Music In A Net

Roxie and Elizabeth were putting the final touches on serving. Roxie was checking wine glasses and Elizabeth was folding napkins into little swans, the kind of ridiculous thing she pretended was ironic but secretly took pride in. Roxie was fussing with the silverware, double-checking spacing like it was a gallery layout and not just dinner for six. The last of the food was plated. Candles were trimmed. For a moment, the loft felt like a still-life—warm and quiet and full.

Then Tiny leaned back in his chair and tilted his chin toward the living room.

"Hey, Big Momma," he drawled, pointing with his fork, "what's that? You working on something new?"

Roxie looked up, blinked.

"Oh!" she said, brushing her hands on a dishtowel. "Yeah, that's—"

But Dianna had already turned, and her whole body went rigid.

There, just in front of the couch, was an easel. And on it, a canvas. Covered in an old, paint-stained drop cloth, but unmistakable.

Her stomach flipped.

Art. In the living room.

In the living room!

That was almost as intimate as sex. It might even be worse. Roxie never painted out here. That was bedroom territory. Studio territory. Somewhere private! In the world of Roxie doing art in front of other people was like masturbating in public!

And yet there it was. Like it belonged. Dianna's brain skipped a gear and nearly stalled. What else had this woman done tonight? Candles? Dinner? A dress so elegant it made Dianna want to punch a mirror out of sheer unworthiness? Fucking rose petals!

And now… art?!

Elizabeth, noticing the shift, tilted her head. "What's under the cloth, Red?"

Roxie smiled, the corners of her mouth turning shy. "You'll see after dinner."

That smile again. That maddening, gentle little smile that made Dianna feel like she was both falling into grace and failing to deserve it.

She sat down. Slowly. Carefully. Like she was afraid to knock the island over with the sheer weight of her spiraling.

Beside her, Ashley whispered, "Dude. She painted you something."

Emily nodded solemnly. "You're so screwed."

Dianna didn't reply. She was too busy internally screaming.

Roxie looked around the island—at the cluttered plates and shining eyes, at the pack of half-wolves and half-weirdos who had come looking for her—and slowly stood.

The red dress shimmered in the candlelight, her posture straight, graceful, almost queenly in its stillness. But her voice, when it came, was soft. Familiar. A melody learned before she could walk.

She folded her hands in front of her and gave the smallest, sheepish smile.

"I was gonna do the full grace," she admitted, "but I don't think the twins could survive the attention span challenge."

Ashley already looked like she was vibrating.

Emily grinned. "You're not wrong."

So Roxie just closed her eyes and bowed her head.

"Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts,

which we are about to receive

from Thy bounty,

through Christ our Lord. Amen."

She opened her eyes.

And for a heartbeat, the room was still.

Candlelight flickered.

Steam rose from the fish and the saffron rice.

Dianna stared at her like she was watching a miracle unfold in real time.

And then—

Ashley lunged.

Emily barely caught her wrist again. "We did grace. Now we wait for 'amen' to echo spiritually."

Ashley whined. "You're making that up."

"Am I?"

"Are you?"

Dianna just let her forehead fall to the table with a soft thunk, whispering into the wood: "I don't know how I'm going to survive this night."

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. "One blessing at a time, sweetie. One blessing at a time."

The first few bites were met with reverent silence.

Then moans.

Actual, honest-to-God moans of delighted tastebuds.

"Oh my God," Ashley said, eyes wide and cheeks puffed out. "This is illegal. Arrest her."

Emily had already gone in for her second helping. "I will testify against no one. I'm taking this to my grave"

Tiny hummed like a man at peace with his life choices. "You know, I used to think love was a lie. Then I met lemon-crusted tilapia."

Laughter rippled around the island. Forks clinked. Wine was poured. The roses glowed golden in the candlelight like they were listening.

Roxie sat nestled between Elizabeth and Dianna, her posture a little more relaxed now, her cheeks still rosy. The food was a hit. Nobody had asked about the painting. The awkward tension from earlier had melted into something warm and human.

She turned toward Elizabeth, voice a little shy. "I, um… I was thinking. I should probably tell Jorge I'm sorry. You know—for running out like that. Getting him in trouble. I didn't mean to cause a rift."

