CHAPTER 9: MIRA’S APARTMENT
Mira’s apartment glowed low and deliberate. Sconces spilled amber light across the walls, while concealed lamps near the wide window cast a soft, wavering warmth that made the shadows move like breath. The air was scented with jasmine and sandalwood, and anchored by something rich and floral Harper couldn’t name.
In one corner, the curve of a grand piano caught the light, its lacquered surface reflecting the quiet light. An open sheet of music rested on the stand, as if Mira had stepped away only moments before.
Harper slowed as her gaze caught on the instrument. For a moment, she could see it—Mira seated at the keys in this same low light, fingers gliding over them with the same unhurried poise and precision she carried into everything else. She imagined the room filled with music: rich, elegant, and spilling from Mira’s hands as naturally as breath. Something about that image, and the intimacy of it, settled deep in Harper’s chest.
And then she heard it. Soft piano was already playing from somewhere in the room, a slow, aching étude. It made the air feel warmer. Harper stood at the entryway, drinking in the space. It was sensual and feminine without trying.
Mira moved across the wood floors, graceful and fluid, slipping out of her shoes and setting down her keys. She unclasped the top of her wrap, and the room shifted around her presence as all rooms did.
Harper could only stare.
Mira looked at her then, over one shoulder, eyes dark and glinting, and she held out her hand.
Harper crossed the room on bare feet, dress fluttering lightly around her thighs, and took it. Mira’s palm was cool against hers, and she tugged her gently toward the couch. They sank into it together, their knees brushing, and the room curled around them.
Mira leaned in, kissing her slow and gentle—barely a kiss at all, just lips touching.
Harper tilted her chin and pressed in, and the kiss deepened. Tongue met tongue in slow, unhurried strokes with soft hums, their mouths desperately, but patiently learning each other as if time had widened to make room for them. Mira’s hand slid up Harper’s arm to her shoulder, then settled lightly at her throat, her thumb resting at the pulse point, feeling every beat, and then exhaled into her mouth, a sound low and intimate—and Harper whimpered, breathing in her exhale.
“Come here,” Mira whispered.
Harper moved on instinct, straddling Mira’s lap, her dress riding high as her thighs bracketed Mira’s. Her breath caught as their bodies met like this for the first time—aligned and unmistakably aware of one another.
Mira’s hands were reverent and assured. One found Harper’s hip, the other brushed the zipper on Harper’s dress. But, then it paused. Mira looked up at her, lips wet, and eyes gleaming.
Thinking she sought permission to continue, Harper nodded earnestly. But Mira didn’t move. She held Harper’s gaze, then gently cupped her face, like something precious. Something she wasn’t willing to rush.
“Not tonight,” Mira said softly.
Harper blinked. “Why?”
Her voice wasn’t hurt. Just stunned.
Mira searched her face for a long moment. Then said quietly, “Because I want to remember the way you looked on this day. In this dress and in my arms, before we cross that line.”
Harper swallowed. Something in her curled forward, wanting to be wanted, but also wanting to be chosen, not delayed.
“You’re not a line to cross,” she whispered.
Mira’s throat worked. “I know. That’s why I want to wait. Just one more night. I want our first time to feel like a real choice—not a current we got swept into.”
Harper didn’t answer right away. She watched Mira’s face as she spoke, saw the care there, and her restraint, and she felt something in her shift, her hunger settling into trust.
She pressed closer without thinking, letting Mira feel the decision in her before she spoke it. Her forehead rested against Mira’s, her hands coming up to curl loosely at the back of her neck. Her eyes burned, not with disappointment, but with the wild, grateful ache of being guided so carefully.
“Okay, Mira,” she said, soft and certain—already yielding to the shape of Mira’s leading.
And, Mira smiled.
=====
They moved toward Mira’s bedroom. Harper followed her in—only to stop as soon as she entered.
It wasn’t the size of the room that struck her first, though it was large enough to feel like its own apartment, it was the change in atmosphere. The living room had been elegant, deliberate—the kind of space meant to be seen. This was different. Softer. Drawn inward. Mira’s own holy of holies.
The walls were a soft, matte ivory. On one side, seamless sliding doors stood partly open, offering a glimpse of the private ensuite beyond, all pale limestone and brushed brass.
Her gaze moved to the bed and stopped. It looked almost out of place in such a sleek, modern space — rooted, as though it belonged somewhere older than New York, older than the high-rise that held it. It was a low, wide platform of dark carved wood, and its headboard was etched with faint geometric patterns that looked Egyptian. The bedding was layered in natural linen and fine cotton, all in a restrained palette of cream, sand, and deep gold. Weighty embroidered pillows gathered near the headboard, and a single quilted throw in rich indigo was folded neatly at the foot.
Beneath it all, spilling well beyond the edges, lay a large Persian rug, old enough to feel storied. Its deep terracotta and indigo softened to duskier shades by time. The intricate medallion at its center peeked out from under the bed, patterns curling like vines.
Something in Harper’s chest tightened. The air felt thicker here, linen and jasmine, and underneath all of it, the distinct, quiet scent of Mira, herself.
Her eyes traced the rest of the room: blackwood tables flanking the bed, each with a warm amber lamp; a tall armoire of smooth cedar inlaid with a subtle lotus motif, its bronze handles catching the light. In the far corner, a low cream chaise sat beneath a narrow display shelf, where small but potent details spoke of Cairo and her mother’s heritage— a weathered alabaster jar, a framed papyrus fragment, a delicate gold-and-turquoise scarab no bigger than a thumb.
Then there were the windows, they were floor-to-ceiling with linen sheers stirring with the night breeze. Beyond them, the dark cut of the skyline, city lights blinking through the fabric as if they knew a secret.
It was a room built for stillness, for slow movement. Private and protective. It was the kind of space where time would stretch until it was only her and Mira, and their love.
When Harper’s gaze drifted back to the bed, Mira was standing beside it, watching her with a steady calm. It struck Harper all at once —she wasn’t just being shown the room. She was being invited into it.
Mira stepped toward her and pressed a soft shirt into Harper’s hands. “Put this on,” she said quietly, already turning away.
Harper didn’t question it. She slipped into the soft button-up, oversized and warm, the fabric carrying the faint, intimate ghost of Mira’s perfume. The shirt fell gently over her shoulders and thighs.
