The kitchen smells like onions and garlic, the sharp bite of them softening as they hit the hot oil in the pan. Aiah stirs the caldereta with a wooden spoon, watching the beef brown at the edges, and she can feel Mikha's gaze on her back from the stool by the counter.

"So you're telling me," Mikha says slowly, "that you believe there are aliens. But you don't believe in ghosts."

Aiah doesn't turn around. She reaches for the tomato sauce, pours it in a slow circle. "Ghosts are just stories people tell to make sense of grief. Aliens are a statistical probability."

"That's the most corporate answer I've ever heard."

"I'm a corporate person." Aiah smiles at the pan. "We deal in probabilities."

Mikha makes a sound, something between a laugh and a scoff. Aiah glances back just in time to see her lean forward, elbows on the counter, her chin propped on her hand. The red hair is loose tonight, falling across her forehead, and she's wearing one of those plain black shirts that somehow look expensive on her.

"Okay, but hear me out," Mikha says. "What if ghosts are just aliens who died here? Like, they're stuck because their ride left without them."

Aiah laughs before she can stop herself. "That's the worst theory I've ever heard."

"It's not a theory. It's a hypothesis."

"It's nonsense."

"You're nonsense."

The words come out light, playful, and Aiah feels something warm settle in her chest. Three months. Three months of this — Mikha in the kitchen while she cooks, Mikha asking ridiculous questions, Mikha actually helping when Aiah asked her to cut the potatoes and bell peppers. She did it without complaint, knife moving in careful, uneven strokes, and Aiah had to stop herself from staring at the concentration on her face.

"The potatoes are ready," Aiah says, nodding toward the bowl on the counter. "Can you—"

"On it."

Mikha slides off the stool and brings the bowl over. Their fingers brush when she hands it over, and Aiah feels it — that small electric thing that she's been trying not to name for weeks now. She doesn't look up. She tips the potatoes into the pan and watches them disappear into the red sauce.

"So if not ghosts," Mikha says, back on her stool, "what about the ocean?"

"What about it?"

"We know more about space than we do about the deep sea. That's a fact." Mikha gestures with her hand like she's making a point in a boardroom. "There are creatures down there that we haven't even seen. Things that live in complete darkness, under pressure that would crush us instantly."

Aiah stirs the pot, letting the sauce thicken. "That's not scary to me."

"It should be."

"Why?"

"Because they're real," Mikha says simply. "Aliens are a maybe. But the things in the ocean? They're there right now, swimming around, and we just don't know about them yet."

Aiah turns to look at her. Mikha's eyes are dark and serious, and for a moment, the kitchen feels smaller than it is.

"You think about this a lot," Aiah says.

Mikha shrugs. "I have a lot of time to think."

The words hang in the air, and Aiah feels the weight of them. Three months in this house, and Mikha has never complained about the fingerprint lock or the glass-walled gaming room. She's just... been here. Quiet. Present. Helping with groceries and cutting vegetables and asking ridiculous questions about aliens and the ocean.

It's not what Aiah expected.

She's still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Dinner's ready," Aiah says softly. "Can you get the plates?"

They eat across from each other at the dining table, the caldereta steaming between them. Mikha takes a bite and closes her eyes for a second, and Aiah watches her swallow before she speaks.

"This is really good," Mikha says.

"My mother's recipe."

"Your mother is a miracle worker."

Aiah laughs. "I'll tell her you said that."

"Please do. I need points with her."

The words are light, but Aiah hears something underneath them. Mikha has been trying — Aiah sees it in the way she nods along when Carmen calls, in the way she lets Eduardo pat her shoulder without flinching. It's a performance, maybe. Or maybe it's not. Aiah doesn't know anymore.

They eat in comfortable silence for a while, and then Mikha starts talking about the anglerfish, about the way it lures prey with its own light, and Aiah finds herself leaning forward, genuinely interested in the way Mikha's hands move when she talks.

"It's like a trap," Mikha says. "The light looks like something safe, something worth chasing, and then—"

Her phone rings.

The sound cuts through the room, sharp and insistent, and Mikha stops mid-sentence. She glances toward the living room, where her phone is on the center table, and then looks back at her plate.

"Ignore it," she says.

"Mikha."

"It's fine. I'm focused on our topic."

The phone keeps ringing. Aiah watches Mikha's jaw tighten, and she sets down her fork.

