It's not usual that Emily gets a real day off. Most times she's “free”, she's still taking phone calls and doing paperwork.

This time, though, she said she'd turn off her phone and she did. The night before, she made a show of turning it off and leaving it in her desk drawer, all the way in the home office. You laughed at her antics, but were clearly glad to see it — the thing had interrupted you way too many times. Then, she had made a dinner that you both thoroughly enjoyed and you actually managed to enjoy her for the night without that shrill ringtone in your ears.

This morning, she takes long to wake up. It's already nine by the time you open your eyes, something that rarely happens, and Emily is still sleeping, worn out, probably. From her long week or your activities the night before, well, that's yet to be determined. Either way, your stomach rumbles irritatingly, but you decide to ignore it for now.

Emily slowly blinks awake, her long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks when they move. You scoot closer, keeping her face in your line of sight. She smiles unconsciously at the feeling of being so close to you, even half asleep.

“Morning,” she mumbles, turning her face away even though you've told her a million times you don't mind the morning breath.

You tilt her face back to you with a soft hand on her jaw, “morning.” Smiling, you nip at her chin, then leave a kiss on her cheek.

Emily hums. “Any plans?”

“Sure,” you say, breathing her in after hiding your face in her neck. “They involve you and this bed.”

“That's it?”

“Mhm,” you agree.

Emily turns on her side, bringing your body with hers. Her hand drifts down to your waist, squeezing as she lands there, then she closes the gap between you, apparently over her own made up issue.

You kiss her slowly, savoring the time you have together, something that's not common or even to be taken for granted. Your fingers wrap in her silver hair, pulling just enough to sting, just enough that she lets out that delighted little sound in the back of her throat.

You're about to throw a leg over hers, growing impatient by the second, though your stomach has other plans. It rumbles again, causing you to groan annoyedly.

Emily laughs, pulling away reluctantly, “let me make you something.”

You shake your head, turning away and picking up her shirt from the floor. It's a button down, but you don't bother buttoning it up all the way, just enough to ward off the cold. “I'll just grab a banana and I'll be back.” You look back at her, pointing a finger, “don't move.”

She smiles, “wouldn't dream of it.”

Tiptoeing out of the bedroom, only because you forgot slippers and the floor is always so damn cold in the morning, you try to quickly make your way to the kitchen. On the way there, though, something catches your eye.

Doing a double take, you let out an involuntary yelp.

Because there's someone sleeping on Emily's couch. Someone you have never seen before.

Well, they were sleeping before you screamed. Now, the woman is slowly blinking up at you, her forehead creased in a frown.

Emily, mercifully clothed, in a t-shirt and sleep shorts — clothed nonetheless —, comes running out of the bedroom, her eyes fully open in panic. She doesn't even get a word out before you're hiding behind her and turning her body towards the intruder, hoping she knows what to do, due to being law enforcement and all. Maybe. Consciously, you know you're just being a bit of a coward.

“What the fu- Sarah?!” She exclaims surprisedly, frowning strongly now.

Oh. Sarah! Sarah?

The woman waves from the couch, placing her other hand on her forehead and pressing, perhaps to ease some pain.

You had no idea Emily's sister was in town, you didn't even know she had a key to Emily's apartment. Surely Emily would've said something about it?

“What are you doing here?” Emily asks, still half shocked. The other half… you're not so sure. “How the fuck did you get in?”

“Mom lent me her copy of your key.” She waves a hand, now bored of the commotion.

“Just like that? Without asking me?”

Sarah shrugs, “I told her I'd stay with her, gently, she told me to come here. Nice place, by the way. Have you been back from London for long?”

“Um,” you clear your throat before Emily can reply. Catching her attention, you give her an awkward smile, “I'm gonna go change into something less- You know.”

Quickly darting into the bedroom, you let out a sigh of relief when the door is finally closed behind you.

More annoyed now than anything after the adrenaline has passed, you start looking for something to wear. Your first free weekend with Emily in weeks gets interrupted by her estranged sister. Seriously, what kind of cosmical joke–

You hear Emily introduce you through the door, the slight shiver present whenever she says my girlfriend right after your name. You walk further away from the door fast, not wanting to intrude.

Following Emily's lead, you find sweatpants and a modest t-shirt of hers to wear. Hopefully it'll tell Sarah that you don't intend to have visitors for long, even if the apartment is not yours. The point stands.

Slowly creeping into the living room, you find the silence oddly disconcerting. Emily is still standing, Sarah still sitting, and they're both just looking at each other without saying anything.

Ever so gently, you move next to Emily. As if not trying to spook a cat, for a second thinking of Sergio who's probably still sleeping, hiding from all the noise somewhere, you lay a hand on her arm.

She turns to you, her eyes immediately softening the slightest bit. You smile minutely, “want me to put the kettle on?”

“Oh, some coffee would be great. I have the worst headache,” Sarah complains from the couch, leaning back into the cushions now that you have interfered with their staring contest.

Emily ignores her, “we'd love some tea, honey, thanks.”

Moving to the open floorplan kitchen, you secretly curse the fact that there's no wall for you to hide behind to listen to their conversation. Unfortunately, you'll have to settle by pretending to be busy making tea, which usually just takes five minutes, as they talk.

“Did mom give you the security code as well?”

“Yes! April 14th, what's it for, anyway?” She asks curiously. Emily doesn't respond.

You think of Sergio again. His birthday. Or, well, his made up birthday. You both decided on one for him after Emily told you she had an old rescue cat at home, in the very beginning of your relationship.

In no time, you feel his tail on your shins.

Crouching down, you scratch behind his ears, whispering good morning to him and promising you'll put his food out soon.

“What are you doing here?” Emily finally asks again, crossing her arms.

Sarah sighs tiredly, “I went to a friend's birthday party last night.”

Emily hums knowingly, “and went back to mom's estate?”

Looking up, you notice Sarah nodding.

“She didn't want you there drunk, so you came here.”

“Look, I just had a little nap. I figured, you're my sister, so what's the harm?”

Stopping short in the middle of pouring Sergio's kibble into his bowl, “wait. What time did you even get in? How did we not hear you?”

“Don't worry,” she smiles. “I didn't hear anything, if that's what you're wondering.”

You feel your cheeks heating up involuntarily.

Emily clears her throat pointedly, “leave my girlfriend alone.” She walks over and sits on a barstool, her back to you as she stares her sister down. “What time did you get in?”

“Around seven,” Sarah shrugs. “Look, can I just have some ibuprofen and a small nap? I'll get out of your hair after, I promise.”

Scoffing, Emily turns, that deep frown still between her eyebrows. You wish you could smooth it out.

“Would you grab the advil, please, sweetheart?” She asks, her voice low and just for you. You smile encouragingly at her, hoping she'll understand what you mean.

Handing her the bottle, you squeeze her hand quickly before she turns away again.

“Not even a glass of water?” Sarah jokes, taking the pills. “Wow, you're reminding me so much of mom.”

Waiting for the tea to steep, you risk a look at them. From this angle, you can clearly see the resemblance in their sloped noses and the shape of their cheekbones. They both look more like Elizabeth than anything, you remember from the few pictures of Emily's childhood that you've seen.

Most photos were from official events, Emily with her parents and her sister, sitting in front of some expensive piece of art or in a well maintained garden. Their ten year age difference was clear, but only on height — Emily still had a baby face, no matter that she's older. Only a couple were of Emily alone, more candid, and she told you those were taken by her grandfather in her visits to the Alps. As children, they definitely looked more alike than they do now, but you can see it if you really pay attention.

