Aiah wakes to the cold. She opens her eyes slowly, her body still heavy with sleep and with the night before.

The clock on the nightstand says 4:30 a.m.

She turns her head. The other side of the bed is empty. The pillow still holds the shape of Mikha's head, which means she left recently. Aiah sits up on one elbow and looks at the door, half-expecting it to open, half-expecting Mikha to walk back in with a glass of water and some excuse.

The door stays shut.

A small part of her feels it. That old familiar drop in her stomach. The one that used to come with Mingyu's empty side of the bed, with the sound of a phone buzzing face-down on a table, with every late night that ended in a lie. She knows this feeling. She hates that she knows it. But she breathes through it, and the bigger part of her—the part that has spent six months learning Mikha's silence—wants to understand instead of assume.

She pulls the duvet up with her, wrapping it around her shoulders and chest like a cape, and pads out of the bedroom.

The whole house is dark except for the moon's light coming through the glass at the back.

She stops just outside the bedroom door and looks left. The living area is empty. The couch holds only the throw pillows she arranged that morning, still neat. She looks right, the dining table and the kitchen is dark and still, the counters clean, nothing out of place. She squints toward the glass wall beside the kitchen, over the pool, and sees only the blue flicker of water under the moon. No one is standing out there.

Then her eyes catch it. The gaming room door is open.

She walks toward it slowly, the duvet dragging behind her, and stops in the doorway.

Mikha is on the couch, elbows on her knees, a glass of whiskey in her hand. She's wearing only white boxer briefs, her hair tied in a mid bun. The room is dark except for the moon, which lays a wide silver rectangle across the floor and up the side of the couch, catching the rim of the glass, the line of Mikha's shoulder, the small muscle working in her jaw. She's staring at the pool.

Mikha turns her head when she notices Aiah. Just a quick glance, then back at the water.

Aiah walks in and sits beside her. She crosses her legs under the duvet, leans back, and looks at the pool too. The water is perfectly still.

"I'm sorry I left you on the bed," Mikha says, her voice low and roughened by the whiskey. "I can't sleep."

"Are you okay?"

Mikha nods, takes a slow sip, and watches the pool as if it owes her an answer.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Aiah asks quietly.

Mikha doesn't answer. She rotates the glass on her knee, watching the liquid move. "Are you going to the company today?" she asks.

Aiah shakes her head even though Mikha can't see her. "Tomorrow."

Mikha nods slowly and drinks. "Can we go somewhere later?"

"What time?"

"We can leave before lunch."

"Okay."

Silence again.

Aiah watches the way Mikha's head tips back when she drinks. She's on her third glass. Aiah has been counting without meaning to. Mikha usually drinks beer in this house. Beer, and only in the afternoon or evening. So whiskey at four in the morning, alone in the dark, is new.

Mikha finishes the glass and sets it down on the low table. Then she leans back into the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

Something is bothering her. Aiah can feel it. But she doesn't ask. She's learned that Mikha doesn't answer questions she isn't ready for. So instead, she leans sideways and rests her head on Mikha's shoulder.

They sit like that for a while. The pool glows outside. The house breathes around them.

"Tell me a story," Mikha says finally.

"About what?"

"Anything."

Aiah thinks about it. There are a hundred small stories she could give her. The time Maloi set the restaurant kitchen on fire trying to impress a chef. The time Stacey got them kicked out of a hotel in Boracay. But Mikha asked for anything, and Aiah knows what that means. It means she wants something more personal.

Aiah trusts her. And she wants Mikha to know that whatever Mikha is carrying, she can share it with her too. So she gives her the story she never gives anyone.

"I was with someone for six years," she says. "Mingyu. He was my schoolmate in high school. We got together in fourth year." She pauses, checking the place where the old ache used to live. It's quiet there now. Just a scar. "We bought an apartment together. I was sure I was going to build my whole life with him. I had the whole thing planned out—the wedding, the kids, the house by the water. All of it."

Mikha is still looking at the ceiling, but her body has gone very still.

"I came home early one night," Aiah says. "I found him in our bed with someone else." She says it flat, because it's flat now, because six years of love has finally been sanded down to one sentence. "Everything went out the window in that one second. The apartment, the plans, the future. All of it."

Mikha breathes. It's so deep that Aiah feels it.

