Chapter 2: The Rainbow Cuddle Interview
The common room smelled like lavender and cheap cherry blossom body spray, with an undercurrent of something sour—old sweat, maybe, or the faint ammonia sting of cleaning products that never quite did their job. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering every few seconds in a rhythm that felt almost intentional, like the building itself was winking at some private joke.
Marisol didn't notice.
She sat cross-legged on a beanbag chair that had long since lost its shape, the rainbow-striped fabric flattened into a sad, lumpy puddle beneath her. Her braids—all forty-seven of them, she'd counted them twice that morning before losing track somewhere around thirty-three—pooled on the floor beside her in a tangled heap of purple and pink and blue. They dragged when she walked. They caught on doorframes and chair legs and the wheels of other girls' chairs.
She didn't mind. She liked the weight of them. They made her feel anchored. Real.
The TV was playing something—a TikTok compilation, the volume cranked too high—and the girls around her were laughing at something Marisol couldn't follow. Their words came too fast, tumbling over each other like water, and by the time she caught one sentence, three more had already rushed past.
She smiled anyway. Smiling was safe. Smiling meant she was happy, and happy was what she was supposed to be.
A girl in a wheelchair—Tiffany, maybe, or Tanya, one of the ones with the platinum blonde hair and the permanent sneer—rolled past and accidentally-on-purpose knocked into Marisol's braids with her wheel. Marisol didn't flinch. She just kept smiling, her vacant brown eyes tracking the girl's movement with the slow, patient attention of a dog watching a squirrel.
"Watch it, retard," Tiffany-or-Tanya muttered.
Marisol blinked. The word didn't sting. Nothing stung anymore. Everything was soft and fuzzy and far away, like the world had been wrapped in cotton batting and set adrift on a calm sea.
"Sorry," she said, the word slurring out of her mouth like honey. "Sorry. I—I move."
She didn't move. She couldn't quite remember how.
The girl rolled her eyes and kept going, disappearing into the hallway that led to the bedrooms. The other girls on the couch—there were four of them today, a rotating cast of wheelchairs and walkers and crutches—went back to their phones and their gossip and their laughter that Marisol couldn't understand.
She was alone again.
Not lonely. She didn't think she got lonely anymore. Just alone. There was a difference, probably. She couldn't remember what it was.
The front door opened, and the smell of outside rushed in—salt and exhaust and something sweet, like cotton candy. Marisol's head turned toward the sound, slow and mechanical, and her face did the thing it did when she was confused. Which was most of the time.
A woman stood in the doorway.
She was pretty. Very pretty. Her hair was the color of midnight and moved like it had its own opinions about gravity, and her smile was wide and warm and full of teeth that were just slightly too sharp to be normal. She wore a yellow sundress covered in tiny embroidered flowers and carried a clipboard in one hand and a canvas tote bag in the other.
"Good morning, ladies!" Her voice was bright, musical, the kind of voice that made you want to trust her immediately. "Miss Luna here. Job placement coordinator extraordinaire. I'm looking for my favorite girl. Marisol? Marisol Vega?"
Marisol's hand went up. It always went up when she heard her name, even though she wasn't sure why. It was like a reflex, like blinking.
"Here," she said. "I—I am here."
Miss Luna's smile widened. She crossed the room in three quick strides, her sandals slapping against the linoleum, and crouched down in front of Marisol's beanbag. Up close, her eyes were the color of honey, and they sparkled with something that might have been amusement or might have been cruelty or might have been both.
"There you are, sweetheart. Look at you. All settled in. How are we feeling today?"
Marisol considered the question. It took a long time. Her thoughts moved like molasses, slow and sticky, and by the time she caught one, it had already melted into something else.
"Good," she said finally. "I am—I am good. I like—I like the TV."
Miss Luna glanced at the cracked screen, where a video of a cat falling off a counter was playing on loop. "That's wonderful, honey. Just wonderful. And guess what?"
"What?"
"I found you a job. Your very first job. Isn't that exciting?"
Marisol's face did the thing again—the confused thing, the vacant thing, the thing where her brow furrowed and her mouth hung open and her eyes went somewhere far away. A job. The word floated through her head without landing, like a leaf on a pond.