You push both mugs towards the edge of the counter, closer to Emily. Your own mug stays beside you as Sergio jumps on the island, still impressively quick for an old man. You scratch his head, leaving a kiss on it.

Looking over, you see Emily extend her hand, holding out one of the mugs for Sarah to take. Her sister scrunches up her nose, but takes it anyway.

“How long are you in town for?” Emily asks, sipping from her own way-too-hot mug as usual, earning a glare from you as she casts you a glance. The blip of normalcy eases the tension in your shoulders.

“I thought I might stay,” Sarah shrugs.

“Not here?” She poses it as a question, or at least tries, but everyone in the room knows it's not one. Even Sergio.

Sarah rolls her eyes, “no, Emily, not here.” She drinks her tea, surprisingly making an appreciative face. “With mom, of course.”

You walk around the island, leaning back on the counter next to Emily's barstool.

She lets out a loud laugh, “good luck with that.”

“I think we can coexist in a ten thousand square foot house, right?” Sarah asks, looking unconvinced even as she says it.

Emily places an arm around your waist distractedly, “maybe if you stay in the pool house.”

Sarah looks at you both, cataloguing your body language, you're pretty sure. “Look, I don't wanna ruin your weekend.”

Emily waits her out, sipping her tea.

“I'll just go back to mom and crawl until she takes me back. I can take two hours of a lecture about my drinking problem.” Okay, that's new. You didn't know that.

Sighing tiredly, Emily shakes her head. “Stay.”

If you're being honest, that decision surprises you. You would've guessed Emily might've offered to drive her to Elizabeth's, or to pay for a hotel room, but now… You see the way Emily looks at Sarah, like she's just her little sister again.

“Just for tonight. And you're not going out to drink again.” She crosses her arms, as if talking to a misbehaving child, “actually, I'm hiding all of the alcohol.”

Sarah rolls her eyes yet again.

Emily turns to you, “let's eat something, I know you're starving.”

You chuckle slightly, “I kind of forgot about that, to be honest.”

As you're eating — even Sarah, who's managing to keep down some dry toast —, Sergio jumps on your lap.

“What's his name again?” She asks, pointing at the cat.

“Sergio,” Emily says, eating her scrambled eggs impressively fast for someone who claims she doesn't get hungry in the mornings.

“Oh!” Sarah perks up, “like that butler we once had!”

Incredulous, you look at Emily in question.

“Shit.”

You let out a loud laugh, “you named your cat after a butler?! You aristocrat.”

“Okay,” she protests. “Not consciously!”

“He was pretty somber. Like a black cat!” Sarah counters. “Mom claimed he was efficient but too depressing.”

You hum, “Elizabeth always manages to surprise me, somehow.”

“Have you met?” She asks, with genuine interest now.

“A few times,” you shrug. “She's always been cordial.”

“Yeah,” Emily scoffs, “she loves to pester us, not others. Just wait until you mov- I mean,” she corrects herself, “until she's more familiar with you.”

You find it cute how she's blushing. It's been a few weeks since she gave you a key, but has yet to properly ask — you know better than to rush her, so you haven't said anything.

Sarah presses her lips together in amusement, but keeps quiet. Thankfully.

When you finally manage to get some time alone it's because Sarah has succumbed to her much desired nap. In Emily's room, you start tidying up the clothes from the night before that have ended up on the floor.

Swiftly, you feel Emily's arms wrapping around you from behind, stopping your movements.

“I'm sorry.”

You frown, turning to catch a glimpse of her face, “for what?”

“I didn't even ask how you felt about her staying. I know you don't know each other.” She sighs, “even I barely know her.”

You turn in her arms, placing what you hope are comforting hands on her shoulders, “it's your apartment, your sister… You decide what's best.”

“Well,” she says petulantly, “I was hoping it would be our apartment soon.”

Smiling, you wrap your arms around her neck, “you were too afraid to ask, I gather.”

“I wasn't afraid,” Emily rolls her eyes.

“Sure,” you smirk. “Well, if it means that much to you, no, I don't mind if she stays. She's still your sister. You grew up together.”

“Grew apart together…” She mumbles. “Are you sure you don't wanna go to yours? Maybe christen some surfaces before you move in here.”

You give her a look. One that says you know exactly what she's trying to do.

Emily shrugs, “worth a try.” She squeezes your waist, leaving a peck on your lips. “This was supposed to be our free weekend.”

“Well, we can still have our weekend,” you argue, kissing her once, twice. “We still have a shower... And I don't know about you,” you walk backwards, pulling on her hands in the direction of the ensuite, “but I can be very quiet.”

Emily grins.

Claire slows when you reach the entrance. Your reflections meet in the glass, and for a second she doesn’t move.

“You okay?” she asks, noticing your hesitation.

You look at yourself for a moment longer than necessary. You look… like yourself. Or at least like someone who could pass as that, if no one had seen you crouched behind overturned furniture while the sounds inside a mall turned your entire world upside down.

“I think so.” Your voice is steadier than you expected it to be.

“That’s a start,” she nods, and pushes the door open.

Warm air greets you first, followed by the smell of freshly baked bread, herbs, and something sweet you can’t quite place. Chocolate? Vanilla cake? You honestly have no idea.

A low murmur of conversation washes over you, waiters weaving between tables, soft music barely audible beneath the voices. Your eyes take in the scene around you, but if you’re honest, none of it really holds your attention.

Your gaze finds Emily almost immediately. She is already on her feet. Claire slips away from your side and hurries toward her godmother, who greets her with a reassuring smile.

Emily moves without hesitation. She closes the distance between them, and the moment she reaches Claire, she pulls her into a firm embrace. Both arms wrap around her with the kind of certainty that suggests there was never any other possible greeting. One hand comes to rest against Claire’s back, stroking once, slow and grounding, the familiar motion easing a body that has been carrying too much tension for far too long.

“Breathe,” Emily murmurs against her hair. “You’re okay.”

You watch Claire let out a shaky breath, catching the way she discreetly wipes at the corner of one eye before allowing herself to sink into Emily’s embrace. Emily, for her part, makes no attempt to let go before Claire is ready. She simply holds her, keeping her close, as though giving her permission to stay there for as long as she needs.

A few seconds later, Emily’s eyes lift to yours. A gentle smile settles on her lips, and you find yourself returning it before you even realize you’re smiling at all.

When Claire finally eases out of the embrace and makes her way toward the table behind Emily, you follow a moment later. You come to a stop a few steps away, suddenly unsure what feels appropriate. Because really…

“Hey.” Emily’s voice cuts cleanly through the rush of your thoughts. “You’re here.” A faint smile lingers at the corners of her mouth. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I am,” you manage in a soft voice.

She holds your gaze a moment longer than the sentence needs and then she steps closer.

Her hand finds your arm first, steady but gentle, like she’s confirming you’re real and still here. Her fingers move once, slow, grounding, not pushing anything away, just keeping you in place where she can reach you.

You don’t realize you’re leaning forward until you already are. Emily doesn’t stop you.

Her arms come around you with the same certainty she used with Claire, only this time there is no distance left between hesitation and movement. She holds you firmly, not in a way that traps you, but in a way that gives you the kind of safety that almost makes something inside you collapse.

Instinctively, your fingers curl into the silky fabric beneath your hands, desperate to focus on something other than your own body, which feels like it is spiraling completely out of control.

Your breath breaks against her shoulder before you can stop it, uneven and too sharp, and for a moment it feels as though your body is betraying you in a way you cannot quite bring back under control. But nothing about her pulls away from it.