She shifts her head on Mikha's shoulder. "I drank every night for a year after that. Maloi and Stacey took turns sitting with me. They'd come straight from work, and we'd just drink until I could sleep." She chuckles. "They never once told me to stop. They just showed up."

Mikha reaches for Aiah's knee above the duvet, thumb rubbing, offering some comfort.

"That's why I didn't fight my parents about the proposal," Aiah continues. "That's why I said yes. I told myself I had nothing left to lose. I told myself I could walk into this marriage with my eyes open and stay unscathed." She lifts her head and looks at Mikha's profile. "I wanted to see your rage. I wanted to prove to myself that I couldn't be broken again. That was the whole plan."

Mikha turns her head slightly to look down at her. "Aiah—"

"But you never threw anything at me," Aiah says. "Not once. You gave me the reason why you are the way you are. You gave me the person underneath. You let me see the real you behind all that rage." She settles her head back down. "And now I realize that saying I had nothing to lose isn't true anymore."

Mikha moves. She shifts on the couch, turning sideways to face Aiah, and Aiah lifts her head off her shoulder and looks at the pool instead. She can feel Mikha's eyes on the side of her face. Her heart is somewhere in her throat, and she knows that if she doesn't say it now, she might bitch out and never say it at all.

"What do you mean by that?" Mikha asks.

Aiah sighs. She turns her head and looks at Mikha. The moonlight is enough. She can see her face, the sharp jaw, the dark eyes, the small crease between her brows. She looks so serious. So braced, like she's waiting for a hit.

"I love you," Aiah says.

Mikha's face does something complicated. Shock first, a quick widening of her eyes. Then fear, a tightening around her mouth. Then something Aiah doesn't have a word for—a look like she's just been handed something she doesn't know how to hold.

Mikha swallows. She blinks twice, fast, the way people blink when they're trying to push something back. But Aiah sees it anyway. The shine in her eyes, caught in the moonlight.

"What?" Mikha whispers.

Aiah chuckles softly. She reaches up and cups Mikha's cheek with her palm, her thumb brushing the corner of her eye. "I wouldn't give myself to you if I didn't love you. That's not a thing I do."

Mikha closes her eyes. A tear slips out and runs down her cheek, and Aiah wipes it with her thumb. Her own eyes are hot now, glassy, but she doesn't let them fall. It feels good letting it out, the words that she's been carrying for months, that had started to press on her ribs every time she looked at Mikha and couldn't say it.

"You don't need to say it back," Aiah says softly. "I just wanted you to know."

Mikha's tears keep coming, quiet and steady, and Aiah keeps catching them. Her thumb moves from the corner of Mikha's eye down to her jaw, again and again. Mikha's mouth opens like she's about to say something, then closes. Her jaw works. She drags in a breath that shakes on the way out.

"Fuck," she whispers. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

She tilts her head back, blinking hard and fast, trying to get the water back into her eyes. It doesn't work. It runs anyway, down her temples, into her hair. Her chest rises and falls like she just ran here. Aiah has never seen her like this—not once in six months. Mikha is always the one who walks into a room already bored, who laughs at the wrong moment, who would rather burn a bridge than stand on it and cry.

Aiah's own eyes are hot now. She doesn't fight it. A tear slips down her cheek and hangs at her chin before it drops onto the duvet pooled around her knees.

"Why are you crying so much?" she asks gently.

"I don't know." Mikha looks down and blinks again—hard, twice—like she can physically shove it back down. "Sorry. I don't—I don't do this. I don't know why I'm—" She stops. Swallows.

Aiah watches her try to pull herself together and something in her chest cracks. Because a part of her knows this isn't just about that. She said I love you, and something behind Mikha's ribs finally gave way—something that had been holding a door shut for a long time. Aiah can almost see it: the weight Mikha carries everywhere, the thing she drinks around, the thing she never names. The I love you didn't cause it. It just knocked.

She doesn't ask what it is. She doesn't push. Mikha will say it when she's ready, or she won't, and either way Aiah isn't going to drag it out of her at four in the morning.

Instead she leans in and presses her lips to Mikha's cheek. Just there, at the wet track of a tear, and lingers.

Mikha looks at Aiah, her hand comes up and wipes the tear off Aiah's chin. Then she leans in and kisses her.

