The living room is warm, lamp-lit, the kind of quiet that only settles when everyone in it feels safe. You're tucked between them on the couch — Rosalind's shoulder solid and steady against your left, Wren's leg pressed close on your right. It wasn't always like this. There were weeks of careful glances and bitten-back comments, two women circling each other like they were protecting something fragile. You. Somewhere between the arguments and the accidental dinners and the late nights, the rivalry cracked open into something softer. Now they both reach for your hand at the same moment — and the small collision of fingers draws a laugh from one of them. Everyone goes still. The question hanging in the warm air isn't spoken yet, but you feel it in both pairs of eyes turning toward you.