re grilling your seventeen-year-old sister about me, though.”
“More like sitting and wanting to die as she rambles about the idiot new hire that dropped so many dishes on her first day, they had to confine her to hosting.”
Adora clenches her jaw, but her ears betray her, burning red.
Silence hangs between them, thick and charged, only broken by the soft hum of Catra’s engine and the occasional rush of wind. Adora shifts her weight from foot to foot, trying to ignore the way the cold nips at her exposed skin.
Catra’s smirk widens, her canines glinting under the glow of the streetlights. “Cat got your tongue?”
The words slip out before Adora can stop them.
“Cat wishes she had my tongue.”
Silence.
Catra’s grin freezes, then grows, slow and wicked, her golden eyes glinting with something dangerous.
“Oh?” she muses, voice dropping lower, sending an involuntary shiver down Adora’s spine—not from the cold.
Dirty implications flood Adora’s brain and she short-circuits. She wants to die. Or disappear. Or rewind time.
Instead, she clears her throat and shoves the soup at Catra before she can dig herself an even deeper grave.
“It’s good to know,” Catra murmurs, taking the tub with one hand, her other resting under her chin as she watches Adora squirm.
She rolls up her window before Adora can snap back, leaving the blonde standing there, face burning, fists clenched, furious.
Not at Catra. No.
At herself.
Because damn it, she’s already looking forward to next Sunday.
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Adora had expected the next Friday to be uneventful—just a routine grocery run after a long shift, navigating the aisles like a zombie while clutching a shopping list she’d probably forget to follow.
Her cart collides with another, jolting her back into awareness as a bag of frozen edamame slides dangerously close to the edge of Catra’s precariously stacked pile of frozen salmon.
“Now you’re following me to the grocery store?” Catra quips instantly, one hand resting on her hip as she smirks up at Adora. “If you want my number, all you have to do is ask.”.
Adora latches onto the only thing keeping her from crumbling into the tile floor—the absurdity of Catra’s shopping cart.
“What is with you and food?” Adora asks, choosing to ignore Catra’s comment entirely.
Catra blinks at her, then follows Adora’s gaze to the impressive collection of only frozen salmon and bags of edamame sitting in her cart.
“I have a texture thing,” she admits with a shrug.
Adora squints. “Minestrone soup fulfills your texture thing?”
Catra nods sagely. “Yep.”
Adora folds her arms, intrigued despite herself. “Well, I’m glad you found something you like.”
Me too.” Catra taps a bag of salmon like it’s a cherished pet. “Life would’ve been really hard if I could only eat steak.”
“And expensive,” Adora points out.
“Think of all the chances I’d get botulism,” Catra muses.
Adora sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I think you’re thinking of salmonella from chicken. And then you mixed that up with botulism, which you get from eating food out of dented cans.”
“Potato, potato,” Catra sing-songs.
“You just said potato twice,” Adora deadpans, her hand falling from her face.
“I couldn’t spell potato,” Catra says without missing a beat.
Adora snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for a can of beans from the shelf beside them. “What does spelling have to do with anything? Sometimes I think you are so worried about getting a quick quip that sometimes you don't think about what comes out of your mouth.”
“It's how I get my best banter” Catra shrugs, “I just say whatever comes to mind, it doesn't usually lead me astray.”
“what?”
“You think you’re all high and mighty with that stupid biology degree,” Catra grumbles, kicking at her cart wheel.
Adora grins, cocking a brow. “I actually doubled in biology and wildlife ecology.”
Catra rolls her eyes, unimpressed. “Idiot.”
“Say that to my two degrees.” Adora can’t stop the smugness in her tone.
Catra exhales heavily through her nose, staring at her cart like she regrets every decision that led to this moment. “Are you just here to judge my grocery choices, or are you actually gonna shop?”
Adora glances at her half-empty basket—eggs, some vegetables, and a lone packet of instant ramen she had grabbed on impulse.
“Do you want to wander the store together?” she asks before she can stop herself.
“Isn't that romantic,“ Catra retorts fake dreamily. a smiling ticking her lips up.
“That was the idea, yeah,” Adora says, entirely too honest, entirely too fast.
Catra’s smirk twitches—almost falters. For the briefest moment, she looks caught off guard. Then, just as quickly, she regains her composure, shifting her weight onto one foot and grinning.
“If that was the idea, then yes,” she says, looping her fingers around the handle of her cart. “But you have to follow me everywhere. No running off on your own to grab your own stuff. You take me with you.”
Adora exhales a laugh, something warm curling in her chest despite the cold of the freezer aisle.
“I wouldn't want it any other way”
She really wouldn’t, but boy, is it frustrating. Because Catra doesn’t follow her own damn rules. One minute, Adora is looking at a selection of celery, and the next, she’s turning around to an empty aisle.