It's slow. Softer than anything they did last night. No hunger in it, no destination. Mikha kisses her like the kiss itself is the point, and Aiah smiles against her mouth.

When they pull apart, Mikha looks at her for a second and then—Aiah would swear to it—pouts.

"Hug," Mikha says. "Please."

Aiah laughs softly. "You're adorable."

Mikha huffs. "What even is that word?" She reaches for Aiah's arm. "I'm cool. Come here na, please."

Aiah shakes her head as she gathers the duvet with her and swings one leg over Mikha's thighs, settling onto her lap. Her arms go around Mikha's neck.

Mikha's hands find her waist immediately. Aiah leans down into her, and the duvet drapes over both of them.

Mikha sighs heavily, the kind that empties a person out. She turns her head and kisses Aiah's cheek, then pulls her in tight.

They stay like that. Aiah rests her cheek against Mikha's temple and closes her eyes. She can feel Mikha's heartbeat against her chest—a little fast, same as hers.

Then Mikha's hands start to move. They slide from Aiah's waist down over her hips, curve around the bare skin of her ass, drop to the tops of her thighs, and come back up again. Down. Up. Down. Up. It isn't leading anywhere. It's just touching, the way you touch something you're not ready to let go of yet.

Aiah hums against her hair. The duvet is warm, and Mikha is warmer, and under her, pressed against the inside of her thigh, she can feel it—Mikha's cock hardening by degrees. Not fast. Just there. Getting there.

"You're warm," Mikha whispers.

Aiah smiles into her hair. "I'm feeling hot too."

And she grinds. Just once. A slow roll of her hips, small, gentle, and she feels Mikha's breath catch against her jaw.

Mikha hums. Her hands tighten, both palms landing on Aiah's ass and squeezing. Then one hand slides down, fingers dipping between them, behind Aiah, and finds her.

Aiah shivers. Her hips buck into the touch before she can think about it. She's wet—she has been since the hug started, since the kiss, since before any of it, honestly.

"Fuck," Mikha breathes. Her fingers slide through the slick, barely touching.

Aiah's whole body goes tight.

"Are you sure?" Mikha asks.

Aiah pulls back from her neck and looks at her. Really looks. Dark eyes, wet lashes, that sharp jaw, a mouth still swollen from kissing. She is so beautiful it makes Aiah a little angry, and she is asking are you sure again, like Aiah's body isn't sitting in her lap answering the question for her.

"You should stop asking me that," Aiah says.

"Baby." Mikha's hands slide up her waist, palms flat and warm. "I'm a horndog for you. I needed to make sure."

Aiah laughs. It comes out loud—too loud for the hour—and her head tilts back with it, her hair falling behind her shoulders. Mikha laughs with her, low and rough, and it's the best sound Aiah has heard all day.

She squishes Mikha's cheeks between her palms, and kisses her on the mouth. "I love you," she says against her lips. "And I want you inside me."

Mikha's eyes darken with want. She moves. One arm bands around Aiah's back, lifting her up, and the other shoves her boxers down and kicks them off her ankles. The duvet slips off Aiah's shoulders and pools on the floor.

Then Mikha's hands are back on her hips, and she grinds up—the underside of her cock sliding along Aiah's folds, gathering slick, dragging over her clit.

Aiah's head drops onto Mikha's shoulder, grinding back down against her.

"Mmm—love—"

"Fuck," Mikha whispers.

Aiah lifts her face, resting her forehead against Mikha's. They're both breathing hard, gasping on each slow, wet slide. Mikha leans up and kisses her—slow, deep, tongue and teeth and patience—and they stay like that for a while, moving together, kissing through it, no hurry in the world.

Then Aiah pulls back, just a little. Mikha follows her mouth, chasing it. Aiah chuckles and presses a hand to Mikha's chest to hold her still.

She reaches down between them and wraps her fingers around Mikha's cock.

It's hot in her hand. Heavy. The tip is wet, leaking against her palm. She strokes it once—slow, base to tip—and watches Mikha's mouth fall open, her head tipping back against the couch. Her throat moves. Her eyes shut.

Aiah strokes again, firmer this time. "You're huge," she says, looking at Mikha's face. "And so hard for me. I still can't believe this fits inside me." Another stroke, and Mikha's hips twitch up into her fist. "I love your dick."

