Mikha tugs at the collar of the polo one last time, her reflection staring back at her from the full-length mirror inside the closet. White pants. Baby blue long sleeve polo. Both items feel foreign against her skin, softer than the leather and black shirt she usually wears. She runs a hand down the front of the shirt, smoothing a wrinkle that isn't there.

She looks like someone else. Someone who owns a garden. Someone who drinks coffee with actual cream instead of straight black. Someone who comes home at reasonable hours and doesn't have a glass-walled cage in her own house.

Aiah chose these clothes two days ago during their shopping run. Mikha had stood in the fitting room, arms hung loose at her sides, watching Aiah hold up different shirts against her chest like she was measuring paint samples. Aiah's forehead had wrinkled in concentration, the way it does when she's reading a quarterly report, and she'd said, "I think this will suit you." Then, quieter, almost to herself: "Baby blue is my favorite color."

Mikha had bought the shirt without arguing. She doesn't think about why.

She's still staring at her reflection when Aiah's voice carries through the house, clear and light, settling somewhere in Mikha's chest.

"Mikha! We should go."

Mikha doesn't answer immediately. She exhales slowly. She tells herself the tightness in her throat is just the collar being new. It has nothing to do with the way her heart has been pounding all afternoon, ever since she caught a glimpse of the dress hanging on Aiah's closet door.

She walks out of the closet. Through the bathroom. The bedroom door swings open under her palm.

Then she sees Aiah.

The world goes quiet. Mikha's feet stop moving without her permission, planted in the middle of the living area, her hands hanging useless at her sides.

Aiah is wearing a halter v-neck silver mini dress that catches the light in ripples, like liquid metal poured over her body. The hem stops high on her thighs, showing off legs that seem to go on forever. Her hair is tied in a neat ponytail that swings when she turns, exposing the curve of her neck, the elegant line of her shoulders, the smooth expanse of her bare back.

Mikha has already seen the dress. She watched Aiah adjust the straps earlier while she stood in their bedroom doorway, unmoving and definitely looking. She told herself she was prepared.

She was wrong.

Every time she catches a glimpse of Aiah in that dress, her heart slams against her ribs like it's trying to escape. Aiah looks painfully beautiful. Dangerous. The kind of beauty that gets people killed.

Mikha's gaze runs down Aiah's body, slow and intentional, memorizing every inch. She catalogues the sharp collarbones, the curve of Aiah's waist, the way the silver fabric hugs her hips like it was sewn onto her skin. Her fingers itch with the urge to reach out and touch, to trace the outline of the v-neck where it dips dangerously low, showing the beginning of cleavage.

Aiah's lips curve into a soft smile. She walks closer, her heels clicking against the floor. Mikha's eyes track the sway of her hips, the confident stride, the way she holds herself like she owns every room she enters.

And she does. Aiah owns rooms. She owns boardrooms and dining halls and every goddamn space she deigns to stand in. She stands in front of Mikha now, achingly close, and reaches up to rub her hands along Mikha's collarbone.

Mikha holds her breath.

"The polo suits you," Aiah says, her voice low and sweet. Her fingers trace the fabric of the collar, smoothing it down. "You look lovely tonight."

Lovely. The word hits Mikha somewhere in her throat, and she swallows hard. She stares at Aiah's face, tries to focus on the dark brown eyes, the soft curve of her jaw, the tiny smile playing on her lips.

She tries very hard not to look at the cleavage right in front of her face. It's right there. The v-neck cuts deep, and Mikha has a perfect view of soft skin, smooth and warm, leading down to shadows she's already imagined touching more times than she'll admit.

Mikha's hands find Aiah's waist almost on their own. Her fingers settle on the curve, gripping gently, pulling Aiah closer until there's barely a breath of space between them. She rubs her thumbs in slow circles against Aiah's sides, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric.

Aiah's eyes flutter. Just a little. Mikha notices.

She leans in, her lips brushing Aiah's ear, her breath warm against the shell of it. "Are you even real?"

Aiah lets out a small, breathy laugh. Her arms come up, looping around Mikha's neck, pulling them into a hug.

Mikha's hands slide from Aiah's waist to her bare back. Her palms press flat against warm skin, and she swears she can feel Aiah's heartbeat thrumming through her like a second pulse. She rubs softly, tracing the line of Aiah's spine with her fingertips.

Aiah pulls back, but doesn't step away. Her elbows rest on Mikha's collarbone, casual and intimate, like they've done this a thousand times.

"Have fun tonight," Aiah says. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper. "Don't drag yourself into drama."

Mikha smiles. It feels genuine, which unnerves her. "I'll try."

They lean in at the same time.

The kiss is soft. Gentle. Sweet in a way that makes Mikha's chest ache. Aiah's lips are warm and pliant, and Mikha can taste the faint sweetness of the lip gloss she must have put on earlier. It's cherry. Or maybe strawberry. Something that reminds Mikha of summer.

Then Mikha bites Aiah's bottom lip. Gently. Just a small tug, a silent request. Aiah's mouth opens wider, a soft sound escaping her throat, and their tongues meet in a gentle battle. It's not aggressive. It's exploratory, each of them learning the rhythm of the other, the push and pull, the give and take.

Mikha's hands slide down Aiah's bare back, tracing the curve of her spine, the dip at the base of it, until they reach the swell of Aiah's ass. She palms one cheek, squeezing gently, feeling the fullness of it.

Aiah moans against her lips.

The sound goes straight to Mikha's core, heating her blood, sharpening her focus. She squeezes again, harder this time, and Aiah presses closer, her hips arching forward involuntarily.

They keep kissing. Mikha's hands stay there, palming and squeezing, tracing the shape of it. The hem inches higher with every movement, creeping up Aiah's thighs, baring more skin. Mikha is painfully aware of how warm and smooth Aiah feels under her palms, the subtle give of flesh that makes her want to keep touching forever.