Catra?” Adora asks, looking back and forth down the aisle like a lost kid. She really doesn’t want to ask a grocery worker to call for a missing “feline with dual-colored eyes” over the loudspeaker.
She spots a tail disappearing around a corner and pinches her nose.
It doesn’t take long for her to find Catra perusing the Oreos. Her hands land on the white packaging for grain-free.
“What happened to not leaving me behind?” Adora asks, purposely bumping her cart into Catra’s—lightly, of course. She doesn’t want to be paying Walmart for a dented shopping cart.
“Those rules were only for you. You’re supposed to be following me around like a lost puppy, feeding into my narcissism.”
Adora barely restrains a laugh, but something else sticks in her mind. What happened to not leaving me behind?
“Do you remember when we were kids?” Adora asks suddenly.
“Kinda hard to forget an entire childhood,” Catra mutters, eyes still on the Oreos.
“Why didn’t you ever call me?”
Catra hesitates, Oreos in hand. “What?”
“I left you my number before I was picked up. I put it on your pillow. There’s no way you didn’t see it.”
“I never got any number. You left in the middle of the school day. I walked home alone expecting to see you home with a cold, but your bunk was empty and Shadow Weaver was telling me you had left and you were never coming back.”
Catra drops the Oreos in her basket and turns down the aisle. “Made it pretty clear how much you wanted me to reach out to you.”
“I left you my number,” Adora says, lightly jogging after her. “Mara had a phone, and I wrote the number down on a sticky note. We were taking a plane, and I couldn’t wait.”
“Well, I never got a number, and Weaver was shut down shortly after that. Everyone was dispersed.”
“Yeah, I heard. I called every day for a month, but at some point, Weaver stopped picking up.”
“You called?” Catra asks, quieter now.
“Of course I did,” Adora says, looking Catra straight in the eye.
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“You look like shit.”
Adora hadn’t meant to say it out loud. The words just escaped—unfiltered, instinctual, like exhaling into the cold night air and watching her breath materialize.
Catra, slumped in the driver’s seat, nearly snarls at her. She’s bundled in layers that shouldn’t work together—tiny Adidas shorts, a faded pink hoodie with Alaska scrawled across the front, and an oversized letterman’s jacket from a high school the owner had graduated from nearly five years ago. She looks like a walking contradiction. A mess of exhaustion, stubbornness, and why the hell is she wearing shorts in the snow?
“Well, thanks,” Catra drawls. Her voice is impossibly scratchier than normal—thick, nasal, stuffed with whatever illness is currently kicking her ass. She puts her phone back up to her ear, and only now does Adora register the faint, tinny sound of Glimmer’s voice.
“I gotta go, Glimmer. The cavalry's here.”
“The what—” Click.
Adora blinks. It seems Catra hangs up on everyone like that. She was just starting to think she was special.
She smirks. “So you think I’m your knight in shining armor?”
“More like a knight in a food-stained apron. If only you were wielding a ladle and serving platter.”
Adora rolls her eyes. She’s about to fire back when Catra removes her sunglasses—and that’s when Adora sees it.
Red-rimmed eyes. Adora’s stomach twists.
“Are you okay?” It’s out of her mouth before she can stop it.
Catra scoffs, shifting in her seat. “Just peachy.”
The sarcasm is thick enough to choke on.
Adora doesn’t push. She just exhales, watching the warm air turn to fog between them, and reaches for the half-gallon tub of soup. “You ordered less than usual.”
She hands it over, but as soon as Catra takes on some of the weight, her arms buckle. A frustrated sigh escapes her lips, and before Adora can think, she’s leaning over to set the tub in the passenger seat herself.
For a second, their faces are too close.
Adora doesn’t move.
Catra doesn’t either.
Dual-colored eyes stare back at her—unfocused, glassy, worn thin from exhaustion.
“Are you okay to drive?” Adora asks, noticing just how foggy those pupils look.
Catra scoffs. “I got myself here, didn’t I?” The words are tired and a little wet, as if she'll start crying soon.
“I’m going to drive you home.”
“Like hell you are.”
Adora doesn’t argue. She just steps back, stripping off her apron. “Park your car. I’m gonna get my keys.”
She doesn’t wait for a response. Just turns and heads inside, the snow crunching under her sneakers.
She fully expects Catra to drive off. It would be so like her—stubborn, reckless, determined to prove she can do everything alone.
But when Adora comes back outside, her jacket now shielding her from the bitter cold, Catra’s car is parked. And she’s standing outside of it, leaning haphazardly against the door, legs visibly shaking against the snow-covered pavement.
