Nova woke to the taste of copper and regret. Sunlight knifed through the blinds at 9:42 a.m., slicing across the bed like an accusation. Her mouth felt lined with sandpaper. Her head throbbed in four-four time with last night's bass. The grape ring pop lay melted on the nightstand, purple sugar crystallized into a tiny crime scene. Elara's side of the bed was cold.
She sat up too fast. The room spun. Memories crashed in waves: rooftop snow, gravel biting knees, Elara's yes echoing off brick, the strap cold against her thigh as Elara took her under falling flakes. Nova's stomach lurched. She bolted for the bathroom, barely made the toilet before vomiting peach schnapps and bad decisions.
Elara appeared in the doorway, hair wild, eyes bloodshot behind smudged eyeliner. She wore Nova's track hoodie and nothing else. "You okay?"
Nova flushed, wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist. "Define okay."
Elara handed her a glass of water and two ibuprofen. Their fingers brushed. Static. Nova flinched like she'd been burned.
They stood in silence. The ring pop corpse stared at them from the bedroom. Elara finally spoke. "We were drunk."
"Very."
"Like, legally unable to consent drunk."
Nova laughed, bitter and sharp. "We consented to everything. Multiple times. On camera."
Elara rubbed her temples. "I remember the cameras."
Another silence. Heavier.
Nova set the glass down. "We should talk about it."
"Or pretend it never happened," Elara offered, voice small.
Nova's chest cracked open. "Is that what you want?"
Elara looked at the floor. "I don't know what I want when my brain feels like it's been blendered."
They moved like ghosts. Elara brewed coffee that tasted like ash. Nova showered until the hot water ran out, scrubbing snow and gravel and grape from her skin. When she emerged, towel-wrapped, Elara was at the desk deleting rooftop videos from her phone with mechanical precision.
"Already handled," Elara said without looking up. "Blurred faces. Deleted originals. We're safe."
Nova nodded. Throat tight.
They dressed in separate corners. Nova in yesterday's jeans and a fresh hoodie pulled over yesterday's bruises. Elara in black leggings and the leather jacket that still smelled like Nova's perfume. They avoided eye contact like it might combust.
Brunch in the caf felt like a war zone. Friends swarmed.
"Dude, the proposal vid is iconic!"
"You two are getting married on the roof, right?"
"Grape ring pop? Legendary."
Nova forced smiles. Elara laughed too loud. Under the table their knees didn't touch once.
Back in the room, door shut, the pretense shattered.
Nova spoke first. "We need to say it out loud."
Elara leaned against the wardrobe, arms crossed. "It was a mistake."
The words landed like a slap. Nova flinched. "Okay. Mistake. Got it."
Elara's eyes filled. "I didn't mean—"
"You did." Nova's voice cracked. "You meant it. We were drunk and stupid and now everyone thinks we're engaged and we can't even look at each other."
Elara slid down the wardrobe until she sat on the floor. "I woke up terrified. Not of you. Of how much I meant it. The yes. The vows. All of it. And then I saw the ring pop and wanted to die."
Nova joined her on the floor, backs against opposite walls, knees drawn up. "I threw up because I thought you'd wake up and laugh. Or worse. Leave."
Elara laughed wet. "I almost packed a bag."
Silence stretched. The fairy lights flickered, one bulb burned out from the party.
Nova broke it. "So we agree. Mistake. Drunk words. We tell everyone it was a bit."
Elara nodded slow. "Bit. Performance art. Queer culture satire."
They rehearsed the story in whispers. Too much schnapps. Too much snow. Too much love with nowhere to put it. By noon they had it polished: hilarious, self-deprecating, safe.
They posted jointly on the group chat: *Y'all we were BLACKOUT drunk. Proposal was peak theater kid energy. Still love each other but NOT getting hitched at 20. Grape ring pop has been laid to rest. RIP.*
Laughing emojis flooded in. Relief. The campus moved on.
But in the room, the air stayed thick.
Afternoon classes. Nova ran laps until her lungs burned. Elara developed film until the safelight made her eyes bleed. They returned at dusk, separate orbits colliding.
Dinner avoided. They ate vending machine chips on their own beds, gap between mattresses like a canyon.
Elara spoke first. "This sucks."
Nova nodded. "Worst day since the blackout."
They stared at the ceiling. Snow melted off the window in dirty streaks.
Nova rolled over, faced Elara's bed. "I miss you."
Elara's voice cracked. "I'm right here."
"Are you?"
Elara crossed the gap, climbed into Nova's bed without asking. They lay face to face, noses inches apart.