Her hand remains against your back, gently pressing you closer, and you don’t miss the subtle change in her breathing.

Your fingers are still caught in her sleeve, but you don’t let go. Not even when you realize how tightly you are holding on.

Only then does Emily seem to notice the way you are clinging to her. Her hand stills for a moment, only to resume its movement a second later, slower now, tracing calm circles over your back.

Claire steps between the moment before it can stretch any further. “Sit,” she instructs, patting the space beside her.

Emily’s breath shifts slightly, and only then does she ease out of the space between you.

Her hand slides from your back slowly, as though she is buying herself another moment of contact, another second before letting go completely. The pressure of her touch fades, but you can still feel the warmth of her hand hovering there for a brief moment before it finally disappears.

For a second longer, she remains close enough that you can feel her breath against your skin, the sense of safety that seems to radiate from her without effort. You don’t know if you have ever felt this safe with another person before.

Emily takes a step back. Only then does the world begin to rearrange itself into chairs, the edges of the table, menus placed in front of you like the simplest possible version of structure.

The restaurant is warmer than the space outside, but it takes your body longer to accept that warmth again. Your shoulders remain slightly too tense, your breathing still carrying traces of what it had been only minutes ago.

“How are you sleeping?” she asks, leaning back against the booth.

Claire lets out a small sound of protest between her laugh. “You really enjoy starting with that, don’t you?”

“That’s just who I am,” Emily replies with a small smile. “You know me.”

“I’m not sleeping,” Claire admits then, more honestly than she probably intended, and you find yourself nodding in agreement.

Emily hums softly at her honesty. “I figured.”

Her gaze shifts to you. At first, she doesn’t say anything. She simply looks at you, giving you the space to find your answer. You don’t feel pressured to say anything, yet something in the way she looks at you makes you want to.

When you remain silent for a moment too long, one of Emily’s eyebrows lifts slightly.

“And you?” she prompts gently.

You swallow, suddenly aware that she has noticed your silence. “It’s… okay,” you admit after a moment. “Not great. But okay.”

Emily studies you briefly, but she doesn’t push. She simply nods, accepting the answer for what it is.

The waiter arrives before the conversation can settle into anything deeper, placing menus on the table and briefly explaining the specials before leaving you to decide.

Claire is the first to lean back into something normal. She takes the menu as if she is proving something to herself, flipping it open with exaggerated focus.

“I’m starving,” she admits sheepishly.

The corner of Emily’s mouth lifts, small and brief. “I already ordered appetizers.”

“Of course you did,” Claire mutters. “This is why you’re useful in a crisis.”

A beat passes before Claire adds more quietly, almost as an afterthought: “…and everything else.”

“You say that like it’s a compliment,” Emily counters, glancing at her over the edge of the menu.

“It is,” Claire replies. “Mostly.”

Emily’s eyebrow lifts. “Mostly?”

Claire shrugs, a small smile appearing on her face. “You have a habit of deciding you know what everyone needs before they even realize they need it. Like you somehow knew I would be starving the second I sat down.”

“And am I usually wrong?” Emily asks. “I’ve known you for too long not to know that you probably haven’t eaten anything proper since this morning. Am I wrong?”

Claire opens her mouth, then closes it again.

Before she can answer, her stomach betrays her with a quiet but very obvious growl.

Emily simply looks at her.

Claire looks away, pretending she didn’t hear it.

“That’s not the point.”

A quiet laugh escapes Emily, and something about the exchange makes you smile before you even realize it.

It is a different side of Emily than the one you have seen so far. Still composed. Still calm. But softer somehow. The kind of person who notices the things people forget to say out loud.

You have heard pieces of this before. Stories Claire told without ever making them sound important. Moments where Emily somehow knew what she needed before Claire had even admitted it to herself.

It seems almost impossible, and yet somehow completely believable.

“So she does this a lot?” you ask Claire before you can stop yourself.

Your voice cuts through the conversation more suddenly than you intended. After being so quiet for most of the evening, both of them look toward you, slightly surprised that you decided to join in.

“I mean…” you gesture vaguely between them. “Not the food thing. I mean knowing what someone needs before they even realize it themselves.”

You glance toward Emily. “Is that some kind of FBI superpower?”

Claire’s smile grows.

“I’m not saying she’s part of some secret organization that predicts people’s needs before they even happen,” she says, pausing for dramatic effect.

Emily gives her a look.

“But?”

Claire leans back slightly, clearly enjoying herself. “But I’m also not saying she isn’t.”

You laugh quietly.

“I remember one time she ordered me fish soup because I had once mentioned that I liked sushi.” Claire shakes her head, still smiling at the memory. “It was horrible.”

You try to hold back your laugh, but the image of Emily confidently ordering something so specific based on a completely unrelated comment is too much. A second later, you give up and let the quiet laugh escape.

“So…” you start, glancing toward Emily. “Should I be worried?”

Emily looks at you, slightly confused. “About what?”

“About letting you make decisions for me.” You gesture toward the menu in front of you, as if it is evidence against her.

Emily leans back slightly. Her eyebrows lift, and for a moment she looks genuinely offended by the accusation. “I think that’s a little dramatic."

“I made one bad decision,” she adds, looking between you and Claire. “One. And somehow years later, it’s still being used against me.”

“Is it?” you ask. “Because according to Claire, you once decided she needed fish soup because she liked sushi. And apparently there was also the time you packed her bag before a trip because you decided she would forget half of what she needed.”

“That is not what happened.”

Claire looks pleased that you have taken her side. “That is exactly what happened.”

Emily looks at her. “You told me you forgot your charger three times in one week.”

“And?”

“And I made sure you had one,” she replies, as if this alone proves her point.

“You packed my entire bag.”

“Because you would have forgotten something.” Her fingers drum lightly against the wooden table, the small movement betraying that she already knows this argument is not going in her favor.

Claire opens her mouth to argue, but then closes it again. “Whatever,” she murmurs after a second.

You can’t help but smile, hiding part of your expression behind the menu for a moment. There is something almost strange about seeing Emily like this. Still composed. Still calm. But somehow caught in a familiar rhythm with Claire, one that clearly comes from years of knowing each other.

“I was right,” Emily says, a small, almost victorious smile appearing on her face. “That’s why I can also recommend the Philly cocktail. The internet said—”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you interrupt, lowering the menu in front of you. “After everything I’ve heard now, I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

Claire’s raised eyebrows and the amused expression on her face are enough to answer before she even says anything. Emily notices and presses her lips together, clearly trying not to smile.

“You’re exaggerating,” Emily huffs, but the amusement in her voice gives her away.

“Really?” you ask, tilting your head slightly. “Because all of this doesn’t sound very reassuring.”

For a second, Emily simply studies you. Then the smallest hint of amusement appears in her expression. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Interesting.” You hear the subtle change in her voice, the way it drops slightly, carrying a teasing edge. Her eyes stay on you, studying your reaction as if she is trying to figure out whether you realize exactly what you just admitted.

The way she says it makes you realize that you have somehow stepped into a conversation that usually belongs only to Claire and Emily. A rhythm built from years of knowing each other, from countless small moments you were never part of. And yet, somehow, Emily doesn’t seem bothered that you have found your way into it.

Emily finally looks back down at her menu, shaking her head slightly as if accepting defeat. “Well, then I’ll stay out of it,” she replies with a quiet laugh. “Do you two already know what you want to drink if not the Philly cocktail?”