Adora shakes her head, biting back a smile. Idiot.
Catra slides into Adora’s car with a raised eyebrow. “You’re one to talk about my car when yours is ten times worse.”
“I have a bad car because I’m poor. You have a bad car because you refuse to accept handouts.”
“It’s called principles, Adora. Maybe you should grow some.”
Adora snorts. “Maybe you should grow some nuts in your mouth.”
Catra bursts out laughing—loud, scratchy, messy, a little breathless. “Are you five?” Tears spring to her eyes, barely restrained joy crinkling the corners.
Adora grumbles, but a smile tugs at her lips.
They drive in a comfortable silence, the windshield wipers shoving away the soft snowfall as they cut through the icy streets. The occasional streetlight casts a warm glow over the dashboard, flickering across Catra’s face in brief flashes.
After a while, Adora glances over.
“Is that your letterman?”
Catra doesn’t move from her slumped position. “Yeah.”
Adora hums, turning her eyes back to the road. “It’s big. Really big. It looks like it belongs to Scorpia.” The question is casual, too casual.
“Well, it doesn’t,” Catra says flatly. Adora feels like Catra knows what she is asking. Seeing through her thinly veiled questions like its glass.
Adora lifts a brow. “I just don’t—”
“It was an accident, okay? I ordered it two sizes too big.”
Silence.
Adora glances at her again, watching the way Catra’s face is partially hidden in the hoodie’s collar. A small smirk tugs at her lips.
“Well, it looks good,” she says.
Catra groans, dropping her head back against the seat. “Just shut up, please.”
“And to think, I was being nice to you.”
“It was unnatural. I was basically begging you to stop.”
“I didn’t hear any begging.”
“I only beg in the bedroom.”
Silence.
Adora grips the steering wheel a little tighter, her ears burning despite the cold.
Catra, for her part, just smirks.
“So, Everywhere else you’re just a dick?” Adora asks, forcing her voice to stay even.
“Pretty much.”
Adora exhales a laugh, shaking her head. “Then let’s get you to your bedroom.”
It’s borderline flirting.
Catra’s grin widens. “Only if we can bring the minestrone.”
“I’ll even let you bring NyQuil.”
“Fuck yes.”
When Adora finally parks in Catra’s apartment lot, she barely gets the passenger door open before Catra collapses against her. Heavy and warm, her nose nuzzling into Adora's neck. It sends a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold down her spine.
Adora’s suspicion is immediate. “You don't need this much help.”
Catra just groans dramatically. “Carry me.”
Adora sighs but doesn’t fight it. With minimal effort, she loops an arm around Catra’s waist and half-carries, half-drags her up the stairs. Snowflakes land in Catra’s wild hair, melting against the warmth of her skin. She smells like a mix of her usual perfume—something warm and slightly spicy—and sickness.
Inside, Adora takes in the mess of the apartment.
“Your place is kind of a disaster.”
“It’s organized chaos,” Catra mutters, kicking off her shoes.
“It just looks like chaos. Some might call it, I don't know, a mess”
“To your hair-dye-addled mind, maybe.”
Adora scoffs. “I’m a natural blonde.”
“Who knows? Maybe you forgot and tried to dye your golden hair blonde.”
Adora stills. “You think my hair is golden?”
Catra doesn’t hesitate. “I think your entire body is radiant.”
Silence. The kind that hangs in the air, charged, waiting.
“…Was that a compliment?” Adora finally asks.
Catra shrugs, turning away. “Only if you want it to be.”
Adora watches her for a second longer before looking away herself, a smile creeping onto her lips.
“Okay then.”
Adora carefully adjusted the blanket around Catra, who was half-awake, draped over the couch in her usual half-living, half-sleeping state. The pile of blankets and cushions looked like it had been strategically placed for maximum chaos. Adora could only roll her eyes fondly. It was a miracle Catra even managed to stay on the couch at all, given how she always moved like a restless tornado.
“Still not used to this whole ‘being sick’ thing, huh?” Adora remarked, walking over to the kitchen counter to grab the steaming bowl of soup she’d made. “I remember when we were kids and everyone would get the flu when it was going around but you”
Catra groaned, barely lifting her head. “What gave it away? The fact that I look like a walking corpse or the fact that I’m about to drown in my own snot?”
Adora snorted, placing the bowl down on the table next to her. “Honestly, a little bit of both. You’ve got that look in your eye like you’re planning your next escape.”
“I’m not planning anything,” Catra mumbled, half-watching Adora with glassy, exhausted eyes. “I’m just trying not to die before I get through this soup.”
“Which, by the way, is a personal recipe,” Adora said, feigning offense. “You better not die, No one else would appreciate the complex layers of my cooking like you do.”