Then her fingers slip. Just a little. Just enough for her fingertips to brush against Aiah's underbutt.

Mikha jerks back like she's been burned.

"Fuck," she mutters, breathing hard. Her chest heaves.

Aiah's head falls forward, leaning against Mikha's neck. Her breath comes in ragged pants, warm and damp against Mikha's skin. Her hands clutch at Mikha's shoulders, fingers digging in, and Mikha can feel the slight tremble running through her body.

They stand there for a long moment, tangled together, trying to catch their breath. Mikha can feel her own heartbeat racing, can feel the heat pooling low in her belly, the growing hardness pressing against the seam of her pants.

She needs to stop. She needs to get control of herself. But Aiah is warm and soft against her, and the scent of her perfume—vanilla—is making it hard to think.

Mikha exhales slowly. She forces her hands to move, reaching down to adjust the hem of Aiah's dress, pulling it back into place over her thighs, covering the skin that Mikha's fingers still ache to touch.

"We should go," Mikha says. Her voice comes out rough, lower than she intended. "Or else I'll be the reason we won’t attend Stacey's birthday at all."

Aiah lets out a soft chuckle against her neck. The vibration of it does things to Mikha that she does not want to analyze. She pulls back slowly, a rueful smile on her lips, her cheeks flushed a delicate pink.

"That bad?" Aiah asks.

"Don't test me."

Aiah laughs again and steps back. She smooths down her dress, adjusts the straps over her shoulders, and turns toward the main door. Her ponytail swings behind her, brushing against her bare back.

Mikha's eyes follow her. She can't help it. Her gaze traces the lines of Aiah's bare shoulders, the curve of her spine, the swell of her ass as it sways gently with each step.

She's not sure if she'll ever get enough of Aiah's lips. Or Aiah's ass. The way it feels under her hands—soft and full, just the right amount of give to make her want to grip harder, to pull Aiah closer, to claim her in a way she has no right to.

Aiah reaches the door and glances back, catching Mikha staring. A slow smile spreads across her face, warm and knowing.

"You coming?"

Mikha clears her throat and follows, trying to school her expression to neutral. She fails.

~~

They reach the club, and the bass hits Mikha before she even steps through the door. She missed this. She missed the anonymity, the noise, the feeling of being just another body in the dark. But if she's being honest, and she rarely is, the deeper part of her likes being around Aiah in their house more. The quiet mornings. The way Aiah hums when she cooks. The weight of Aiah's head on her shoulder when they watch TV.

She buries that thought immediately. She doesn't acknowledge it. Because acknowledging it means acknowledging that her plan is cracking, and her plan is the only thing keeping her sane.

Aiah trusts her now. She can feel it the way Aiah kisses her goodnight without hesitation. Trust is the goal. Trust means the fall will be harder.

But Aiah is also the only person, aside from Jhoanna and Colet, who makes her feel seen. Who makes her feel calm. Who looks at her like she's not a disappointment, not a problem to be fixed, not a chaos to be tamed. And that thought alone makes her rethink everything. Makes her wonder if she can actually go through with it, if she can actually break the one person who's ever looked at her like she matters.

She pushes the thought away. She always does. Every time it surfaces, she tells herself she's just tired, just confused by the domestic routine they've fallen into.

The staff opens the private room door.

There are about twenty people inside, scattered across couches and stools, drinks in hand, laughter filling the air.

Stacey sees them first. Her face lights up, and she lets out a squeal that cuts through the noise. "Aiah!"

She runs toward them, Maloi right behind her, and they practically tackle Aiah in a hug. Mikha steps back, watching as Aiah laughs and hugs them back, her arms wrapping around both of them.

"You're finally here!" Maloi says, pulling back to look at Aiah. "Oh my god, you look—" She stops, her eyes wide. "Aiah. That dress."

"I know, right?" Stacey grins. "She's going to kill someone tonight."

Aiah rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Happy birthday, Staku." She reaches into her small clutch and pulls out a box, wrapped in silver paper. "For you."

Stacey takes the box, her fingers already working at the ribbon. She's never been patient, Mikha remembers. Always tearing into things, whether it's gifts or conversations or people's carefully constructed walls. The paper falls away, revealing a velvet box underneath. 

Stacey's hand stills. She stares at the contents, mouth falling open, eyes going bright. It's a necklace, Mikha knows. She's seen it enough times in the photos Aiah showed her on her phone. A thin gold chain with a pendant shaped like a crescent moon, studded with tiny diamonds that catch the light.

"Aiah," Stacey breathes. Her voice cracks. "This is—" She looks up, her eyes wet. "This is the one I told you about. Last year. I said—I said I'd been looking for it for years and I couldn't find it anywhere."

Aiah smiles, soft and warm. "I remember."

"But it's impossible to find. I searched everywhere. Everywhere, Aiah. It's always out of stock, they only make like fifty pieces a year—"

"I know." Aiah reaches out, touching Stacey's arm gently. "I almost searched every online store around the globe just to find it. Took me months. But I found it."

Stacey blinks rapidly, trying to hold back tears. "I don't know what to say. I—" She laughs, watery and broken. "I'm going to cry. I'm actually going to cry and ruin my makeup."

"Don't cry," Aiah says, but she's smiling.

Stacey hugs her again, fierce and tight. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

She pulls back, and Aiah glances at Mikha, then back at Stacey. "Thank Mikha too."

Stacey blinks. "What?"

"She paid for the express delivery last week from Switzerland," Aiah says casually. "The item was recently restocked, and it sells out in minutes. The only way I could get it before your birthday was to have it shipped immediately."

Stacey turns to Mikha, her expression unreadable. Mikha shifts her weight, suddenly uncomfortable under that gaze.

"You paid for it?" Stacey asks.

Mikha shrugs, aiming for nonchalant. "She said it was important. I had the credit card. It wasn't a big deal."