"Job," she repeated.
"Mm-hmm. You're going to be a cuddle companion. That means you get to hold hands and hug and snuggle with people who need it. Doesn't that sound nice?"
Marisol nodded. She didn't understand, not really, but nodding was safe. Nodding meant she was agreeing, and agreeing meant she was good, and good was what she was supposed to be.
"Wonderful." Miss Luna stood and extended her hand. "Come on, sweetheart. Your first client is waiting."
---
The room was smaller than the common area, with a single window that looked out onto a parking lot and a bed that had been pushed against the wall to make space for a wheelchair. The walls were covered in posters—boy bands, mostly, and one of a kitten hanging from a branch with the words HANG IN THERE printed underneath.
A girl sat in the wheelchair.
She was small—smaller than Marisol, smaller than most of the girls in the home—with dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and hands that curled inward at the wrists, fingers twisted into shapes that didn't quite work anymore. Her head tilted to one side, permanent, like gravity had decided to pull her that way and never let go.
She looked up when they entered, and her eyes—big and brown and nervous—went wide.
"Hi, Dulce." Miss Luna's voice was gentle, coaxing. "This is Marisol. She's going to be your cuddle companion today. Remember we talked about this?"
Dulce nodded, but her eyes stayed fixed on Marisol. On the braids. On the way they dragged on the floor like thick, colorful snakes. On the way Marisol stood in the doorway, swaying slightly, her mouth open, her eyes vacant, her hands hanging limp at her sides.
"She's—she's big," Dulce whispered. Her voice was thin and reedy, the voice of someone who didn't use it often. "Her hair is—is really big."
Miss Luna laughed. "Isn't it beautiful? Marisol takes very good care of her hair. Don't you, sweetheart?"
Marisol didn't answer. She was staring at Dulce, at the way her hands curled and her head tilted and her eyes darted around the room like a trapped bird. Something stirred in Marisol's chest. Something warm and soft and unfamiliar.
Pretty, she thought. But the thought dissolved before she could hold onto it, leaving behind only a vague sense of pleasure, like the aftertaste of sugar.
"Go on," Miss Luna urged. "Say hello."
Marisol took a step forward. Her braids whispered against the floor. She opened her mouth, and the words came out slow and slurred, like she was speaking through a mouthful of pudding.
"Hol-la. I—I am Marisol. I like—like your hair."
Dulce blinked. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. "Th-thank you. I like—I like yours too. It's—it's very colorful."
"Yes." Marisol nodded, the motion too big, too enthusiastic. "Color-ful. Like—like rainbow. I like rainbow."
"Me too."
Silence.
The fluorescent lights buzzed. Somewhere down the hall, someone was watching TV, the volume turned up too loud. The smell of lavender was fading, replaced by something else—something softer, warmer, like clean laundry and baby powder.
Miss Luna clapped her hands together. "Well, this is going wonderfully. Marisol, why don't you sit down? Dulce, do you want to show her how you like to cuddle?"
Dulce's face went red. "I—I don't—I don't know—"
"It's okay." Marisol's voice was still slurred, still slow, but there was something underneath it now—something almost gentle. "I—I can just sit. We don't have to—to do anything."
She lowered herself to the floor, her braids pooling around her like a moat, and sat cross-legged in front of Dulce's wheelchair. Her dress—the yellow one with the flowers, the one she'd woken up wearing three days ago and hadn't taken off since—spread out around her like a puddle of sunshine.
Dulce stared at her.
Marisol stared back.
And then, slowly, hesitantly, Dulce reached out one of her curled hands.
Marisol took it.
The touch was electric. Not in a romantic way—not exactly—but in a way that felt like waking up. Like coming home. Dulce's hand was small and warm and twisted, and Marisol's hand was plump and soft and steady, and together they fit in a way that neither of them had expected.
"Your hand is warm," Dulce whispered.
"Your hand is—is soft." Marisol smiled. It was a real smile this time, not the vacant one, not the safe one. It stretched across her freckled face and made her eyes crinkle and sent a thin string of drool trailing down her chin. "I like—I like holding hands."
"Me too."