A chaotic discussion about the drinks breaks out at the table, the menu is far too elaborate to simply settle for something ordinary like a soda, and somehow Emily manages to distract both of you completely, drawing you into a harmless conversation.

One filled with careful questions, but never lingering too long on any single answer, never making either of you feel as though you have to explain yourselves more than you are ready to. She just lets them exist in the space and then moves on.

You find yourself listening more than speaking. Not because you have nothing to say, but because there is something about Emily’s presence that makes you want to stay quiet and simply take it in.

The way she rests one elbow lightly against the table when she listens. The way her attention doesn’t scatter, even when Claire fills the space with stories that drift from absurd to almost painfully normal. The small shift in her expression whenever something doesn’t quite align with what she already knew.

There is something steady about her presence that makes the rest of the room feel slightly less sharp at the edges.

“You’ve been awfully quiet.” Claire’s voice pulls you back before you realise you’ve drifted.

You blink once, slow. “Oh. Really?”

Emily looks up as well, her attention turning without effort.

Claire laughs, leaning back in her chair. “You’ve answered every question with about three words.”

“I don’t have that much to say.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” There is no tension in her words. Only familiarity trying to find its way back.

Emily leans in, as if she is choosing the moment carefully before speaking. “After everything that’s happened,” she offers in a calm voice, “I think silence is allowed.”

Your eyes meet for a moment too long, and your heart skips into a faster rhythm. You look down again, back to the table, to the menu, to anything that is not her. Emily doesn’t comment on it. She simply keeps listening to Claire as if nothing has shifted at all.

“Yeah, if we’re being honest…” you hear your best friend say, but your thoughts have already drifted somewhere else.

Since the incident at the mall, your thoughts have been difficult to control. The fear still returns in unexpected moments. And somehow, so does Emily.

A few days ago, you had still believed you had successfully pushed her out of your thoughts. Now she is more present than ever before. It doesn’t help that you keep watching her constantly, memorizing every small movement, every subtle change in her expression.

Claire picks up the thread before the moment can deepen any further, shifting the conversation toward university.

“You know what happened in Professor Miller’s lecture last week?” she starts, a small smile appearing on her face. “He walked in, put his coffee down next to his notes, and within five minutes managed to spill it everywhere.”

Emily raises an eyebrow. “Again?”

Claire points at her with a small laugh. “That’s the worst part. It was the third time in three weeks.”

“You’re telling me he has done this three times and still hasn’t learned?” Emily asks, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice.

“Yes,” Claire replies. “And the funniest part? He just stared at the pages like they had personally betrayed him.”

Emily actually laughs at the absurdity. Not a polite reaction or a restrained acknowledgment. A real laugh that breaks through her usual composure just enough to change her entire face. It catches you off guard. It feels so open. So effortless. So completely her.

You’re still smiling because of it when a voice cuts into the table from the side.

“…Claire?”

Claire turns so quickly that her chair almost scrapes against the floor. “Oh my God.”

Her eyes widen. “Isabelle?”

The name pulls your attention toward the person standing beside the table.

Isabelle stands a few steps away from the table, a tray balanced lightly in one hand. She wears the restaurant’s uniform, her hair pulled back neatly. For a moment, she simply looks at Claire, recognition softening into surprise, before her gaze moves past her.

And lands on you.

Something in her expression brightens when she sees you. “Oh. Y/N,” she laughs in disbelief. “Okay, I was not expecting to meet you here.”

Claire leans forward in her chair, visibly delighted. “You work here?” She asks, looking between Isabelle and the tray. “You actually work here?”

Isabelle smiles as she steps closer and carefully places the tray on the table, arranging the appetizers in front of you before looking back at Claire.

“Apparently I do,” she replies with a small, amused breath. “And I also bring you your appetizers. I told you I picked up shifts, but I didn’t think I’d run into you like this.”

Her attention flickers briefly back to you again, softer this time.

“And you’re both okay?” she asks. “After everything in the news, I wasn’t sure what actually happened in the end.”

Claire nods quickly. “We’re fine. Exhausted, but fine.”

Isabelle exhales as if that answer physically relieves something in her.

“Good,” she says simply. Then she hesitates, shifting the tray in her hand as if suddenly aware she is still technically working. “I should let you eat,” she adds, glancing between the three of you. “I can come back later when you’re done.”

Claire waves a hand dismissively. “No, stay. Seriously. As long as you can."

Isabelle lets out a small laugh and doesn’t leave. Instead, her gaze returns to you again, settling there in a way that feels steady rather than intrusive, like she’s simply making sure you’re really standing in front of her.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she admits, this time looking directly at you.

“Yeah,” you manage after a second. “I am.”

“I was thinking about you afterwards. It was kind of… a lot, that day.”

Claire gives a small, tired huff of agreement. “That’s one way to put it.”

Isabelle lets out a short laugh. “Right. Understatement of the year.”

For a moment, the table feels almost normal. As if none of it ever happened. As if the mall, the gunshots, the fear had been left somewhere outside these walls. But Emily’s silence hasn’t escaped you. It’s almost as though she isn’t part of the conversation at all. Slowly, you look up and it doesn’t surprise you to find her already watching you. You felt it.

Her fingers are still wrapped loosely around her glass, her posture relaxed, almost effortless. Only her eyes give anything away. They stay on you for another few seconds before drifting to Isabelle, then to Claire, and finally back to you. Her expression never changes.

Claire doesn’t notice. Neither does Isabelle.

“I just wanted to make sure I didn’t miss anything important,” Isabelle continues, turning slightly back toward you. “After the mall. I left before things escalated, but I read about it later and… yeah.” Her mouth pulls into a faint, almost self-conscious smile. “It’s kind of hard to imagine what it was really like from just reading articles.”

Claire nods in quiet understanding. “It doesn’t really translate into words.”

“No,” Isabelle agrees softly. “It doesn’t.”

She shifts the tray in her hands, the faint clink of cutlery and glass briefly filling the pause between you. “I should probably get back to work. But I’m on break again later… so maybe I’ll see you then.”

Claire lifts a hand with a grin. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Isabelle nods once. Before she turns away, her eyes find yours one last time. “Enjoy your meal.”

Then she slips back into the rhythm of the restaurant, disappearing between the tables as though she’d never interrupted yours at all.

A quiet tension settles over the table, although Claire doesn’t seem to notice it the way you do. Your eyes drift back to Emily almost instinctively. She watches Isabelle until she disappears between the other guests. Something shifts in her expression, so slight that you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

Claire, oblivious, tilts her head with an easy smile. “I’m still not over the coincidence of her working here. What are the chances?”

You smile faintly, but before you can answer, your attention shifts toward the appetizers Emily ordered earlier. The plate of tomato and mozzarella sits between the three of you, untouched until now. Almost at the same moment, you and Emily reach for the fork. Your fingers stop before they touch.

“You first,” Emily offers and the words come naturally, without hesitation.

You glance at her. “Are you sure?”

One of her eyebrows lifts. “I’m offering you a fork, not surrendering my entire plate.” The seriousness in her voice lasts only long enough for you to realize she is teasing you.

“Good. I was worried there were rules I didn’t know about.”

“There are always rules.”

“And somehow I’m supposed to know them?”

“You’re learning.” Her gaze settles on you for the briefest moment before moving to Claire. “How do you know her?”

The question is directed at the table, but somehow it feels as though she’s asking you.

The answer leaves your mouth almost automatically.

“I know her through Claire.”

“From university,” Claire explains at exactly the same time.