Elizabeth smiled gently, tucking a strand of Roxie's hair behind her ear like it was second nature. "Oh, sweetie. I already let him know."

"You did?"

She sipped her wine, smug. "Took a picture of this whole setup—roses, candles, the works—and sent it to him."

Roxie blinked. "Really?"

Elizabeth winked. "Captioned it: 'She lives. She cooks. She forgives. You are absolved.'"

Roxie let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. "Okay. Good. I just… I didn't want to cause any problems."

"You didn't, sweetie." Elizabeth patted her hand. "We sort of overreacted." she had said we to soften it but Dianna knew what was what.

Dianna snorted. "Sort of? I was devastated! I thought she moved back to Lakeland!" She cleared her throat. "But yes," she added quickly, "Jorge's cool. Just… still not tonight."

Ashley gave a theatrical nod. "He can wait. There's a line. We're still taking turns emotionally recovering."

Emily added with a mouthful of rice, "We made a spreadsheet."

"I color-coded it. Mine's the purple row."Ashley quipped happily.

Elizabeth sipped her wine. "I'm the only adult here."

Tiny shrugged. "I'm a grown man. I'm just also a slave for this pilaf."

---

Dinner had dwindled into that honey-warm stage of full bellies and lazy laughter. Plates half-cleared, glasses half-empty, candles still burning like little silent witnesses to the miracle that had unfolded around them.

Roxie was wiping her hands on a dish towel when Elizabeth, never one to be fooled by soft silences, turned from her seat at the island.

"Well," she said, tone light but knowing, "if you're planning some grand unveiling, sweetie, I recommend getting on with it now before Ashley starts nervously whining and tearing furniture apart."

Ashley opened her mouth in protest, but Elizabeth didn't give her the chance.

"Or before those two"—she waved a hand in the vague direction of the twins—"grind themselves to completion on the bar stools out of sheer emotional tension."

"We would never," Ashley and Emily said in eerie, angelic unison—though it lost some credibility when they immediately started making exaggerated hip motions and obscene little squeaks like a pair of badly tuned accordions.

Dianna buried her face in her hands. "I should've locked all of you out."

Tiny, unfazed, rose with the fluid grace of a man used to ducking under doorframes and pulled up a chair just behind the couch. "I think the lady wants to show us somethin'. Let's give her some space."

There was a shuffle of movement—chairs sliding, limbs stretching, the soft jingle of someone's bracelets. The Pack moved as one chaotic, affectionate beast, piling onto and around the couch like feral cats in a sunbeam

Roxie brushed her hair behind her ears, breath catching in her throat.

Then, with a little nod to herself, she turned toward the canvas standing sentinel in front of the couch—its drop cloth still in place like a veil before a wedding. Her fingers trembled just slightly, but her voice, when it came, was steady.

She clapped twice.

The lights flared on—soft, warm overheads from the loft's high ceiling bathing the space in gold.

The glow swept over the canvas like sunrise finding its way through clouds.

And for a moment, everything held still.

Waiting. Breathless. On the edge of revelation.

Roxie steeled herself.

She had never done anything like this before.

Not like this. Not with so many eyes. Not with any eyes.

There had been gallery nights, sure—student showcases where she stood in the back and watched strangers walk past her soul without knowing they were stepping on something sacred. But that wasn't the same. That wasn't this.

This was her family now. Her maybe-girlfriend and the chaos kin she came with. This was her home. And the canvas sitting in front of them had been born here—carried in the quiet moments between doubt and longing, in stolen hours when the world had slowed just enough to let her heart make something real.

There had been no work-in-progress check-ins. No "whaddya think so far?" Just one unveiling.

So she breathed in, once. Then out.

And with her voice calm but her ribs fluttering like doves, she said, "Ladies and gentlemen…"

A pause, just enough to let the stillness bend like a bowstring.

"I present to you... Music in a Net, by R. P. Shapiro."

And with a swift, practiced motion, she whipped the dropcloth away—one clean arc of fabric folding through the air like a final curtain.

Silence fell and Roxie started shifting nervously.