It was a big deal. The express shipping had cost more than most middle class' monthly salaries. But Aiah had looked at her with those dark brown eyes, explaining the situation, and Mikha had pulled out her phone and paid without a second thought. She still doesn't know why.

Stacey stares at her for a long moment. Then she steps forward and hugs Mikha. It's brief, stiff, awkward, but it's real.

"Thank you," Stacey says quietly, pulling back. Her eyes are still wet, but there's a small smile on her face now.

Mikha doesn't know what to say. She's not used to being thanked for things, not used to being appreciated for anything other than causing trouble. But now, seeing Stacey's face, seeing the way Aiah looks at her like she did something good, something worth noticing, she feels something warm settle in her chest.

"Happy birthday." Mikha clears her throat. "Don't get used to it."

Stacey laughs, and the tension breaks. She loops her arm around Aiah's. "Come on, let's sit on the couch."

Mikha follows behind, her eyes scanning the room out of habit. And that's when she notices it.

The heads that are turning as Aiah passes.

Men, mostly. Some women too. Their eyes track Aiah, drawn to the silver dress, the bare back, the way she moves. Mikha's jaw tightens. She wants to pull each of their eyeballs out. She wants to drape her jacket over Aiah's shoulders, except she's not wearing one, and she's regretting it now more than ever.

They reach the couch. Jhoanna and Colet are already there, sprawled across the cushions like they own the place. Jhoanna's wearing a loose button-up, her glasses perched on her nose, a drink in her hand. Colet is in her usual blazer, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else, but her eyes soften when she sees Mikha.

"Well, well, well," Jhoanna says, a grin spreading across her face. "Look who finally decided to show up. The married woman herself."

Mikha rolls her eyes. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything. I'm just saying." Jhoanna raises her glass. "You look... domesticated."

"Fuck off."

Colet snorts. "She's not wrong. Baby blue, Mikha? Really?"

Mikha looks down at her polo shirt, suddenly self-conscious. "Aiah picked it."

The words slip out before she can stop them, and she immediately regrets it when Jhoanna's grin widens.

"Aiah picked it," Jhoanna repeats, drawing out the words. "How domestic."

Mikha sits down. "Shut up."

"Aiah." Colet greets, a soft smile on her face.

"Hi, Colet." Aiah nods, smiling warmly.

"Hi, Aiah!" Jhoanna greets.

"Hello, Jho," Aiah says. Then she turns to Stacey, her smile teasing. "I thought you swore you’d never let Jho inside any of your parties."

Jhoanna shrugs, smiling smugly. "I'm so charming, what can I do?"

Stacey rolls her eyes. "You said you'll cry in front of my parents if I didn't let you in."

Aiah, Maloi, and Colet laugh.

Jhoanna’s smile widens.

Aiah settles onto the couch beside Mikha, and Mikha feels the warmth of her thigh pressing against her own. She sees the way Aiah's dress rides up as Aiah sits, the hem creeping higher on her thighs, exposing more skin than Mikha is prepared to handle in a room full of people. She wants to cover Aiah's bare legs with her own body. She wants to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her close, hide her from every wandering gaze.

Instead, she accepts the glass of whiskey Jhoanna hands her and takes a long drink.

"Easy there," Jhoanna says, amused. "You're driving later."

"I know."

Stacey, meanwhile, has produced a bottle of tequila and is holding out a shot glass to Aiah. "Come on. One shot."

Aiah shakes her head, smiling. "You know I don't drink."

"It's my birthday."

"That's not a valid argument."

"Just one," Maloi chimes in. "It's her birthday! You can't say no to the birthday girl."

Aiah sighs, looking at the shot glass like it's personally offended her. "I really don't—"

"One," Stacey insists. "Just one. I promise I won't make you do another."

Aiah hesitates. Mikha watches the war play out on her face, the desire to please her friend battling with her obvious distaste for alcohol. Finally, Aiah sighs again and takes the shot glass.

"Fine. But this is it."

"Yes!" Stacey and Maloi cheer in unison.

Aiah brings the glass to her lips, tilts her head back, and downs it in one go. Her face immediately scrunches up, her eyes watering, her mouth twisting in disgust. She coughs, hand flying to her chest.

"Oh my God," she wheezes. "How do people drink this?"

Stacey, Maloi, and Jhoanna burst into laughter. Even Colet cracks a small smile.

"It's an acquired taste," Jhoanna says, still chuckling.

"I don't want to acquire it." Aiah's voice is strained. "That was terrible."

Mikha can't help but smile, reaching out to rub Aiah's back gently, trying to soothe the burn.

Aiah leans into her, her head resting against Mikha's shoulder.

"I hate that," Aiah murmurs.

"I know," Mikha says. "I saw your face."

Aiah laughs, a soft, breathy sound that vibrates against Mikha's arm. "Shut up."

The night continues. Music plays from the speakers, conversation flows, drinks are passed around. Mikha nurses her whiskey, watching Aiah interact with her friends.

Around midnight, someone suggests hitting the dance floor. The private room empties out, everyone spills into the main club area where the bass is louder, the lights are brighter, and the crowd is thicker. Stacey, Maloi, Jhoanna, and Colet are clearly drunk, their movements loose and uncoordinated. Aiah is a bit tipsy—the one shot of tequila and a glass of champagne have left her slightly flushed, her eyes a little brighter, her laugh a little freer—but she still knows what's happening.

Mikha is the same. She's had two glasses of whiskey, but she's pacing herself. She knows she'll be driving later. If it was just her, she wouldn't care. She'd drink until she couldn't see straight and drive home anyway, consequences be damned. But Aiah is with her. And for once, she doesn't want to risk it.

The song changes. It's slow and sultry, a deep bass line that pulses through the floor. Couples press together on the dance floor, bodies moving in sync.

Aiah settles against Mikha's front. The movement is natural, unthinking. Mikha's hands find Aiah's waist, her fingers splaying across the fabric, feeling the heat of Aiah's skin through it.

