CHAPTER 7: AFTERGLOW
Harper stirred slowly, the sheets twisted around one of her ankles like a careless ribbon. Sunlight pushed through the tall windows, pooling gold across the worn floorboards and the half-dead jungle of her plants.
A sock hung off one leafy stem and her desk was a quiet war zone of empty mugs, scribbled notebooks, and a single spoon glued to a napkin by something suspicious.
She groaned and rolled over. “Oh my God,” she muttered into the pillow.
The cotton clung to her cheek, warm from sleep. She blinked, still drunk on last night — on Mira. On her voice, on her mouth, and on the soft, deliberate way she had kissed her in the car before letting her go.
She’d done it — finally — the thing she’d been half-dreaming, half-dreading for weeks. She’d gone on a date with Mira Laurent, a woman, and her fall had only deepened. And then she’d kissed her, and she’d loved it.
Harper let out a strangled sound and yanked the blanket over her head. What the hell did I just do? No! What the hell did we just do?
She was grinning, and horrified, and her skin still felt warm where Mira had touched her, where she’d lingered, as if her body hadn’t gotten the memo that the night was over.
Okay. Okay, back up. Start with the facts.
Fact one: She’d kissed a woman. Twice. If you counted the whole make-out session in the car as a single kiss.
Fact two: They weren’t just kisses. They weren’t just anything. They were careful, deliberate, and possessive. She felt utterly claimed by Mira, and it made her shiver.
She groaned again, louder this time, and pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. It wasn’t weird. That was the unsettling part. It didn’t feel tentative or experimental—it felt ordained. As if her mouth had always known the shape of Mira’s. No. As if it were made, designed for Mira’s mouth. As if her body had been remembering something her mind was only just catching up to.
It felt like Mira had written herself into Harper—marked her somewhere deep and private, in a place Harper hadn’t known existed until now. A place that answered to Mira, and only to Mira, without hesitation. A place that already knew, with aching certainty, who it belonged to.
But why hadn’t she come up? No, why hadn’t she stopped Mira from leaving? Why hadn’t she kissed her harder? Or just begged? God. She probably had begged. With her eyes. She probably looked like a Victorian orphan holding out an empty bowl, “Please, Miss Laurent, may I have some more?”
She buried her face in the pillow and screamed. It came out as a muffled groan.
What did Mira think of her now? Had she come on too strong? Had she not come on strong enough? Did she think that Harper did this all the time? With women?
Her heart was still racing. Her lips felt swollen, sensitized, as though they remembered more than they should. A low, lingering thrum pulsed through her thighs, unapologetic and alive.
She was wearing a black singlet she’d tugged on half-asleep—no bra beneath it—fabric brushing over nipples that were still aching, long and tender. And she was still in her panties from the night before, damp and ruined, marked by everything Mira had done to her.
Am I gay?
The thought didn’t scare her. Not exactly. It just… didn’t fit any label she’d had ready. She sat up. Flopped sideways. Sat up again. Tried to kick the blanket off like it had betrayed her. “Mother fu—”
Eventually, she found her legs, padded barefoot across the warm floor, and turned on the espresso machine. It groaned. Everything in her apartment groaned—the floorboards, her body, everything.
She opened the fridge and stared inside. Now she’d forgotten what she’d come for. Shit.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Mira’s lips. The weight of her hand, her voice — dark, and dipped in flame.
I kissed her. I kissed Mira Laurent… and I’m begging any god who’ll listen for a chance to do it again.
Ding.
Her phone lit up on the counter, and she jumped.
Jules:
Dead or alive? I’m coming up.
Before Harper could reply, the buzzer rang. When she opened the door a moment later, hair a full-blown haystack, Jules stood there, grinning. She had two coffees in hand, and her sunglasses perched on her head like a crown. She took one look at Harper and let out a delighted, scandalous cackle.
“Oh my God, you absolute minx. You did it, didn’t you? Tell me everything.”
Harper opened her mouth. Closed it. Then just stepped aside as Jules breezed in like a hurricane of caffeine and chaos, already halfway to the kitchen. Harper stood there blinking and glowing. She rubbed the back of her neck and exhaled. “I don’t even know what happened,” she said.
=====
While Harper fended off an overexcited best friend, Mira was standing motionless in her living room. Framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows, her figure was all long lines and stillness, backlit by a pale gold wash of morning light.
The city below was half-muted, blurred by morning light and the soft gauze of sheer linen curtains. Pale gold moved across the slate-tiled floor like breath.
She wore a satin robe, loosely tied—bronze, with the faintest shimmer—its elegance amplified by the hush of the room. One hand cradled a small porcelain cup of espresso.
Her nails were neatly manicured, painted a sheer, restrained nude—so understated it felt intentional rather than absent. It was control, rather than ornament. And her fingers still remembered the weight of Harper’s jaw, the silk-warm give of her throat—memory held in the tendons, in the precise places she had chosen to touch and then withdraw.
Somewhere behind her, Alisa Weilerstein played the cello low and aching, hovering like smoke in the air. Mira closed her eyes. Breathed in. Held. And exhaled. Her body was too aware. It hummed, restrained, and aching from carrying last night beneath her skin.
The memory came in perfect detail: Harper’s leg draped over hers in the backseat. The heat at her throat. The way Harper clung to her like she might float away. The small, helpless sound she made when Mira kissed beneath her jaw. And then the walk to the door. Harper’s wide, wanting eyes, and Mira’s palm against her cheek, murmuring not yet.
She should’ve gone up. Or no, she shouldn’t have.
She didn’t. That was the point.
But that look… that soft, desperate look, it struck a chord deep within her.
Mira took a sip of espresso and let the warmth settle on her tongue. She didn’t move or speak. She just watched the light bend across the buildings. Her thighs remembered Harper’s heat, and her hands remembered where they’d been.
She’d never been with a woman. Never truly wanted to be, except for maybe one. A long time ago. But there was something about Harper. Something raw and alive, something that pulled at her more than anyone else ever had. She felt it last night. She still felt it now.
Was she confused? Yes.
Frustrated? Profoundly.
Excited? …Undeniably.
A soft sound behind her brought her back to the present. Camille. Mira had asked her to come here instead of to the office. It happened on rare occasions. Camille came in — all presence, no sound — and placed a folder on the low table.
She murmured to Mira low and dry: “Vous avez deux heures avant votre premier appel ce matin.” You have two hours before your first call this morning.
Without turning, Mira replied in Arabic, her voice softer and even deeper than usual: “Shukran, ḥabībtī.” Thank you, my dear.