Miss Luna watched from the doorway, clipboard in hand, pen scratching against the paper. Her smile was wide and bright and utterly satisfied.
"Maximum cuteness synergy," she murmured. "Guideline compliance at ninety-seven percent. Excellent."
Neither Marisol nor Dulce heard her. They were too busy looking at each other, two girls in a small room with a single window, holding hands like it was the most important thing in the world.
Because for them, in that moment, it was.
---
The embrace happened slowly.
It started with Dulce leaning forward, her wheelchair creaking under the shift in weight. Marisol didn't move—she didn't know how, didn't know if she should—but her arms opened on their own, like they'd been waiting for this, like they'd been built for this exact moment.
Dulce fell into her.
Or maybe she fell into Dulce. It was hard to tell. The beanbag was gone—they were on the floor now, Marisol's back against the wall, Dulce's wheelchair pushed to the side, their bodies pressed together in a tangle of limbs and braids and yellow fabric.
It was awkward.It was clumsy. It was perfect.
Dulce's head rested on Marisol's chest, her ear pressed against the soft swell of Marisol's small breasts. She could hear Marisol's heartbeat, slow and steady, like a metronome. Marisol's arms wrapped around her, plump and warm and gentle, and her braids fell over them both like a blanket.
"I—I am happy," Marisol said. The words came out thick, almost unintelligible, but Dulce understood them anyway. "I like—I like you."
Dulce's eyes were wet. She didn't know why. She didn't know if it was sadness or joy or something in between, the kind of feeling that didn't have a name. "I like you too."
They stayed like that for a long time.
The sun moved across the sky outside the window, casting long shadows on the floor. The TV down the hall changed from TikTok to some reality show to static. Somewhere, a girl was crying, and somewhere else, a girl was laughing, and the whole building hummed with the quiet chaos of lives being lived.
Marisol didn't notice any of it.
She was too busy noticing Dulce. The way her hair smelled like strawberries. The way her breath came in soft, even puffs against Marisol's collarbone. The way her fingers—still curled, still twisted—had found the hem of Marisol's dress and were holding on like they might never let go.
Pretty, Marisol thought again. And this time, the thought stayed.
Miss Luna was still in the doorway. Her pen had stopped moving. Her smile had faded into something softer, something almost real. For a moment—just a moment—she looked like she might actually care.
Then she glanced down at her clipboard, and the smile came back, sharp and bright and full of teeth.
"Ninety-nine percent," she murmured. "Just need to work on that drool. Maybe a little less next time."
She turned and walked away, her sandals slapping against the linoleum, her yellow dress swishing around her knees. The door swung shut behind her, and Marisol and Dulce were alone.
Dulce lifted her head. "Who—who was that?"
Marisol blinked. She had to think about it. The name was there, somewhere, buried under layers of fog and static and the warm, heavy weight of Dulce in her arms.
"Miss—Miss Luna," she said finally. "She—she helps people. She is—she is nice."
"Yeah." Dulce settled back against Marisol's chest. "She seems nice."
The word hung in the air, soft and uncertain. Neither of them knew what it meant. Neither of them knew much of anything.
But they knew this: they were warm, and they were together, and for now, that was enough.
Outside, the sun continued its slow descent toward the horizon. Inside, two girls held each other on the floor of a small room in a group home, their hearts beating in sync, their futures uncertain, their pasts already forgotten.
And somewhere, in a dimension that existed just beyond the edge of perception, the Witch watched them through a mirror made of obsidian and moonstone, her smile wide and cruel and utterly delighted.
"The first client," she said to no one in particular. "And she's already in love. They grow up so fast."
She reached out and touched the mirror's surface, and the image rippled, changed, showed a thousand different versions of the same scene—Marisol and Dulce, Marisol and a different girl, Marisol alone, Marisol crying, Marisol laughing, Marisol in a hundred different rooms with a hundred different women.
"Maximum cuteness," the Witch whispered. "Full-on super lesbian advertisement. The guidelines are very clear."
She pulled her hand back, and the mirror went dark.
And in the group home, in the small room with the single window, Marisol pressed a kiss to the top of Dulce's head and didn't know why it felt like coming home.
She just knew that it did.