The two answers overlap.

Claire laughs, shaking her head. “Well… technically both are true.” She gestures between you as if she has done this explanation before. “Isabelle and I have the same literature seminar. They only actually met at the mall.”

Emily nods once. “Okay."

The conversation could end there, instead, the silence lingers. Not awkwardly, just long enough that you find yourself looking back at her. Emily takes a moment to process that, her gaze lowering briefly toward the table. It is the kind of pause you have learned means she is noticing more than she is saying. Then her attention returns to you. “So the mall was the first time you met.”

Again, it isn’t really a question.

You nod. “Yes.”

Emily lets another quiet moment pass. “When she came over…” she notes, almost thoughtfully, “…it didn’t feel like the two of you had only known each other since the mall. There was a familiarity there. A level of comfort that usually takes longer to develop.”

Your stomach tightens at her words.

Before you can think of an answer, Claire is already smiling. “Oh, Isabelle’s just like that.”

Emily’s eyes drift to Claire. “Like what?”

“She gets attached to people.” Claire shrugs. “Especially if she likes them.”

Emily doesn’t react.

Claire continues anyway, completely unaware. “I mean…” A grin spreads across her face. “I was actually trying to set them up.”

Only then does Emily look at her properly. “You were?”

Claire nods, laughing. “Yes, at the mall.”

Emily blinks once and repeats her words. “At the mall.”

“Before everything happened,” Claire explains quickly. “We bumped into Isabelle, they started talking and…” She smiles toward you. “I just thought they’d be cute together.”

For the first time since Isabelle walked away, something flickers across Emily’s face. Whatever it is, she hides it almost instantly, just a moment too late for you not to notice.

“You tried to set them up.” It isn’t really a question. More like she is repeating the information to herself, fitting it into a picture that is only beginning to make sense.

“Yeah.”

Emily shakes her head slightly, the smallest hint of amusement touching her expression. “Of course you did.”

Claire laughs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying…” Emily leans back slightly, folding her arms. “This isn’t exactly new behavior.”

“Oh my God,” Claire groans, already knowing where this is going.

“You remember when you tried to convince your brother that he and Maya would be perfect together?”

“That was different.”

“You made a spreadsheet.”

Claire’s face falls. “You promised you would never mention that again.”

A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

Emily studies her briefly, amusement flickering in her eyes. “No compatibility chart this time?”

Claire looks offended. “That was one time.”

“You made categories.”

“They were helpful categories.”

A quiet laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

Emily’s expression softens slightly before she looks back at Claire. “So,” she continues, “no spreadsheet, no color-coded plan. Just a feeling?”

Claire rolls her eyes, but she is smiling. “Yes.”

The humor fades slowly from Emily’s expression, replaced by genuine curiosity. “And why Isabelle?”

“She’s kind,” Claire explains with a shrug. “And she’s patient. She’s good at making people feel comfortable. I just thought… I don’t know. I thought Isabelle and Y/N might understand each other.”

Emily’s expression doesn’t change, but something in her attention shifts. She looks at you only briefly at first, as if she is considering whether to ask at all. “You seemed surprised when she approached you.”

The observation catches you off guard. “I was,” you admit. “I didn’t expect to see her again so soon. Especially not after everything that happened.”

Emily studies your face for another moment. “She seemed very comfortable with you.”

“Exactly,” Claire hums, relieved that someone else apparently noticed it too. “That’s what I was trying to tell her.”

Something about the way Emily says it makes you look up again. There isn't anything wrong with the observation, but there is something about being watched so closely by her that makes you feel like you should have an answer ready.

You lower your gaze toward the menu, suddenly very aware of the conversation you are having. “Maybe,” you murmur. “I don’t know.”

“And now?” she asks eventually.

The question is quiet enough that Claire doesn’t seem to notice anything unusual about it. You do.

“I don’t know,” you admit after a moment. “I mean… she was kind. She was easy to talk to.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the menu. “I just don’t know if it meant anything.”

Emily remains silent for a second before giving the smallest nod. “I see.”

Claire glances between the two of you, visibly trying to follow a conversation that somehow became much more serious than she expected. “You two are weird sometimes, you know that?”

Your eyes move toward her, unsure whether she is joking or not. Emily, however, doesn’t seem bothered by the observation. She simply turns another page of the menu, the faint rustle of paper the only sound coming from her side of the table.

Claire shifts awkwardly in her seat. “She really was sweet,” she tries after a moment, almost defensively now. “Honestly. She was just being friendly.”

Emily looks up again. “I’m sure she was.”

Nothing in her tone suggests disagreement. Nothing in it suggests agreement either. Yet for reasons you can’t quite explain, those four words leave something inside you feeling tighter than before.

Your limbs are leaden, heavy in the way that suggests something unnatural, like the blood in your veins has turned to mud. Even breathing feels like effort. Each inhale is thick, syrupy. Each exhale too shallow. Your chest rises only because it must, not because you want it to. Your body has become a battleground of stillness and subtle pain, your muscles aching with disuse. There's no injury, no fever, no wound. And yet you feel ill in every way that counts. There's a dull pulse at the base of your skull, a tightness behind your eyes, a stiffness in your neck like your spine is locking into place from the inside out. You shift only to relieve the worst of the aches, and even that feels like an ordeal—your joints grinding with protest.

The blinds are still drawn from yesterday. Or was it the day before? You can't say for certain. The room is dim, cloaked in shades of blue-grey twilight no matter the hour. Dust clings to the air, spinning lazy pirouettes through weak bands of light. You watch them for long stretches of time, letting them become something to fixate on. They're silent, like everything else in here. The kind of silence that feels loud in your chest, pressing and endless. The walls don't echo—they absorb. Everything in the room feels muffled. Even your thoughts. They come like whispers now, static-heavy and incomplete. Fragments of memories, old regrets, things you forgot to do and no longer have the will to finish. Sometimes you try to remember what the sky looked like last time you saw it. Blue? Cloudless? You're not sure. Your memories don't play back like they used to—they're warped, stretched thin, brittle like old cassette tape.

You lie curled on your side, a blanket half-draped across your legs, tangled and too warm in some places and not warm enough in others. You haven't moved in hours. Your skin is starting to feel alien, like it doesn't quite fit right over your bones. There's a stale, sourness to the air now. It should bother you. It doesn't. You can smell yourself—skin oil and something faintly metallic—but it's distant, like everything else. Your body is a container. You live somewhere beneath it, somewhere quieter. Somewhere that doesn't have to be responsible for upkeep. Somewhere that just… waits.

Your mouth is dry. You think you drank water last night. Or maybe the night before. You imagine standing up, walking to the kitchen, opening the fridge. But the thought is enough to exhaust you. It's like imagining scaling a cliff face with your hands tied. Everything is too much. The idea of moving, of changing even the smallest part of your environment, is inconceivable. The thought of showering, of turning on a tap, of lifting a glass to your lips—it all feels impossibly foreign. Like the kind of thing a different version of you used to do. A version you can't imagine returning to. You know what you should do, and the word should clings to you like smoke, staining everything. You should eat. You should clean. You should try. But those thoughts drift through you like fog—no traction, no grip.

Your phone buzzed twice. It barely even startled you. Just a dull hum against the wooden floor. The first time, you ignored it out of instinct. The second time, you knew—Emily. Somehow, you always know when it's her. Maybe your body recognises her before your mind does. But you didn't check. Couldn't. The thought of holding the phone, reading her name, deciding what to do with it... impossible. You're not ready for the weight of someone else's care, even if it's gentle. Even if it's hers. Especially if it's hers. Her name would be a mirror, and you don't want to see yourself reflected in it right now. You don't want to imagine the concern in her voice, the softness you haven't earned.

