The morning separated them into their separate orbits — Ivy behind her desk at the architectural firm, Hazel arranging peonies at the flower shop — but neither presence fully left the space the other occupied. Ivy caught herself staring at the ceiling tiles more than the blueprints, her mind tracing the curve of Hazel's spine instead of the building's load-bearing walls. She'd type a few notes, then stop, her fingers hovering over the keyboard, remembering the way Hazel had pressed the sapphire balloon to her chest that morning, tears in her eyes over something as simple as a gift.
At lunch, Ivy walked to a café two blocks over and sat by the window. She pulled out her phone, stared at Hazel's contact photo — a selfie from months ago, Hazel grinning with a half-deflated pink balloon bouncing against her cheek — and typed thinking of you before deleting it, then typing it again, then sending it before she could second-guess. The reply came during her second cup of tea: a picture of Hazel's workstation, a cluster of lavender balloons tied to a bucket of tulips, with the caption they remind me of something. someone. can't put my finger on it.
Ivy's laugh startled the woman at the next table. She apologized, still smiling, and spent the rest of her shift with that warmth settled in her chest like a second heartbeat.
The afternoon stretched. Ivy reviewed elevations, marked revisions, attended a meeting she contributed almost nothing to because her thoughts kept drifting to the way Hazel had said home last night, her voice cracking on the word, and what it meant that Ivy was part of that now. Part of what Hazel called home. She signed out at five-thirty, packed her bag, and walked toward the subway in the honey-gold light of early evening.
She made it three blocks before she stopped.
The party store was wedged between a laundromat and a bodega, its window cluttered with streamers and piñatas and a cluster of mylar balloons floating against the glass like fish in a tank. Ivy had walked past it a hundred times without noticing. Today, she noticed. Today, the window seemed to pull at her, the way certain light pulls at a moth.
She stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, her handbag strap cutting into her shoulder. Part of her — the practical part, the part that had spent two years being careful — told her to keep walking. But the other part, the part that had watched Hazel's face this morning, the part that had felt Hazel's body open under her hands, the part that had whispered I love you into the dark and meant it — that part pushed the door open.
The bell chimed. The store smelled of latex and plastic and the faint chemical sweetness of new merchandise. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Aisles of decorations, tableware, and party favors stretched in every direction, but Ivy's eyes went straight to the back wall where the balloons hung in dense, colorful rows — latex blooms in every size and shape, some long and twisting, others round and full, a few shaped like animals and stars and cartoon faces.
She walked toward them like she was approaching something sacred.
The clerk was a wiry man in his fifties with silver in his beard and reading glasses pushed up on his forehead. He looked up from a clipboard and smiled. "Can I help you find something?"
Ivy's mouth opened. Closed. She pushed her own glasses up — a nervous habit — and gestured vaguely at the wall. "I'm... I'm not sure. I'm new to this."
"To balloons?"
"To buying them," she said, and felt heat creep up her neck. "For... someone."
The clerk's expression didn't shift. He set down the clipboard and stepped out from behind the counter, his hands tucked into the pockets of his apron. "What kind of someone?"
"My girlfriend," Ivy said, and the word still felt new in her mouth, still bright and fragile. "She loves balloons. I want to surprise her. I just don't know where to start."
The man nodded slowly. "Does she have a favorite size? Shape?"
Ivy thought about Hazel's closet, the careful organization, the arch balloons and the Tuftex and the punch balloons. "She has a collection. Big ones. The kind you sit on." She paused. "We've been using them together, but I've never bought one myself. I want to bring her something she doesn't already have."
The clerk led her through the store, pulling down boxes, explaining the difference between latex thicknesses and neck sizes. Ivy asked questions she didn't know she had — about stretch capacity, about inflation limits, about which balloons held up best under pressure. She felt absurd and giddy in equal measure, like she was learning a new language from a patient teacher.
"The twenty-four-inch rounds are popular for what you're describing," he said, holding up a clear package. "Good tension, good bounce. But if she likes variety, you might try a mix — different textures, different responses."
Ivy nodded, and then her eyes caught on a display near the register. A display of helium balloons, already inflated, floating gently against the ceiling on ribbons. She pointed. "Those. The tear-drop shaped ones."
"Qualatex. Good brand."
"Can I buy one deflated?"
"Sure can." The clerk pulled a box from behind the counter. "What color?"
Ivy looked at the box. The balloon inside was a deep, clear green — the color of new leaves, of sea glass, of Hazel's eyes when the light hit them right. "This one," she said, and her voice came out softer than she intended. The clerk asked. "Helium?" Ivy just nodded.
She bought the twenty-four-inch teardrop in green. She bought a pack of twelve-inch rounds in pastel pink and lavender. She bought two sixteen-inch hearts and a strip of eighteen-inch rounds in deep jewel tones. And on a whim, she ordered the helium tank — a small one, the kind meant for home use — and arranged for delivery to their apartment within the hour.
The clerk rang her up. Ivy paid, feeling the weight of the bags in her hands, feeling the strangeness and the rightness of it. "Thank you," she said. "You were really helpful."
"Anytime," he said, and his smile was genuine, untroubled, as if she'd bought nothing more unusual than a cake mix and a pack of candles. She carried that smile with her all the way home.
The apartment was quiet when she unlocked the door. Warm evening light slanted through the kitchen windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted like tiny galaxies. Pebbles was on the counter — Hazel must have left her out — and the duck lifted her head as Ivy entered, blinking slowly.
"Hey, little one." Ivy set down her bags and let the duck waddle over to inspect her. She stroked the soft white feathers, feeling the small heartbeat beneath her palm. "You've had a long day, huh."