"Pick it up," Aiah says gently. "It might be important."

"It's not."

"You don't know that."

Mikha sighs, long and loud, and pushes back from the table. She walks to the living room, her footsteps heavy on the floor, and Aiah watches her grab the phone from the center table.

"Hello?" Mikha says. Then, after a pause, a laugh — short, surprised, genuine. "I'm not available, sorry. Happy birthday, though."

She drops the call. Aiah watches her stand there for a moment, phone in hand, before she walks back to the table and sinks into her seat.

"Friend from college," Mikha says, picking up her fork.

"Birthday?"

Mikha nods. She waves her hand, dismissive. "It's fine. I'm not allowed to go out anyway. They'll survive without me."

Aiah looks at her. Mikha's eyes are on her plate, and there's something in the set of her shoulders — a resignation that Aiah hasn't seen before. She thinks about the past three months. The quiet dinners. The ridiculous conversations. The way Mikha helped her carry groceries and cut vegetables and asked about her day like she actually wanted to know.

Mikha has been nice to her.

Mikha has been good.

And Aiah wants to know if it's real.

She thinks about it — about letting Mikha go to that party. About what will happen when Mikha is out with her wild friends, drinking, doing whatever she does when no one is watching. Will she come home and treat Aiah the same way she has for the past three months? Or will she come home and treat Aiah like she did at their wedding — rude and cruel and looking at Aiah like she's something to be scraped off her shoe?

Aiah wants to know.

She needs to know.

Because she's starting to trust Mikha. She's starting to let her in — into her kitchen, into her routines, into the quiet spaces of her life. And if she's wrong about this, if Mikha is just biding her time, Aiah needs to find out before it's too late.

"You should go," Aiah says.

Mikha looks up, her fork frozen halfway to her mouth. "What?"

"To the party. Your friend's birthday." Aiah keeps her voice even. "You should go."

"I'm not going."

"Why not?"

"Because—" Mikha stops. She sets down her fork. "Because I'm not supposed to. Your parents and my parents made that clear. I'm being tamed, remember?"

The word lands between them, sharp and bitter. Aiah feels it hit her chest, but she doesn't look away.

"I won't tell them," Aiah says quietly.

Mikha stares at her. "What?"

"I won't tell your parents. Or mine. If you want to go, you can go. I won't say anything."

Mikha's eyes search hers, looking for something — a trick, a trap, a lie. Aiah keeps her expression open. She lets Mikha see what she's offering, lets her see that this is real, that Aiah trusts her enough to let her leave.

Because she does. She really does.

"Are you sure?" Mikha asks, her voice low.

Aiah smiles, soft and small. "Make sure you come back home alive."

Mikha stares at her for a long moment. Then she laughs — a real laugh, surprised and warm — and nods.

"Okay," she says. "Okay."

They finish dinner. Mikha washes the dishes while Aiah dries them, and the kitchen feels different now — charged with something Aiah can't name. She watches Mikha's hands move under the water, the muscles in her forearms flexing, and she looks away before Mikha catches her staring.

"I'm going to take a shower," Mikha says, drying her hands on a towel. "Get ready."

Aiah nods. "I'll be in the living room."

She settles onto the couch with her eyeglasses on and the book Mikha suggested a few weeks ago — something about a ship lost at sea, the crew slowly going mad. Aiah has been reading it slowly, savoring the way the tension builds, and she finds herself thinking about Mikha as she turns the pages. The way she pressed the book into Aiah's hands, eyes bright with excitement. "You'll like this one," she'd said. "It's about people who trust the wrong thing."

Aiah wonders if that's a warning.

The bedroom door opens.

Aiah looks up, and her breath catches in her throat.

Mikha walks out wearing a maroon leather jacket over a black shirt, black trousers, and black loafers. Her hair is slicked back, wet from the shower, and the sharp lines of her jaw are even more pronounced without the loose strands falling across her face. She looks severe — severe in a way that makes Aiah's heart flutter, a way that makes her grip the edges of her book a little too tightly.

"You're staring," Mikha says, but there's no bite in it.

Aiah stands up. She sets the book down on the couch and walks over to Mikha, and before she can think about what she's doing, she reaches up and fixes the collar of Mikha's jacket.

"Take care," Aiah says softly.

Mikha's eyes soften. She nods, just once, and Aiah lets her hands fall.