You aren't crying. Haven't for days. Maybe weeks. There's nothing dramatic in this. No storm of emotion or explosion of grief. Just quiet. The kind that dulls the edges of everything until you feel like a pencil sketch that's been smudged too many times. Not erased, exactly. Just faded. You are a shell with the echo of yourself inside it. You aren't afraid. You aren't angry. You aren't anything. There's a peace to it, almost, but not a kind you'd wish for. A flatline. A still pond with nothing left to disturb its surface. No wind, no ripples. Just the illusion of stillness over depthless dark.

And yet—

The lock clicks.

Not loud. Not hurried. Not the sound of someone invading. It's precise, almost reverent. You hear it in the stillness and know, without question, that it's her. Emily. There's no panic in you. No surprise. You must've known, somewhere deep in that molasses-thick corner of your brain, that she would come. You left her the spare key. Maybe on purpose. Maybe subconsciously. Maybe just because you were too tired to remember where you put it. Maybe you hoped she'd come. Maybe you knew you wouldn't reach for help, so you planted a seed and waited. Or maybe you stopped waiting entirely, and this is coincidence. Either way, she's here.

She doesn't call your name. Doesn't announce herself. Doesn't ask if you're okay. Emily never plays at normal when things aren't. That's one of the reasons you trust her. One of the reasons you let her see you like this. She doesn't make a performance of compassion. She doesn't treat your silence like a puzzle to solve. She just steps inside, like she's coming home to a place she's missed. She moves with familiarity, like she's done this before. Like she knows exactly how long the hallway is, how many steps it takes to reach your door.

Her footsteps are soft against the hardwood. There's a rhythm to them—measured, unfaltering. A quiet confidence that seeps into the space ahead of her, like her presence precedes her physically. The slight creak in her left boot tells you exactly which pair she's wearing. The same boots she wore that time in Boston, when you stood beside her in the rain under the flicker of motel neon. You remember that detail, even though you can't remember the last time you brushed your teeth. You can't explain how you know it's her before she speaks. You just do. She carries a kind of gravity that rearranges the molecules in the air. Being near her is like standing close to a low-burning star.

Then she's in the doorway. Then she's here.

The mattress dips, but not abruptly. Her weight settles into the edge of the bed like it's been waiting for her. Like it knows the shape of her already. You feel it, even though you haven't moved. That slight shift of gravity when she sits. The air in the room changes. Not brighter. Not louder. Just different. More real. More present. Like someone turned up the saturation just slightly on the colours around you. Like her presence redefines the perimeter of the room.

She doesn't speak right away.

Her hand reaches for your hair, and the contact is feather-light, reverent. Like she's touching a bruise. Like she's checking if you'll flinch. She brushes strands away from your forehead slowly, fingers lingering just long enough to remind you that she's there. Her thumb trails the edge of your temple. Warmth blossoms there, faint but immediate. Her hand doesn't tremble. It doesn't hesitate. It simply exists. Soft. Certain. You didn't realise how long it's been since someone touched you like this—with no expectation, no goal. Just contact.

You don't open your eyes.

"Hi," she says, voice low and even.

It's not a greeting. It's an offering. An anchor.

You want to respond. Want to tell her that you heard her. That you're glad she's here. But the words are somewhere far off, buried under layers of fog and cotton. You couldn't reach them if you tried. And still, she waits. Not for a reply. Not for proof. Just with you. With the quiet. She fits into the silence like it's her language too.

She doesn't need them. She leans down until her forehead touches yours. Her breath fans across your cheek—coffee, and that familiar hint of jasmine from the shampoo she still pretends not to steal when she stays the night. Her presence is warmth without pressure. Weight without demand. And something more. A tether. A lifeline made of skin and breath and presence. She breathes with you, slow and steady, like she's lending you her rhythm.

She stays there, silent, letting the moment stretch. Her hand doesn't move from your hair. Her thumb begins tracing slow, deliberate circles against your scalp again, like a lullaby written in skin. Each pass of her hand is a silent affirmation. You are here. I am here. That's enough. Her knees press gently against the side of the mattress. Her other hand settles beside your pillow, grounding her to the bed, to you.

"You don't have to say anything," she murmurs. Her voice is barely more than breath. "I've got you."

That breaks something. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. No tears. No gasp. Just a crack somewhere in the frozen part of you, where the numbness lives. A tiny fracture that lets in the faintest sliver of warmth. Her words wrap around that space, soft and strong and certain. They hold you where you are, not trying to drag you out. Just staying with you in the dark.

After a moment, Emily's fingers pause in your hair. There's a brief stillness between you, a pocket of quiet where she simply breathes with you, matching the rhythm of your inhale and exhale like it's instinct. Her touch lingers in your hair, fingers brushing once more over your temple with the gentlest pressure, as if to say she's still here without using words. Then, with a quiet sigh, she reaches for the worn paperback on your nightstand. She doesn't need to ask if it's okay. She already knows. There's an intimacy in that certainty, a soft kind of trust that doesn't need to be spoken aloud.

You know the book she picks up—creased spine, corners curled from years of use, pages soft and slightly yellowed from the press of thumbs and the passage of time. It's the one you always call your favourite, even when you can't quite remember why. The one you've carried through moves, through semesters and seasons, through heartbreaks and migraines. The one you've loved even when your brain won't let you feel love for anything else. Emily's seen it tucked under your arm at airports, splayed on your chest during sleepless nights, folded open on café tables while you stared past it into nothing. She knows what it means to you. She's even read parts of it before, quietly to herself when you were asleep beside her on the couch, the television muted and forgotten in the background.

She shifts slightly to get comfortable, adjusting her posture so she can hold the book open without disturbing the delicate stillness in the room. When she begins to read, her voice doesn't rise or push. There's no dramatics, no inflection meant to draw attention. Just the steady, soothing cadence of her speaking aloud—like a tide coming in and out, unchanging. Each sentence falls into the room like soft rain on glass, quiet but present. She reads slowly, letting the words breathe, letting the space between them fill with warmth rather than expectation. The story becomes background noise—not a demand for attention, but a presence that reminds you you're not lost to silence. It wraps itself around the room like a shawl, delicate and woven through with care.

You don't follow the plot. Not entirely. The sentences drift through you like music in a language you half-remember, familiar yet slippery. Some words catch and stick. Others fade before they land. But her voice—you cling to that. The melody of it. The unbroken thread. It reaches into the edges of your mind, weaving through the fog with gentle insistence. You start to listen, not to the content, but to the rhythm. It becomes your new heartbeat. It becomes the only thing that feels real.

She pauses every now and then—not just at the end of paragraphs, but mid-sentence sometimes, like she's gauging whether the room still wants the sound of her voice. It always does. There's a steadiness in her presence that holds you where you are without pulling. Like she's anchoring you to the moment without ever demanding you stay. And when she gently closes the book, smoothing her palm over the cover like it's something alive, it doesn't feel like an ending. Just another way she's showing up for you. Another way she's telling you: I'm still here.

"You don't have to talk," she says, her voice soft but sure. "You don't have to look at me or move or even try to feel better. I'm not here to fix anything. I just want to be here, if you'll let me."