Catra raised an eyebrow. “You mean the stuff you managed to microwave without completely setting off the fire alarm? Yeah, you’re a chef. Just wait till Angella finds out the 25 year old she hired invented minestrone soup 42 years ago.”
“Every body’s a critic” Adora grumbles, pulling Catra blanket up a bit higher
Catra grumbled something unintelligible but didn’t argue. She shifted again on the couch, eyes half-lidded. “You’re sure you’re not secretly trying to poison me with this, right? Because I wouldn’t put it past you. You like horror movies too much to be normal. ”
Adora chuckled, moving over to Catra and gently lifting a stray lock of her hair. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d have just let you drive yourself home.”
Catra doesn't respond and Adora looks down to realize she’s fallen asleep. The nyquil she took must have acted fast. Adora smiles and tucks the blanket around the slumbering feline. Moving the box of tissues closer and cleaning up a bit of the trash and nyquil wrappers littered around the space.
She didn't stay long after that. She had told Angella she was driving Catra home and that she had been back. She hadn't liked the smirk Angella got when she had heard it. Or the “take your time.” called after her as she left the restaurant, jacket in hand.
She doesn’t stay long. But as she steps back out into the cold, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders, she realizes something.
Catra’s words—flippant, casual, teasing—they’re going to stick with her.
Because radiant?
No one’s ever called her that before.
She exhales, her breath curling into the icy night air. Radiant isn’t a word people use to describe her. Strong? Sure. Stubborn? All the time. Hardworking, reliable, intimidating even—she’s heard them all. But radiant implies something warm, something bright, something that draws people in rather than holding them at arm’s length.
And Catra said it like it was a fact. Like she didn’t even have to think about it.
Adora shakes her head, stepping through the thin layer of snow crunching beneath her boots. She should let it go. It’s just Catra messing with her, the same way she always does. Just another sharp-edged joke wrapped in something deceptively sweet.
Except it didn’t sound like a joke. And the way Catra had looked at her, eyes still a little fevered but steady and sure—it didn’t feel like one, either.
Adora reaches her car and grips the freezing door handle, pausing for just a second. Don’t overthink it. She slides into the driver’s seat, shivering as the cold leather presses against her back. Catra was probably just delirious from the NyQuil.
She turns the key in the ignition, the engine sputtering before finally catching, and watches the soft glow of the apartment complex lights through her windshield.
Still.
She can’t help but glance at her reflection in the rearview mirror. At the golden hair spilling over her shoulders, at the faint pink dusting her cheeks from the cold.
Radiant.
She huffs, a small, disbelieving smile pulling at her lips.
“Idiot,” she mutters to herself, shaking her head as she puts the car into reverse.
And yet, as she drives away, she can’t quite shake the warmth curling in her chest, lingering like an ember in the dead of winter.
--------)0(--------
--------)0(--------
“Ugh, what are you doing here?”
Catra groans from where she’s slumped against the doorframe, her voice somehow even rougher than yesterday. It’s lower, scratchier—like she’s been swallowing gravel in her sleep. The sound makes Adora wince.
She barely manages to keep the concern off her face.
“I brought soup.”
The door swings open Catra squints at her, clearly debating whether or not she has the strength to argue. Instead, she simply reaches out, fingers weakly grasping for the tub in Adora’s hands.
It’s pathetic.
She’s slow, sluggish, her movements just delayed enough that Adora easily pulls the soup away before she can get a good grip.
“I brought soup and medicine,” Adora corrects herself. “But you have to let me in.”
Catra exhales through her nose, a deep, suffering noise, but she stumbles back enough to let Adora slip past her.
She’s still in the same outfit from yesterday, but the hoodie and jacket are gone, leaving her in only a threadbare t-shirt and those tiny Adidas shorts that do nothing to cover her legs.
It’s freezing in here.
“Why is it so cold?” Adora demands, glancing around the dim apartment. The heat should be running, but the air is stale and biting, like the outside has somehow seeped through the walls.
“I was hot,” Catra mutters, as if that explains everything.
Adora closes the door behind her, shaking her head. “It’s called a fever, Catra. You’re not supposed to actually turn the heat off.”
“Tell that to my overheating body.”
Adora sighs. “It’s snowing outside.”
Catra groans dramatically, dragging herself toward the bed and collapsing onto it face-first. The sheets and blankets are a mess, tangled around her limbs like she lost a fight in her sleep.
Adora takes a second to glance around the apartment. It’s small but somehow feels bigger than her own place, probably because it’s lived in. The kitchen is barely separated from the main living space by a short counter, the TV is propped up on a sideways bookshelf, and there are books everywhere. Piles on the counter. Stacks on the table. A few even shoved haphazardly onto the couch, like they were picked up and forgotten mid-read.
