Chapter Text
“And that’s… where I left off from last time.”
A mug of coffee steamed lazily on the low table, forgotten as pages—dozens of them—were spread out across the rug.
Printed sheets, scribbled margins, notes in two different styles of handwriting. Aiah’s curved, neat script. Stacey’s tight, spare lines that looked like they’d been carved rather than written.
Stacey was sitting on the floor with her back leaned against the sofa, one knee bent, papers stacked across her lap. Her hair was falling in her face, and she kept pushing it back absently, eyes skimming over sentences like she had memorized them but needed to memorize them again. She read quietly, lips barely moving, the faintest sound of breath slipping with each word.
Behind her, perched on the sofa like it was her rightful throne, Aiah lounged with the boneless ease of someone who had nothing to do except tease the woman sitting below her.
One of her hands was idly draped over Stacey’s shoulder, her fingers moving once in a while like she might play with the loose threads on her sleeve but never quite following through.
The other hand cradled her chin as she leaned forward, peeking down at the papers in Stacey’s lap as though she hadn’t already read every draft herself.
She sighed, dramatic, leaning so close her cheek brushed Stacey’s hair.
“It’s so long already,” she said, pout audible even in her tone. “Why not publish even just one part for the moment? One arc. Just a taste. People would love it.”
Stacey didn’t even lift her eyes from the page. She breathed out, a sound that almost might’ve been annoyance if not for the warmth tucked beneath it.
Then she laughed. Quiet. Soft. A laugh that felt like it was reserved for moments like this, like it wouldn’t survive anywhere outside the walls of this house.
“Not yet,” she said simply.
Aiah groaned. She slouched even further, both hands now falling over Stacey’s shoulders like she was trying to melt into her. “Not yet, not yet… you’ve been saying that for months.”
Her voice stretched into a whine, the kind she only ever used here, only ever with Stacey. “What’s the point of writing all this if you’re just going to hoard it like some dragon sitting on treasure?”
Stacey’s lips twitched at the corner, though her eyes still traced the words before her. “It’s unfinished.” She turned a page slowly, with deliberate care, as if to make her point. “The story needs to end first. Then I’ll reformat it. Then it can all go at once. Each arc, one after the other. No gaps.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Aiah muttered, but she didn’t move away. Her chin now rested against the top of Stacey’s head, voice muffled into her hair. “Do you know how much patience that requires from people? None. Zero. You’ll be killed in the comments. And then where would I be, huh? A widow. Alone. Tragic.”
Stacey chuckled again, this time low, shaking her head slightly so strands of her hair brushed Aiah’s cheek. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m always dramatic,” Aiah countered immediately, leaning back just enough so Stacey could see the grin tugging at her lips.
“It’s part of my charm. And you—” she poked Stacey’s shoulder with one long finger “—are stubborn. Which, fine, is also part of your charm, but still. Just one arc, baby. Think of it as… hmm. A sneak peek. A gift. Like giving them the smell of food while it’s still cooking.”
Stacey finally set the papers down, sighing through her nose. She tilted her head slightly, enough to glance back at Aiah with that same steady gaze, cool but softened by the domestic haze of the afternoon.
“Would you serve a half-cooked meal?” she asked plainly.
Aiah blinked. She opened her mouth, closed it, then made an exaggerated groan and flopped sideways across the couch cushions, one arm still slung dramatically over Stacey’s shoulder as though she couldn’t break contact even in defeat. “Ugh. Fine. When you put it like that…”
Her eyes caught the scattered drafts on the rug, the whole mess of them, and she softened despite herself. She had been watching Stacey write for months now, the way she obsessed over pacing, the way she rearranged sentences like puzzle pieces that only she could see.
Aiah had sat with her through nights of endless typing, through the scratching of pens, through cups of coffee that went cold before they were ever finished. It wasn’t just stubbornness. It was devotion. A refusal to let something out into the world until it was exactly as she imagined.
But still—
“You’re cruel, you know,” Aiah said, quieter now, not quite pouting anymore. “Keeping all of it here with just us. It’s selfish.”
Stacey shifted, just a small lean against her, enough so Aiah felt the weight of her. Her voice was lower, almost like she wasn’t speaking to be heard but because it needed to be said. “Maybe I like it better here. Just us.”
The words landed heavy, filling the space between them, sinking into the warmth of the house around them. Aiah swallowed, biting back another grin, because Stacey could be like that—dropping something devastating in the softest tone, leaving it to unravel inside her chest.