The silence didn't last long.

It never did with them.

"Oh my God," Emily breathed, hands pressed to her chest like she'd just seen the face of God and it was punk rock and painted in oils. "Roxie. That's art art. Like, move over Frida, this bitch has arrived."

Ashley was already halfway on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest, eyes glassy with emotion and awe. "She painted Dianna like she was the fucking Moon. And not like, our Moon. Like a French revolutionary Moon. A bleeding-heart, red-wine-and-smoke-and-vampire-prince Moon."

Tiny let out a low whistle. "That ain't a painting. That's a testament. That's 'I saw God and she was wearing fishnets' level devotion right there."

Even Elizabeth—Elizabeth—took an audible breath. "I've curated galleries," she said softly, voice unusually hushed. "I've seen a lot of portraiture. But that's not a likeness. That's a love letter with brushstrokes."

----

And Dianna? She stood.

Or—more accurately—she lurched upright like someone had yanked a string and the rest of her body hadn't caught up yet.

Her chest was rising and falling in hard, stuttering pulls, like she couldn't quite remember how to breathe around the truth Roxie had poured in oil.

Her eyes flicked from the canvas to Roxie and back again.

The tips of her fingers twitched like she didn't know what they were for anymore. Like touch might break the spell—or make it worse.

Because it wasn't a painting.

It was everything.

And she was standing in front of all her friends, trying not to cry like a little girl in a fairytale who just got told the dragon only wanted to dance.

Dianna was unmade in that moment when the dropcloth hit the floor.

Oh no.

No, no, no, no, no.

What the fuck was this?

Dianna blinked. Swallowed. Forgot how knees worked. Because there—on canvas, in oil, in holy goddamn color—was her.

And not just her. Not just Violet either.

Both. All. Every messy molecule and unlabeled emotion, pinned to canvas like a butterfly—arms wide, screaming mid-song.

Jesus. It was a portrait. But it felt like a funeral. Like a birth. Like someone had peeked into the totality of Dianna Rodgers and painted what they found there

And Roxie—

Roxie had done this?

Dianna wanted to run. Or vomit. Or flip the easel and torch the whole fucking building. She wanted to weep and clap and scream "TAKE IT DOWN" and also wrap her arms around it and sleep beside it every night for the rest of her life.

Because it was beautiful.

Because it was her.

Because it was true.

There she stood, mid-belt—caught mid-note like she was singing something ancient, something carved in the bones of Paleolithic monsters. Fishnets, mesh, that dumb skirt she always thought made her look like a goddamn groupie instead of a girl with rage and rhythm—but none of it was cheap. None of it was lewd. None of it was what Dianna thought the world saw.

Roxie hadn't painted a thirst trap. She'd painted a vision.

The background swam in impressionistic chaos—those cheap bar lights from the karaoke spot made new again. Baptized in color. The right side of her face awash in bruised blue, soft and broken like the gentle half of a prayer. And the left?

Oh.

The left side burned.

Red. Angry. Seductive. Mouth curled like she knew a secret and wanted you to guess wrong.

But there was no fracture between them. No war. Just coexistence.

The predator and the penitent. The prince and the girl. The soft ache and the hard edge. Every scream, every secret, every stolen moment of stillness when no one was watching—

It was all there.

Holy shit. Why was it all there?

Who the fuck gave this woman the right?

Her breath hitched again and her heart screamed.

She felt… naked. Not physically, But in a way that made her want to rip off her skin and build a wall around her soul. Because Roxie had seen her. Not looked. Not glanced.

Seen.

And painted it into immortality.

It was the most beautiful thing Dianna had ever seen.

"...Shitting fuck," she whispered, mouth dry. "You love me."

It wasn't a question. It was a verdict. A sentence handed down from the self.

And she didn't know how to survive it.

And then—

Roxie turned to her. Chin tucked a little. Hands folded in front of her, fingers twisted together the way they always did when she was nervous. Her eyes, wide and hopeful, lifted up to meet Dianna's.

"I tried really hard," she said softly. "Do you… really like it?"

That was it.

That was the kill shot.

No breathless confession. No grand monologue. Just a question so sincere, so heartbreakingly pure, it shattered Dianna from the inside out.