They sway together, slow and easy. Mikha's hands travel, moving from Aiah's waist to her hips, then up to her stomach, tracing the curves of her body in time with the music. Aiah leans her head back, resting it on Mikha's shoulder, her eyes fluttering close.

Mikha leans down, pressing a light kiss to Aiah's neck. Aiah hums softly, her hands coming up to hold Mikha's wrists. Mikha kisses her again, a little lower, then a little higher, a trail of gentle pressure along the column of her throat.

Then a guy appears.

He materializes in front of them like he's been summoned, a tall man with a confident smile and eyes that track Aiah's body like she's a prize he's considering claiming. He doesn't even glance at Mikha, doesn't acknowledge that she exists. He just looks at Aiah, his smile widening.

"Hi," he says, loud enough to be heard over the music. "I'm Joshua. I saw you from across the room and I had to come introduce myself."

Aiah's eyes open. She blinks, confused, still pressed against Mikha's front. "I'm sorry?"

"You're stunning," Joshua continues, tilting his head. "I was wondering if I could buy you a drink? Get to know you?"

Mikha's jaw tightens.

"Can't you see—" Aiah starts.

"I know you're here with someone," Joshua cuts in, finally glancing at Mikha. His gaze is dismissive in a way that makes Mikha's blood boil. "But I thought I'd take my chance anyway. Can't blame a guy for trying."

He chuckles, like this is all a game, like Aiah is a prize to be won and Mikha is just an obstacle to be maneuvered around.

Aiah's expression shifts. The polite confusion fades, replaced by something cooler. She turns, fully facing Mikha, her arms wrapping around Mikha's waist. She doesn't say anything. She just presses closer to Mikha, her body language clear.

Mikha's hands move from Aiah's stomach to her back, wrapping around her protectively. Her eyes stay on Aiah, ignoring the man in front of them.

Joshua laughs again. "Come on, don't be like that. I'm just being friendly." He looks at Mikha, his smile turning sharp. "Besides, you should be careful. Someone like her—" he jerks his chin toward Mikha, "—isn't exactly known for loyalty. I've heard things about Mikha Lim. I'd hate to see someone like you get hurt."

Mikha's jaw tightens further. Her hands clench on Aiah's back. She wants to punch this guy. She really does. But Aiah rubs her back gently, calming her down.

Aiah's head turns, just slightly. She looks at Joshua, her dark brown eyes flat and unimpressed.

"Fuck off," she says, her voice calm and clear. "If you may."

Joshua blinks, startled. He opens his mouth, ready to argue, but something in Aiah's expression stops him. He laughs, shaking his head, and backs away.

"Your loss," he says, and disappears into the crowd.

The moment he's gone, Aiah turns back to Mikha. Her face is soft again, the hard edge gone. She opens her mouth to say something, but Mikha doesn't give her the chance.

The kiss is hungry, claiming, a desperate assertion of something Mikha doesn't have words for. Her hand comes up, cradling Aiah's nape, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. Aiah gasps against her lips, then melts into her, kissing back with equal fervor.

Mikha's other hand stays on Aiah's back, close to her ass, itching to grab, to squeeze, to claim. But she stops herself. The dress is too short. It would ride up. And she doesn't want anyone seeing even a sliver of Aiah's private skin.

So she keeps her hand on Aiah's back and kisses her like she's drowning.

It goes on for a while. Mikha loses track of time. All she can feel is Aiah's lips, Aiah's warmth, Aiah's hands fisted in her shirt. The world fades away, leaving only the two of them.

The song changes again. Slower. Sultrier. A deep, throbbing beat that seems to pulse through Mikha's veins.

Aiah pulls back, her lips swollen, her eyes hazy. She turns around, her back settling against Mikha's front again, and Mikha immediately wraps her arms around Aiah's waist. Her hands splay across Aiah's stomach, pressing flat against the fabric. She leans down, kissing Aiah's neck firmly, not like the gentle kisses from earlier. These are deeper, more deliberate, marking territory.

Aiah shivers. Her head falls back against Mikha's shoulder, exposing more of her neck. Mikha takes full advantage, kissing down the column of her throat, sucking gently at the pulse point.

They grind together slowly, moving with the music. Mikha feels her dick straining against her pants. It's been hard since before they even reached the club, since the moment she saw Aiah in that dress. But now it's almost painful, aching with need.

She wants Aiah. She badly wants Aiah tonight.

Mikha's kisses travel from Aiah's neck up to her earlobe. She bites it gently, then kisses it, soothing the sting. Aiah breathes out, a shaky exhale that turns into a moan as she grinds backward.

Mikha hisses at the contact. It sends a jolt of electricity through her, and she has to grip Aiah's waist to steady herself.

Aiah moans, quiet and breathless, her hands tightening on Mikha's wrists.

"Mikha," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the music. "We should go home."

Mikha hums against her neck, not stopping. Her lips trail back down to Aiah's shoulder, kissing the bare skin.

"Mikha." Aiah's voice is more insistent now. "Please."

The word hits Mikha like a physical blow. Her heart pounds in her chest, loud and wild. Every time Aiah says please, something in Mikha cracks open. She stops, pulling back just enough to look at Aiah's face.

Aiah's eyes are half-lidded, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. She looks beautiful. She looks like everything Mikha has ever wanted and everything she's afraid to have.

"Okay," Mikha says, her voice rough.

She takes Aiah's hand, guiding her through the crowd, out of the club, into the cool night air. The parking lot is packed, the streetlights casting pools of yellow light on the ground. Mikha helps Aiah into the passenger seat, careful not to let the dress ride up too much.

Aiah settles in, a soft smile on her lips. She looks up at Mikha, and something in her gaze makes Mikha's chest ache.

Mikha reaches across, pulling the seatbelt and buckling it for her. Her jaw is tight, her body thrumming with restraint. There's a part of her that wants to take Aiah right now, right here in this car. She can imagine it vividly—pushing the seat back, hitching Aiah's legs over her shoulders, burying herself inside her until they both forget their own names.