When Harper looked up again, Mira had drawn a camisole over her head, smoothing it down with unhurried ease. Deep blue silk briefs caught the light — high-cut and unmistakably chosen.
Mira didn’t look back to see her effect. She never did. She turned toward her bed and climbed in with the quiet certainty of someone who had arranged everything exactly as she intended.
Harper followed a moment later.
Up close, the bed felt immense—it didn’t look decorative. It looked kept. As though it had been chosen once and never replaced. Harper imagined it had been in Mira’s family for generations, its wood absorbing decades of lives lived and bodies rested. She found herself wondering what stories it could tell—and what it might one day remember of her, and of the way she always loved and honored Mira in this place.
Then she eased herself onto it. The mattress didn’t yield. It remained steady beneath her, firm and unresponsive in the most luxurious way—as if it registered her weight and chose not to move. The linens were cool and smooth, layered and weighty. It felt as much a place for vows spoken as it did a blissful place for sleep.
Harper lay down beside Mira slowly. At first, they faced each other, a breath apart. The stillness pressed in around them, as if the room itself were waiting.
Then Mira moved—just enough to invite—and Harper followed. Their arms threaded together, and their thighs brushed, then tangled. The size of the bed making the closeness feel especially chosen. Harper tucked herself in, her cheek settling against the warm curve of Mira’s collarbone, aware, suddenly, that she was crossing something invisible and irrevocable.
Mira’s hand came around her in response, settling at Harper’s back like an unspoken assurance: this is where you belong. It was as though Mira had been waiting for this moment—outside of time itself—patiently and without doubt, until Harper finally lay down beside her and slipped into the place that had been held for only her.
At some point, half-asleep, and wholly undone, Harper whispered, “I don’t want to leave.”
Mira kissed her forehead, murmuring something in Arabic, low and melodic. Harper didn’t understand the words, but she felt them settle deep in her bones.
They slept like that. Skin to skin, and pulse to pulse. Holding one another. And it was the most intimate night of their lives. Not in spite of the waiting, but because of it.
=====
The first light of day was a hush of gold slipping through the linen sheers, draping itself over rumpled sheets and the curve of two sleeping women. Something holy was about to unfold.
Harper woke first, blinking slowly, her breath catching as her eyes adjusted to the soft morning light and the shape of the woman beside her.
Mira.
She was still sleeping—just barely. Her mouth rested slightly parted. Her dark hair spilled across the pillow, revealing the gentle slope of her shoulders and the delicate hollow of her collarbone. Harper felt a sudden surge of tenderness, and a hush of awe—Mira, asleep like this, was something sacred she had been trusted to see.
Harper had slept with people before. And, woken up beside them. But never like this. Never with the kind of stunned gratitude that made her breath go shallow.
A breath shifted, then, and Mira stirred. She stretched with the slow grace of a cat, her spine arching, her limbs softening, and then her eyes opened.
They found Harper’s. And everything stopped. She hadn’t meant to sleep so deeply, hadn’t meant to melt so completely into Harper’s arms. But something had changed the moment Harper had whispered, “I don’t want to leave.” And, now, looking at her — cheeks still sleep-flushed, hair mussed, and her eyes oceanic and unreadable — Mira felt herself quiet.
She reached out, and her fingers found the hem of the shirt Harper had slept in—her shirt—and brushed the skin beneath. Harper’s waist was bare and warm.
“Je te veux,” Mira whispered. It was a prayer that vibrated down her spine. “I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”
Harper, holding her gaze, reached too slowly and reverently. Her fingers trailed the side of Mira’s ribcage, feeling the curve of her through the whisper of silk.
And then Mira leaned in. The kiss felt as though their mouths had waited lifetimes to find this exact shape. Harper parted her lips, breath hitching, and Mira pressed closer, sliding her thigh between Harper’s legs, the silk of her slip riding up. Their skin met, and the heat was immediate.
Harper whimpered into her mouth, and Mira pulled back a fraction. Her eyes searched Harper’s—asking, not assuming. Even now. And Harper answered with her whole being. “Yes.”
She reached for Mira’s slip, but Mira caught her wrist gently. “Let me,” Mira murmured.
She unbuttoned Harper’s shirt, the fabric parting and falling open with soft surrender. When Harper was bare beneath her, Mira sat back on her knees, taking her in.
Harper’s breasts rose and fell with her breath, her nipples long and peaked. Her legs shifted slightly, unconsciously opening. But it wasn’t the eroticism that stilled Mira; it was the vulnerability. The invitation.
Her eyes moved lower—and caught on something unexpected.
There, inked just beneath the curve of Harper’s left breast, half-hidden and entirely absurd, was a raccoon wearing spectacles and holding a coffee cup.
Mira blinked. “Is that…?”
Harper flushed, grinning, and bit her lip. “His name’s Maurice. He’s my caffeine-fuelled boob guardian.”
A beat passed. And, then Mira laughed— a soft, delighted sound that curled through the space like steam. She leaned in and kissed Maurice square on the head.
“Well,” she said, voice rich with affection, “I’m not sure I’ve ever been jealous of a raccoon before.”
Harper giggled, half-wild with nerves and joy. Mira’s mouth followed next to the ink, trailing lower in a slow, reverent descent— and Harper’s laughter melted into breathless quiet. Her hands threaded into Mira’s hair, loose and trembling.
Mira pulled the slip from her own body then, and let it fall. And, Harper gasped.
Mira, bathed in the pale spill of morning light, looked elemental—like something drawn from heat and intention rather than flesh alone. Her skin glowed softly, her breasts were full, and her darkened nipples were unmistakably alive. The line of her waist was slim, giving way to hips that spoke of strength and steadiness.
Harper’s mind simply… stopped. As if whatever part of her was meant to form words had been quietly, mercifully shut off.
“You can’t possibly look like this and be real,” Harper breathed. “Mira—you’re overwhelming me.”
Mira smiled, the barest curve, and leaned down. Their breasts touched first, a soft, deliberate brush of skin and nipples that made Harper’s breath hitch, caught somewhere between disbelief and need. She wrapped her arms arms around Mira’s body and felt everything. Mira’s warmth, her shape, and the slow pull of gravity between them.
Mira, gazed down at her, and the full length of their bodies pressed together without a single barrier. She felt Harper’s pulse thrum where their skin touched, a quiet flutter beneath her fingertips.
“You’re trembling,” she murmured.