They walk to the door together. Aiah unlocks it — her fingerprint on the scanner, the sound of the bolt sliding back — and opens it to the night air.

"Thank you," Mikha says, standing in the doorway. "For letting me go out."

Aiah smiles. "Go back home alive."

Mikha chuckles. "I will. I won't be out too late. Lock the door for safety — I'll call you if I'm about to head home."

Aiah nods. She watches Mikha walk to her car — the white Mercedes gleaming under the porch light — and she watches her get in, watches the headlights come on, watches the car reverse down the driveway.

Mikha beeps twice as she drives out through the gate.

Aiah closes the door and leans against it.

The house is quiet now, emptier than it should be. She looks at the living room, at the book she left on the couch, at the kitchen where the dishes are still drying in the rack. Three months of building something here, of learning Mikha's rhythms and her jokes and the way she hums when she's reading something interesting.

And now she's out there, in the world, with her wild friends and her whiskey and a past that Aiah only knows from headlines.

Aiah pushes off the door and walks to the couch. She picks up her book and sits down, but she doesn't open it. She just holds it, staring at the cover, thinking about the way Mikha looked in that maroon jacket.

She braces for the chaos. For the late-night call from a bar, for Mikha stumbling in drunk and cruel, for the mask to slip and reveal the woman from the wedding night who looked at Aiah like she wanted to destroy her.

She braces for it.

And for the first time in her life, Aiah Arceta hopes she's wrong.

~~

The buzzing starts somewhere far away, then pulls her up through layers of sleep like a hook on a line. Aiah blinks against the dark, her hand already reaching for the nightstand, the sound sharp and insistent in the quiet room.

Two in the morning. The clock glows red on the bedside table.

She squints at the screen. Mikha's name lights up the dark, and something in her chest untangles — relief, she realizes, sharp and sudden. She didn't know she was holding her breath until this moment.

"Hello?" Her voice comes out rough with sleep.

"I'm outside." Mikha's voice is soft, almost careful. "The house. I'm outside the house."

Aiah is already sitting up, swinging her legs off the bed. "I'm coming."

She pads through the dark living room in her sleep shirt, not bothering to turn on the lamps until she reaches the door. The lock blinks green under her thumb, and she pulls the door open to the night air — cool, damp, carrying the faint smell of rain somewhere far off.

Mikha stands under the porch light, hands in the pockets of her leather jacket. The maroon one. Her hair is still slicked back but softer now, strands escaping at the temples, and she's swaying just slightly — barely, almost imperceptibly. Aiah catches the smell of whiskey on the breeze between them.

She holds her breath. Braces herself for the version of Mikha who looked at her like a wound on their wedding night, for the cruel mouth and the sharp words.

"I'm sorry," Mikha says, and the words come out gentle, almost fragile. "I stayed out too late. I got caught up with my college friends, and then one thing led to another, and I—" She stops, shakes her head. "I'm a bit tipsy. I'm sorry."

Aiah breathes out slowly. The air leaves her lungs in a long, quiet stream, and she feels something in her shoulders release.

Mikha is still here. Still soft. Still looking at her with those dark eyes, waiting, like Aiah's answer matters.

Aiah smiles, small and warm. "Come inside."

She steps back, holding the door open, and Mikha walks past her into the house. The scent of whiskey and something clean — soap, shampoo — lingers in her wake. Aiah closes the door and locks it, the bolt sliding home with a soft click.

"Did you enjoy it?" Aiah asks, turning to face her.

Mikha is standing in the middle of the living room, looking around like she's seeing the place for the first time. She turns back to Aiah, and there's something open in her face — unguarded in a way Aiah hasn't seen before.

"Yeah," she says quietly. "I did. It was good to see them."

Aiah nods. She doesn't ask more. She just walks toward the bedroom, and after a moment, Mikha follows.

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the lamp on Aiah's side of the bed. She settles back under the covers, propping herself up against the headboard, and watches Mikha move through the room — pulling off her jacket, hanging it on the back of the chair, toeing off her loafers.

"I'm going to take a shower," Mikha says, her back to Aiah.

"Okay."

Aiah listens to the water run. She picks up her book from the nightstand, but she doesn't open it. She just holds it, listening to the sound of Mikha in the bathroom, the soft rustle of fabric, the creak of the pipes.