Camille paused, studying her back: the set of her shoulders, and the stillness. She didn’t speak again, but something in her gaze softened. In their years together, she’d never seen Mira like this.
A beat passed before Mira finally blinked and turned slightly, lifting her cup once more and taking her final sip of coffee. Her eyes were heavy, unslept, but not tired.
“I’ll get dressed,” she said in English. “We’ll work from here today.”
Camille gave the smallest nod, barely a breath, and turned away to begin setting up.
=====
Harper collapsed onto the couch like her bones had given up. The blanket went with her. She yanked it over her bare thighs, suddenly self-conscious, not that Jules hadn’t already clocked everything.
Jules followed with the coffees, casually kicking aside a pair of socks and a USB cable with one foot, and perched on the armrest like she owned the place. Her grin was feral.
“Well?” she asked, practically vibrating. “Did you kiss? Did you die? What was it like kissing the Egyptian goddess of power and soft lighting?”
Harper stared at her. Then took the coffee. Then stared at her again. And finally said, weakly: “I think I might be broken.”
Jules’s grin widened. “Oh my God! Tell me everything. Start with dinner. No, wait, did she plan the whole thing? What did she wear? She’s a strategist, Harper. She doesn’t breathe by accident.”
“She texted me a location,” Harper muttered, sipping her coffee like it could rescue her from the brink. She let her head fall back against the couch. “It was… Jules, it was insane. So magical. She’s so, she’s so—”
“Hot?”
“Yes! But not just — ugh, not just hot. It’s like she’s made of silk and danger and… private equity.”
Jules snorted, and Harper kept going, helpless. “You know how she’s got that voice? And the accent? And she talks like she’s already thought through every version of what you might say? And then she looks at you like she’s reading you? Well, the part that kills me? I think she might really like what she’s reading.”
“Oh my God, you’re smitten.”
“I know!”
“Did you sleep with her?”
Harper made a sad noise into her coffee. “No. I mean — I would have. I wanted to. But she… didn’t. She walked me to the stoop, and I wanted her to come up, but she said…” She trailed off, eyes wide. Then whispered, “She told me to be patient.”
Jules’s jaw dropped.
“She touched my face,” Harper said, like she still couldn’t believe it. “She just cupped my cheek and said goodnight— in three different languages, Jules.”
Jules covered her mouth. “Why couldn’t I have found her first?”
Harper snorted, “You’re married.”
Jules just shrugged.
Harper thunked her head softly against the couch. “I don’t even know what’s happening. I’m not into women.”
Jules sighed. “I think she could turn any woman.”
Harper laughed again, “Right?”
A beat. And then a return to panic. “I don’t know!” Harper flailed an arm. “I mean, I’ve never… I don’t even know what this is.”
Jules leaned in, suddenly gentler. “It’s a crush, babe. A capital-C, very-sexy, very-powerful-woman-who-knows-exactly-what-she’s-doing kind of crush.”
Harper blinked.
“And,” Jules added, “you’ve been smiling since I walked in. Even while you were flailing. So maybe just let it be a crush. And see what happens.”
Harper let that sink in. She wrapped both hands around her coffee, lips tugging into a stunned little smile. She was still smiling into her coffee when her phone buzzed against the cushion beside her.
She glanced down, expecting spam or a domain renewal alert, but her stomach dropped the moment she saw the name.
MIRA LAURENT – 1 New Message
Her breath caught.
Jules was now sprawled on the floor, flipping through Harper’s records and humming something vaguely like Fleetwood Mac. Harper angled the phone away and opened the message.
Mira: I woke up with the taste of your mouth still on my lips.
Did you dream about me?
Harper turned bright red.
“Bathroom,” Jules announced, stretching and walking off without looking.
The second she was gone, Harper melted back into the couch like a struck match. What was that message? What was her life right now? Who was this woman?
She stared at the screen, heart pounding, and lips parted. Then, with trembling fingers, she typed:
I’m barely awake and still in the underwear you ruined last night.
But yes. I dreamed of your hands. And your voice.
Jules keeps calling you my ‘Egyptian goddess.’
She hesitated. Then hit send. Eight full seconds passed. Her pulse skidded like a stone.
Then—
Mira: Good. I’d like to be your goddess. You were exquisite last night.
Harper let out a soft, inhuman noise and smothered herself with a pillow. She didn’t know whether to scream or combust.
Then — another buzz.
Mira: You make a very particular sound when you want me.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.
Harper’s entire spine turned to steam. She could’ve died right then. Just blissfully combusted. She pulled the blanket tighter around her, laughing breathlessly, heart thudding like a drum in her chest. She wanted to tell Jules everything— she could always tell Jules anything. That was the magic of her. The reason Harper was still standing.
They hadn’t started out close. Jules had joined Nudge six months in, when Harper was barely holding things together. She showed up, took over two departments by sheer force of will, and just… stayed. She made Harper’s world make sense again.
Harper owed her big time, and in every way that mattered. But this? This she wanted to keep for herself, for now. Something small, sacred, and hers alone. She tucked the phone under the blanket and curled deeper into the couch.
A minute later, Jules reappeared, shaking her hands a little after washing them, and checking her phone with a grimace. “Ugh. Crisis call. Someone’s locked out of the client database. I’ve gotta run in and reset it.”
“I’ll come,” Harper offered, already moving.
Jules waved her off. “Nope. It’s just a quick in and out. You stay, enjoy your Saturday, drink tea, and write poetry about your terrifyingly sexy maybe-girlfriend.”
“She’s not my— “
“Mmm-hmm.” Jules grabbed her bag and keys, pausing at the door. “Seriously, though,” she added, softer now, “you look happy. Don’t overthink it.”
Harper smiled. “I’ll try not to.”
=====
Mira’s current espresso was cooling beside her, untouched since the first sip.
She reclined in the velvet armchair near the window, dressed now, effortlessly composed. A soft cream silk blouse draped over her frame, slightly oversized, and her sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow. The top button was undone, revealing a glimpse of collarbone and layered necklaces, turquoise and gold, catching the morning light with quiet intention.
Her long legs were wrapped in high-waisted linen trousers, warm taupe in tone. Tailored but loose, and pleated. They moved like liquid structure when she crossed her ankles.
Her dark braid had been looped into a low knot, with a few strands deliberately freed to frame her face. And because she was home, she was barefoot. Her feet were beautiful — narrow and elegant, with a muted gloss on each neatly painted nail.
Her phone rested in her hand. The screen was dark. Still no reply. But she wasn’t worried. She was smiling. She tapped the edge of the device with a finger as she reread her own message:
You make a very particular sound when you want me.