She pressed her lips together, trying to hold her expression steady, but her fingers curled lightly around Stacey’s shoulder, grounding herself.
“Well,” she finally said, feigning casual, “I suppose I can live with selfishness. For now.”
The quiet of the room then stretched, heavy in that pleasant weekend way where nothing demanded to be done.
“So,” Aiah said, breaking the silence, “what happened to her?”
Stacey blinked, slow, like she hadn’t quite caught up. “Her who?”
“The ‘Aiah’ in your story.” Aiah’s voice was curious but playful, like she was poking at something only half-serious. “After that last scene. The hospital. That moment after she woke up and then there’s nothing. What happens to her after?”
Stacey gave the smallest shrug, shoulders barely moving under Aiah’s hands. “I don’t know yet.”
“You don’t know yet?” Aiah repeated, frowning exaggeratedly. “You? Miss obsessive planner, binder full of outlines, sticky notes in every drawer? You don’t know?”
“My mind’s fuzzy,” Stacey admitted, almost too casually, like the words didn’t bother her though they obviously did. “I haven’t figured it out. It’s stuck.”
Aiah tilted her head, studying her like she was some sort of puzzle too. Stacey’s expression stayed even, but her eyes gave her away—a slight unfocus, a distance that meant she had been circling the same thought for weeks, unable to pin it down.
“That’s rare for you,” Aiah murmured. “Usually you can see ten steps ahead.”
Stacey didn’t reply immediately. She reached for the cold coffee on the table, sipped it without grimacing, and set it back down. Only then did she say, “Not with endings. Endings are harder.”
Aiah rolled her eyes, grinning. “Oh, please. That’s just you being dramatic now. Endings are just… stop writing and that’s it. The end. Done.”
“Not for me,” Stacey said simply.
“Of course not,” Aiah sighed, leaning more of her weight onto her shoulder until Stacey tipped slightly to the side. “You can’t ever do anything the easy way. Even breathing with you looks calculated.”
That earned her a short, amused sound from Stacey—half laugh, half exhale. She let Aiah lean harder until she was almost slumping completely into her side, then finally lifted a hand to rest it over Aiah’s wrist, grounding the weight of her against her shoulder.
Aiah smirked at the small gesture, then settled more comfortably, tucking her legs up on the couch. “Well, then. What’s the problem? You don’t know what she does? Or you don’t know what you want her to feel?”
“Both,” Stacey admitted after a pause. Her voice was thoughtful now, like she was letting Aiah peek into the machine of her head. “She’s… unfinished. I know where she’s been. I know what she wants. But I don’t know how much of it she gets to have. It’s blurry. Like I’m looking through fog.”
Aiah hummed, pretending to think very hard. “Maybe you should let her be happy.”
That made Stacey glance sideways at her, brow slightly raised. “Happy?”
“Yeah. You ever try that?” Aiah teased, grin wide. “You know, an ending where people aren’t crying or breaking or wandering into the abyss? Just once?”
Stacey shook her head, but she was smiling faintly now, soft enough that it reached her eyes. “It wouldn’t fit.”
“Why not?” Aiah challenged, sitting up straighter, indignant in the most unserious way possible. “Happy endings fit everywhere if you squish them hard enough.”
Stacey chuckled quietly. “You sound like a child trying to shove clothes into an already full suitcase.”
“Exactly.” Aiah tapped her temple proudly. “That’s art.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The weekend hum filled the silence—the faint whir of the fan in the corner, the occasional sound of a car passing outside. The house carried their breathing like it was the only rhythm that mattered.
Aiah leaned forward, plucking one of the stray pages off the rug. She scanned it with mock seriousness, eyes darting left and right.
“Alright, let me fix this for you. After that scene, ‘Aiah’ goes into the kitchen, makes herself a sandwich, realizes she’s actually craving waffles instead, drags Stacey out of bed, and forces her to cook. That’s the ending.”
“That’s not an ending,” Stacey said flatly.
“Sure it is,” Aiah insisted. She wiggled the page in her hand like it was proof. “It’s domestic. Relatable. Readers eat that up. Pun intended.”
Stacey gave her a look so dry it could have cracked the air. But then she sighed, shook her head, and let out another soft laugh that seemed to slip out against her will.
“See? You’re laughing,” Aiah said triumphantly, tossing the page back down. “Happy ending. I’m a genius. You should hire me.”