She doesn't.

Their eyes meet. Aiah reaches up, her hand curling around the back of Mikha's neck, pulling her down for a kiss.

It's hungry. Dominant. Aiah's tongue sweeps into Mikha's mouth, demanding and desperate, and Mikha groans against her lips, her hands tightening on Aiah's hips.

They kiss until Mikha's hand slides up, cupping Aiah's breast through the thin fabric of her dress. She palms it gently, feeling the weight of it, the heat of it, the way Aiah arches into her touch.

Mikha needs to stop. She really needs to stop.

She pulls back, her breathing ragged. She leans in one more time, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to Aiah's lips before pulling away completely. She closes Aiah's door, walks around the car, and slides into the driver's seat.

She starts the engine. Her hand finds Aiah's thigh, resting high, close to her center. The warmth of Aiah's skin seeps through her palm, and Mikha's face reddens with restraint and want.

Aiah's hand mirrors hers, resting on Mikha's thigh, rubbing up and down gently. The touch is innocent on the surface, but Mikha feels it burning through the fabric of her pants.

She drives home, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, her heart pounding in her chest, every inch of her aching with the need to pull over and take Aiah right there.

But she waits. Because Aiah said please. And Mikha would do anything Aiah asked.

~~

The engine cuts. Mikha gets out first, rounding the car to open Aiah's door. She holds out her hand, and Aiah takes it without hesitation, her fingers sliding against Mikha's palm.

Their hands stay intertwined as they walk toward the front door. It feels calming. Natural. Like their hands have always known how to fit together.

Mikha fishes the key from her pocket, her fingers clumsy. She fumbles once, the key slips, and she catches it before it falls.

"What the heck."

Aiah laughs softly. "Nervous, Lim?"

Mikha glances at her. Aiah's eyes are bright, teasing. Mikha's chest loosens up a bit. "Shut up."

"Make me."

Mikha's jaw tightens. She unlocks the door, pushes it open, and they step inside.

The moment the door closes behind them, the world narrows.

Mikha's hands are instantly on Aiah's waist. And the kiss that follows is hungry, desperate, all teeth and tongue.

Mikha's back hits the door as Aiah surges against her. Mikha groans into her mouth. Her hands find Aiah's ass. Finally, finally squeezing without hesitation. The dress rides up slightly, and Mikha's fingers find the bare skin, warm and smooth.

Aiah gasps against her lips, pressing closer. Her hands fist in Mikha's shirt, pulling her impossibly nearer.

"Mikha," she breathes, her voice breaking.

Mikha doesn't answer. She grips Aiah's thighs, lifting her, and Aiah's legs wrap around her waist automatically.

She carries Aiah through the dark house with her dick straining, and her heart pounding.

Her steps are steady, sure. She doesn't stumble once, even with Aiah's lips already finding her neck, kissing the sensitive skin there, teeth grazing lightly.

Mikha's grip tightens. "You're not making this easy."

"Good." Aiah's voice is a warm breath against her skin.

Mikha lowers her onto the bed gently. Aiah's hair splaying across the pillow, and she looks up at Mikha with those dark eyes, full of trust and want.

Mikha's breath catches. She should say something. She should ask—

Aiah pulls her down by the collar, their lips meeting in a deep, searching kiss. It's slower now, less frantic, but somehow more intense. Every slide of their tongues, every brush of their lips, feels like a conversation they've been having for weeks without words.

Mikha pulls back, propping on elbows, and stares.

Aiah's face is flushed, her lips red and swollen, her chest rising and falling slowly. She looks like a dream, and Mikha has to remind herself that this is real, that Aiah is here, wanting this.

"Are you sure?" Mikha asks. Her voice is barely a whisper, rough with restraint.

Aiah's eyes soften. She reaches up, her hand cupping Mikha's cheek, her thumb tracing the line of Mikha's jaw. Then nods, a small, sure movement.

"Yes," she says.

Mikha's heart swells. Her hand brushes a strand of hair away from Aiah's face, tucking it behind her ear. She leans down, pressing her forehead against Aiah's, breathing her in.

"You're beautiful," Mikha whispers. The words come out earnest, raw, stripped of any pretense. "So fucking beautiful, baby."

Aiah's cheeks flush deeper.

And their mouths meet again.

Mikha’s hand moves to Aiah’s nape, finding the strap of the dress. She pulls away slowly, meeting Aiah's eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation.

She finds nothing but trust. Pure, unwavering trust.

Her fingers find the knot of the strap. She unties it slowly until the fabric loosens. She pulls it down, inch by inch, revealing the smooth expanse of Aiah's skin, the flush of her chest, the swell of her breasts, and her nipples that are covered by two small pieces of tape.

Mikha reaches for the edge of one tape, peeling it off gently, carefully. It is soft pink and already hard from the cool air. Mikha does the same with the other, tossing the tapes aside.

She stares. Aiah's breasts are beautiful. Full and round. 

Mikha's mouth waters.

She palms one breast, then squeezes it gently, feeling the weight of it, the heat of it beneath her hand. Aiah's breath hitches. Mikha watches her face, the way her lips part, the way her eyes flutter half-closed.

"I've been thinking about this for weeks," Mikha murmurs, her thumb brushing over the nipple. "Every morning you walk around the house with nothing underneath, I lose my mind. I imagine how it would feel under my palms."

Aiah's breath comes out shaky. "Fuck, Mikha."

Mikha squeezes it again, then pinches the peak softly. A soft moan escapes Aiah’s lips.

"Mikha..."

The sound of her name, breathless and wanting, sends a jolt through Mikha's body. She leans down and latches on, taking as much of Aiah's breast into her mouth as she can.

“Ohhh—” Aiah moans, loud and unrestrained, her back arching off the bed, her hands flying to Mikha's head. 