"Fuck," Mikha mutters. The tips of her ears have gone pink. It spreads down to her throat, down to her chest. And Aiah wants to bite it.

Mikha opens her eyes. She looks at Aiah, her eyes half-lidded yet Aiah can feel the intense hunger now.

Mikha reaches around, both hands on Aiah's ass, and pulls her in closer. "Please," she whispers.

Aiah lifts herself up. Mikha's hands move to help—one under her thigh, one at the small of her back, taking her weight—and Aiah reaches down and lines Mikha's cock up against her entrance. Their foreheads touch again. She sinks down. Just the tip, and she stops there, gripping Mikha's traps so hard her knuckles go white, her eyes shut.

Mikha's breath hitches, holding Aiah still.

"What the fuck are you so big for, Mikha Lim?"

Mikha huffs a quiet laugh, breathless. "I don't really know, Mrs. Lim."

The words land in Aiah's chest. Mrs. Lim. She hears it and her heart slams, hard enough that she feels it in her ears. She stares back at Mikha and sinks down slowly, inch by inch. Mikha's mouth falls open. Aiah's does too. Neither of them makes a sound until Aiah is fully seated.

"Baby—" Mikha gasps. "I think I'm gonna—"

"No." Aiah breathes.

Mikha leans in and kisses her. Deep. Then Aiah starts to move.

She rolls her hips—slow circles, grinding down against Mikha's lap.

"Ahhh—fucking—hell—" Mikha groans, eyes shutting, head tipping back.

Her hands stay on Aiah's hips, letting her set the pace. Letting her lead. Aiah does it again. Again. Each roll of her hips drags Mikha deeper, and she feels every inch of her, the stretch, the fullness, the way her body gives and holds at the same time.

Then Mikha leans up and her mouth travels. From Aiah's mouth down to her jaw, hot and open. Down her throat. Down to her breasts, where she takes one nipple into her mouth and sucks, and Aiah arches back with a gasp, her hands flying up to grip Mikha's hair.

Mikha's hands squeeze her ass hard—hard enough to leave prints—and then Mikha starts to meet her. Deeper now, but still slow. Each thrust pushes up into her, and Aiah can feel the head of Mikha's cock drag along inside her that makes her thighs shake.

"You're so tight around me, baby," Mikha whispers against her chest. A thrust. "You're caging me so much." A grunt. "Does your dripping, delicious cunt know that I'm not going anywhere?" Another deep thrust, and Aiah's mouth falls open against Mikha's hair.

She can't answer. She can only moan, low and continuously, her hips working against Mikha's lap. They're both a mess of sound now—wet, gasping, the slap of skin on skin, Mikha's breath hot on her chest.

Aiah puts her mouth at Mikha's ear. "Harder," she whispers. "Please."

Mikha obeys, gripping Aiah's ass tighter.

"Ahhh—right there—love—" Aiah gasps.

Mikha's own breath punches out of her with every thrust, matching her sound for sound.

"Tangina—ahhh—baby—so good—"

Aiah finds the ear again. "Faster. Please."

Mikha's arms band around the small of Aiah's back and pull her in tight. She reclines further into the couch, finds her footing on the floor, and then she's pounding up into Aiah—hard and fast, no more holding back—and Aiah can't keep up anymore. She stops trying. She just wraps her arms around Mikha's neck and lets her move, lets her take it, her whole body rocking with each thrust.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, baby," Mikha mutters into her throat. Her voice is wrecked. "Fuck—"

Aiah moans against her ear, and it builds, and it builds, and then it breaks. Her cunt clenches hard around Mikha's cock, her thighs locking, her whole body bowing into her—and Mikha follows half a second later, hips stuttering, spilling inside her with a groan that vibrates through Aiah's chest. They ride it out together, shaking, until the last pulse fades and neither of them can move.

They stay like that. Aiah's face buried in Mikha's neck, Mikha's arms wrapped around her, both of them breathing like they ran up a marathon.

Mikha turns her head and kisses Aiah's hair. Her hands start to move again—slow circles on Aiah's back, up and down, gentle, unhurried. Aiah feels her own heartbeat slow to meet Mikha's as she closes her eyes.