Her thumb traces along the edge of the duvet now, absentminded, her eyes watching the small motion as if grounding herself in it. "You don't need to perform, or pretend. Not with me. You're allowed to just be." She exhales slowly, like she's letting go of something she's been holding, too. "I know this isn't something that lifts because someone else says the right thing. But I'm not leaving you to carry it alone."

She looks at you then—not expectantly, not for a response, but as if memorising the shape of your stillness. Like she's cataloguing your quiet, making space for it, honouring it. Then the bed shifts again as she stands up briefly. You hear the gentle creak of the floorboard beneath her foot, the soft rustle of the duvet as she lifts it. Then, with quiet deliberation, she slides under the covers next to you. She moves slowly, easing her body close without crowding yours, adjusting the blankets to drape over both of you with practiced gentleness. She nestles into the space behind you like she's done it a thousand times before, even if she never has. Her movements are deliberate, careful, as though she's entering a sacred space.

When her arm wraps around your waist, it's not possessive or heavy. It's an offering. A reminder. She rests her palm flat against your side, grounding you both. You don't move, but you don't tense. You allow it, and that permission—unspoken, barely conscious—means something. It says, I know you're not ready, and that's okay. It says, I'm here for as long as you need.

Her chest presses lightly to your back, her knees tucked behind yours, fitting around the shape of you like a puzzle piece. There's no urgency in her touch. Just quiet presence. Just warmth. Her body radiates against yours, not heat exactly, but steadiness. The kind of warmth that says: stay. The kind that doesn't chase anything away, but waits with you in the dark. She hums softly under her breath—nothing with a melody, just a subconscious sound, like her body can't help but fill the quiet with something human. It's not meant to soothe you. It simply exists, a testament to her being here with you.

Time becomes soft around the edges. Minutes stretch and fold. You feel her breathing, the slow expansion of her ribs, the gentle release as she exhales. It doesn't take long before your own breath begins to match hers. First by accident. Then by instinct. Her rhythm becomes your rhythm. Her steadiness becomes your anchor. Her fingers splay slightly where they rest against your stomach, not pushing, not pulling—just a contact point, like she's reminding you that you are here, and she is too. She's a lighthouse in the fog, not demanding you find your way—just shining.

"You don't have to come out of this yet," she whispers, her lips near your ear but her voice barely above a hum. "There's no timer. No deadline. No one's standing on the other side of this waiting for you with a clipboard, asking why you haven't smiled today."

She shifts slightly, her hand curling more securely around your waist. "You don't owe anyone an explanation. Not even yourself. You're not failing. You're not broken. You're surviving. And I'm proud of you for that, even if you can't be."

Her voice wavers just slightly, but she steadies it. "You don't have to do anything right now. Not eat, not shower, not talk. You don't have to be okay. You don't even have to move. Just let me stay here. That's all I want."

The words are soft, but they settle deep. They don't bounce off the fog inside you—they move through it. Like sunlight diffusing through morning mist, not breaking it apart, but making it bearable. She doesn't press you to speak. She doesn't ask for your hand or your tears or even your attention. She asks only to stay. And she means it. Every syllable a promise.

She shifts her position just slightly, enough to rest her forehead against the back of your neck. Her breath is warm against your skin, each exhale slow and deliberate. She murmurs again, not for your ears exactly, but maybe for herself too. "You're not alone. Not now. Not ever. Even when it feels like no one sees you—I do."

You don't say anything. You don't shift or reply. But your body, worn and slow as it is, begins to lean the smallest fraction into her warmth. Just a tilt. Just enough to notice. And when she feels it, she presses the lightest kiss to your shoulder—barely there, reverent.

The quiet that follows is full. Not of tension or expectation, but of presence. Of knowing. Of breathing. Her fingers trace small, idle patterns on your side, not to coax a reaction but simply because she's there, and you're real, and this moment is shared. She closes her eyes behind you and lets the stillness become part of her too.

You like to have dinner started by the time she gets home. You think it’s a nice gesture, and you’d do anything to see Baran’s face light up the way it does when she comes into the kitchen to find you plating her favorite meals. 

Today, you walk in the door and go immediately to the couch. You kick off your shoes and put down your bag on the way, leaving it all strung across the floor, and let yourself slump down into the cushions. 

“Fuck,” you sigh, closing your eyes. You curl up on the couch and reach for the blanket on the back cushion, pulling it over you. 

It’s been a hard day. Work was rough, you forgot your lunch at home, your phone died halfway through the day, and a thousand other things went wrong that you somehow found yourself right at the center of every time. 

At least you had a phone charger in your car. Your phone is at a measly seven percent now, but it’s enough. At least you were able to text Baran that you got home safely. 

You keep your eyes closed, releasing another sigh. You feel so heavy, and with each passing moment you find yourself being pulled further towards sleep. 

You try not to let yourself succumb to it. You need to get up and cook dinner, change clothes, put your shit back where it needs to be so that it’s not strung all over the house when Baran comes home. But you feel so tired, this couch is so nice, and soon enough you’re out. 

— 

What wakes you up is the way the cushion dips by your head when Baran sits down next to you. It jostles you just enough, and you blink against the warm light of the living room lamps. 

“Sorry,” Baran says softly, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

You sit up a little, rubbing your eyes. You give her a dazed look, check your phone for the time, and then sit up the rest of the way. “It’s already seven-fifteen?” 

“How long have you been asleep?” 

You shake your head, pushing away the blanket. “Dont worry about that,” you say, offering her a smile. “Fuck, I’m glad you’re home.” 

Baran leans in, tipping your head up with a hand on your chin and leading you into a kiss. Her lips meet yours gently, tiredly, as if she’s the one who just woke up from a nap instead of you. 

“I missed you,” you say once you part. 

“I missed you too,” she replies. She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “How was work?” 

You shake your head. “It was shit. How was yours?” 

She leans back against the couch cushions. “The same.” 

You move closer to her, enough that she can wrap her arms around you and pull you into her side. You press a kiss to the side of her jaw, then just below her ear, breathing in the soft lavender scent of her perfume. 

Then you remember that you were supposed to be making dinner. Your heart drops and you tense, sitting up again. 

“What’s wrong?” Baran asks. She runs a hand up and down your shoulder. “Talk to me, love.” 

“I forgot about dinner. I fell asleep. Fuck, I can’t believe I didn’t think to set an alarm!” 

“It’s fine,” she says. “We can make something together.” 

“But I wanted to have it ready for you. I always do.” 

“And I appreciate it,” she tells you, sitting up. She shrugs off her purple jacket as she speaks, laying it gently over the armrest of the couch. “I’ve never asked that of you though, have I?” 

You frown. “No.” 

She stands up, holding out a hand for you to take. “Come on. Team effort.” 

“Baran…” 

“Am I that bad of a cook?” she jokes, and pulls you to your feet. “It’s fine if I am, you can tell me.” 

“You’re not a bad cook.” 

“Then let’s go.” 

— 

You wrap your arms around her waist, stepping forward to rest your chin on her shoulder. 

“It smells good,” you murmur, and press a kiss to the bare skin of her shoulder beside the black strap of her tank top. 

“It’s just pasta.” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“Do what?” 

“Sell yourself short,” you say. “Dont do that.” 

She rests a hand over yours across her middle, turns her head and kisses you. “Thank you,” she whispers eventually, “for reminding me.” 

You pull her closer, listening to the sizzling and boiling of the contents on the stove, and you think that if you closed your eyes then you might be able to fall asleep again. 

“Go set out some plates for us,” she tells you. “It’ll be ready soon.” 