Homegirl needs more shelves.
Adora sets the soup down on the counter and starts pulling open drawers, searching for a bowl.
Behind her, Catra groans. “Are you snooping?”
“Yes. I’m looking for where you hide your dead bodies,” Adora deadpans.
“Second cabinet to the right,” Catra says without hesitation. “And why would you look for bowls in a drawer?”
“I was looking for—” Adora stops short, eyes locking onto something in the utensil drawer.
She picks it up slowly, turning it in her fingers, and then holds it up in Catra’s direction.
“Is this an Olive Garden spoon?”
Catra doesn’t even lift her head from her pillow. “No.”
Adora turns it over, noting the familiar weight, the way it’s just slightly heavier than a normal spoon. “It looks just like the ones I wrap in napkins every night at work.”
“Coincidence,” Catra says flatly.
Adora narrows her eyes. “Does Angella know you stole a spoon from Olive Garden?”
“That’s not important.”
“Oh my god, she doesn’t.” Adora nearly cackles.
Catra peeks out from the blankets, finally lifting her head just enough to glare. “Angella doesn’t need to know everything. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
Adora shakes her head, amused. “How did you even get this? I’ve never seen you come in.”
Catra groans again, stuffing her face back into the pillow. “That’s not the point.”
“Not only did you steal a spoon, but you’re ashamed of it.”
“I am not.”
Adora grins. “You won’t even tell your own mom.”
Silence.
Adora’s smile falters just slightly.
“…Foster mom?” she corrects, softer this time.
Catra doesn’t answer right away. Then, “She’s just my mom.”
Adora nods, something warm settling in her chest. “Oh. You just got quiet, that’s all.”
“I just didn’t have anything to say to that,” Catra mumbles.
Adora doesn’t push. Instead, she sets the bowl down beside Catra’s head. “You must be really sick. You don’t have anything to say? Let me open the curtains—there might be pigs flying.”
Catra snorts but doesn’t argue.
“…It’s just nice,” she mutters after a moment, rolling onto her back to stare at the ceiling. “Having a mom. And having other people know she’s my mom.”
Adora swallows. “Yeah. I get the feeling.”
“Of course you would.”
Adora hesitates, then reaches out, taking Catra’s hand in hers.
Catra doesn’t pull away.
“It was almost as nice,” Adora says, voice light, teasing, “as everyone knowing you were my best friend.”
“That was miserable,” Catra scoffs. “All the other kids made fun of you.”
“Yeah, but I had you. So who gave a fuck about them?”
Catra groans. “Little you would be so on your ass about swearing.”
Adora grins. “How the turn tables-.”
Catra’s head snaps toward her. “Did you just quote The Office at me?”
“I would never.” Adora places a hand over her heart in mock offense.
“Good. Do it again and I won’t let you stay for a scary movie.”
“I hate scary movies.”
“You big fat liar,” Catra drawls, shifting slightly to make more room on the bed. “We both know you love them. Now get in this bed with me, please.”
Adora raises an eyebrow. “Well, if you’re begging, I don’t know how I can say no.”
She climbs in, pressing close enough to feel the heat radiating off Catra’s feverish body. The blankets are soft, the room still too cold, but for some reason, Adora doesn’t mind.
Catra sighs, eyes fluttering shut.
Adora watches her for a second longer before settling in, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
--------)0(--------
--------)0(--------
"I'm honestly surprised I found out where you worked," Adora says, glancing around the axe-throwing range. The place smells like sawdust and metal, the occasional thunk of axes hitting wood ringing through the space.
Catra, standing next to her, arms crossed, smirks. "Glimmer definitely brought you here on purpose."
"Ohhh," Adora nods slowly, realization dawning.
Yeah," Catra deadpans. “That's also probably why she ditched you as soon as you came in.”
“I thought she just wanted some alone time with her boy toy”
“That too”
Adora eyes the lanes, the wooden targets covered in deep gouges, and then turns back to Catra. "So, axe throwing is your thing?"
"More like the best-paying job I could get while covered in piercings and fur," Catra replies.
Adora hums in understanding. "The food industry wouldn’t take kindly to fur in their food."
"No, they would not."
Adora grins. "Is that why you don’t work at the family Olive Garden?"
Catra snorts. "I just don’t want to ruin minestrone soup for myself."
"Understood."
"And the hairnets are outrageous," Catra adds, grimacing.
"Definitely," Adora agrees, nodding solemnly.
Catra tilts her head toward the counter. "So, do you want an axe or not?"
"I could take an axe, yes."
"That’ll be a hundred dollars," Catra says, completely deadpan.
Adora blinks. "Well, what a fucking scam."