“You’re already here,” Stacey replied simply, but there was something in the way she said it that made Aiah go still for just a beat too long. She swallowed, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “I guess I am.”
They let the quiet settle again, this time easier, warmer. Stacey leaned her head back against the couch, eyes slipping shut, while Aiah tucked herself into her side, cheek resting against her shoulder. The papers lay scattered like fallen leaves, their story paused, unfinished—but in that moment, neither of them seemed to mind.
Eventually, Aiah broke the silence again, voice light, almost a whisper. “You know, maybe that’s the point. Maybe you don’t need to know how it ends yet.”
Stacey opened one eye, glancing at her.
Aiah shrugged lazily. “Because it’s not over. You’re still writing. Still figuring it out. And that’s okay. Let it stay blurry for now.”
Stacey didn’t answer right away. She closed her eye again, breathed out slow, and let her hand slip over Aiah’s where it rested against her shoulder, fingers lacing absently.
“Maybe,” she said finally.
Minutes later, Stacey stretched her arms over her head, the faintest crack sounding from her shoulders as she stood. The papers on the rug shifted under the brush of her bare toes, but she didn’t bother gathering them this time. Her eyes flicked toward the kitchen, already thinking ahead.
“I’ll handle our snacks,” she said, voice light but already halfway distracted.
Aiah, curled comfortably into the couch cushions, lifted her head lazily. “Mm. Okay. I’ll wait here.”
There wasn’t a fuss about it, no debate on who should do what. It was just how things were—Stacey gravitating toward the kitchen like it was an instinct, and Aiah letting herself be spoiled by it, secretly delighted she never had to learn her way around a stove. She watched Stacey leave, her steps steady, disappearing behind the frame of the hallway that led to the little square kitchen.
The sound of drawers opening and closing began after a beat, a pot shifted, the faint rattle of utensils. Aiah leaned back, listening with half a smile. She liked the sound. She liked the weekend hush too, but Stacey in the kitchen was different—something sure and solid, the rhythm of cabinets and the faint hiss of a burner.
Her gaze slid down eventually, back to the mess of papers still scattered in front of the couch. She should’ve left them. But she didn’t. She leaned forward, picking one up and smoothing it across her thigh, the paper curling slightly at the edges.
Her eyes skimmed the lines, not in any order, just wherever the ink had landed. Handwritten, Stacey’s small blocky script. The scene was mid-dialogue, a back-and-forth that didn’t really say much if you didn’t know how to read between.
Aiah tilted her head, mouthing the words silently, then letting out a small, short laugh.
She picked up another page, holding both at once now, trying to piece together which scene came first. It didn’t really matter.
One line made her stop though. She frowned at it, brow furrowing, muttering under her breath like it was too absurd not to comment.
“Why did she write this one like that?”
Her thumb tapped the margin where Stacey had crossed out a word and replaced it with something sharper. She shook her head, smirking faintly, but the page didn’t leave her hand.
It wasn’t unusual for Stacey to write with a kind of closeness, lines that felt like they were pulled out of the skin rather than the imagination. But some sentences sat heavier than others.
Aiah snorted softly at herself, tossing that thought away. She pulled another sheet from the floor and stacked it with the rest she was holding.
The living room stayed quiet except for the soft hum of a distant kettle heating, Stacey’s quiet movements behind the wall.
Aiah shifted again, tucking her feet up under her. She read another paragraph, her lips quirking faintly at a clipped bit of dialogue. She could almost hear the delivery in her head, tone so familiar it was uncanny.
Maybe that was just Stacey’s style. Or maybe it was the way they spent years together, every word etched deep enough that even fiction came out sounding like them.
She leaned her cheek against her knuckles, the pages sliding from one hand to the other. The ink smudged faintly on one of them, like Stacey had pressed too hard with the pen and dragged her palm across it before it dried.
She whispered the words on the page, almost teasingly, as if speaking them aloud might coax their meaning into something lighter. But the line still stuck heavier than it should have, a little stone in her chest she couldn’t quite explain.
Her eyes narrowed just a touch, mouth twisting in a small pout. She didn’t push the thought further, though. Instead, she set the page aside and leaned down for another.
The pile in her lap grew crooked. The pages were a mess of tone—some clipped and sharp, others soft and wandering. She laughed quietly at a section that went on and on about a character peeking in the room without moving.