A small, private thrill curled at the base of her spine. She imagined Harper reading it, and blushing, and swearing softly. Probably hiding under a pillow, or with her hands over her face. It was… fun. Mira hadn’t flirted like this in years.
Her gaze drifted to the folder Camille had brought in earlier. It still sat untouched on the table. She should’ve been working, but Camille had stepped out twenty minutes ago to retrieve a signed courier envelope. Mira didn’t care, though. She was texting a woman—a younger woman. And working barefoot, from home. She had never imagined she’d be the type. She’d really only ever dated men. She’d slept with them, and perhaps even loved one or two. And, she knew her effect on men. She knew the shape of their gaze and the way she could tilt the rooms they were in. Men were easy.
But this… Harper had undone something to her. And she was only twenty-six. Mira had seen her D.O.B in the Nudge Engine file. She let out a slow breath and tilted her head back against the chair. Nine years. Mira was nine years older than Harper. The scandal of it. She grinned to herself.
Did Harper even know? Mira doubted it. She hadn’t done the same research. Her voice still carried that open, wondering quality, raw and unguarded. She wasn’t calculating. Not yet.
And when she did learn of it—if she cared, if she faltered—Mira would show her. Gently, unmistakably, that it didn’t matter. That age dissolved under her hands. That hesitation had no place when she made her laugh, when Mira kissed her — when Mira chose her. Harper would understand. She’d know where she belonged.
Ding. Her eyes flicked down.
Harper: I’ve been trying to work and I can’t stop thinking about your hands on my thighs.
My best friend just left and I’m officially alone.
Say something else that’ll ruin me.
Mira’s lips parted and she shifted in the chair, suddenly aware of the pressure between her thighs. Her pulse slowed and deepened. She set the espresso down gently, picked up her phone, letting her thumbs hover above the keyboard, and smiled.
=====
The bar was narrow and low-lit, all warm amber tones and mismatched booths. Fairy lights looped over exposed brick, casting a soft glow that made even the chipped paint and scratched wood seem romantic.
Somewhere overhead, a truly terrible acoustic cover of Mr. Brightside bled out of the speakers, but Harper didn’t care; she was curled into a corner booth beside Jules and Max, one leg tucked beneath the other, a half-sipped mezcal margarita sweating against her palm. She was mid-story—something about a UX fail involving an accidental nipple emoji in a product notification—and she was laughing with her whole body, head tipped back, utterly committed to the moment.
Max chuckled, but Jules lost it— full snort, drink nearly coming out her nose.
“You did not push that live.”
“I did!” Harper grinned. “Thirty-six hours before anyone caught it. Compliance called me, crying with laughter. We had to draft an internal ‘no emojis in transactional comms’ policy.”
She wore a soft, bone-colored knit, wide neckline slipping off one shoulder to reveal the strap of a dark bra. Her hair was windswept, still a messy ponytail, and her cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the booth and the mezcal.
Max couldn’t stop looking at her.
Not in a creepy way. Just, quietly. Like he was watching a light he couldn’t step into. Her hands, the way she spoke with them, the curve of her smile and those full, glossy lips. The way she tilted her head and bored those blue eyes into yours when she was listening, her mind always racing ahead of yours.
He couldn’t remember ever not having a crush on her. Everyone who knew Harper for more than two minutes did. In his eyes, she was achingly beautiful, virtually perfect. A chaotic genius.
But now, she lit up at the merest mention of her name.
He wasn’t jealous—not exactly. But something inside him ached. She was brilliant and strange and unreachable, and she’d never belonged to anyone. Until, maybe now. And it was to another woman. He didn’t have anything against that. But Harper had always been straight, hadn’t she? At least she’d always dated men. He’d seen some of them—the few times they’d come to Nudge to pick her up. None of them had ever been good enough. He hoped this woman was.
⸻
Harper’s phone lit up beside her drink. She glanced down, half-listening to Jules’ story, and stilled.
Mira: Is this the bar on Eldridge?
She blinked. Sat up a little straighter, the glass in her hand suddenly too heavy. Her heart kicked in her chest. The message hovered, simple, precise. But something about it made her feel… seen, tracked.
A few moments earlier, she’d fired off a text without thinking, between sips and laughs:
Harper: Just grabbing a drink w/ Jules and Max. Eldridge. Music’s bad, drinks are decent. Miss you.
She hadn’t expected a reply. Let alone this. Fingers fumbling slightly, she typed: Yes?
The dots appeared immediately.
Mira: Stay where you are.
Harper stared at the screen. Her pulse surged—something reckless bloomed hot beneath her skin. It took her a second to realize what the message meant—Eldridge was a random place for their drinks, tonight. It wasn’t close for Harper. And, it wasn’t close for Mira, either. Not at this hour. So, this wasn’t a casual drop-in. This was Upper West to Lower East—a full-city crossing, through Manhattan’s nighttime hum.
It meant: I got your message. I’m coming to you. It meant: I can’t stay away.
Harper set her phone down slowly, lips parting. Jules paused mid-sentence, raising an eyebrow. Harper only shook her head, her ponytail swaying, eyes flicking to the door.
“She’s coming,” she whispered, too low for Jules or Max to hear.
But Jules noticed the shift instantly. “Everything okay?”
“She’s coming,” Harper said, louder, a little breathless.
“Mira?” Jules perked. “To this tragic scenario?”
Harper nodded, panic and glee warring in her face. “Oh God.”
Across the table, Max shifted. “Your girlfriend?”
Harper winced. “Not exactly. Just… someone who makes everything else feel like static.”
=====
Harper, Jules, and Max were still circling the nipple sensors story, when Jules cut Max off mid-sentence. “Don’t look,” she said to Harper, voice low, eyes flicking toward the bar. “But I think you’ve got a fan.”
Harper blinked. “What?”
“Tall, plaid shirt— looks like he’s memorizing your aura. Careful, that type cries during sex and journals about it.”
Harper risked a glance, as casually as she could manage. Yep, a fan.
Max sighed, swirling his drink. “Fun fact: statistically, bars are terrible places to meet long-term partners. But hey, maybe he’s here to defy the odds.”
The guy wasn’t terrible. Plaid shirt, frayed backpack slung over one shoulder, he looked more like he’d come from a co-op art space than a bar. He had that unmistakable startup-meets-soul-searching energy. The kind of man who used the phrase “emotional fluency” in casual conversation and meant it.
Jules raised a brow. “Need me to run defense?”
“I can handle a polite no,” Harper said, too breezily. Mira was on her way. She’d arrive any minute now — hopefully before Backpack Guy got bold.
No such luck. A moment later, he peeled away from the bar and approached their booth.