Harper swallowed, still holding Mira’s gaze as her hands slid slowly along the length of her back, settling there as if seeking permission to stay. “I know,” she said softly, her voice low and unguarded.
She couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop feeling. The air between them had thinned to something electric, her body answering Mira’s.
Mira brushed her hand down the curve of Harper’s back, guiding them closer still. Her voice dropped.
“Look at you.” she whispered. “So open for me.”
Harper felt undone—exposed in the most exquisite way. Her soul was in her mouth. Her body, bared not just to touch, but to meaning. And Mira was watching her with a hunger that made her chest hurt.
Then Mira shifted, moving down and kissing her chest, taking her time. She sucked gently at a nipple and licked the skin beside it. Harper gasped, and her hips rose of their own accord, her thighs quaking under the rush of pleasure.
And Mira continued to move lower. Her hand slipped between Harper’s thighs in one smooth, slow motion. She combed her fingers through Harpers soft curls, and then cupped her heated core and paused, holding her there, warm and full and trembling.
The soft heat of Harper’s swollen sex fit perfectly into her palm, soaking and pulsing against Mira’s fingers. She could feel it, the want, the ache, the wild rhythm of Harper’s body trying to speak. She stilled her stroking thumb and let it rest. She let Harper feel the steadiness in her touch. Letting her know she could control herself and wait.
She looked up. Her voice was low, and steady. “Is this okay?”
Harper blinked. And then nodded. Fast. Too fast. Her lips parted, eyes wide, and her voice came out as a breath: “More. Please.”
Mira lowered her head and kissed the fragile place between Harper’s hip and belly, where the skin stretches softly and delicately. Then, with gentle care, she shifted her fingers lower, parting Harper’s smooth, puffy folds with tender precision. Two fingers slipped inside, one after the other, inch by inch. A careful press, a breathless pause, then deeper —drawn in by the tightness and heat and the wet welcome.
A sound escaped Harper before she could stop it—raw annd unguarded. Her body arched, thighs trembling as the sensation overtook her. Her hands came up to Mira’s shoulders, gripping there, unsure where to hold, and how to contain what was happening to her.
Mira was inside her. Truly inside her. The intimacy of it felt uncharted, unreal—so close it shimmered at the edge of what Harper could bear. She had known other lovers, others who had done what Mira was doing, but this was different. This reached somewhere deeper, quieter… this was Mira.
Sensation blurred into thought. Mira’s long fingers moved within her, pressing, retreating, returning, each motion echoing through Harper. Even the faint brush of Mira’s knuckles sent a tremor through her, loosening a sound from her throat she didn’t quite recognize as her own.
Her mind drifted on the feeling, on the imagined permanence of it—Mira’s fingerprints pressed into her on the inside, unique marks no one else could see but Harper would always know were there. Yours, the thought whispered, tender and dangerous all at once. Another breath broke free, soft and helpless, as the world narrowed to touch and heat.
“Mira—”
Her name broke from Harper’s mouth, fractured—half cry, half plea. Not asking for anything. Just reaching.
Mira answered without urgency. Her touch remained exquisite, assured. Her thumb began coaxing Harper’s clit, while her other hand stayed firm, fingers deep inside her, grounding her, holding her exactly where she wanted her.
“Breathe,” Mira murmured. “Be still. Give yourself to me.”
Harper obeyed without thinking. Her breath left her in a soft rush, her body yielding all at once.
“I’m yours.” She whispered immediately.
And she let her body soften around the instruction. And as she did, she began to shatter—slowly, helplessly—moaning, gasping, rocking up to meet Mira’s gentle, deliberate movements. Her body answering Mira’s guidance.
She was open—wide-eyed, undone—taking every wave as it came, letting herself be moved through it.
Mira’s fingers curled gently inside her, finding the place that made Harper cry out again. Her climax surged, fast, but Mira held her there—steadying her—pressing a kiss to her hipbone, murmuring something low in Arabic against her skin.
And then Harper came.
Her whole body drew tight before coming undone, thighs clenching, breath caught, fingers tangling desperately in the sheets. Her mouth fell open, Mira’s name spilling from her again and again like a prayer reduced to a soft, endless whimper.
When it passed, Harper collapsed against the mattress, dazed and shaking—emptied and pliant.
Mira didn’t move.
She stayed right there, fingers still inside her, but softened now, no longer demanding—just present. Her other hand traced slow, steady strokes along Harper’s side, keeping her there, letting her come back to herself under Mira’s touch.
Harper turned her face toward her, eyes glassy, breath unsteady. She wanted Mira’s fingers to stay exactly where they were, anchoring her there forever—but beneath that want was something deeper. The need to please, and to give.
Her voice didn’t waver when she spoke.
“I want to make you feel good,” she said softly. Then, more honestly, more bare: “I want to serve you.”
Mira blinked. She opened her mouth to say something— maybe to protest, maybe to ask if she was sure — but Harper beat her to it.
“I do,” she said, firm this time. “Please let me.”
Mira exhaled, slow and steady. Then she nodded, something tender and unmistakably real flickering through her eyes. Without breaking Harper’s gaze, she drew her fingers free and brought them to her mouth, licking them clean with deliberate calm, wanting Harper to see every second of it.
Harper bit her lip as she watched, and only then did Mira shift, reclining with effortless grace as her composure settled back into place.
Harper rose onto her knees, still trembling faintly, but she gathered herself before reaching for Mira. Her fingers shook, not with fear, but with the weight of the moment.
She had never done this before. Not with a woman. And yet it wasn’t uncertainty that made her hands falter—it was the aching, reverent need to honor Mira, to touch her slowly and carefully, as though she understood that this was not something to rush, but something to offer up to her.
So she kissed her first— down the warm curve of Mira’s chest — soft, aching kisses, each one slower than the last. Her tongue circled a nipple, tender and tentative, even in its clumsiness.
When Mira gasped, sharp and surprised, Harper moaned in response, lips still wrapped around her nipple. She knew she was going to love this every time: the feel of Mira’s breasts in her hands, the taste of her, the way her nipples responded to attention— she’d lose herself in them every time they made love.
For now, she kept going— over ribs, and down Mira’s sides, and then across her stomach, until she reached the edge of her thigh. Mira’s legs parted for her instinctively, willing and open.
Harper went very still.
What she saw felt less like exposure and more like a consecration—something unveiled because Mira had decided it was time.
A neatly manicured triangle of dark hair crowned her mound; while her swollen lips were smooth and glistening with heat.