“Classic Stacey,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Whole page and nothing happens.”
She flipped that one over, letting it flop down beside her, and stretched her arms above her head. Her joints gave a little crack.
Her stomach gave a faint growl then, reminding her that lunch was a few hours behind them now, that it was long past time for something sweet or warm to fill the gap. She licked her lips unconsciously, imagining what Stacey might be putting together.
Something simple, probably, but good. Something that made the house smell like home.
Aiah glanced back at the kitchen, but the wall hid most of the view. The sounds continued—water filling a pan, the faint scrape of a spoon against a bowl. Comforting, rhythmic.
She looked back at the papers on her lap, her fingers absently flipping through them again. A line caught her eye, and she traced it with her fingertip, reading it twice. The way it was phrased pulled at her, like it sat closer to her than the rest, though she couldn’t explain why.
She made a small sound in her throat, half amusement, half dismissal, and shook her head. “Weird.”
Still, she didn’t toss that page back. She slid it under the others instead, tucked safe in the middle of the stack.
The clock ticked quietly on the wall. The smell of something faintly sweet started to slip through the air, vanilla and warmth. Aiah closed her eyes for a moment, tilting her head against the couch cushion, letting the scent wrap around her.
When she opened her eyes again, the papers were still in her lap, spread and scattered, words waiting. She looked at them with a strange fondness, her grin crooked but soft.
The sound of a pan settling against the stove came through, followed by the familiar clink of plates being set down.
Aiah leaned back, holding the stack of pages against her chest now, like they were nothing more than idle entertainment. Her brows furrowed slightly, though, still caught on that one line she’d muttered over.
“Where should we eat?” Stacey’s voice carried from the kitchen, calm, like she was already anticipating the answer. It was so sudden, cutting right through her train of thoughts.
Aiah lifted her head from the couch cushion, half-distracted by the paper still clutched in her lap.
“Dining room or living room?” Stacey added, appearing at the doorway with a tray balanced carefully, two plates already set and a little bowl in between.
Aiah groaned immediately, sinking deeper into the couch. “Living room,” she whined, drawing the word out like a child. “I’m already here.”
Stacey raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upward, but she didn’t argue. She stepped over the little mess of papers scattered across the rug, careful not to wrinkle them under her heel, and lowered the tray onto the coffee table. The wood creaked faintly under the weight, though it was nothing the table couldn’t handle.
“Lazy,” Stacey muttered, but there was no bite to it. She was already shifting the tray into place, sliding it so it sat squarely between them.
“Efficient,” Aiah corrected, stretching her legs out across the couch like she had claimed the whole space for herself. “Dining room’s too far anyway.”
“It’s ten steps,” Stacey replied, crouching to adjust the plates on the tray, making sure they wouldn’t tip when she removed them.
“Ten steps too many.” Aiah stuck her tongue out, then pulled the stack of papers from her lap and plopped them onto the armrest, freeing her hands at last. She leaned forward to peek at what Stacey was setting down, curiosity lighting her eyes.
Stacey didn’t let her see right away, keeping the plates covered with little saucers as she arranged them. “Patience,” she said softly, nudging the coffee table books aside to make room.
Aiah pouted, resting her chin on her hand as she watched. “You always make it so official, like it’s some kind of ceremony.”
Stacey glanced up at her through her lashes, then returned to setting a small folded towel under the bowl in the middle to keep it from sliding. “If I don’t, you’ll knock it over.”
“Accidentally,” Aiah defended, though her grin gave her away. She sat back, hugging her knees loosely against her chest now, hair falling across her face.
The living room shifted into a cozier kind of space with the tray on the table, the soft light from the window spilling across the plates and the faint steam curling up from the bowl. The smell made it warmer, sweeter—something baked, maybe, the vanilla carrying over from earlier.
Aiah sniffed the air, nose wrinkling. “That smells dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Stacey repeated, sliding the saucers off the plates to reveal the snacks beneath.
“Yeah,” Aiah said, leaning forward again, eyes brightening now that she could see. “Dangerous to my self-control.”
Stacey shook her head, a soft laugh slipping out, and reached for the set of mugs she’d brought too. They clinked softly as she set them down, steam rising faintly from whatever she’d poured inside.
Aiah dragged the nearest throw pillow onto her lap and hugged it, watching Stacey fuss over the table like it was a stage being set. “We should just get a bigger coffee table,” she said suddenly, chin resting on the pillow. “Then you won’t have to squeeze everything into this little square.”