The water stops. The door opens, and Mikha steps out in a plain shirt and sweatpants, her hair damp and dark at the ends. She walks to the bed and slides in on her side, the mattress dipping under her weight.

They lie in silence for a moment. Aiah stares at the ceiling, feeling the warmth of Mikha's body beside her, close but not touching.

Then Mikha turns.

Aiah feels the shift of the mattress, and when she looks over, Mikha is propped on one elbow, her head resting on her palm, looking down at her. The lamp light catches the line of her jaw, the curve of her shoulder.

"Can't sleep?" Aiah asks softly.

"Not yet." Mikha's voice is low, a little rough from the night out. "I'm still wired."

Aiah turns onto her side to face her. They're close now — close enough that Aiah can see the faint shadows under Mikha's eyes, the way her lashes catch the light.

"Tell me about them," Aiah says. "Your college friends."

Mikha's mouth curves into a smile — genuine, unguarded. "They're chaos. Complete chaos. There's this one — Paolo — who tried to start a conga line at a funeral reception. His own grandmother's funeral."

Aiah laughs, surprised. "He did not."

"I swear on my life. The priest was still speaking, and Paolo just — stood up, grabbed his cousin's hand, and started dancing. His mother chased him around the church with a slipper."

"That's terrible."

"It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Mikha's eyes are bright, crinkling at the corners. "And then there's Bea. She's a lawyer now, but back in college she used to steal the dean's parking spot every single day. Just to see how long she could get away with it. She got caught three times, and she still kept doing it."

"Why?"

"Because she said the dean never learned to park properly, and she was doing it as a public service."

Aiah laughs again, the sound bubbling out of her. She can picture it — Mikha in the middle of a group of loud, chaotic people, grinning that sharp grin, holding court.

"But honestly," Mikha says, her voice softening, "Jhoanna and Colet are more chaotic than all of them combined. Even when they're not there, they're the ones setting the standard."

"How so?"

"Jho once convinced an entire lecture hall that she was a foreign exchange student from Sweden. Spoke in a fake accent for a whole semester. The professor only found out because Colet forgot to call her by her fake name in front of him."

"No."

"Yes. And Colet — Colet once made a professor cry during a debate. Not because she was mean. Because she was so calm and so logical that the professor realized his entire argument was wrong, in front of thirty students, and he just — broke."

Aiah shakes her head, smiling. "They sound terrifying."

"They are. But they're also—" Mikha pauses, her gaze drifting somewhere past Aiah's shoulder. "They're the only people who ever saw me. Actually saw me. Not the headlines, not the mess. Just me."

There's something heavy in the words. Aiah feels it settle between them, the weight of it.

"You miss them," Aiah says softly.

Mikha looks back at her. "I do. I see them at the club, but it's not the same. We used to be inseparable. Now everyone's busy with their own lives, their own companies, their own—" She gestures vaguely. "Things."

"That's what growing up is," Aiah says. "Everyone drifts."

"I hate it."

"Me too."

They're quiet for a moment. Then Mikha's voice comes again, softer this time, almost tentative.

"What about you? What was your childhood like?"

Aiah blinks, caught off guard. "My childhood?"

"Yeah." Mikha settles more comfortably on her elbow, her eyes steady on Aiah's face. "You grew up with Stacey and Maloi, right? What were they like back then?"

Aiah laughs, the sound escaping before she can stop it. "Maloi was — she's always been Maloi. Loud, dramatic, convinced she was going to be a pop star. She used to make Stacey and me sit through her performances in her living room. She had this whole routine — she'd introduce herself like she was on stage, and then she'd sing, and we had to clap at the right moments or she'd start over."

"Start over?"

"The whole song. From the top. If we clapped too early or too late, she'd stop and say, 'No, no, you're not feeling it. Let's try again.'"

Mikha laughs, low and warm. "That's incredible."

"It was exhausting. But she was so passionate about it. She used to make us be her backup dancers, too. Stacey and I would have to learn these little routines — we were terrible. We still are. But Maloi didn't care. She just wanted us there."

"And Stacey?"

"Stacey was — she's always been sharp. Even as a kid. She used to talk back to teachers, which drove my mom crazy because she was always at our house, and my mom would have to sit her down and explain why you can't tell a nun that her lesson plan is 'structurally unsound.'"

Mikha snorts. "She said that?"

"To a nun. In grade school. The nun made her write an essay about respect, and Stacey wrote an essay about how respect has to be earned, and the nun gave her an A because she couldn't argue with the logic."