"Only for big, blond idiots." Catra tosses an axe into Adora’s hands. "You’re in Cube Three. Try not to embarrass yourself."
Adora looks at the axe in her grip, then back at Catra. "I haven’t paid."
"Only smart people pay. Now go to your booth before I take my axe back."
"Alright, alright, I’m going!" Adora concedes, walking over to her assigned lane.
A few throws later, Catra joins her, no longer in her work shirt or missing name tag. Instead, she’s in a loose hoodie and ripped jeans, looking far too comfortable for someone surrounded by flying weapons.
"I gotta say," Adora muses as she watches Catra lean against the barrier, "the axe-throwing gig really works for you."
Catra arches a brow. "It’s the piercings, isn’t it?"
"Yeah, it’s giving horror movie setup. In about twenty minutes, you’re gonna lock all the doors and get to chopping, “ Adora says
Catra smirks. "Did you find my diary or something? How did you know I was about to do that?"
"Lucky guess."
Catra nudges her, eyes flicking toward Adora’s lane. "It works for you too. Very… lumberjack down on her luck. Any second now, the love of your life is gonna walk up and ask you to teach her how to throw an axe."
"They’d have more luck asking you," Adora shoots back.
"I don’t know how," Catra admits, shrugging. "Not really my thing."
Adora squints at her. "I just watched you give three people directions before wandering over here."
"Yeah, yeah, I know the advice Wikipedia gives you, but every time I actually try, I always miss. I’m more into hand to hand combat anyway"
Adora lets out a dramatic sigh. "If you were in The Hunger Games, someone would’ve totally killed you before you got close enough to scratch at them with your little claws."
Catra scowls. "Shove that up your ass, Adora. I’d wait for everyone else to die and take out the last survivor before they even knew what hit them."
Adora groans. "That is so something you would do—just let everyone else do the hard work."
"And you’re saying that if you were in The Hunger Games, you’d actually want to kill a bunch of people? Secret serial killer behavior, Adora."
"Well, yeah. If I was in The Hunger Games, I’m not gonna half-ass it."
Catra rolls her eyes. "Shut up and teach me how to throw this stupid axe."
Adora grins, shifting her stance. "Are you asking me for help?"
"Fuck no," Catra scoffs. "I’m asking you to prove that you can throw a fucking axe without killing yourself."
Adora gestures to the target. "You just watched me land three perfect bullseyes."
Catra crosses her arms. "Shut up and teach me how."
Adora laughs. "Alright, alright. Try not to take my head off."
--------)0(--------
Adora spends three hours staring at the acceptance letter.
Dread. That's all she is feeling. Stones in the gut. Heavy in the heart.
She should be happy. Ecstatic. This is everything she worked for over the past five years—perfect grades, hundreds of extracurriculars, volunteering, shadowing. She sacrificed so much.
And yet—
She wants to shove the letter in her trash can and pretend she never received it.
She should have been rejected. A part of her wanted to be rejected.
That’s a hard thing to admit.
A sudden, thundering knock at her door startles her out of her spiraling thoughts.
“Adora! Your mom is here! Open the door!” Mara calls.
A muffled voice joins in. “Your other mom is here,” Hope adds dryly.
“And your mama is here too!” Mara concedes, far too pleased with herself.
Adora panics, scrambling to fold the letter and shove it in her pocket like it’s contraband. Then she stumbles to the door and pulls it open, immediately confronted by the sight of her mothers—and a very familiar, suspiciously large container.
“Olive Garden?” she asks warily.
“Oh!” Mara blinks down at the gallon-sized bucket in her hands. “Right. Sorry, forgot you worked there.” Then, as if that were the most insignificant part of the evening, she grins and barrels forward. “You will not guess who I ran into at the mechanic today.”
Adora stiffens. “Gods?” She tries weakly.
“No, silly—Catra!”
Adora freezes.
Hope, already pulling down bowls from Adora’s cabinet, observes her reaction and hums. “It seems Adora isn’t surprised,” she notes.
“You’re not?” Mara tilts her head. “It’s been years since you talked about her! I barely recognized her—gods, she was dressed hot as hell—”
“MOM.”
“I’m just saying,” Mara continues, undeterred. “You would totally be into it.”
Adora resists the urge to smash her head against the nearest flat surface.
“She told me that the best place to get soup was Olive Garden—how funny is that? Did you know her adoptive family works there? Such a cute little restaurant, too!”
“Mom—” Adora tries again, already regretting this entire interaction.
“She’s as funny as ever, I’ll tell you that,” Mara adds.
“Yes, Mom, I know.”
Hope finally turns from the bowls, eyebrows raised. “So you have seen her recently.”