“This one’s fine,” Stacey said, settling back on her heels. She smoothed her palms across her thighs, checking everything once more.
“Mm, no,” Aiah teased, tilting her head. “Next time, I’m buying us a huge one. Takes up half the rug. You won’t be able to complain.”
“You’ll be the one tripping over it.”
Aiah smirked. “Worth it.”
Stacey finally rose, brushing her hands together as though dusting them off, and adjusted the tray so it was closer to Aiah’s side. She gave her a pointed look. “Don’t spill.”
“I never spill,” Aiah said with mock offense, even though Stacey only arched a brow in response. She reached forward anyway, fingertips already itching to steal something from the plate, her whine from earlier forgotten now that the food was right in front of her.
Stacey didn’t stop her this time, simply lowering herself onto the couch beside her, their knees brushing faintly. She reached for her own mug, cradling it between her palms.
The papers Aiah had abandoned leaned precariously on the armrest, some sheets threatening to slip onto the floor again. Stacey glanced at them once but didn’t move to gather them. She let them stay, messy and scattered, while the smell of vanilla and warm sugar filled the room.
Aiah nudged Stacey’s knee with her own, a grin tugging at her lips. “Living room wins again,” she said softly, smug in her little victory.
Stacey only hummed, quiet and content, her gaze steady on the steam curling from her cup.
Aiah leaned back with a sigh, pillow still on her lap, plate balanced carefully against it. She chewed slow, savoring, then licked the corner of her mouth before speaking up.
“So,” she started, voice light, casual, “how was work?”
Stacey glanced at her from where she sat cross-legged on the couch, her own plate settled neatly on her thighs. She gave the faintest shrug, as if the question didn’t need much thought. “Fine, sure.”
“Fine, sure?” Aiah echoed, tilting her head, unconvinced.
A small grin tugged at the corner of Stacey’s mouth, but she didn’t look up from her food. “My co-workers are crazy.”
Aiah perked up, grin forming as she shifted on the couch, chin propped against her knuckles. “Crazy how?”
Stacey sighed through her nose, finally lifting her eyes. “Deadlines. Always deadlines. You’d think they’d figured it out by now, but no. Everything’s last-minute, everything’s urgent. People rushing left and right. Then you add in the clients—stubborn as hell, never satisfied.” She shook her head, taking another bite before finishing. “Kinda annoying, honestly.”
Aiah chuckled, tapping her fork against her plate, the sound ringing soft against the hum of the room. “So it’s the same story every time.”
“Pretty much.” Stacey leaned back, letting her shoulders sink into the cushions. “It’s why a rest day’s good. At least I get some time off from the chaos.”
Aiah nodded slowly, chewing thoughtfully, then smiled. “You say that, but I think you like it. Running around, fixing things, cleaning up their messes. That’s your thing.”
“That’s not my thing,” Stacey said firmly, though her tone softened halfway through.
“It is,” Aiah teased, pointing at her with her fork. “You like being the one who saves the day, even if you complain.”
Stacey let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t save the day. I just try not to let it get worse.”
Aiah grinned wider, leaning back into the couch again, one leg folding beneath her. “You’re basically a superhero then. Office superhero. Saving everyone from impending doom by making sure the printer actually works or whatever.”
“Printer?” Stacey raised a brow, smirking faintly. “That’s your idea of doom?”
“In an office, yeah.” Aiah lifted a shoulder in mock seriousness. “Imagine thirty people trying to print something and it jams. That’s chaos.”
Stacey laughed under her breath, sipping from her mug, the steam fogging her glasses faintly. She pushed them back up her nose with one finger. “You’d never survive in my office.”
“Good thing I don’t have to,” Aiah said, her grin softening into something fonder. She popped another bite into her mouth, chewing slow, watching Stacey sip again.
The room fell into an easy rhythm then, the sound of forks clinking lightly against plates, the faint creak of the couch when one of them shifted. The world outside was quiet, the kind of weekend hush that made the living room feel like a cocoon.
Aiah was the one to break it again, tilting her head as she set her fork down. “So, co-workers are crazy, clients are annoying, deadlines are evil. Did I get the summary right?”
“Mm,” Stacey hummed, swallowing before speaking. “That about covers it.”
Aiah smiled, eyes narrowing playfully. “See? You didn’t need to give me the long version. I already knew.”