"That's the most Stacey thing I've ever heard."

"She's always been like that. Even now. She doesn't let anyone get away with anything." Aiah pauses, a memory surfacing. "There was this one time in high school — we were at a school fair, and this boy from the year above us kept following me around, trying to hold my hand. I was too polite to tell him to leave. Stacey wasn't. She walked up to him, looked him in the eye, and said, 'She's not interested. If you touch her again, I'll tell your mother about the thing you did at the church retreat.'"

"What thing?"

"I still don't know. But he never came near me again."

Mikha laughs, and the sound fills the room, warm and real. Aiah feels something bloom in her chest — a lightness she hasn't felt in a long time.

"What about your family?" Mikha asks, her voice softer now. "Your parents. You're close to them."

Aiah's face lights up without her meaning it to. She can't help it — the thought of her parents always does this to her, fills her with a warmth that starts in her chest and spreads out to her fingers and toes.

"They're the best people I know," she says, and the words come out earnest, almost urgent. "My mom — she's the one who taught me how to cook. Every recipe I know, she taught me. She used to let me stand on a stool next to her in the kitchen, and I'd help her stir things, and she'd tell me stories about her childhood, about how she met my dad."

"How did they meet?"

"He was working at a small restaurant, saving up to start his own business. She came in with her family, and he spilled water on her. On purpose."

Mikha raises an eyebrow. "On purpose?"

"He told me later that he saw her and knew he had to talk to her, but he was too shy, so he spilled water on her so he'd have an excuse to apologize." Aiah shakes her head, smiling. "She was so mad. But he kept apologizing, kept bringing her napkins, and by the end of the meal, she'd agreed to let him walk her home."

"That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard."

"It's ridiculous. But it worked." Aiah's smile softens. "He's always been like that. Gentle. Patient. He built his company from nothing, but he never let it change who he is. He still calls my mom every day at lunch to ask if she's eaten. He still opens doors for her. He still looks at her like she's the most beautiful woman in the world, even after all these years."

Her voice catches slightly, and she looks down at her hands. "I want that. Not the company, not the money. Just — someone who looks at me like that. Like I'm the most important person in the world."

The words hang in the air between them. Aiah feels exposed, raw, like she's opened a door she didn't mean to open.

"You deserve that," Mikha says quietly.

Aiah looks up. Mikha's eyes are soft, unguarded, and there's something in them that makes Aiah's breath catch.

"What about your parents?" Aiah asks, before she can stop herself. "Are you close to them?"

Mikha's smile falters.

Aiah sees it — the way the warmth drains from her face, the way her eyes flicker away, landing on the wall, the window, anywhere but Aiah's face.

"It's fine if you don't want to talk about it," Aiah says quickly. "I shouldn't have—"

"No." Mikha's voice is quiet. "It's okay. I just—" She takes a breath, her jaw tightening. "I don't talk about this. Ever. But—"

She looks at Aiah, and something in her face shifts. Opens.

"I hate them," Mikha says, and the words are flat, matter-of-fact, like she's stating a weather report. "I hate my parents."

Aiah doesn't move. She just listens.

"They never treated me like a daughter. Not really. I was always—" Mikha's jaw works. "I was always the problem. The one they had to fix. My siblings, they were perfect. They did what they were told, they married who they were supposed to marry, they ran the company the way my father wanted. And me? I was the disappointment."

"Mikha—"

"They never let me forget it. Every family dinner, it was the same thing. 'Why can't you be more like your sister?' 'Why can't you sit still, why can't you be quiet, why can't you just behave?' I was always too much or not enough. There was no in-between."

Her voice is steady, but Aiah can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands are fisted in the blanket.

"And my birthdays," Mikha continues, her voice dropping. "My siblings — they had grand parties. Hundreds of guests, catering, a DJ, the whole thing. My parents would rent out a ballroom. But me? I'd get a dinner at home. Just the four of us, sitting at the table, pretending everything was fine. Because they were scared."

"Scared of what?" Aiah asks softly.

Mikha's laugh is hollow. "That I'd mess it up. That I'd embarrass them. That if they gave me the same big party, I'd do something to ruin it, because that's what I did. That's who I was to them."

Aiah's chest aches. She can picture it — a young Mikha, watching her siblings get celebrated, wondering why she wasn't worth the same.

