At first, it was just friendship.
Juno Alcott had an artist’s soul and a quiet kind of strength — the kind that didn’t demand to be seen, but grounded everything around her. She was the first person at school who didn’t treat Miller like glass or a grenade. She didn’t tiptoe around the silences. She didn’t ask about the shadows. She just sat beside her and stayed.
Miller wasn’t used to people staying.
The Thunderbolts saw the changes before Miller did.
Bob was the first to notice, of course. He always noticed. He didn’t say anything — just raised an eyebrow the third time Juno stayed for dinner at the Tower and Miller didn’t stop smiling the entire time. When they sat on the floor and shared headphones, curled up in the corner with their shoulders touching, Bob quietly offered Juno her own mug for tea and started learning how she took it.
Alexei, ever loud and unsubtle, asked bluntly one night, “Is tiny artist girl staying again?” Then, with a grin, added, “She good for you. You don’t flinch as much when she’s here.”
Miller didn’t know what to say to that. But later that night, she found herself sitting next to Juno on the fire escape, knees pulled to her chest, and whispered, “You make everything feel quieter. I think that’s… good.”
Juno didn’t answer with words. Just leaned her head against Miller’s shoulder and let the silence speak.