Mikha sucks, her tongue circling the nipple, lapping at it until it's wet and aching. She pulls back just enough to blow cool air on it, watching Aiah shiver, before taking it back into her mouth.

Then she moves to the other breast, giving it the same attention, her hand still kneading the first one. Aiah's moans fill the room, her hips bucking against Mikha's stomach, seeking friction.

"Please," Aiah gasps. "Mikha, please—"

Mikha pulls back, her lips swollen, her breathing ragged. She looks at Aiah—flushed, desperate, beautiful—and her chest cracks open.

Aiah pulls her up, capturing her mouth in a deep kiss. Her hands fumble with the buttons of Mikha's polo, fingers clumsy with need.

"Let me." Mikha pulls back, undoing the buttons herself, quick and efficient. She stands up, shrugs the polo off, folds it carefully, and places it on the bedside table.

Aiah watches her, a lazy smile playing on her lips. "Why did you fold it?"

Mikha shrugs. "You picked this shirt for me. I don't want to ruin it."

Aiah's smile deepens. She doesn't say anything, but the look says enough.

Mikha stands at the edge of the bed, looking down at Aiah. She bends and reaches for the dress that's stuck on Aiah's waist. She pulls it down slowly, revealing her stomach, her hips. Aiah raises her hips slightly, helping. Mikha's fingers catch the waistband of the black thong underneath, she pulls it too along with the dress, tossing it aside without a second thought.

And then she stares.

Aiah is naked beneath her except for the heels. Her legs are bent, knees slightly apart. Her pussy is shaved smooth, glistening.

Mikha’s heart stops at the sight but she continues her gaze upward.

Aiah’s face is flushed, her hair splayed on the pillow, her chest heaving. She looks ethereal, and Mikha has never felt more unworthy in her life.

"Fucking hell," Mikha breathes. "Even the goddesses would be damned."

Aiah's blush deepens. She shifts, her thighs pressing together, suddenly self-conscious under Mikha's intense gaze.

Mikha bends down, her hands holding Aiah's knees, gently pushing them apart. "Don't hide from me."

Aiah's breath catches, but she lets Mikha open her, lets her look. Mikha's eyes travel down her body again, taking in every inch, every curve, every slick fold of her pussy.

“Mikha—” Aiah whispers. 

Mikha straightens and removes the rest of her clothes—sports bra first, tossed to the floor. Then her shoes, kicked off carelessly. Her pants, unbuttoned and pushed down. Her boxer briefs, sliding off her hips, revealing her hard, thick cock. It stands proud, curving slightly, the head glistening.

She stands before Aiah, naked and vulnerable, and Aiah's eyes run over her body.

Mikha feels it straight to her chest. The way Aiah looks at her, like she's someone worth wanting.

Aiah's eyes widen slightly when they land on Mikha's dick. She stares, her gaze traveling the length of it, taking in its size, its thickness.

“Mikha Lim,” Aiah breathes. "Is that even going to fit?"

Mikha chuckles softly, crawling onto the bed, kneeling between Aiah's thighs.

"We'll make it fit," she murmurs as her hands hold Aiah's knees, pushing them apart.

Then her eyes follow her hand as she travels down Aiah's thigh, her fingers tracing patterns on the sensitive skin. 

Aiah shivers.

Mikha's thumb parts Aiah's pussy lips gently. It’s soaking wet, slick and ready.

“Fuck. I did this?” Mikha mutters, her voice rough.

Aiah bucks her hips, seeking more contact. "Mikha—"

Mikha's hand moves again, her finger traces Aiah’s folds slowly, maddeningly, not pushing inside, just playing, watching Aiah's face twist with pleasure. Aiah closes her eyes, her mouth falling open, a silent moan escaping her lips.

“Mikha—please—”

“Patience, baby.” Mikha’s voice is a low purr.

She continues her slow exploration, her finger sliding through the slickness, circling Aiah's clit but never pressing. Aiah's hips buck, chasing her touch.

She doesn't want anything in this world right now but to taste Aiah. She moves, kissing Aiah's knee, then down her inner thigh, her lips leaving a trail of fire. She kisses closer and closer, until her face is inches from Aiah's pussy.

She breathes against it, not touching yet. Aiah whimpers, her hands finding Mikha's hair.

"Please," Aiah begs. "Mikha, please."

Mikha palms Aiah's inner thighs, pushing them wider. She stares at Aiah's open pussy, pink and aching with need.

“Tangina,” she breathes. “You’re dripping.”

She kisses Aiah's inner thigh one last time, then flattens her tongue against Aiah's folds. She strokes once, licking a long, slow stripe from bottom to top, gathering the slick, tasting it.

"Ohhh—fuck—" Aiah's whole body jerks, her eyes shut, her mouth falling open.

Mikha pulls back just enough to speak, her breath hot against Aiah's skin. "You taste so good. I could die like this."

Then her mouth latches back onto Aiah's pussy, eating her slowly, savoring, devouring. She moans against Aiah's pussy, overwhelmed by the warmth, the taste, the way Aiah feels beneath her tongue. Aiah's legs try to clamp around her head, but she holds them open, relentless.

Mikha has never done this before. She's always taken, always used, never caring about the other person's pleasure. It was always about her rage, her release.

But this is different. With Aiah, Mikha feels her chest cracking open in ways she doesn’t even understand. She wants to worship her. She wants to memorize every taste, every sound, every shiver.

She tongues Aiah's clit, sucks it gently, then goes back to her folds. She does it again and again, feeling Aiah grind against her mouth, feeling Aiah drip more and more. She keeps her pace slow, deliberate, drawing out every moan.

And Mikha already knows she will never get enough of this.

Aiah's breathing quickens. Her hands tighten in Mikha's hair.

Aiah is close. Mikha can feel it.

She fastens the pace, her tongue lapping at Aiah's clit, then thrusting inside her, then back to her clit. 