Softness gathered there, warm and alive, shaped by subtle folds and gentle rises, the faint texture of soft, hidden skin.
This was not an invitation made in uncertainty—it was a granting. An unshakable permission and Harper felt the weight of like a vow. This was a threshold, not to be crossed by desire alone, but with reverence.
Awe softened her. She understood that to be allowed to see Mira like this was to be trusted with something sacred, something given only to those who knew how to kneel and obey without being asked.
She leaned in, inhaling deeply, letting Mira’s scent enter her body and flow through her—claiming her.
Harper’s first kiss there was tentative — more breath than pressure. Then she tasted again. Tongue first, a soft, slow lick up Mira’s folds. Then again. And again.
Mira gasped, the sound breaking free of her composure. One hand fisted into the pillow beneath her head, grounding herself, while the other reached out—unthinking and instinctive—and found Harper’s. Their fingers interlocked, Mira’s grip tightening, the pressure was unmistakable: stay with me.
Harper answered without hesitation. She held on. Their joined hands became an anchor between them, pulse to pulse, breath to breath—Mira leading with quiet authority, Harper yielding into it with willing devotion. The intimacy of it all settling deep and irrevocable.
Harper was unskilled, and unsure. But she learned quickly. Mira’s body taught her. Her hips tilted forward when something felt good. Her breath caught when Harper circled. Her cries were quiet and muted—deepening when Harper flattened her tongue and drew slowly up from the base.
And Harper, shaking, flushed, and messy, started to understand. This wasn’t about knowing what to do. It was about listening. It was about wanting to love Mira so well, so completely, that every flick of her tongue became an act of praise.
She sealed her mouth over her clit, lips wet, tongue teasing, she followed Mira’s shape like a prayer until Mira cried out with words Harper didn’t know.
“Ya ḥayātī–” My life.
Mira’s hips rose. Her legs trembled, and her voice dissolved into breath. And when she shattered, it was sudden — like a crack of light. With a rush and a pull, her body convulsed gently, before she let go completely and utterly for the woman worshiping her.
Harper didn’t move. She drank from her and licked her gently through it, softly and lovingly, until Mira’s legs twitched and the hand in Harper’s hair gripped tighter.
“Come here,” Mira whispered.
And Harper crawled up, still shaking, her face flushed and wet and radiant. Mira kissed her fully, tasting herself on Harper’s lips, and sighed into her like she needed it to live. And the only thing that mattered was how it felt to be held in each other’s arms. To be touched and seen, and loved like this.
⸻
The kitchen was warm with sunlight and the faint scent of toast beginning to brown, and the low hum of the espresso machine.
Mira’s apartment remained a sanctuary, calm, but now it held the echoes of laughter, breathless kisses, the soft slide of bare feet on polished wood floors. The silk and shadows of the night before had given way to something domestic and lived in.
Harper stood barefoot at the stove, wearing only Mira’s oversized button-up again, sleeves rolled up. The shirt swayed around her thighs as she moved, and Mira could not stop looking at them.
Behind her, Mira leaned against the marble island, her body draped in her bronze, flowing robe, now loosely tied at the waist. She was barefoot too. A hand twirled a strand of hair idly as she watched Harper with a slow, private smile.
They couldn’t stop touching. Every time Harper passed, Mira’s hand slid across her back. Every time Mira reached for something, Harper leaned into her. There were kisses at shoulders, fingers tangled at hips, soft brushes of lips to the nape of a neck. It all felt natural and steady.
Mira pressed in behind Harper and wrapped both arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. Harper smiled, not turning. “If you keep doing that, you’re getting scrambled eggs in your robe.”
“I’m willing to risk it,” Mira murmured against her skin.
Harper giggled and flipped the toast. Mira kissed her neck once more and stepped back, only to drag two plates to the counter.
“You have the most incredible kitchen,” Harper said, still focused on her work. “It’s so… grown up. Like something from a design magazine. There’s a whole spice drawer. You have a basil plant that’s still alive.”
Mira smiled, slow and fond: “That basil has been alive for three years,” she said, picking a leaf from a small ceramic pot near the window. “I raised it from a sprout. Same with the thyme, the mint, the lavender. The rest live on the balcony, I bring them in when they behave.”
Harper glanced over her shoulder, delighted. “You have a whole herb garden?”
Mira nodded, brushing the basil leaf between her fingers. She stepped closer and offered the leaf. Harper took it, their fingers brushing, and popped it in her mouth with a thoughtful hum.
“God, even your herbs are intimidating.”
They moved around the island together, setting plates, pouring juice, bumping into each other on purpose. At one point, Harper passed behind Mira to grab a knife and couldn’t help herself, she wrapped her arms around her waist, and nuzzled into the space between her shoulder blades, lips brushing silk.
“You’re so—God, Mira,” she murmured. “You’re just breathtaking. Your body, your skin, that perfect little triangle just above—”
Mira turned, laughing, mock-scandalized. “Harper.”
Harper grinned, blush rising. “What? It’s true. “And, you tasted like heaven. I could write a poem about it.”
“If you did I’d frame it.”
Mira’s eyes softened, but her voice dropped into something quieter, settled.
“I loved the way you tasted, also,” she said. “And the way you smelled.”
A brief pause—unremarkable, as if she were simply noting a truth.
“That’s mine now.”
The words landed without force or flourish, and that was what undid Harper—how easily it was said, how inevitable it felt.
They paused, looking at each other. It was quiet for a moment, just the soft sound of the burner clicking off, and the slow slide of sunlight shifting.
Harper’s voice was small but true. “It is yours.” She said, barely a whisper.
And then, with a little more confidence, “So no regrets about having sex with a girl then?”
Mira looked at her for a long, thoughtful beat. “Not one,” she said. “I’m already desperate for the next opportunity I have.”
Harper blinked. Then smiled, big and wide, blushing brightly.
“I’m available,” she said, voice shaky with amusement. “Whenever you want me.”
“I know.” Mira hummed.
They sat on the island stools then, shoulder to shoulder, their legs brushing as they ate.
The food was warm and perfectly imperfect. Toast a little burnt, eggs just right, and juice from a carton.
Harper stole bites off Mira’s plate. Mira let her. They ate and sipped and lingered. Their connection was soft and tender, in the way Mira brushed Harper’s knee absently with her own. In the way Harper smiled at Mira’s every small movement, like light was bouncing off her.
