Hazel woke first, the pale morning light filtering through the curtains in soft gold streaks across the bed. She blinked at the ceiling, feeling Ivy's warmth against her back, an arm draped loosely over her waist, breath slow and even against her shoulder. The champagne-pink balloon she'd been hugging lay deflated somewhere between them, a limp ghost of the night before. She stretched carefully, trying not to wake her, but Ivy stirred anyway, her arm tightening once before relaxing.
"Morning," Ivy murmured, her voice rough with sleep, glasses already askew from where they'd ended up on the nightstand.
"Morning." Hazel turned to face her, found those deep chestnut eyes blinking at her, soft and unfocused. "You sleep okay?"
Ivy smiled that slow smile, the one that changed a room. "Yeah. You?"
"Mm. Sore, but good sore." Hazel stretched again, her back popping. Pebbles chose that moment to waddle onto the bed, quacking once, demanding attention. Hazel laughed and scooped him up, setting him on her chest where he immediately settled, beak tucking into his feathers.
"He's getting spoiled," Ivy said, pushing herself up on one elbow.
"He's always been spoiled. We just enable him."
They lay there for a while, trading small, lazy observations—the quality of the light, the distant sound of traffic, the way Pebbles's webbed feet pressed warmth through the sheet. Eventually Hazel's stomach growled, loud enough that Ivy laughed, and the spell of morning inertia broke.
"Breakfast?" Ivy asked.
"God, yes."
They extracted themselves from bed—Pebbles protest-quacking at the disruption—and shuffled to the kitchen in mismatched pajamas. Hazel wore an oversized t-shirt with a faded cat print; Ivy had pulled on soft grey shorts and a tank top, her hair a wild cloud from sleep. The kettle clicked on automatically as Ivy passed, a habit born of two years of shared mornings.
Hazel cracked eggs into a bowl while Ivy pulled bread from the freezer and set it to toast. The kitchen filled with the comfortable sounds of a shared routine: the whisk against ceramic, the hiss of butter hitting a hot pan, Pebbles's soft quacks from his corner where he'd found a sunbeam.
"Hey," Hazel said, not turning from the stove. "I've been thinking about something."
Ivy looked up from the cutting board where she'd been slicing an avocado. "Yeah?"
"My exes. Emma and Zoe." Hazel's voice stayed level, focused on the eggs. "I realized I never actually told you about them. Their full names. How we met. How long it lasted. It's just… been sitting there, and I want you to know. If you want to."
Ivy set down the knife, wiped her fingers on a dish towel, and settled onto one of the counter stools, giving Hazel her full attention. That quiet stillness, the way she could make a person feel like they were the only thing in the world—Hazel had never gotten used to it, not really.
"I want to," Ivy said simply.
Hazel turned the eggs, the sizzle filling the small pause. "Okay. So, Emma Vasquez. That's her full name. She was a year older than me—we met at a mutual friend's party in college. I was nineteen, she was twenty, and she was the first person I ever told about the balloons."
She flipped the eggs onto plates, added a slice of toast and avocado to each, and slid one across the counter to Ivy before taking the stool beside her.
"We were together for about eight months. She seemed fine with it at first. Didn't get it, but didn't mock me. Then toward the end, she started getting impatient. Said it was weird I needed them to relax. That I was 'too much.'" Hazel picked at her toast, not eating. "It was another month before she actually popped one in front of me. With scissors. Just… cut it in half while I was watching."
Ivy's jaw tightened, a muscle working. She didn't speak.
"After that it took me another three weeks to break up with her. I kept thinking maybe I was the problem, you know? Maybe she was right." Hazel took a breath, let it out slow. "But that was three years ago. I'm not that person anymore."
"She was wrong," Ivy said, quiet, steady. "About all of it."
Hazel's eyes met hers, held. "I know that now."
She ate a bite of toast, chewed, swallowed. "Then there was Zoe. Zoe Lawrence. She's not the same Zoe as Liam's Zoe—different woman, different spelling. Scottish last name, She was my first real girlfriend after Emma. I met her at a coffee shop—she spilled a latte on my skirt and apologized so profusely I couldn't stay mad."
Ivy's lips twitched. "That's how you met?"
"I know, it's ridiculous." Hazel laughed, a real one. "But she was sweet. We were together for about a year and a half. She was the first person who actually tried to understand the balloon thing. She'd let me show her, ask questions, but it was always… clinical. Like she was studying me. Not participating, just observing."
"That sounds lonely," Ivy said.
"It was. She never said it was weird, but she never said it was okay either. She just watched. Like I was a specimen." Hazel shook her head. "I ended it when I realized I was performing for her instead of sharing with her. There's a difference."
She finally took a real bite of her eggs, chewing thoughtfully. "After that I just stopped trying to explain it to anyone. Decided the balloons were mine, private, and I didn't need someone else's approval to enjoy them. That's how I was living when you and I started sharing this flat."
Ivy was quiet for a long moment, her eggs untouched. "Two years," she said finally. "You carried that for two years while we shared a bathroom."
"I didn't know how to say it. And I was scared." Hazel met her eyes again, direct. "Scared you'd be Emma. Or Zoe. Or worse—that you'd be kind about it but then avoid me, like I was fragile cargo."
"I wouldn't have."
"I know that now. But I didn't then."
They ate in silence for a minute, the only sounds the scrape of forks and Pebbles's soft preening. The morning light had shifted, warming the kitchen tile where the sun reached.
"Thank you," Ivy said, her voice low, almost careful. "For telling me. I know that wasn't easy."
"It was easier than I thought." Hazel smiled, small but real. "You make it easy, Ivy."
They finished breakfast slowly, washing dishes together in a comfortable rhythm, each taking a towel and drying what the other rinsed. Pebbles quacked at their ankles, hoping for scraps, and Hazel tossed him a piece of toast crust she'd saved.
"What do you want to do today?" Ivy asked, hanging the damp towel over the oven handle.
Hazel considered, leaning against the counter. "Honestly? Nothing. A real nothing day. No work, no plans, no expectations. Maybe read. Maybe nap. Definitely cuddle Pebbles at some point."
"That sounds perfect."
They drifted to the living room, where the morning sun pooled across the couch. Hazel grabbed a throw blanket and settled into one corner, legs tucked under her. Ivy picked up a dog-eared novel from the coffee table—something about architecture in medieval Bruges—and took the other end of the couch, her feet finding Hazel's lap without thinking.
Hazel set her hand on Ivy's ankle, thumb brushing the bone there, and picked up her own book—a romance with a cover that was clearly designed to be hidden on public transit. Pebbles waddled over, considered the situation, and climbed onto Ivy's stomach, settling into a warm feathered lump.
"He's decided," Hazel said.
"He always decides." Ivy turned a page, her other hand coming to rest on Pebbles's back. "We just live here."
They read in companionable silence for an hour, pages turning, breath slow, the house settled around them. The clock on the wall ticked. A car passed outside. Somewhere in the kitchen, the refrigerator hummed.
At some point Hazel's book slipped from her fingers, her head tilting against the cushion, eyes closed. Ivy watched her for a moment—the freckles across her nose, the slight part of her lips, the way her chest rose and fell in the easy rhythm of sleep. She set down her own book, adjusted the blanket to cover Hazel's shoulders, and let herself be still.
The quiet stretched, full of something that didn't need words. Pebbles dozed, a warm weight on Ivy's stomach. Sunlight crept across the floor, slow and patient.
It was just a day. A normal day. And that, Ivy thought, was exactly what they needed.