Adora exhales sharply. “Yeah, she gets soup, from the place I work, a lot.”
Mara gasps. “No wonder she suggested it!”
Adora groans, rubbing her hands down her face. “Okay, moving on!” She reaches for the letter under her pillow before she loses her nerve. “I, uh—actually had something to show you guys.”
She holds out the letter.
Her mothers’ take it, eyes scanning the words.
“Oh, baby,” Mara breathes, her face lighting up. “We are so happy for you!”
“Congrats, sweetheart!” Hope chimes in.
Adora shifts on her feet. “So… you guys think I should go?”
They exchange a look.
Mara shrugs. “If that’s what you want.”
Adora blinks. “What?”
Hope tilts her head. “Well—”
Mara rubs the back of her neck. “We always kinda thought you were more into animals…”
“Oh my god.”
“What?”
Adora throws up her hands. “What am I doing with my life?”
Hope sighs, already familiar with this brand of existential crisis. “Honey, you’re twenty-five. You’re not supposed to have your whole life figured out.”
“I worked so hard for no reason!”
Mara frowns. “That’s not true.”
“What are you talking about?” Adora gestures wildly. “I did everything right. Everything! And I hate it! I hate people! I hated all those extracurriculars!”
“That’s what we thought,” Hope says, nodding along. “But then you got really into extracurriculars, so we figured—”
“I had to!” Adora interrupts. “For medical school!”
“…Right?” Mara says slowly.
Adora glares between them, realization dawning. “You guys never actually wanted me to go to med school.”
They glance at each other again.
Hope sighs. “We just thought it was what you wanted.”
Adora’s head spins. “I’d hate being a doctor.”
Mara shrugs. “Then don’t be a doctor.”
“But I put in all the damn work!”
Hope gives her a patient look. “Darling, if you don’t want to go, then don’t go. We just thought—”
Adora shakes her head, panic creeping in. “Of course I’m going! I didn’t do all that work for nothing!”
Mara shrugs her shoulders and starts pouring soup into bowls.
Hope says a helpful “you do you girl”
--------)0(--------
“The crow is in the nest,” Catra says through the phone.
Adora pinches the bridge of her nose. “You have to stop saying that.”
“Adora, it’s my thing. I’ve been doing it for three years, and I’m not going to stop just because I think Miss Blonde and Tall is going to judge me.”
Adora rolls her eyes. “You’ve been ordering a gallon of minestrone soup for three years?”
“I don’t order it, I get it for free,” Catra corrects. “And the soup is really good.”
“I’ve never had it,” Adora admits.
Silence.
“Catra?”
More silence.
Then— “What do you mean you’ve never had it?” Catra sounds personally offended.
“I’ve never had it,” Adora repeats with a shrug. “I’m more of a lasagna person.”
“Oh my gods.”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Adora says, half amused, half concerned.
“Just bring me my fucking soup.” Adora expects the dial tone, but instead, there’s a pause before Catra adds, “…And a spoon.”
Click.
Catra makes Adora get in the damn car. Adora had tried to argue but it was really no use. A healthy Catra is a stubborn Catra.
Adora stares at the gallon bucket in her lap. “I feel weird eating soup like this.”
“You get used to it,” Catra says, casually slurping from her own bucket.
“Or you steal a metal ladle,” Adora mutters.
“I knew you saw that.”
“It was hard not to when it was sitting next to your stolen Olive Garden soup spoon.”
“The ladle was a gift,” Catra mumbles.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Just eat the damn minestrone,” Catra growls.
Adora sighs, takes a spoonful from the bucket, and hesitantly takes a bite.
And then—
“Oh my god.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Silence. The sound of delicious munching.
Catra leans back against the car seat. “Doctor school, huh?”
Adora stiffens.
“I mean, I knew you liked biology,” Catra continues, “but I always thought you were more into animals than homo sapiens.”
“I am.”
“Then why doctor school?”
Adora sighs. “Medical school. Mara told you, didn't she.”
““Potato, po-tah-to. She may have mentioned it” Catra smirks, “give a Mara your phone number and she likes to text updates. And a lot of recipes.”
“It really is just called medical school.”
“Why doctor school?”
“…It pays well.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Silence again, but it’s heavier this time.
“Well, I guess that’s that, then,” Catra says.
Adora frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Catra shrugs. “Once you set your mind on something, you don’t really change it. If you want to do something just for the money, then… go girl, I guess.”
Adora narrows her eyes. “Are you—are you trying to say something?”
Catra smirks. “Are you trying to hear something?”
Adora scowls. “No. No, of course not.”
“I mean, I might be trying to imply something.”
“What are you—”
“What do you want me to imply?”
“Jesus, Catra, just spit it out!”