"So I started acting out," Mikha says. "I figured, if they already thought I was a mess, I might as well be one. I got into fights, I drank, I did stupid things — I did everything I could think of to get their attention. Because even negative attention was better than being ignored."

Her voice cracks, just slightly, on the last word. She looks away, blinking hard.

"I just wanted them to notice me," she whispers. "That's all I ever wanted."

Aiah feels tears prick at her eyes. She blinks, and they slide down her cheeks, warm against her skin. She doesn't wipe them away.

"Mikha," she says, and her voice is thick. "I'm so sorry."

Mikha looks back at her, and something in her face loosens — the tension in her jaw easing as she takes in Aiah's tears. Her brow furrows.

"Why are you crying?" she asks, and her voice is gentle, confused.

"Because you had to go through that." Aiah's voice breaks. "Because you deserved better. You deserved parents who saw you, who celebrated you, who—" She stops, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Mikha reaches out, her thumb brushing Aiah's cheek, wiping away the tears. Her touch is light, careful.

"It's okay," Mikha says softly. "I'm okay."

"You're not." Aiah reaches up, her hand covering Mikha's, pressing it against her cheek. "You're not okay. And that's okay. You don't have to be okay."

Mikha's eyes search hers. There's something raw in them, something exposed — like a wound that's been covered for so long, finally seeing air.

Aiah reaches up with her other hand, her fingers brushing Mikha's cheek. Mikha closes her eyes, and a tear slips out, sliding silently down her face.

Aiah wipes it away.

Mikha opens her eyes slowly. They stare at each other, the space between them charged with something Aiah can't name — something fragile and enormous all at once.

Aiah's heart aches. She wants to protect Mikha. She wants to wrap her up in something safe and never let anyone hurt her again. She wants to be the person who sees her — who actually sees her, not the headlines, not the mess. Just her.

"Thank you," Aiah whispers, "for sharing that with me."

Mikha's gaze drops to Aiah's lips. Lingers. Lifts back to her eyes.

Something shifts in the air between them. Mikha's breathing is shallow now, audible in the quiet room. She's fighting herself — Aiah can see it in the tension of her jaw, the way her hand is still pressed against Aiah's cheek, trembling slightly.

Mikha starts to pull away, to lie back down, and Aiah moves before she can think.

She reaches out, her hand finding the back of Mikha's neck, and pulls her down into a kiss.

It's soft at first. Gentle. A question asked with no words. Mikha makes a small sound against her lips, and then her hand finds Aiah's waist, her fingers curling into the fabric of Aiah's sleep shirt.

The kiss deepens.

Mikha's mouth is warm, insistent, and Aiah understands — suddenly, viscerally — why women go crazy over her. Because this is how Mikha kisses. Like she's memorizing the shape of Aiah's mouth. Like she has all the time in the world and still isn't satisfied.

A moan escapes Aiah's throat before she can stop it, low and involuntary.

Mikha pulls back, breathing hard. She curses under her breath — a quiet, ragged sound — and stares at Aiah with dark, conflicted eyes.

Then she kisses her again.

Aiah kisses back, her hands finding Mikha's shoulders, pulling her closer. Mikha's hand slides from Aiah's waist to her hip, fingers pressing into the curve of it, then back up, tracing the line of her side.

They break apart, both breathing hard.

Mikha presses her forehead to Aiah's, her eyes closed. "We should sleep," she whispers.

Aiah feels the fight in her — the restraint, the careful control. She appreciates it more than she can say. She knows who Mikha is with women. She knows the reputation, the headlines. And yet here she is, pulling back, giving Aiah the choice.

"Okay," Aiah whispers back.

Mikha presses a kiss to her forehead, soft and lingering. Then she lies down properly, settling onto her back.

Aiah opens her arms.

Mikha hesitates for just a moment. Then she moves, turning into Aiah's embrace, burying her face in the curve of Aiah's neck. Aiah wraps her arms around her, one hand finding Mikha's back, rubbing slow, gentle circles.

She can feel Mikha's breath against her skin, warm and steady. She can feel the tension in Mikha's body slowly releasing, melting into her.

"I've got you," Aiah whispers into Mikha's hair. "I've got you."

Mikha's arms tighten around her, and Aiah holds her, hoping — with everything she has — that Mikha feels safe here. In her arms. In this house. In this strange, fragile thing they're building together.