Stacey chuckled, setting her plate on the tray for a moment. “Then why ask?”
“Because,” Aiah said, leaning toward her slightly, “I like hearing you talk about it. Makes me feel like I’m in your day too, not just waiting here.”
The honesty slipped out softer than she intended, but she didn’t backtrack. Stacey blinked at her, a faint pause in the air, before her gaze softened too.
“You are,” Stacey said quietly, almost under her breath. Then she leaned forward to take another bite, as if the words had been nothing.
Aiah froze mid-bite, fork halfway to her lips before she set it down with an exaggerated gasp. Her eyes went wide, mouth falling open like she’d just witnessed something unbelievable. Then came the groan, long and dramatic, as her head tilted back against the couch cushion.
“There you go again,” she complained, dragging the words out like a whine. “Saying things like that—like it’s nothing—when it makes me feel all…” She flailed her free hand vaguely in the air, searching for the word. “…giddy.”
Stacey, already chewing, looked at her without moving her head. Just one slow blink, deadpan to the core. “You’re in your mid-thirties.”
Aiah snapped her head toward her with mock outrage, clutching the pillow tighter against her chest.
“So what?!”
Stacey raised her brows, sipping calmly from her mug.
“Is it a crime,” Aiah continued, pointing her fork at her wife like it was a weapon, “to get giddy because my wife says something romantic without even trying? Huh?!”
The way she said it was half-serious, half-laughing at herself, but there was a sharpness under it too—a heat in her cheeks she couldn’t mask. She hated how it always slipped out of Stacey so casually. Words that were small but carried weight, words that landed in her chest like stones and refused to budge.
Stacey leaned back, one corner of her mouth tugging like she was trying not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re unfair.” Aiah crossed her arms, still balancing the plate on her lap somehow. “You just sit there, say things like that, and then pretend you didn’t say them at all.”
“I didn’t pretend,” Stacey said smoothly. “I meant it.”
Aiah groaned again, tossing her head back dramatically, making her hair spill over the pillow. “See?! That’s what I mean. Do you not hear yourself?”
“I hear myself.” Stacey set her plate down on the tray, her tone maddeningly calm. “You’re the one who turns it into something big.”
“Because it is big!” Aiah argued, smacking the pillow with her palm. “It makes me feel like I’m twenty again, except worse, because now I know better. I’m thirty-five and I still get butterflies when you say something like that.” She huffed, narrowing her eyes. “You should take responsibility.”
Stacey tilted her head, pretending to think. “For making you giddy?”
“Yes!”
The seriousness in Aiah’s voice cracked Stacey’s composure, and the laugh slipped out before she could stop it. Soft at first, then bubbling up until it warmed her whole face.
Aiah pouted harder, pointing her fork again. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” Stacey said, even as she was. “I’m laughing because you’re… cute.”
Another gasp. Aiah pressed her hands against her cheeks like she could physically hold them down, but the flush betrayed her anyway. “Unfair,” she muttered through her fingers.
“Very fair,” Stacey countered. She reached over, tugging gently at the pillow Aiah clutched, but Aiah held it tighter. They ended up in a small tug-of-war, ridiculous considering it was just a throw pillow, until Stacey let go with a smirk.
“You think you’re smooth,” Aiah muttered, sinking deeper into the couch.
“I don’t think I’m anything,” Stacey replied, picking her plate back up like nothing happened. “You’re the one making a whole scene.”
“I’m allowed to make a scene,” Aiah insisted, stabbing another bite of food. “You’re my wife, and you’re unknowingly romantic, and it drives me insane.”
Stacey smiled into her fork, trying not to show it too much.
Aiah caught it anyway. She narrowed her eyes but couldn’t keep her lips from twitching. “You think you’re winning right now.”
“I’m not competing,” Stacey said, voice light.
“Liar,” Aiah shot back, finally laughing as she stuffed the bite into her mouth.
The room eased back into quiet then, but not the same quiet as before. This one was warmer, charged with their bickering and laughter still lingering in the air. Stacey ate calmly, unbothered, while Aiah squirmed next to her, trying to act normal even though her chest still fluttered from the casual way her wife said things.
It wasn’t fair at all. Not one bit. And yet, Aiah thought as she glanced sideways at Stacey—the soft curve of her profile, the way she focused on her plate like it was the most important thing in the world—maybe unfair wasn’t so bad. Not when it came from her.