Aiah's legs are shaking uncontrollably now, her moans growing louder, more desperate. Her hips bucking frantically against Mikha’s face, chasing release. Mikha doesn't let up, her tongue relentless.

Aiah is a moaning mess, her cries filling the room.

“Ahhh—fuck—fuck—Mikha—”

Aiah's body tenses, and she comes suddenly, her cry sharp and broken. Mikha drinks all of it, lapping her through the aftershocks until Aiah's hips finally still, until her breathing slowly returns to normal.

Mikha kisses Aiah's folds, then her inner thigh, before crawling up to check on her. Aiah's eyes are still closed, her chest heaving, a sheen of sweat on her skin. She looks wrecked in the most beautiful way, and Mikha's chest aches at the sight of her.

"Are you okay?" Mikha asks softly.

Aiah chuckles weakly, her eyes still closed. "Yes."

Mikha leans down, kissing Aiah's forehead, then her lips, soft and tender. Aiah kisses back, tasting herself on Mikha's, her hand coming up to hold Mikha's jaw, her thumb tracing the line of Mikha's cheekbone.

They stay like that for a moment, lips brushing, breathing each other in. Mikha's heart is pounding, her body aching with need, but she doesn't rush. She wants to savor this, savor Aiah.

Aiah opens her eyes, looking up at Mikha with a warmth that makes Mikha's chest tighten. Her hand slides from Mikha's jaw to her neck, pulling her down for another kiss, deeper this time.

Mikha's dick presses against Aiah's thigh, and Aiah moans into her mouth, her legs wrapping around Mikha's waist, pulling her closer.

"Mikha," Aiah breathes against her lips. "I want you inside me."

Mikha's breath catches in her throat as she slides her length along Aiah's slick folds, the head of her dick catching on Aiah's clit with every slow pass. The sensation is electric, a jolt that travels up her spine and settles hot and heavy in her belly. Aiah's hips chase the friction, desperate and needy, and Mikha has to grit her teeth to keep from slamming into her right then and there.

She leans down, her lips brushing the shell of Aiah's ear, kissing it softly.

Aiah shivers beneath her, a full-body tremor that Mikha feels in her bones.

“Your body is a wonderland…” Mikha whispers, singing, her hand travels Aiah’s hips up to her waist. “Your body is a wonderland…” then palms Aiah’s breast. “I’ll use my hands…”

Aiah’s hands come up to grip Mikha's shoulders, her nails digging into the skin there. "Mikha—I love hearing you sing—but please—put it the fuck in.”

Mikha chuckles softly, gives Aiah a quick peck, and positions herself, the head of her dick pressing against Aiah's entrance. She pushes forward, just the tip, and they both moan at the same time—a low, guttural sound from Mikha, a high, breathy whimper from Aiah.

"Fuck," Mikha groans, her forehead dropping to Aiah's shoulder. "Fuck, baby. You're so tight."

Aiah's hands tighten on Mikha's shoulders, her fingers digging into the muscle there. "I knew—I knew you were huge, but—" She gasps as Mikha shifts, the tip pressing deeper. "You're going to split me in half."

Mikha chuckles, the sound vibrating against Aiah's skin. She lifts her head and presses a kiss to Aiah's jaw, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. "I'll go slow," she promises, her voice gentle. "Tell me if it hurts too much. Tell me to stop."

Aiah breathes hard, her chest heaving against Mikha's. She nods, her eyes never leaving Mikha's.

Mikha perches up on her elbows, framing Aiah's head between her arms. She watches Aiah's face as she pushes in, inch by inch, so slow it's almost torture. Aiah's eyes flutter shut, her mouth falling open in a silent moan. Her hands slide from Mikha's shoulders to her back, fingertips pressing into the ridges of her spine.

Mikha bites her lower lip, hard. Every instinct in her body screams at her to move, to take, to claim. Aiah feels so good around her that it takes every ounce of restraint Mikha has not to slam into her and chase her own release.

But she wants this to be good for Aiah. She wants Aiah to remember this. To remember her.

She pushes deeper, another inch, and Aiah's breath hitches. Another, and Aiah's nails rake down her back. Another, and Mikha is fully seated inside her, buried to the hilt, and neither of them is breathing.

"Fuck," Mikha moans, the word torn from her throat. "Fucking hell. You feel—" She shakes her head, unable to find the words. "So good. So tight. So warm. Like you were made for me. Like your pussy was made just for my dick."

Aiah moans, a broken sound that turns into a gasp as Mikha shifts her hips, testing the angle. Her thighs tremble around Mikha's waist.

"Mikha—"

"Shh," Mikha soothes, leaning down to press a kiss to Aiah's forehead, then her nose, then her lips. "I've got you. Just breathe."

She peppers Aiah's face with soft, gentle kisses—her eyelids, her cheekbones, the corners of her mouth. She lets her body rest heavy on Aiah's, lets her weight ground them both. She can feel Aiah's heart pounding against her chest, a frantic rhythm that slowly, gradually, begins to steady.

Aiah's hands come up to cup Mikha's face, her thumbs tracing the lines of Mikha's cheekbones. "Move," she whispers.

Mikha pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, then pushes back in with the same agonizing slowness. Aiah's breath catches, her eyes fluttering shut. Mikha does it again—out, then in—and this time she lets herself feel it. The drag of Aiah's walls against her length. The heat of her. The way she opens for Mikha like she was waiting for this, waiting for her.

"Baby... you have no idea," Mikha grunts, her rhythm slow but deep. "No idea how many nights I've lain beside you, thinking about this. About you. About how it would feel to have you like this."

Aiah's legs wrap tighter around Mikha's waist, locking at the ankles. The new angle makes Mikha gasp—she can't pull out as far now, can't get the same leverage, but the sensation is more intense, more intimate. Every thrust is shallow but devastating, grinding against Aiah's walls in a way that makes them both moan.