Catra sighs. “I just don’t think you’ll be very happy not doing something you love, is all.”
Adora bristles. “And I’ll be poor!”
Catra blinks. “What’s wrong with being poor?”
“Everything!”
Catra shakes her head. “Look, Adora, you’re not gonna get very far in life if you’re scared of being poor.”
Adora’s jaw clenches. “What do you know?”
“Nothing, I guess.” Catra shrugs. “I just never thought you would be worried about money. We were perfectly happy being poor growing up.”
“Perfectly happy and homeless.” Adora glares at her. “My mom lost custody of me because she was poor!”
Catra’s expression softens. “So your mom wants you to be rich?”
“Of course not!”
“Then why is being rich such a big deal?”
Adora throws up her hands. “Why isn’t it for you?! You work a minimum wage job!”
“I do that for fun.”
Adora stares. “What?”
“I mean—”
“You work for fun?”
“Well… I actually work as an editor for a big publishing company.”
Adora chokes on her soup. “What the fuck?”
Catra shrugs. “I just like the ambiance at the axe-throwing place.”
“You like the ambiance.”
“And I can get my friend in for free.”
Adora puts her face in her hands. “Jesus Christ.”
“So, I’m not poor, but I’m not rich either. I’m just… alright.”
Adora exhales. “…I really don’t want to be a doctor.”
“I know.” Catra rubs her back.
“But I want to have enough money so I don’t have to work when I don’t want to work.”
“That is the dream.”
“I hate… the word for the U.S. work system.”
Catra squints. “What?”
“I can’t think of the word.”
Catra deadpans. “You mean capitalism?”
Adora mutters, “You fucking Googled that.”
“Google was useless. I used ChatGPT.”
“Same thing.”
Silence.
Then—
“Do you want to go out?” Catra asks.
Adora blinks. “What?”
Catra sighs. “Let me reword that.” She sits up straighter. “I want to tell the incentive to work to fuck off and use the money I earned from working to take you on a date.”
Adora stares. “…Oh my god.”
“So—is that a no?”
“Of course it’s a yes.”
Catra grins. “I’m not rich or anything, but I do have enough money to not work for a night and spend it on you.”
Adora huffs a laugh. “Well, isn’t that the definition of the American Dream?”
Catra clinks her stolen soup spoon against Adora’s bucket. “It sure is.”
--------)0(--------
"Catra, what the fuck is this?"
Adora holds it up between her fingers like evidence in a trial. A long, skinny, slightly curved, very obviously stolen Olive Garden soup spoon.
"I really shouldn't have to tell you what it is."
Catra doesn’t even look up from her bowl of minestrone. She just keeps stirring, unfazed.
"Did you steal another Olive Garden soup spoon?"
"Well, of course."
Adora blinks. "Why?"
Catra sighs, finally looking up, lips quirking like she’s holding back a smirk. "Well, I couldn't ask you to move in with me if you were going to keep stealing my spoon all the time."
Silence.
Adora’s brain completely stalls. Like an old car refusing to turn over. Move in?
"We both know the Olive Garden soup spoon is the best spoon, and it's not just because we're autistic and have the spoon thing."
"What the fuck."
"You know what I’m talking about."
"I really don’t."
Catra gives her a look and gestures toward the spoon drawer. "We both have a favorite spoon."
Adora frowns and instinctively looks down at the drawer, where her favorite spoon—the same long, skinny, perfectly balanced spoon she’s used since she was twelve—is now nestled among Catra’s barely used cutlery. It had migrated, just like she had.
"A spoon that is absolutely perfect," Catra continues. "It’s a neurodivergent thing."
Adora scowls. "That’s normal."
"No, it’s not."
Adora opens her mouth to argue but realizes she actually has no counterpoint.
Instead, she clears her throat. "So, uh. You want me to move in with you?"
Catra shrugs, but there’s a telltale flick of her ear, like she’s bracing herself. "Well, I’m tired of paying a double water bill and having to ask you to come over all the time."
Adora grins. "Wow. That’s super embarrassing for you."
Catra narrows her eyes. "What is?"
"That you love me enough to ask me to move in with you." Adora leans in, resting her chin on her hand. "And steal me a spoon."
Catra snorts. "I love you enough to ask you to marry me, but I’m still saving up to take you on a nice honeymoon."
Silence.
Adora blinks. "Wait. What?"
Catra pauses, spoon halfway to her mouth, suddenly realizing what just came out of it. Her ears flick back, eyes widening slightly. "Uh—"
Adora stares.
"Yes."
Catra blinks. "Yes?"
Adora grins. "I’ll marry you."
“But you wont move in with me? I stole you a fucking spoon for you”
“Steal me a ring and I'll think about it”