By the time they finished breakfast, Harper’s empty plate sat forgotten, and she’d lifted her legs to sprawl across Mira’s lap, bare and warm, golden in the light, the hem of her shirt riding high on her thighs.
Mira’s fingers stroked lightly along Harper’s shins, then her knees, then higher—a slow, wandering path. Her long fingers brushed the inside of Harper’s thigh, soft as breath, again and again, until Harper leaned fully into her and let out a quiet, involuntary sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan.
The ache returned to both of them, almost as if it had ever left. That open, trembling place where love and lust meet.
Mira looked down at Harper’s bare legs, the delicate curve of her calves, the softness of her inner thighs, and noticed the way Harper’s breath subtly shifted when she was touched, and didn’t want the moment to end. Gently, she lifted Harper’s legs from her lap and stood.
Harper’s eyes followed the movement as if caught in tide, tracking every inch of Mira’s long, fluid form. The robe shifted as she moved, clinging at her waist and slipping at the collarbone. And, Mira reached down and offered her hand.
They moved to the couch, Mira settling first, Harper curling in beside her with a quiet, instinctive trust. Mira reached for Harper’s legs, drawing them into her lap, resuming a sacred ritual. Harper’s shirt loosened even more, riding up to reveal the soft slope of her pelvis and the warm, pale-gold thatch of hair just beneath. It glinted in the light, wild and tender.
Mira exhaled, helplessly. She could drown in Harper. But instead, she moved, her hands steady and sure, and began unbuttoning Harper’s shirt again. The left side fell open, revealing the curve of Harper’s left breast to her hungry gaze. And, nestled high beneath it, the unmistakable outline of a raccoon in glasses, clutching a coffee cup.
Mira blinked. Then smiled. Her fingers grazed the ink, slow and curious, before she looked up at Harper, who had only just remembered how to breathe.
“I’m assuming,” Mira murmured, “there’s a story behind this little fellow?”
Harper grinned, cheeks flushed. “Mhm. Okay, so, I was in Portland for this behavioral science conference, right? Totally overstimulated by the end of day one. There were far too many extroverts with clipboards. So I ditched the last session and wandered into this tattoo parlor that smelled like cinnamon rolls and bad decisions.”
Mira’s brow arched. “Naturally.”
“Exactly.” Harper laughed. “Anyway, I was still holding this takeaway coffee, and the guy behind the counter—he had full sleeves, and actual fangs— looks at me and goes, ‘You strike me as someone who needs a trash panda.'”
“A what?”
“A raccoon.” Harper giggled again, “I asked if it was an insult or a diagnosis. He said both. Then, and I swear this is true, he sketches Maurice, with his big glasses, and holding coffee like it’s his lifeline. And I was like… yeah. That’s me. That’s my inner chaos animal. So I stripped off and let him tattoo Maurice high enough that only special people ever get to meet him.”
Mira’s smile turned feline. “And he guards your—”
“My left boob. With honor.” Harper grinned, proudly.
Mira studied the little raccoon again, then looked up at Harper, eyes dark, and mouth curved.
“So, you let a man with fangs mark your skin without hesitation—”
She leaned down, her lips brushing just beneath Maurice.
“And I had to work for weeks just to taste you here.”
Mira’s tongue flicked deliberately against the edge of ink, making Harper whimper, and Mira smiled again.
“He may guard your breast, mon bijou, but I’ll enjoy reminding him who owns you.”
Harper’s breath caught. “God, please do.”
Mira laughed gently.
Harper was bare, not just in skin but in spirit. Wide-eyed, lips parted and completely undone.
Then, quietly: “Is it weird that I feel so out of my depth with you, but I don’t feel lost?”
Mira softened. She gently folded the shirt back over Harper’s chest, though she didn’t button it, and drew slow circles on her thigh with her fingertips.
“Not weird,” she said. “I feel it too.”
Harper shifted, “I guess, I just want you to know that this doesn’t feel like a phase for me. It doesn’t feel like something I’m trying on. You know?”
Mira’s hand slid higher, warm beneath the hem of the shirt. She leaned in, her mouth grazing Harper’s throat, a soft breath of heat.
“No,” she murmured. “It feels like something my body already knew.”
She lingered there, lips just brushing the skin below Harper’s jaw. “Like I was always waiting for you. Even before I understood why.”
Her hand curled around Harper’s waist, fingers resting lightly at the base of her spine. “This doesn’t feel like a beginning, Harper. It feels like a remembering.”
Harper ran her fingers down Mira’s bare arm, then laid her hand over her heart.
“What are you thinking?” Mira asked, her voice low.
Harper gave a small, almost-too-quick laugh, like she might be about to make a joke and save them both from the moment.
“I keep telling myself my life is going to just… continue after this,” she said softly. “Same routines. Same me. Very chill. Very emotionally regulated.”
She shook her head once, the smile fading as quickly as it had appeared. “But then I catch myself waiting,” she admitted, and looked into Mira’s eyes, “Like I’ve actually already decided I don’t want to move unless you move me.”
Her fingers tightened where they rested on Mira. She didn’t look away this time.
“I almost want to make that sound lighter,” Harper added quietly. “Pretend it’s a joke.”
“But it isn’t,” she said. “With you, it feels right to be fully honest.”
Mira’s expression softened and she bent once more to kiss the inside of Harper’s knee — a soft press, tender and grounding.
Harper continued, moving her hand to stroke Mira’s cheek. “It feels like I’ve been waiting for you to find me and claim me.”
Mira smiled into Harpers knee. A quirk of her eyebrow.
Harper spoke again, “You make me feel chosen and secure.”
Mira’s voice was barely a whisper. “You make me feel seen.”
Harper gave a breath of a laugh, finally shifting into lighter territory.
“You’re so elegant. Everything about you. Everything about this apartment. God, your bedroom. Even the way your body grows hair, it’s… I don’t know, it’s just so neat. Like it’s part of your design.”
Mira laughed softly, dark and delighted. “And yours?” Her voice dropped. “Yours is wild and honest. That soft little blaze of you…” Her hand slid over Harper’s hip, reverently, wanting to run her fingers through her pubes again. “You have no idea how much it undoes me.”
Harper flushed crimson. Mira’s words, wrapped in that rich, accented murmur, sparked something electric beneath her skin, her breath hitching as the sensation rippled downward.
