When the Story Continues (Sequel to When the Script Changes)

It was a slow winter morning.

Becky sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a warm mug of milk tea, still groggy from sleep. The house was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.

Then—Mon appeared.

Still in her pajamas, hair a complete mess, and drowning in an oversized hoodie.

Becky blinked.

Freen, who had just entered the kitchen with her coffee, also blinked.

The hoodie practically swallowed Mon whole, the sleeves covering her hands entirely, the hem reaching mid-thigh. And there was something off about it.

It wasn't Mon's usual style.
It wasn't Becky's.
And it definitely wasn't Freen's.

Becky narrowed her eyes. "Mon."

Mon yawned, rubbing her eyes. "Hmm?"

Becky pointed at the hoodie. "Whose hoodie is that?"

Mon froze mid-yawn.

Then, too quickly, she shrugged. "Mine."

Freen, now interested, raised an eyebrow. "Yours?"

"Yeah," Mon said, avoiding eye contact. "I, uh... bought it oversized. For comfort."

Becky and Freen exchanged a look.

Because if there was one thing about Mon, it was that she sucked at lying.

Becky leaned forward, voice suspiciously casual. "Mon. Do you have a girlfriend?"

Mon choked on her own breath.

Her entire face went red.

"WHAT?!" she squeaked, voice an octave too high. "NO! I—"

Freen smirked. "You totally do."

"No, I don't!"

Becky tilted her head. "Then why are you blushing?"

"I—"

"And why is that hoodie obviously not yours?"

"I—"

"And why do you look like you're about to run out the door?"

Mon bolted out of the kitchen.

Freen and Becky burst into laughter.

"Oh, we are so going to find out," Becky whispered, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Freen grinned. "Yep. It's only a matter of time."

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Turns out, they didn't have to wait long.

A few days later, Freen and Becky went grocery shopping. It was supposed to be a quick trip—until Freen froze at the entrance of a café.

"Becky," she whispered, grabbing her wife's arm.

"What?" Becky frowned, trying to balance a basket full of vegetables.

Freen nodded toward the café entrance.

And there—they saw her.

A tall, sharp-featured girl in all black, standing like a bodyguard by the door. Her arms were crossed, her cold eyes scanning the area as if she was looking for threats.

But Freen and Becky weren't looking at her.

They were looking at what happened next.

Because at that moment—Mon walked out of the café.

And everything about the cold, intimidating girl completely changed.

Her eyes softened instantly.

She reached out without hesitation, adjusting Mon's scarf, brushing a stray hair behind her ear.

And the real kicker?

Mon—who usually hated when anyone fussed over her—let it happen.

Becky gasped. "That's her."

Freen grinned. "Mystery girlfriend: confirmed."

Becky didn't hesitate. She marched forward.

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"Well, well, well," Becky called out, arms crossed.

Mon jumped a foot in the air.

"OH MY GOD," she screeched, turning bright red. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"

Freen smirked. "More like, what are you doing here... with her?"

The tall girl turned immediately—stepping in front of Mon like a shield.

Becky's eyebrows shot up. Oh, she liked this one already.

"Who are you?" the girl—Sam—asked, voice sharp, eyes calculating.

Freen and Becky exchanged looks.

Then Becky grinned. "Oh, we're just her mothers."

Sam's eyes widened.

Mon groaned into her hands. "Kill me. Right now. On the spot."

Freen tilted her head, inspecting Sam more closely.

Tall. Cold. Overprotective. Familiar.

And then it hit her.

"Oh my god," Freen whispered, nudging Becky. "She's me."

Becky gasped. "You're so right."

Mon whined, "Can we not do this right now?!"

Sam, despite herself, blushed.

Then—she did something unexpected.

She bowed.

Bowed.

"I swear on my life," Sam said, dead serious, "I will protect Mon. No matter what."

Becky and Freen froze.

Mon's mouth dropped open.

And then—Freen burst out laughing.

Becky did too.

Because this girl—this Sam—was absolutely serious.

And Mon?

Mon looked so embarrassed.

Which only made it better.

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That evening, Freen and Becky watched from the living room as Mon and Sam sat on the couch.

Whispering. Laughing. Leaning into each other like they were in their own world.

Freen sighed, nudging Becky. "She really is me, isn't she?"

Becky smirked. "Yep. Which means Mon is doomed."

Freen chuckled. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," Becky teased. "You were exactly like that with me when we started dating."

Freen smiled, watching as Sam wrapped an arm around Mon, pulling her close.

Protective. Soft only for her. Loving her in a way that felt like home.

And suddenly—Freen felt a little less scared about Mon growing up.

Because if Sam loved Mon even half as much as Freen loved Becky—

Then their daughter was in very good hands.