Max straightened slightly. Jules raised her glass. “Godspeed.”
“Hey,” the guy said, stopping just beside their booth.
Harper looked up. He was late thirties, wore a deliberate beard, and a vintage Patagonia vest over a button-down — the sleeves rolled with curated ease. He had the kind of energy that said he brewed his coffee with reverence and journaled in dot-grid Moleskines.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, smiling. “Are you… Harper Quinn?”
Harper blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”
“I knew it,” he said, lighting up. “I just listened to your Mind Soup episode on behavioral loops. The part about frictionless design being an ethical choice? That seriously wrecked me.”
Behind her, Jules raised an eyebrow — a literal fan. Max paused, mid-pretzel.
“Oh, thanks,” Harper said, cheeks warming. “That’s… very cool of you.”
He continued. “I was up till two journaling. I’m working on a mental health app with some friends, and you really got me thinking about whether we’re helping people or just feeding the slot machine.”
“Yeah,” Harper nodded, glancing at Jules. “That’s definitely a real tension.”
He smiled earnestly. “Anyway, I saw you and figured, maybe I could buy you a drink? Keep the conversation going? You just seem like someone who gets it, you know?”
It was sweet, respectful, and just the right amount of flirty. And, usually, Harper probably would’ve given the guy a chance. But, not this night. Perhaps not on any night ever again. Because Harper’s attention wasn’t up for grabs anymore. And any second now, that fact was going to become very, very obvious.
She could feel it—a static blooming beneath her skin, a quiet, impossible awareness that had begun and ended with Mira. A sense she could no longer ignore. The air seemed to lean, the pressure shifting the way it does before a summer storm breaks. Mira was close.
The door hadn’t opened. Her phone hadn’t stirred. There was nothing concrete to explain it. And yet Harper’s body answered all the same, precise and reverent—like a tuning fork struck by a presence it had already learned to recognise, and respond instantly to.
It should have unsettled her, that she trusted it so completely. That she didn’t question the pull or ask for proof. Instead, her shoulders eased. Her breath slowed. And, whatever part of her had learned this language leaned into it without hesitation, as though Mira’s nearness was not a warning, but a kind of shelter.
That was the danger of it, Harper realised—not the wanting, not even the certainty—but how good it felt to stop resisting. To accept the quiet truth it carried: she’s here, and everything in Harper was already arranging itself around that fact.
And then the door opened. It wasn’t dramatic in the slightest. But it changed the room.
Mira stepped inside like the bar had been waiting for her. She moved through it like a declaration. Her coat hung open, revealing black silk that shimmered with every movement. Strands of hair had come loose from her braid, framing her face. Her heels made no sound on the floorboards. And the fairy lights overhead lit her like a painting.
Max saw her first and sat up straighter. Jules followed his gaze with a breathy, “Oh wow.”
Harper turned, and forgot how to breathe.
Mira’s eyes were already on her — and on him, poor guy.
She crossed the room without hesitation, and, when she reached them, she glanced, just once, at Plaid Shirt Guy. Then turned to Harper. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said softly.
Plaid Shirt Guy backed up a step. “Oh? Hi, I didn’t—”
“She’s extraordinary, isn’t she?” Her gaze didn’t leave Harper as she spoke. “She’s with me.”
Her eyes flicked to him at last. “I don’t share—and I don’t repeat myself.”
Plaid Shirt Guy blinked, caught between confusion and retreat.
Jules raised her glass with a low whistle. “Oof.”
“Okay, um, okay,” he stammered. “No problem. Sorry to bother you.” He vanished into the crowd before anyone could add more.
Harper let out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding, the tension slipping into a kind of giddy heat. She turned to Mira, still flustered, still glowing. “Hey, Bright Eyes.”
The words slipped out softly, almost reverent. She didn’t realise she’d spoken until Mira’s brows lifted, not in confusion, but with a flicker of intrigue. “Bright Eyes?” Mira’s voice draped over the nickname like silk.
Harper blinked, then gave a small, self-conscious shrug, heat rising in her cheeks. “Well, yeah. I mean, look at them. I’m pretty sure you could get me to sign over my loft with one glance.”
She hesitated, then added with a crooked grin, “In my head I was actually calling you ‘Glowbug,’ but it probably worked out for the best. I think my survival chances are better with Bright Eyes.”
Mira’s lips curved, slow, deliberate, as she stepped closer. Close enough for Harper to catch the faintest trace of cardamom and jasmine, the scent winding its way through her already-addled thoughts.
“Careful, mon trésor,” she murmured, voice low and smooth. “Pet names like that only tell me how deeply you’re mine already.”
Heat flared in Harper’s cheeks, but her grin only deepened. “You say that like I ever stood a chance.” The words slipped out softer than she meant — almost a confession.
Mira’s eyes, those impossible green eyes laced with gold, softened, and Harper felt that delicious, certain kind of trouble curling between them.
Then, as if the rest of the room eased back into focus, Mira’s gaze drifted outward, taking in Max and Jules, both caught mid-stare, and wide-eyed at the scene they’d just witnessed.
A faint, knowing curve touched her lips before her attention returned to Harper, steady and sure. “You mentioned this place,” she said. “I wanted to see you.”
Without thinking, Harper reached for Mira’s hand. Their fingers threaded easily, naturally, like they’d been doing it for years.
“Come here,” Harper murmured, tugging her gently into the booth.
Okay, maybe more than gently. But sue her. Mira had crossed the city, walked into a dingy Monday night bar, and claimed her in front of everyone, all the while looking like she’d stepped out of a film noir fantasy. Harper wasn’t letting go. They sat thigh to thigh. Max politely scooted over. Jules just watched it all, bemused.
Harper caught her breath. “I wasn’t interested at all in him,” she said quickly to Mira. “I was just nodding. Because of social scripts and… eyebrows. And I had just finished a nipple story, so honestly, I wasn’t even making eye contact.”
Mira’s brow quirked, curious—nipple story? She said nothing. Instead, she lifted Harper’s hand, brought it to her lips, and kissed her knuckles with quiet reverence. “I know,” she said softly. “But thank you for telling me, anyway.”
Harper flushed from sternum to scalp. Behind them, Jules groaned. “Can someone pass me a barf bag?”
Mira glanced over, amused. “It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Marin.”
“Please, just Jules,” she replied. “And this is Max.” Jules indicated Max beside her. “He works with us and tries to keep up.”
Max shrugged. “What’s your poison tonight?” He asked.
“Whatever you recommend.”
He nodded and slid out, hesitating briefly to glance back at Harper and Mira, before heading to the bar.