"Fuck," Mikha breathes, her hips moving in a slow, rolling rhythm. "You have me so locked up, I can barely—" She grunts as she pushes in again, the pressure building low in her belly. "But it feels so good."

One of her hands travels down Aiah's body, sliding over her breast, her waist, her hip. She palms the curve of Aiah's ass, squeezing gently, pulling her closer with each thrust. Her other hand balances her weight on the mattress, the muscles in her arm straining as she fucks into Aiah with slow, deliberate strokes.

Mikha leans down and kisses Aiah deeply, her tongue sliding into Aiah's mouth in time with her thrusts. She swallows Aiah's moans, drinks them down like they're the only thing keeping her alive. Aiah kisses her back, desperate and hungry, her hands fisting in Mikha's hair.

Mikha pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against Aiah's. "I've dreamt of this," she whispers, her voice wrecked. "Since I don’t know when. Maybe since the wet market, when you wiped the sweat from my face like I was something worth taking care of. Or maybe since the night you told me you'd hold me when I couldn't sleep."

“Mikha,” Aiah whispers. She opens her eyes with tears at bay. “You’re gonna make me cry. Stop.”

Mikha kisses Aiah’s forehead. "I'm so lucky," she whispers, pulling back just enough to look back into Aiah's eyes. "So fucking lucky that you're mine. That I get to have this. That you let me."

“Kiss me, please,” Aiah says.

Mikha leans down, both of them moaning against each other's mouths.

Mikha keeps her rhythm slow, deep, relentless. She pulls away from Aiah’s lips to watch her face, the way her brow furrows, the way her lips part, the way her eyes roll back when Mikha hits just the right spot. She catalogues every sound Aiah makes—the soft gasps, the breathy moans, the way she says Mikha's name like a prayer.

Then Aiah's breathing quickens. Her legs shake around Mikha's waist. Her nails rake down Mikha's back, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

"I'm close," Aiah gasps. "Mikha, I'm—"

Mikha kisses her neck, sucking hard on the pulse point there. She fastens her pace, her hips moving faster, harder, chasing Aiah's release with single-minded focus. "Let go," she murmurs against Aiah's skin. "I've got you."

Aiah comes without a word—her body convulsing, her mouth open in a silent scream. Her walls clench around Mikha's dick, pulling her deeper, and Mikha follows after a few more thrusts, her own release crashing over her like a wave. She buries her face in Aiah's neck, groaning as she spills inside her, her body shuddering with the force of it.

They stay like that for a long moment, both of them breathing hard, both of them trembling. Mikha's hand moves in slow, soothing circles on Aiah's hip. Aiah's fingers trace lazy patterns on Mikha's back.

"You okay?" Mikha asks, her voice hoarse.

Aiah laughs weakly, the sound muffled against Mikha's shoulder. "I think I died. A little."

Mikha smiles, pressing a kiss to Aiah's temple.

She wants more. Her dick is still hard inside Aiah, still aching for more friction, more heat. But she can feel Aiah's exhaustion, the way her body has gone boneless and limp beneath her. So she forces herself to pull out slowly, wincing at the loss of contact, and lays down beside Aiah.

She wraps her arms around Aiah, pulling her close. Aiah curls into her immediately, her head finding the hollow of Mikha's shoulder, her hand splaying across Mikha's chest.

They stay like that for a while, wrapped around each other, breathing each other in. The room is dark, lit only by the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. Mikha can feel Aiah's heartbeat slowing, can feel the tension draining from her body.

Finally, Mikha presses a kiss to Aiah's hair and gently extricates herself from Aiah's embrace. She pads naked through the dark house, not bothering to cover herself. It's dark anyway.

She finds a small towel in the bathroom and wets it lightly, then grabs a glass of water from the kitchen. She walks back to the bedroom.

Aiah is still on the bed, her eyes closed, a soft smile on her lips. She looks peaceful in a way Mikha has never seen her before—unguarded, open, utterly trusting. And Mikha wants to wrap her arms around Aiah forever.

She sits on the edge of the bed and wipes the towel gently over Aiah's chest, her arms, her stomach. Aiah hums, her smile widening, but she doesn't open her eyes. Mikha works her way down, wiping between Aiah's thighs with careful, reverent strokes. Aiah's breath hitches, but she doesn't protest.

"That feels nice," Aiah murmurs, her voice sleepy.

Mikha smiles softly even though Aiah can’t see her. She sets the towel aside and reaches for Aiah's heels, sliding them off her feet one by one. 

Aiah sighs, relieved. She slowly opens her eyes and looks at Mikha.

"Here," Mikha says, pressing the glass of water into Aiah's hands. "Drink before we sleep."

Aiah takes a few sips, then sets the glass on the nightstand. Mikha wets the towel again and wipes herself clean, her dick still hard and sensitive. She tosses the towel into the hamper and settles back onto the bed, pulling the blanket over both of them.

She pulls Aiah onto her, guiding her so that Aiah's head rests on her chest, her body draped over Mikha's. Aiah wraps her arm around Mikha's waist instantly.

Mikha kisses Aiah's temple, then begins to massage her scalp, her fingers carding through Aiah's hair in slow, soothing strokes. Aiah makes a small, contented sound, pressing closer.

"Thank you," Aiah whispers, her voice barely audible. "For taking care of me. For being gentle. For—for asking permission."

Mikha's throat tightens. "Always," she says, and she means it.

Aiah hums, her breathing already evening out. Within minutes, she's asleep, her body heavy and warm against Mikha's.

Mikha lies there in the dark, one hand still stroking Aiah's hair, her chest cracked wide open. She thinks about the plan she made. She thinks about all the nights she spent fueling her rage, feeding it with alcohol and bitterness and the desperate need to prove she couldn't be tamed.

And she looks at the woman sleeping in her arms, the woman who trusted her enough to let her in, and she wonders.

For the first time since her plan started, she wonders who's really caught in it.

But she knows who. She fucking knows who. She’s just too afraid to admit it.