— 

“We need to get that dishwasher fixed,” you say, walking into the bathroom and hoisting yourself up onto the edge of the sink counter while Baran does her nightly routine. “It rumbles and starts and then stops and then starts again. I don’t know what’s wrong with it.” 

“We can have someone look at it this weekend,” she says. “I’ll call in the morning.” 

“Thank you.” 

She grabs her moisturizer bottle. She starts twisting the lid, but it’s stuck, and she works at it for a few more moments before setting it down harshly on the counter. 

“Are you okay?” 

She nods. “Fine.” 

“Do you need some help?” 

Baran looks at you, looks down at the bottle of moisturizer, and then relents. She hands it to you and watches as you try to wrench the lid off. 

“Here,” you say, popping it open and handing it back to her. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“I’m tired,” she says, and it sounds so raw and honest that you don’t think it’s an excuse. “Today was just… endless.” 

“I know. I get it.” 

She squeezes some moisturizer into her hands and rubs it into her face, meeting her own gaze in the mirror. “I know you do.” 

“Is there anything I can do?” 

She wipes her hands on the sink towel, then steps between your legs and places her hands on top of your thighs. “Just be here with me. That’s all I need.” 

You nod. You slide forward a little, meeting her in a kiss that is tired and familiar and feels like home. 

Baran’s hands slide up your thighs to your hips and she deepens the kiss, pulling you against her. It emboldens her when your legs spread a little wider and your hands find hers, pulling them just beneath your shirt. 

“This helps too,” she murmurs against your lips, then kisses you again and swipes her tongue into your mouth. 

You feel her hands growing more anxious beneath your shirt. They slide up your sides and palm over the fabric of your bra, and yours come up to guide them under it. 

“Is this okay?” she asks quietly, as if she doesn’t already know the answer by the way you’re arching into her touch. 

“More than okay,” you say, and pull your shirt off along with your bra. 

Baran leans in and presses a kiss to your neck, just beneath your jaw, and peppers more down the column of your throat to your collarbones. She nips at the skin in a way that makes you gasp, and when she leans down to wrap her lips around a nipple, it elicits a sound from you more desperate than you’d like her to think you are already. 

“Bedroom,” you tell her, pushing her away so you can hop down onto your feet. “Please, I need this.” 

Baran leads you toward the connected bedroom, stopping in the doorway to pull you to her and kiss you, pressing you back against the doorframe. It’s rough against your back and compresses your spine in a way that’s terribly uncomfortable, but you can’t bring yourself to push her away — it feels too good to have her in front of you, pressing into you from the front. 

Baran gets down on her knees. One rests on the bathroom tile and the other on the dark wooden floor of your bedroom. She looks up at you with pupils wide and hands expectant. 

“Here?” you ask hesitantly. 

“Here.” 

Before you can overthink it any further, Baran leans forward and licks a trail up your thigh, making you gasp. She reaches up for the band of your shorts, meeting your eyes as she pulls them down with your underwear and helps with gentle hands on your calves as you step out of them. 

“Whenever work is shit,” she says, “I imagine us right here, just like this. I imagine having this perfect fucking view of you.” 

A familiar warmth spreads through your body, gathering low in your belly and down to live between your thighs. Your breathing gets heavier, you spread your legs a little wider without thinking about it, and you bite down hard on your bottom lip when Baran kisses higher up your thighs. 

You can feel her breath fanning against your center and she looks up at you, hoisting one of your legs over her shoulder so she can have better access to you. 

“Tell me what you want,” Baran orders, as if she doesn’t already know. Her hand on your hip presses you harder against the doorframe — it’s a precarious position, not the most stable, but she’ll take care of you. You know she will. 

“You,” you plead, bucking your hips forward only for them to be pressed back again. “Your tongue, your fingers, whatever you want. I need to feel you.” 

“You need to?” 

You nod, suppressing a low moan that threatens to escape from deep in your chest. “Please.” 

She gives in, leaning in and licking through your wet folds, humming contentedly at the taste of you. She feels your thighs tense and she presses you back hard against the doorframe until they relax, using it as a warning and reward system without hardly meaning to. 

You weave a hand into her hair, guiding her closer. You sigh when she runs her tongue over your clit, and she uses enough pressure to make your hips jump. 

“Be patient,” she warns, but she can’t say she’s following her own rules. Already she’s wrapping her lips around your clit and sucking gently, fishing for a reaction from you, relishing the low groan you give her. “Good girl.” 

She shifts a little in the way she’s kneeling, the hard floors beginning to make her knees ache. But when she has you above her like this, lost in the feeling of her tongue on you and looking at last so relaxed and relieved, the last thing she wants to do is move. 

You raise a hand to your own chest, squeezing and palming at your breast, running your thumb over your hardened nipple. You crave release, and while it’s hardly ever a race to the finish line when the two of you have sex, tonight feels different. It’s the exception. 

“Keep doing that,” she says, voice a little shaky. “You look so fucking beautiful like this.” 

You feel her tongue going lower, dipping into your entrance before moving to focus on your clit again. It throws you off — your legs begin to shake and you place in Baran’s hands an unfair amount of responsibility to keep you standing. 

Baran can feel you getting close already. She keeps going, sucking your clit into her mouth and then releasing it to run her tongue over it, gripping so hard with her hands that you’re both sure little indents will be left in your skin from her nails. 

Your grip tightens in her hair. Your hips buck into her and she follows the movement, hardly giving you any room to escape the intensity of her mouth against you, and release rushes over you in a sudden flash that has your back arching against the doorframe and a sharp cry falling from your lips. 

Baran helps you down from it, working you through the aftershocks and cleaning your release from your thighs with her tongue until you push her head away. She releases your leg from her shoulder, waiting for a second with her hands on your legs until she knows you’re okay to stand securely on your own two feet. 

“Come up here,” you say breathlessly, reaching down for her. “I want to kiss you.” 

She smiles, nodding, but then she pauses. Her knees ache terribly and even the slightest movement makes her wince. Sometimes she forgets that she’s forty years old, but her body always reminds her. 

“Baran?” 

“Give me a second,” she says, the warmth of embarrassment spreading across her cheeks as she shifts over to sit down and stretches her legs out in front of her. “Oh, fuck…” 

One of her knees pops in a way that makes you wince. 

“It’s fine,” she assures you, seeing your expression. “It does that sometimes.” 

With wobbly legs, you step in front of her and hold both hands out for her to take. “Come on,” you say. “Up you go.” 

“Do I have to?” 

“Baran, seriously.” 

She relents, grabbing your hands and letting you pull her up. 

Once she’s on her feet, she leans in and kisses you. You can taste yourself on her tongue and it sparks another wave of heat to rush through you. 

“Come here,” you say, pulling her into the bedroom the rest of the way and guiding her to sit down on the edge of the bed. 

“You don’t have to,” she tells you. 

“I know. I want to.” 

She softens. She likes hearing that. “Okay.” 

You climb into bed after her, maneuvering Baran so that she’s lying down and you’re hovering above her, taking off her clothes piece by piece and worshipping every new inch of skin revealed to you. 

Today was hard. It’s undeniable, and there is no changing it. There will be more days like this that will spring upon you without warning and do their damage. 

But this makes it better: to know that you are cherished, that you can spread that feeling to someone else, that even the worst of days can have desirable ends. 

Baran’s other knee pops and you jump. 

“The woes of middle age,” you tease. “You’re going to have metal knees by the time you’re fifty.” 

“That’s not how it works. We don’t call them metal knees.” 

“Yeah, well. Just so you know, I’m happy to drive you home post-op.”