From her seat, Harper stared. Mira had come here. She’d walked through a bar like it belonged to her, for her. “You keep showing up in places that don’t deserve you,” Harper whispered.
“I came for you,” Mira whispered back. “I don’t care about the rest.”
Harper’s heart turned over. “Well, hmm — carry on, then.”
Mira watched her for a moment, something soft and amused passing through her eyes. Then she moved slowly, almost indulgently, as if humoring the idea that she might lessen her effect. She reached up and unpinned her hair. It fell around her shoulders in loose, familiar waves. She undid two buttons of her blouse, unhurried, at ease.
“Better?” she asked, her mouth hinting at a smile, fully aware of exactly what it was doing to Harper.
Jules coughed, and Harper swallowed, loudly. “Worse. I’m going to spend the rest of the night trying not to crawl under the table.”
Jules snorted. “You’re a menace.” Harper made a face at her.
Max returned with a drink for Mira, quiet and observant. He slid back into the booth, glancing once at Jules, who raised her brows knowingly.
At one point, Harper leaned in to whisper something only Mira could hear. Mira laughed, not politely, but freely, her face lit from within. Max watched them, silent.
“Well, they’re definitely eye-fucking. I love love. But I also love sleep. And staying married. Let’s go, Romeo.” She nudged Max on the shoulder.
Harper groaned. “Thanks, Jules. Way to play it cool.”
Jules just grinned, clearly unbothered.
Mira’s laugh was low, indulgent. She tilted her head toward Harper, her gaze sweeping over her in a way that felt like a touch. “Should I just tell them exactly what I’m going to do to you later? Her mouth curved, “And how many times?”
Harper’s eyebrows jumped. She slapped her drink down and pointed. “Ma’am, people are eating onion rings.” A beat. “But also yes. Please say more.”
Jules giggled. Max raised both hands. “I feel like I need a safe word.”
“You’re not wrong,” Jules said. Then to Mira, “We’ll probably be seeing more of each other.”
Mira inclined her head. “I’d like that.”
⸻
Silence settled as they watched their friends leave. Outside, the city hummed. Inside, the world narrowed to a booth made of shared breath and linked hands.
“I’m sorry for crashing your night,” Mira said, stroking her thumb across Harper’s knuckles.
Harper shook her head. “I love that you did.”
“I want to hold more than your hand,” Mira said.
Harper blinked. “I want you to pull me into your lap and kiss me.”
Mira smiled, the rare kind, slow and soft. “I’d quite enjoy that.”
Harper beamed, dizzy.
“I’d like to take you out again. Friday?” Mira asked.
“I have a speaking thing,” Harper said, now depressed. “Tech forum, jargon, and stage lights.”
“Then Saturday is mine.”
“Yours.” Harper’s mood did a backflip.
They sat in the quiet as Mira traced circles across Harper’s skin.
“I don’t know what this is,” Harper whispered. “But I know how I feel when you leave a room. And I’ve never felt that before.”
Mira’s eyes found hers. “And what do you feel?”
“Like I already miss you.”
Mira cupped her cheek. And kissed her—slow, and deep, like nothing else mattered. When they parted, Harper’s voice was a breath: “You really do have a thing for entrances.”
Mira brushed her hair back. “Only when you’re the one I’m walking toward.”
⸻
They didn’t leave immediately. They lingered, Mira’s knee against Harper’s, fingers curled, the whole city forgotten.
Eventually Mira leaned in. “Walk me out?”
Harper nodded.
Outside, the night was soft. Damp air, warm pavement, and streetlamps caught puddles in molten light. Allen stood beside the car, reading his phone. He looked up and nodded.
“Miss Laurent.” Then, to Harper: “Miss Quinn.”
“Hi Allen, nice to meet you properly. Sorry if Friday night got graphic,” Harper said sheepishly. “I don’t usually turn the back seat into a makeout altar. But… Mira exists.”
He smiled faintly. “Discretion is part of the job. And if you’re going to fall apart over someone, Miss Laurent seems the right cause.”
Mira turned. “I wasn’t planning this. But when you said Eldridge, I was already halfway to you.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“Can I take you home?”
Harper’s heart clenched. She would much prefer that, but she had another thing. “Sorry, I have a thing…but Saturday is yours.”
Then Harper rose on her toes and kissed her again, fast, honest, full of need. When she pulled back, she whispered, “And it can’t come fast enough.”
Mira stroked her cheek. “Do me a favor?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“Wear a short dress for me. I want to enjoy your legs again.”
Harper let out a helpless noise. “Yes, Mira.”
Mira hummed her approval to Harper’s response and then stepped into the car. Allen closed the door, and soon the taillights faded.
Harper stood there, dazed, laughing to herself, and glowing. She whispered aloud to herself, “Saturday is hers.”
=====
CHAPTER 8 – THE SECOND DATE
The street was quiet in that particular New York way, a hum beneath stillness. Sunlight slanted through fire escapes and caught in the petals of a nearby florist’s display. A delivery van double-parked, a pigeon strutted with confidence, and somewhere above, a window fan buzzed softly through an open frame.
Harper checked her reflection in the glass of the front door stoop. She did it more than once.
Her sundress was cream cotton, scattered with tiny embroidered blooms and hemmed just above mid-thigh — exactly as Mira had asked. Her brown ankle boots gave it edge; her cropped jacket gave her courage. Her hair was down, a little too soft from the way she’d nervously restyled it three times.
Then the car arrived. It simply appeared, sleek and silent, gliding to a stop in front of her building with the composure of something expensive and unbothered. The deep finish shimmered under the late-morning sun, reflecting a soft haze of clouds and city sky. The tinted windows gleamed.
As Harper stepped toward it, the rear door opened smoothly from the inside. She took a breath, crossed the sidewalk, and climbed in.
The door sealed behind her with a whisper, and inside, was a cathedral of quiet luxury: soft Valcona leather in graphite grey, the stitching exact, rear ambient lighting dialed down despite the daylight outside. The door panels shimmered with dark wood inlays and brushed aluminum. Everything smelled faintly of Mira—oud, citrus, a trace of something floral but restrained. The seats cradled her, cool at first, then adjusting with just the right amount of give.
“Good morning, Miss Quinn,” came a voice from the front.
“Good morning, Allen. Thanks for picking me up.”
He dipped his head. “I not only have the honor of driving Miss Laurent. Occasionally, I have the opportunity to ensure a date goes exactly as planned.”
Harper grinned instantly. “I love you.”
“Everyone does,” Mira said, her voice low from the seat beside her.
She sat just to the left, relaxed, composed, and already watching her.