She refilled Pebbles' water bowl, put out a bit of feed, and then — with a glance toward the living room — closed the kitchen door. "You need some privacy," she told the duck, who had already tucked her head under her wing on the sun-warmed counter. "Hazel and I need some too."
The duck made a soft sound and settled deeper into sleep. Ivy smiled and left her there.
She carried the new balloons into her room — their room now, she supposed — and laid the deflated packets on the bed. They were for later, for Hazel's hands to unwrap, for Hazel's mouth to fill with breath. For the two of them to explore together. The thought made her stomach tighten with anticipation and a kind of shyness she hadn't felt since they were still pretending to be just roommates.
Then she picked up the green teardrop — the helium balloon, the one she'd bought for herself — and walked into the living room.
The towel was still on the couch from last Saturday. Ivy stripped as she walked — cardigan first, draping it over the armchair, then her blouse, her bra, her trousers. She left her underwear on for a moment, then changed her mind and let it fall. The air was cool on her skin. The evening light was gold and warm through the blinds.
She held the balloon in her hands. It was soft, supple, the latex smooth and cool against her fingers. The neck was tied neatly, knoted off but still open at the end, She didn't blow into it. She didn't need to. The shape of it, the weightlessness, the potential — that was enough.
She laid the balloon flat on the couch cushion and straddled it.
The latex settled against her, cool and smooth between her thighs. The teardrop shape curved under her, the wider end pressing against her pubic bone, the tail of it brushing her entrance. She let her knees fall wide, letting her weight settle, letting the balloon hold her.
It felt good. It felt right.
And the thought — Hazel will come home and find me like this — sent a pulse of heat through her that made her gasp. She was wet already, slick enough that the latex moved against her with a soft, wet sound. No lube needed. Just her, and the balloon, and the anticipation of being seen.
Ivy grabbed the string — the thin ribbon tied to the neck of the balloon — and held it in one hand like a rein. She began to move, a slow rocking, the balloon shifting under her, the pressure building with each pass. She closed her eyes. She let herself feel it: the smooth glide, the slight give of the latex, the way it hugged her shape.
The first orgasm caught her off guard. She'd been building, yes, but it came faster than she expected — a sudden crest that broke over her and left her gasping, her thighs trembling, her hand clenching the ribbon. She came with a sound she didn't recognize, something between a moan and a laugh, and for a moment she was stunned, frozen in the aftermath.
I came. On a balloon. Alone.
But then she thought of Hazel — Hazel's face this morning, Hazel's hands, Hazel's voice saying I love you — and the thought pushed her back up the slope. She started moving again, slower this time, building a rhythm that felt deep and endless. She thought about Hazel's hands on her hips, Hazel's mouth on her neck, Hazel's laughter when the balloon popped last night. She thought about the way Hazel looked at her, like she was something precious, something worth protecting.
She came again. Harder this time. Her back arched, her thighs clenched the balloon, and she heard herself say Hazel's name — just a whisper, just a breath, but it was enough.
She settled into a slow, gentle pace, the balloon still pressed between her thighs, her body humming with spent pleasure. She rocked forward and back, unhurried, savoring the feel of the latex against her oversensitive skin. Her eyes were still closed. She didn't hear the front door open.
The latex-and-sweat scent hit Hazel first. Then the low, rhythmic sound of movement — a soft friction, a breath catching. She stepped into the living room and saw her: Ivy, naked, astride a green teardrop balloon, her head tipped back, her hand gripping the ribbon like a rider on a horse, her mouth open and silent as she chased another peak.
Hazel's hand went to her own cunt — through her jeans, pressing hard, her fingers finding the shape of herself through the denim. She didn't sit. She didn't speak. She stood in the doorway and watched her girlfriend ride the object she loved, and the sight of it — Ivy unguarded, Ivy undone, Ivy choosing this — made tears prick at her eyes.
Ivy's rhythm faltered. Her eyes opened, still hazy, and found Hazel standing there, one hand pressed between her own thighs, tears on her face. The look on Hazel's face — wonder, hunger, love — sent Ivy over the edge again. She came with a sob, her body shaking, her hand still clutching the ribbon.
"Hello," she said, her voice raw and breathless. "Welcome back."
Hazel's voice cracked. "I'm home."
She crossed the room in three steps and dropped to her knees in front of the couch. She cupped Ivy's face in her hands and kissed her — tenderly, thoroughly, as if she were memorizing the shape of Ivy's mouth with her own. Ivy kissed her back and felt another wave of pleasure roll through her, her cunt clenching around nothing, the balloon still pressed between her thighs.
She came again, right there, against Hazel's lips.
The doorbell rang.
Hazel pulled back, her eyes wet and bright, and before Ivy could form a thought, Hazel had tugged her jeans up — no underwear, just denim against wet skin — and was padding toward the door, laughing, crying, a sound that cracked open the evening.
Ivy heard the door swing open. She heard the delivery person's voice, then Hazel's scream — a scream of pure, unguarded joy — and she smiled.
She lay back on the couch, the green teardrop still nestled between her thighs, and listened to Hazel thank the delivery person, heard the metallic clunk of the helium tank being wheeled into the entryway, heard the door close and Hazel's footsteps racing back toward her.
Hazel appeared in the archway, flushed and tear-streaked, pointing over her shoulder. "You ordered a helium tank?"
"I thought you might want it."
Hazel stared at her. Then she crossed the room, dropped to her knees again, and pressed her forehead against Ivy's. "I love you," she whispered. "I love you so much it doesn't make sense."
Ivy wrapped her arms around Hazel's neck and pulled her close. "It makes sense to me."
Behind them, through the front door, the silver cylinder of the helium tank gleamed in the evening light — a promise of air, of lift, of the buoyant future they were building together, one balloon at a time.