She folded forward into Mira with a strangled sound and buried her face against Mira’s waist. “God, you say things like that and I just… I can’t —”
Mira laughed softly, wrapping her arms around her, drawing her close, one hand moving gently up and down her back. They stayed like that for a long time, bodies pressed, breath to breath.
⸻
CHAPTER 10: MIRA’S SHOWER
Mira’s fingers had been tracing soft, absent-minded circles along Harper’s bare thigh, and Harper’s head was resting lightly against Mira’s chest. Both women were warm and still from breakfast and their slow affection. Outside, the city moved on. Inside, it felt like time had folded in on itself.
Then Mira stirred. She pressed a soft kiss to Harper’s hair, and her voice came low. “After a day at the beach, yesterday, I need to wash my hair and get properly clean.”
Harper tilted her face up, curious. “You want me to move?”
Mira looked down at her. “No, my Harper,” she murmured, brushing a hand through her tousled blonde waves. “I want you to come with me.”
Harper’s breath caught. Her pulse stuttered.
Mira rose in one fluid motion, her robe slipping around the curve of her hips, barely concealing the strength beneath. She held out a hand, and Harper took it.
They walked together through the soft light of Mira’s apartment, back into her bedroom, still cloaked in late-morning softness.
She slid open the ensuite doors Harper had seen the night before, and a soft light flicked on as they entered. It was stunning. More than just a bathroom, it was a sanctuary with pale limestone walls and heated matte floors underfoot. The space was wide, quiet, and warm. A single lush plant arched upward from a low, sculptural pot near the corner, softening the otherwise clean lines of stone and brass.
The shower took up most of the far wall. No door, just a partial partition of textured stone and frameless glass, shielding a wide, open space with a brushed brass rain head suspended from the ceiling and a handheld sprayer tucked neatly to the side. A built-in stone bench sat along the back wall, inviting.
To the right: a deep, claw-foot soaking tub, positioned under a small, high window. The kind of bathtub made for slow pleasure. The scent of black soap and amber glass oils lingered in the air, delicate and earthy.
Mira turned to face her. “Shirt off,” she said softly.
Harper blinked. “What?”
Mira stepped closer, and with a slight tilt of her head, and seductive amusement in her green eyes, repeated, “Off.”
There was no harshness in her tone, only control, care, and a gentle dominance that settled into Harper’s bones before she knew she’d been waiting for it. Her fingers moved, fumbling a little. She began—one button, then two. Her fingers trembled, and Mira reached out gently.
“Here, let me.”
Mira undid each button, her eyes never leaving Harper’s. When the last button slipped free, Mira eased the shirt off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Harper stood before her, revealed completely.
Mira’s gaze roamed slowly. “Beautiful,” she murmured. “Ma douce tendre.” My sweet tender one
Then Mira’s hands released her robe. In one smooth motion, she let it fall to the floor.
God—Harper could hardly breathe. Was she ever going to be able to handle looking at Mira, naked?
Mira stood glorious in the half-steam of the ensuite, her breasts full and warm, hips soft and strong, and her waist softly curved. Her loose hair now spilled over one shoulder, and there was nothing shy in her stance. She was power. She was fire made flesh. She was Mira.
“I—” Harper started, voice cracking. “I don’t know if I can survive this.”
Mira smiled. Stepped closer. “You will,” she said. “Because I want you to.”
Then she reached for Harper’s hand and brought it to her own breast, guiding her fingers to touch, to squeeze, and to learn. Harper’s breath stuttered.
“Mira…”
“Yes?” Mira’s voice was a low murmur.
Harper blinked up at her, flushed and wide-eyed. “Are you real? Because I’m pretty sure I conjured you with some kind of horny spell.”
Mira’s laugh was soft and indulgent, warm as her breath against Harper’s skin.
“Then I hope you know,” she murmured, brushing a finger along Harper’s jaw, “that spells have consequences.”
Harper made a helpless little sound. “God, I’m so okay with that.”
Mira smiled and kissed her, full and slow.
“Shower,” Harper breathed, dazed. “Before I melt into a puddle of sinful Harper.”
They stepped in together, skin to skin, dream to dream. Warm water poured from above like rainfall, soft and enveloping. It soaked their hair, and their skin, and the space between them. Harper gasped at the heat, at the closeness, and the feeling of Mira’s wet body pressing and sliding against hers. Every breath, every brush felt amplified.
Mira turned her gently beneath the stream, water cascading down Harper’s back as she reached for the black soap. She lathered it between her palms, then ran her hands over Harper’s skin and across her collarbones, down her arms, and over her breasts with careful attention.
Harper whimpered when Mira’s thumbs brushed her nipples, already swollen from water and want. She leaned back against the wall, head tilted, eyes fluttering shut.
But Mira’s voice pulled her back. “Look at me.”
She opened her eyes to find Mira kneeling before her. Unhurried and assured, she began washing Harper’s stomach, then her hips and thighs—each movement deliberate. As her hands traced inward, Mira leaned in and pressed a slow, claiming kiss to the inside of Harper’s thigh.
“May I taste you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
Harper nodded, slow and certain. Mira guided her back against the cool stone, her touch confident and practiced, She then lifted one of Harper’s legs over her shoulder with an ease that made Harper feel held—kept exactly where Mira wanted her.
The sound Harper made as Mira’s mouth met her was soft and unguarded, and Mira felt, immediately, how quickly Harper gave herself over. The water kept falling around them, warm and unrelenting, but Harper’s mind emptied into sensation alone.
Mira took her time, tasting Harper slowly, deliberately, lingering where Harper reacted most, listening and responding with her mouth and hands alike. Her grip at Harper’s thighs was firm and steady, anchoring them both, grounding her pleasure in Harper’s response.
Every tremor, every breathy sound drew something warm and insistent through Mira’s own body. She moved with intention, teasing, then patient, then unyielding, clearly enjoying the way Harper came undone for her, the way her body answered so readily. And, when Harper came, it tore through her like heat, sudden and overwhelming, breaking her open around Mira’s name. Her hands fisted in Mira’s soaked hair, her voice dissolving into water and steam. Mira stayed with her through every shudder.
Only when Harper’s body softened again did Mira rise and kiss her hard, grounding her, sharing the taste of her—letting Harper feel, unmistakably, how much she’d been enjoyed. They lingered there, mouths parted, breathing each other’s air, foreheads nearly touching, pleasure still humming between them.