The sleeveless black silk blouse skimmed her frame, effortless and elegant, revealing once again the delicate stars inked along her inner forearm, a soft, precise constellation Harper had noticed on their first date. She still hadn’t asked what it meant. She wanted to, but part of her liked the not-knowing, the quiet mystery of it.
The blouse was tucked into a long, flowing skirt that caught stray sunbeams as it shifted. Her braid was loose again, draped over one shoulder, a few strands escaping in the breeze. A single ring shimmered on her finger. Her usual layered necklaces, turquoise and gold, glimpsed just under the collar. She wore barely any makeup, and her legs were crossed, with one hand resting lightly in her lap.
The other reached for her, slow and unhurried, tucking a loose strand of Harper’s hair behind her ear. “You wore what I asked,” Mira said softly, her gaze dipping to the hem of Harper’s dress, to the line of her beautiful, bare legs.
Harper’s breath caught, a quiet sound she didn’t quite manage to stop. Her nod came first, instinctive. “Mhm,” she murmured. Then, softer, almost to herself, “You know I like doing what you tell me.”
Mira’s mouth curved, and Allen adjusted the climate controls. “We’ll be on the bridge in seven minutes, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Allen,” Mira replied.
He nodded and turned the music on. Something soft filtered through the speakers, minimal piano, spare vocals, a female voice folding into daylight.
Mira reached for Harper’s hand and placed it gently on her thigh, just above the knee. And they pulled away from the curb.
⸻
The car moved like thought, smooth, precise, and utterly silent, slicing through the city and out toward the coast. Bridges blurred past in soft flashes of steel and sky. Water shimmered in the gaps between buildings, a bright, fractured mirror beneath the sun. The skyline fell away behind them, the light sharpening as it lifted toward midday.
Inside the car, the hush was profound. The seatbacks eased back a fraction, inviting softness. Everything: the lighting, the temperature, the weight of silence, it all felt tuned not just for ease, but for control.
Mira sat angled toward Harper, one arm resting along the dark leather edge of the seat, the other had moved to drape with casual, devastating precision across Harper’s bare thigh.
Her touch wasn’t heavy, just present. Her fingertips moved slowly and deliberately, as though reading her like braille. Every few seconds, they moved, tracing quiet arcs, and brushing lightly inward enough to scatter Harper’s thoughts like birds startled from a wire. She shifted slightly, thighs tightening, breath catching so faintly it barely disturbed the air.
Harper exhaled a sigh. Then, “Have I told you,” Harper murmured, voice low, “about the time I got lost in Cádiz trying to find a restaurant that didn’t exist?”
Mira turned her head, amused. “You haven’t.”
“There was a chalk arrow pointing into an alley. So I followed it. Then another. Then a cat showed up, gave me full eye contact, and led me across four streets.”
Mira laughed, the kind that warmed from deep in her chest.
“You followed the cat?”
“Of course, I followed the cat.”
“And did you find the restaurant?”
“No. I found an old woman who gave me cheese in exchange for translating her gas bill.”
Mira laughed again, shaking her head slightly, her braid shifting.
“I should never let you travel alone.”
“You shouldn’t,” Harper agreed, eyes flicking to Mira’s full lips.
Outside, the coastline unspooled in slow turns. The music had changed to something with strings now, layered beneath the hush of breathy harmonies.
Harper watched Mira’s profile as she gazed out the window. The long, elegant slope of her neck. The poised stillness of her wrist where it rested on the seat’s edge. The light skimmed over the silk of her blouse, casting faint shadows where the fabric dipped.
“What about you?” Harper asked softly. “If this weren’t your world, what would you do?”
Mira didn’t answer right away. Her gaze stayed forward, then dropped slightly, as if watching the question settle inside her.
“I’d run a bookshop,” she said at last. “In Cairo, on a quiet street. One of those old ones with narrow shelves, forgotten maps, and an old man in the back who only drinks tea with cardamom.”
Harper said nothing for a moment. She just looked at her. The impossible clarity of her. The way she could command a room, a board, a moment, and still speak of old bookstores with dust in her voice.
The car turned gently. Mira’s fingers played on Harper’s thigh, soft, rhythmic, claiming without urgency. “What?” she asked, eyes flicking over.
Harper gave a soft shrug. “I just like listening to you.”
Mira’s expression changed, deepened, somehow. Like she’d filed that sentence away for later.
Desire licked up Harper’s spine like a whispered secret. She fought the impulse to cross her legs. Instead, she leaned back, just slightly, letting the seat cradle her, letting Mira’s fingers wander where they’d like. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak.
⸻
The road narrowed, then opened into light. Fort Tilden unfurled before them in long, low dunes and soft wind. The ocean shimmered at the edge of everything, dark and endless—a deep-blue hush beyond the sand.
Allen slowed the car to a gentle stop at the edge of a mostly empty access road, where beach grass waved in the breeze. The city was far behind them now. There were no boardwalks, no kiosks, just the wind and the wild water.
“Shall I wait here, ma’am?” he asked, polite as ever.
“Yes, please,” Mira said softly, already unbuckling her seatbelt, and stepped out of the car.
Harper followed, and the wind met them immediately, warm, salt-laced and almost curious. It tangled through Harper’s hair and toyed with the hem of her dress. She tugged off her boots and socks quickly, fumbling a little, and her legs, bare to mid-thigh, were already tingling with the sudden openness of it all.
Mira had removed her sandals the moment her feet touched the ground. Now she stood barefoot on the sandy gravel, poised as always: her silk blouse rippling against her skin, her skirt brushing her calves, and her braid caught in the breeze. She looked like the embodiment of a poem Harper didn’t know how to write.
They walked down toward the dunes in silence, shoes in hand, their shoulders brushing. The sand gave beneath their steps— soft, cool, and flecked with shells as fine as flour. It clung to Mira’s insteps and to Harper’s ankles. The sun hung high still, just starting to descend, and the air felt golden and glowing, thick with a heat that wasn’t entirely from the weather.
Halfway to the shoreline, Mira stopped walking, and Harper turned gently toward her. The sun kissed her cheeks and lit her hair like fire, and her breath caught as Mira stepped close.
For Mira, the moment slowed. Harper was radiant in a way she couldn’t define: soft and open, freckled and flustered, filled with a kind of goodness that made Mira’s chest ache. She didn’t know what it was about her: the unruly tenderness, or the sharp intelligence hidden under all that chaos, but it undid her in a way nothing else ever had.
She reached up slowly and tucked a loose strand of Harper’s hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering as they traced the delicate curve of it, then drifting down to the line of her jaw. The skin there was warm and soft, trembling faintly beneath her touch.