"I meant every word," Elara whispered. "Drunk or not. The yes was sober."
Nova's eyes filled. "Me too. I just got scared."
They kissed. Hesitant. Then desperate. Hands clutching like the other might vanish.
Clothes peeled slow. No rush. Apology in every touch. Elara kissed every bruise she'd left on the roof, tongue gentle over marks that had darkened to purple. Nova traced the gravel scrape on Elara's knee, kissed it better.
They made love like confession. Nova on her back, legs spread, Elara between them, mouth worshipful. Slow licks, fingers curled just right. Nova came with tears on her cheeks, whispering sorry sorry sorry.
Elara flipped her, entered from behind with fingers first, then the strap, slow and deep. Nova pushed back, met every thrust, sobbing I love you into the pillow.
After, they lay tangled, ring pop corpse still on the nightstand.
"We don't have to tell anyone," Nova said. "Not yet. But it wasn't a mistake."
Elara kissed her temple. "Secret engagement?"
Nova laughed wet. "Secret fiancées."
They hid the ring pop in the poetry notebook, pressed between pages like a flower. Nova sketched a tiny grape diamond on Elara's left hand in Sharpie. Elara wrote *Mrs. Reyes-Quinn* on Nova's wrist in pen, kissed it sealed.
Night deepened. They made love again, lights off, fairy strings the only glow. Nova rode Elara's thigh slow, hands pinned above her head, eyes locked. Came whispering forever.
Elara took Nova face down, strap deep, hand over her mouth, biting her shoulder to stay quiet. Nova came so hard she saw stars.
They fell asleep tangled, Sharpie tattoos smudged but intact.
Monday brought the aftermath. Friends asked if they were okay. They laughed it off. "Wild weekend. Back to reality."
But under tables, their pinkies linked. In hallways, secret smiles. In the darkroom, Elara developed a new print: Nova on the roof, snow in her curls, ring pop glowing. Titled *The Yes That Stayed*.
They hung it hidden behind the wardrobe.
Tuesday. Track practice. Nova flew. Coach praised her speed. Elara waited in the bleachers, camera ready, ring finger tracing the Sharpie grape.
After, locker room empty. They fucked against the showers, water cold because someone forgot to pay the water bill. Nova's back to tile, Elara on her knees, then standing, fingers and mouth until Nova slid down the wall.
Wednesday. Hate notes returned. Someone slid a printed screenshot of the proposal under the door with *fornicators* scrawled in red.
Nova crumpled it. Elara reported it. Then they made love on the floor right there, defiant and loud, coming with middle fingers to the door.
Thursday. Queer club meeting. They sat side by side, thighs touching under the table. When someone joked about the "fake proposal," they laughed perfectly. No one noticed Nova's hand on Elara's knee, thumb tracing the Sharpie ring.
After, library study date. They claimed a carrel on the top floor, books as camouflage. Nova's hand slipped under the table, into Elara's leggings, fingers slow and steady while Elara bit her lip to stay quiet. She came with her face buried in Nova's neck, muffling moans in hoodie fabric.
Elara returned the favor in the stacks, Nova braced against mythology books, Elara's tongue relentless until Nova's knees buckled.
Friday. Snow returned. They skipped classes, built a blanket fort again, grape ring pop resurrected with tape. They made love inside for hours: sixty-nine, strap, fingers, mouths, toys. Came so many times they lost count.
Evening. They cooked together, Nova's abuela's recipe, dancing in socks to old salsa. Elara spun Nova, dipped her, kissed her slow.
Night. They renewed the "vows" properly. Naked on the windowsill, city lights witness. Nova on Elara's lap, riding slow, hands clasped, foreheads touching.
"I choose you," Nova whispered. "Every day. Drunk or sober."
Elara thrust up, deep. "I choose you. Mistake or not."
They came together, snow falling soft outside, ring pop glowing purple between them.
After, curled under blankets, Sharpie tattoos faded but hearts permanent.
Nova traced Elara's ring finger. "Real ring for graduation?"
Elara kissed her slow. "Real ring tomorrow if you want."
They fell asleep planning: simple silver bands from the street vendor near the subway. Engraved inside: *Roof Yes*.
Morning. They woke early. Dressed warm. Walked hand in hand to the market. Bought two rings, cheap but perfect. Slipped them on in the cold, breath clouding, no audience but pigeons.
Back in the room, they made love wearing nothing but the rings. Slow. Face to face. Missionary with legs wrapped tight. Came whispering wife.
They kept it secret still. But the mistake had become truth.
The morning after was the real proposal.
And no one could take it back.