Then, calmly, Mira reached past her for the shampoo.
“Head down,” she murmured.
Harper obeyed instantly, a deep, satisfied shiver running through her spine. Mira’s fingers sank into her hair, slow and firm. She worked the shampoo in with quiet precision, not rushed, not perfunctory. She massaged Harper’s scalp like she was coaxing open a secret, like she could feel thoughts through bone.
Harper swayed slightly, eyes fluttering closed. No one had ever washed her like this, and every part of her was already bowing under the weight of touch, the sound of Mira’s voice, and the way her body knew it was safe here. Wanted and owned.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” Mira murmured as she rinsed the suds from Harper’s skin with a slow, careful hand. When the water cleared, Mira tilted her chin up with a single finger and kissed her forehead, her lips, and then the tip of her nose.
Harper flushed deeper, squirming slightly beneath Mira’s touch. “You’re doing something to me,” she mumbled, voice gone wobbly. “I think my skeleton just resigned. It left a very polite note and everything.”
Mira’s low laugh curled into the steam. “Then I’ll hold you where you need it,” she murmured. “Bend you where I want you. Teach your body how to stand for me.”
Mira stepped around Harper and let her hands coast over Harper’s belly, then upward, palms warm, fingers splayed. “You don’t have to stay upright on your own, ḥabībtī. Not in here.”
Harper leaned back into her. “That word, in that voice, with that touch. You’re going to kill me,” she whispered.
Mira smiled against her ear. “No, Ma tendre. I’m going to keep you alive in ways no one ever has.”
She slid her arms around Harper’s waist, letting her breasts press against Harper’s back. Her hands moved lower, over her hips, her thighs, her belly and lingered in the soft curls of her pubes.
Every stroke left Harper wetter than the water could explain. She couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe. Her body felt owned, not in a way that erased her, but in a way that made her more real. Like Mira had found the shape of her soul and was touching it with both hands.
Mira leaned in. “Raise your arms.”
Harper obeyed and Mira washed her underarms and her breasts, cupping them with soft reverence, thumbs brushing her nipples until Harper whimpered.
Mira kissed her shoulder, then reached for the shower-head, detaching it with elegant ease. She rinsed Harper again, carefully, everywhere she’d touched.
Harper reached up, half-dazed, and touched Mira’s wet hair. “May I wash your hair now?”
Mira’s eyes softened. “Yes,” she said. “But I’ll guide you.”
She stepped under the water fully, and Harper, blinking up, felt something shift inside her again. Because now it was her turn to worship. And she would. With everything she had.
The water streamed down Mira’s body like light in motion, trailing over her collarbones, her breasts, the smooth valley of her stomach. Her hair was dark and heavy. Strands clung to her skin. She reached back and began running her hands through it, so graceful even in the simple task.
Harper stood motionless, utterly transfixed. She was trembling again, from the unbearable beauty of what was being offered. Mira had stepped into the water like a queen, and then turned toward her as if to say: Come. Learn me.
“Shampoo,” Mira said softly, tilting her chin toward the recessed shelf built into the limestone wall.
Harper reached for the amber glass bottle with careful fingers, her heart thudding, her eyes wide. She poured a small amount into her hand, hesitated, then looked up.
Mira had closed her eyes.
Harper stepped closer. The steam swirled between them. And then she reached up, and slowly threaded her fingers through Mira’s hair. It was even thicker than she expected. Heavy and soft. The strands slid between her palms like silk as she began to lather. Her fingers touched scalp, and Mira exhaled, low and pleased.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Just like that.”
Harper felt heat flood her. She let her hands move more confidently now, working the shampoo through the dark waves, lifting sections, massaging gently with the pads of her fingers.
Mira’s hands came up, and one slid lightly to Harper’s wrist, redirecting the pressure, the angle. “Gentler at the temples,” she said. “More grounding here.”
She guided Harper’s hand lower, pressing her own palm lightly over Harper’s to show her.
And Harper followed.
The water caught the lather and began to carry it down Mira’s spine. Harper watched it trace every contour of the elegant curve of her back, and the slope of her hip.
“I’m going to rinse,” Mira said, voice low, almost amused.
Harper nodded dumbly. Mira stepped back into the downpour. The white foam slid cleanly away from her hair.
And then she turned. “Conditioner,” Mira said, voice soft and teasing now.
Harper obeyed. This time, when her hands returned to Mira’s hair, they were surer.
“You’re enjoying this,” Mira murmured, not opening her eyes.
“Terribly,” Harper whispered.
Mira smiled. “Good.”
Harper worked the conditioner through every strand she could reach, but her attention had drifted from technique to touch. Her fingers lingered now—at Mira’s nape, along her shoulders, behind her ears where water beaded and caught the light. She wanted to sink to her knees.
“You can,” Mira said quietly, as though she’d heard Harper’s longing. “If you’d like.”
Harper looked up at her, eyes wide, breath shallow.
Mira’s eyes opened fully, locking onto hers with a focus that was molten and absolute. Her voice dropped—low, steady, unshakable.
“Kneel.”
The water poured between them, a steady veil. Harper’s breath hitched—and then she moved, slow and unquestioning, lowering herself to her knees on the warm stone. The moment her weight settled, something inside her did too.
From her knees, Mira looked unreal. Not distant or untouchable—but intentional. A woman composed entirely of certainty.
Harper’s gaze traced her—long legs, the soft strength of her stomach, the dark triangle between her thighs, slick and shining in the falling water. Mira was radiant, and the realisation struck her with a reverent ache: she was allowed to see this. Allowed to be here on her knees.
She reached out with both hands, palms gliding over Mira’s skin—hot, smooth, and alive beneath her touch. It wasn’t just contact. It was offering. Awe threaded tightly with hunger. A quiet, willing surrender made with open eyes.
And Mira let her. She continued rinsing her scalp, unhurried, as if Harper kneeling naked before her in the shower were the most natural and expected thing in the world.
The water streamed through the dark weight of her hair, washing away the last of the conditioner — strands softening into liquid silk as they clung to her golden skin.
Harper stayed still on her knees, mesmerized. Her hands rested on Mira’s thighs, barely touching—aching to—but restrained by a reverence that held her in place. Every breath drew Mira closer: the warmth beneath her palms, the slick heat of skin, the mingled scent of shampoo and steam and something unmistakably hers. It settled low in Harper’s body, a quiet, insistent need she already craved like air.