Harper stepped into her, drawn by it, and the kiss began like gravity—as though they had both been leaning toward it all day. A pause. A shared breath. And then contact.
Mira’s lips were soft and wanting. Harper inhaled sharply against her mouth, then exhaled into the kiss, tilting her face, parting her lips. The world seemed to tilt with her. Her body hummed, every nerve aligning, entirely responsive to the slightest shift of Mira’s mouth.
Mira’s hand slid into Harper’s hair, cradling her head and angling her closer, and Harper’s arms wrapped around Mira’s waist instinctively, tugging her in with more strength than she’d meant to. Mira answered with a quiet, approving sound low in her throat and deepened the kiss, slow and molten and utterly unhurried.
Harper melted into her, pressing flush against Mira’s body. Heat sparked as her breasts brushed the silk of Mira’s blouse; her thighs clenched, her knees threatening to give way.
Mira felt the pull of want begin low in her belly and draw downward, unmistakable and insistent. Her fingers tightened in Harper’s hair as she kissed her deeper, hungrier, until her own breathing faltered.
When they finally broke apart, their lips parted with a soft, reluctant pull. Harper’s eyes were wide, her chest rising and falling in a quick, fluttered rhythm. Her lips were flushed and glistening, and already faintly swollen.
Mira smiled, soft and dangerous, and Harper let out a dazed little laugh. “Okay, yep. That was a thing.”
“It was,” Mira agreed.
And then, with no hesitation or warning, Mira kissed her again. Slower this time, and even more deliberate. The kind of kiss that pulled everything low and hot in the body. Harper moaned into her mouth, her hands gripping Mira’s waist tighter. She pressed their hips together without thinking, and Mira gasped softly.
Their bodies were flush together now, heat blooming under silk and cotton. Mira’s thigh pressed between Harper’s just slightly, enough to make her sway. Enough to make her pulse in places that had nothing to do with conversation.
When they broke again, Harper was panting, and Mira’s pupils were dark and wide.
Harper leaned back into Mira’s mouth, “What does that smile mean?” She whispered against her lips.
Mira’s tongue came out slowly, tasting the corner of Harper’s mouth. Her words followed on a breath, roughened and intimate, spoken in French: “Putain de merde…”
Harper blinked, lips wet. “That sounded intense. I think I understood that.”
Mira arched a brow. “Good.”
Then, still dizzy and undone, Mira stepped back a little. “Wait here.”
Harper blinked again. “What? Why?”
“Just… trust me. Listen to the waves.”
Before Harper could object, Mira turned, skirts swaying, and bare feet whispering against the sand, and disappeared over the dunes.
Harper obeyed and stayed where she was, and tried to clear her head. She stood, legs shaky, mouth tingling, and heart still in her throat. She pressed a hand to her chest and laughed, dazed, overwhelmed, and desperate for more.
Then she heard the sound of footsteps. Mira returned, radiant and arms full: a thick, woven blanket, a brass-handled lantern glowing golden, and a canvas basket with leather buckles. She looked like something from another world.
“You brought a picnic?” Harper asked, eyes wide.
“I said I wanted to take you out,” Mira replied, unfolding the blanket. “I didn’t say where.”
Harper dropped onto it, still breathless.
From the basket, Mira brought out chilled flutes and French sparkling rosé. There were wrapped parcels of cheese and meats, fig jam, chocolate truffles, sliced pear, and a perfect golden baguette.
Harper stared. “This is obscene.”
Mira handed her a glass. “To us.”
Harper tipped her head. “Us?”
Mira met her eyes. “It’s beginning to feel like it. Non?”
Harper clinked her glass. “To beginnings, then.”
The wind blew gently around them, and the waves broke again and again. And the day, somehow, still wasn’t done with them.
⸻
Later, they wandered slowly along the tide line, skirts lifting in the sea breeze. Mira held Harper’s hand, and the sun glowed low over the dunes, casting long golden shadows across the sand. Gulls circled lazily overhead, and the water kissed their ankles.
“I love the water,” Harper said dreamily as she looked out over the ocean.
“I remember.”
Harper talked more when she walked—something Mira had begun to notice. Her words came easier then, spilling out in soft, animated bursts. And Harper noticed, too, the way Mira smiled as she listened, how often it happened now, and felt a private thrill each time.
After a while, they turned back toward the dunes, hands tangled as though they’d learned the shape of each other there. Harper’s lips brushed Mira’s shoulder now and then, or the back of her hand—small, gentle touches that felt less like decisions and more like reassurance. The air between them held a tender certainty, full of things left unspoken not because they were unsure, but because they already understood.
When they crested the sandy rise again, Harper stopped short.
The picnic blanket was laid fresh, refolded. The lantern now hung from a simple iron spike, swaying gently in the breeze. And beside it, set out carefully, was a second round of food.
Fresh plates, a new chilled bottle of rosé. And a few still-steaming parcels wrapped in linen cloth.
Harper blinked. “Did…?”
“Allen,” Mira said simply. “He’s a good man.”
“He’s a magician.”
“He is,” Mira giggled, brushing sand from the blanket before sitting with deliberate grace. “And I’m lucky to have him.”
They ate slowly this time: roasted vegetables with saffron and lemon, warm bread, olives soaked in garlic and orange peel, a fig tart wrapped in brown paper. The sun dipped lower, the wind softened, and Harper took a sip of wine, let it settle, then glanced sideways.
“So…” she said lightly. “Back at the bar. When you said that thing, you know, ‘She’s with me, and I don’t share.'”
Mira arched a brow, amused. “Yes?”
Harper bit her lip, cheeks turning pink. “I really liked it.”
Mira’s eyes darkened slightly. “I know.”
“No,” Harper laughed. “I mean— I liked it, liked it. I think it did something to my brain.”
Mira studied her quietly, and Harper looked at her, her blush deepening. Then her voice dropped, soft and vulnerable.
“I’ve spent most of my life being the quirky one. The charming disaster. Plenty of guys want to flirt with me. They don’t usually choose me. Not all the way.”
Mira reached over, slowly, and took Harper’s hand. Then she lifted it, turned it, and pressed a kiss to the center of her palm. “Ma tendre,” she murmured.
The wine softened everything, and all that remained was the warmth of the lantern between them and the slow unraveling that happens only when the body is fed, the stars are visible, and the person across from you has seen through your mask and hasn’t looked away.
Harper leaned back on her hands, one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched out. Her dress had shifted higher as she moved, but she didn’t bother adjusting it. Mira’s gaze had drifted to her thighs more than once that evening, and Harper, flustered and flattered, wasn’t about to interrupt the view.