Do you like it?

Like it?

Shitting Christ.

There weren't words. Not in English. Not in Latin or Sindarin or whatever dying angel tongue might still echo in the forgotten corners of the universe. There was no syntax capable of holding this.

She could have said yes. Could have said more than yes. Could've fallen to her knees and begged to be kept like a secret under Roxie's tongue. But nothing—nothing—would have done justice to the thing she was feeling now.

Her whole body trembled like her bones were trying to crawl toward Roxie without permission from her muscles.

Like it?

It honored her.

And still, all Roxie asked was—

"Do you really like it?"

Because no, she didn't "like" it. She was wrecked by it. She was on fire, unraveled, cracked wide open. That painting had seen her in a way no one ever had. Not the sex. Not the stage. Not even Violet, her stitched-up mask of seduction. No. Roxie had painted something truer than all that, something sacred and terrifying and whole. And now she was standing there, barefoot in her little red dress, looking up like a kid who'd just shown her crayon drawing to a room full of grownups.

Do you really like it?

Her lungs weren't working. Her soul had collapsed inward, chest rising and falling like a bellows with no fire left to feed. She wanted to scream. Or laugh. Or kneel. She wanted to throw a blanket over the painting, smash the canvas, kiss Roxie senseless, and run into traffic. All at once.

She couldn't find the words.

So she moved.

She had told Roxie that they wouldn't kiss till Roxie was ready. Dianna hadn't known at the time that those words had been a lie, because in one sudden, fluid motion, Dianna vaulted the coffee table. Silverware clattered to the floor. A votive candle slid sideways. The Pack yelped as she landed light and sure on the other side, crouched like a cat about to pounce.

She jumped.

She leapt up into Roxie's arms, legs locking around her waist, arms circling her neck, and her whole body trembling like a live wire. Roxie gasped, startled—but she caught her. Strong arms steadied them both, instinct taking over before thought could.

Dianna's hands found Roxie's face, thumbs stroking the soft heat of her cheeks, and for a moment, she just stared.

That face. That woman. That impossible softness and strength in the same breath.

And then she kissed her.

Not with patience. Not with caution.

Dianna claimed her.

Dianna's mouth crashed against Roxie's like a storm hitting shore—hot, immediate, devastating. It wasn't neat. It wasn't delicate. It was raw, and unfiltered, and absolutely fucking real. Her lips tingled the second they touched—like they'd struck a live wire. Like kissing Roxie was an act of elemental magic, a covenant sealed in sparks and breath.

At first, Roxie froze—stunned by the force, the heat. Her hands flinched against Dianna's back, uncertain.

But then she melted.

She melted into it with the kind of softness that could only come from complete surrender. Her arms curled tighter, and her mouth opened—slow and reverent—and she let Dianna in.

That was all the permission Dianna needed.

She kissed her like she was drowning in her. Like she could climb inside and live there forever. Lips parted, breath mingling, Roxie tasted like mint and rain and something bright—something electric. Like the promise of thunder on the horizon. Like ozone and candlelight and the memory of being wanted.

Their noses bumped. Their teeth clacked once, awkward and human. And then Roxie moaned—soft and startled, like a sound she hadn't meant to make—and Dianna went feral.

She deepened the kiss, one hand tangling in that long black river of hair, the other splayed wide across the center of Roxie's back. She tilted her head, shifting angles, chasing more—more taste, more heat, more of whatever holy thing had just opened between them.

And Roxie—

God.

There were no words. No spoken confessions. Just the fire between their mouths, the silent shiver of breath, the squeeze of strong arms and the tremble of smaller fingers gripping hard like a lifeline. The world narrowed to the place where their lips met and nothing—nothing—existed outside it.

Dianna felt it when Roxie stopped holding back. The moment her body leaned in, her kiss deepened, her hand slid up Dianna's spine with a gentleness that made her ache. Roxie wasn't kissing like a scared girl anymore.

She was kissing like a woman who had made a decision.

And Dianna?

She would spend the rest of her life trying to describe this. This kiss. This first, imperfect, blazing kiss that made her believe in miracles.