She had never seen anyone move like Mira — so composed, so unapologetically at ease in her own body. Watching her like this made Harper ache. Not just with desire, but with devotion. She wanted to serve her. Care for her. Belong to her in every way Mira would have her.
And then Mira looked down, her gaze steady, dark with intention.
“Kiss me there,” she murmured.
Harper’s lips parted. She would have kissed Mira anywhere —her wrist, her ankle, the inside of her elbow, her beautiful vagina—but what she wanted most was to kiss her exactly where Mira desired it.
“Where?” she whispered.
Mira tilted her head, the ghost of a smile touching her mouth. “Where you’re looking.”
Harper’s eyes had settled in the delicate hollow between Mira’s hip and thigh, the tender curve where scent gathered, where skin was softest.
She leaned in and pressed her open mouth to the place. Slow, warm, and devout.
Mira inhaled, sharp and soft all at once.
“That’s it,” she whispered.
Harper kissed again, higher this time. Then lower. Mira’s hand found Harper’s hair, and her fingers tightening gently. When Harper finally drew back, her face was flushed, her eyes reverent.
Mira cupped her cheek. “You worship me very well.”
Harper swallowed. “I want to.”
“Then keep learning me,” Mira murmured. “And I’ll keep showing you how.”
They stayed like that a long moment, steam curling around them, water falling like velvet, the room echoing only with breath and water and warmth.
⸻
Eventually, Mira reached forward, touched the lever, and silenced the water. The sudden absence of sound made everything feel suddenly more real.
Harper looked up at her, soaked and blinking, heart still thudding in her chest. Mira’s skin glistened like gold under the bathroom lights, and the water streamed from her collarbones to the curve of her belly. Her hair, washed and loose now, was heavy against her shoulders, curling slightly at the ends.
She looked like something Harper had dreamed once and then forgotten — until now.
Mira stood watching Harper for a long, unhurried moment, their eyes meeting and holding. She took her in like this—kneeling, open, waiting—and allowed herself to enjoy the quiet truth of it.
Then she moved. She extended a hand—an invitation and a summons. Harper took it, rising from the stone tiles, her knees wobbling slightly, and Mira steadied her with a faint, knowing smile. “A puddle again?” she murmured.
Harper let out a shaky laugh, her hand brushing Mira’s wrist.
“Yep. Full puddle. You should come with a warning label or something: ‘Danger: will cause Harper to spontaneously collapse.'”
That earned her a low laugh, and roll of her green and gold eyes.
Mira stepped out and reached for the nearest towel — thick, soft, and warm from the rail. She wrapped it gently around Harper’s shoulders first. She began drying her with the kind of care that made Harper’s throat ache: slow strokes down her arms, around her back, and across her chest.
Harper let herself be tended to, breath hitching when Mira knelt to dry her legs —hands firm and sure. And then Mira looked up.
“My turn,” she said, and Harper, still flushed, nodded.
She took the second towel and did her best to imitate Mira’s grace. She wrapped it around her, careful of her hair, careful of her skin.
She dried Mira’s shoulders first, then her arms. Their eyes caught and held when she moved down, Harper’s hands trembling slightly as she skimmed over the swell of Mira’s breasts, the dip of her waist, the long lines of her thighs.
“I could do this forever,” Harper whispered.
They stood there for a long moment, close and damp and glowing, until Mira kissed her again. And then, wordlessly, she turned and drew on her bronze robe without drying her legs. It clung immediately, almost transparent against her still-damp thighs, falling almost to the floor. Then she turned and opened a discreet linen cabinet recessed into the wall and pulled out another robe.
“For you,” Mira said, offering it—short, pale blue, and unmistakably new. “I thought you’d suit it.”
Harper’s throat went dry, and Mira’s gaze lingered, calm and deliberate. “I like seeing your legs, and I prefer easy access to you.”
The silk shimmered slightly in the soft light, delicate, and elegant. Like everything Mira touched.
“You bought me a robe?” she asked, voice pitching somewhere between flustered and floored.
“I bought it a few weeks ago,” Mira replied calmly. “Shortly after we finally met properly at Calridge.”
Harper stared. Her pulse kicked.
“You… wait. You bought this for me, before anything happened?”
Mira arched a brow. “Put it on before I change my mind and keep you naked.”
That did something to Harper, it flipped a switch deep in her stomach, hot and heady. The the timeline clicked. Mira had planned this. Imagined her here. Bought this robe because she’d wanted Harper in her space.
She swallowed and slipped it on. The fabric clung lightly at the waist. It didn’t cover much. But it wrapped around her like a claim.
Something about it—the weight, the scent, the knowledge — made her feel tethered in the best possible way.
She glanced up at Mira, flushed and wide-eyed. “You really planned all this.”
Mira stepped closer, gaze trailing down her body. “Bien sûr. I didn’t know how or when… just that I wanted you here. Like this.”
And Harper, chaotic, independent Harper, felt it like a flood under her ribs. Not just wanted, but claimed. Possessed in that subtle, deliberate Mira way — the kind that made her feel chosen, and known. Wrapped in silk and knowing that someone had seen her coming and worked to make it happen.
She exhaled. She loved it, that someone like Mira could want her this much, and could own her this quietly.
“I’ll wear it,” Harper murmured. “But just so you know… you certainly could keep me naked.”
“I know,” Mira said again, casually and calm, as though that truth was obvious.
She watched as Mira picked up the brush and began gently working it through Harper’s hair, and something primal and tender settled deep in her chest.
“You take such good care of me,” she said softly.
Mira answered smoothly, without pause. “It gives me pleasure to.”
Harper’s heart jumped.
“Perfect,” Mira said, when she was finished.
Harper looked up, her voice a breath: “Am I?”
Mira didn’t answer with words.
She kissed her ear tenderly from behind, and when she pulled back, her hand pressed gently between Harpers shoulders.
“You’re everything.”
And then she placed the brush in Harper’s hand.
“Come into the kitchen, make me an espresso, and brush my hair,” she said with gentle command.
Harper blinked. “Yes. Okay. I mean — yes.”
Mira’s mouth curved, then she turned and walked out, her robe clinging to her hips and parting around her thighs — her presence somehow even more potent in retreat.
Harper just stood there a moment, barefoot on the warm tiles, gripping the brush like it was sacred. Then she exhaled, grinned helplessly at her own reflection, and followed.