Harper took a slow sip from her glass and, changing the subject, said quietly, “I don’t usually do this.”
Mira tilted her head. “Picnics with international consultants?”
Harper smiled. “This. Open up like this. Feel like this. It’s weird.”
“What does it feel like?”
Harper thought. “Like I’m wearing my skin inside out,” she said finally. “Like I should be nervous, but I’m not. Just exposed to you. And I’m kind of okay with it.”
Mira nodded slowly, her hand resting beside Harper’s on the blanket, close, but not touching. “I understand.”
Harper turned to look at her.
“I don’t allow myself many entanglements.” Mira’s voice was low, a little distant. “It’s easier to stay untroubled. To keep desire managed. Useful.”
“Useful?”
“I learned early it’s a currency,” Mira said. “And it’s dangerous to spend it on anyone who doesn’t understand the value.”
Harper studied her. “So what changed?”
Mira finally met her eyes. “You did.”
A long pause, and Harper’s heart kicked against her ribs.
Mira went on, more softly now. “You weren’t trying to impress anyone. Not even me. You were just brilliant. Unfiltered and honest.”
Harper laughed nervously. “Also awkward.”
“Deeply.” Mira smiled. “But gloriously.”
The waves surged in the background, and Harper took a breath.
“I think I’ve always been like this. People used to call it cute. Until I got good at my job, then it became surprising.”
Mira leaned in slightly. “That you can lead?”
“That I can win.” Harper tilted her head. “There’s this expectation that brilliance has to come in a cold package. And I don’t want to be cold.”
“You’re not,” Mira said. “You’re radiant.”
Harper’s throat tightened, and she looked down. Mira shifted, then gently placed her hand atop Harper’s. Harper turned her palm upward and curled her fingers around Mira’s.
At one point, Harper’s gaze dipped, not to break the connection, but to trace the way Mira’s top had shifted, revealing the fine lines of the layered brushed gold and turquoise necklace she’d seen so many times before. The sheen of it softened by age.
Mira’s voice was barely above a whisper. “My mother used to tell me that vulnerability is the softest form of strength. That to let someone see you, truly, is to wield more power than most people can bear.”
“She sounds wise,” Harper murmured.
“She was.”
Harper’s eyes flicked again to the necklace. “Is that hers?”
Mira touched it lightly, as if confirming it was still there. “Yes. She wore it almost every day. I think it has more sand from Cairo in its clasps than gold dust.”
Harper smiled softly. “It suits you.”
Mira’s lips curved, but her eyes stayed somewhere far off.
“What happened to her?” Harper asked gently.
Mira didn’t answer right away. She just looked at the sea, her hand still resting against the beads at her collarbone. “She passed when I was nineteen. Cancer. It was fast.”
Harper squeezed her hand, feeling the subtle tremor in her fingers. “I’m so sorry.”
Mira nodded, once. “She was the first person who saw me. Not just for what I could do, but for who I was when I was still.”
The surf rolled in and out, a steady breath between them. Harper felt the ache of wanting to close that distance entirely, not just physically, but into whatever quiet part of Mira’s life she kept locked away from most people.
“I think I want to be that for you,” Harper said, her voice low. “If you let me.”
Mira turned to her then. Something in her gaze softened, no longer just intrigued, but undone, as if Harper had leaned past a line neither of them had named.
“I think I might,” she said at last. Mira turned her head again, studying Harper in that way she had. “And you?”
Harper let out a soft huff of air. “My dad’s upstate. Big guy, works with his hands. Carpentry, furniture restoration, that kind of thing. He can fix anything, except maybe his own coffee machine.” She smiled faintly.
“Ellie’s my younger sister. Smarter than me. Works at a botanical garden while she finishes her degree in environmental science.”
Mira’s mouth curved, just slightly. “You speak of them warmly.”
“Yeah,” Harper said, nudging a piece of driftwood with her foot. “They’re good people.” She glanced at Mira. “I think they’d like you.”
Mira smiled softly.
=====
The road unfurled beneath them in darkness – a quiet ribbon of highway lit by low-slung moonlight and the muted sweep of headlights. Mist pooled at the edges of the pavement, and trees passed like shadows in a dream. The coast was behind them now, but its hush remained — clinging to their skin, their clothes, and their breath.
In the back seat, the cabin was cocooned in warmth. One window cracked slightly to let in the scent of salt air and distant sea grass.
Harper sat turned slightly toward Mira, her bare legs drawn up, angled toward the woman beside her. The hem of her dress had gathered high on her thighs, and one of Mira’s hands rested there as if it belonged. Harper wondered if this would be a regular home for Mira’s hands when they were together — on her thighs, claiming her. Harper breathed, slow and sure, and let herself be touched. Her gaze drifted out the window, eyes fluttering closed every few seconds. But then she’d blink and glance at Mira again, as if needing to be sure she was still there.
Finally, soft in the hush, a private murmur just between them, Mira asked, “Am I the first woman you’ve dated?”
Harper’s eyes opened, and she turned her head, lips parting slightly. “Yes.”
A long beat. Then, more tentative: “Am I yours?”
Mira didn’t look away from the window. Her fingers only shifted slightly against Harper’s thigh.
“Yes,” she said.
The word landed like an anchor. Or a spark. It was impossible to tell which. Silence wrapped around them again — but it was fuller now. Charged at the edges. Something named, something mutual.
After a moment, Mira spoke again. “Does it feel strange to you?”
Harper looked down at Mira’s hand stroking her thigh and smiled. Her voice was thoughtful, “I thought it would. I keep waiting for it to. Like I’ll wake up and wonder what the hell I’m doing.”
She exhaled. “But that’s not happening. And I look at you, and it just doesn’t feel strange. You keep pulling me in. And I keep feeling like I’m arriving.”
Mira turned toward her at last, just enough to meet her eyes.
There was no smile. Just something still, a glint of warmth beneath all that power.
The car curved gently, and Allen, silent in the front, drove on — eyes fixed on the road, as unobtrusive as ever. But Harper felt suddenly aware of him again — aware that he’d seen them and known things without being told. And, somehow, she didn’t mind.
Then Mira’s voice, softer now, “Will you stay with me tonight?”
The question hung suspended, its weight and gentleness both impossible to ignore. Harper turned toward her, flushed and blinking, a dozen thoughts swirling behind her eyes.
And then she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered, “I’d really like that.”
And Mira’s touch wandered, grazing the inner edge of her thigh like a tide lapping forward—and the city lights appeared before them, shimmering on the horizon.
