The sun sits low over the treeline. Aiah walks with her hand loose in Mikha's, her sandals collecting dust, her legs sore in a way she doesn't mind. They've been out since mid-afternoon—the mango grove, the irrigation ditch where Mikha pointed out a snake and laughed when Aiah jumped, the small bunkhouse where the workers keep their tools and a radio that only plays AM stations.

"You're quiet," Mikha says, bumping her shoulder.

"I'm tired. In a good way."

"Good. That means the farm worked."

Aiah laughs. "Is that what farms are for? Wearing out wives?"

"Mine is." Mikha grins, that crooked grin that still catches Aiah off guard. "Come on. Kuya Bert's been cooking all afternoon. I can smell it from here."

Aiah smells it too—charcoal smoke, garlic, something sweet and briny underneath. Her stomach rumbles, loud enough that Mikha hears it and snorts.

"Ma'am. Control yourself."

"Shut up."

They round the corner of the house and Aiah stops walking.

A long table has been set up in the front yard, its surface covered edge to edge with banana leaves. Around it, the farm's people move—men carrying platters, kids running, women stacking bottles of water. The leaves are already dressed: a long ridge of rice down the middle, and scattered around it—grilled fishes with charred skin, shrimps, crabs, liempo sliced thick, eggplants, tomatoes, salted eggs cut in halves, small bowls of soy sauce and vinegar with chilies floating on top.

Aiah knows boodle fight. She's done it once, back in high school, at Maloi's birthday on a beach in Zambales, where sand got into everything and she spent the whole night picking grit out of her teeth. She remembers thinking it was the most chaotic, most alive meal she'd ever eaten.

Kuya Bert waves them over. "Mikha! Ma’am Aiah! Sakto dating niyo. Tara po—kain na, habang mainit pa."

Mikha lifts a hand in greeting. "Thank you, kuya. Sobrang dami naman nito."

"Syempre. Nagyon mo lang dinala asawa mo rito," Kuya Bert says, smiling. "Sabi mo seafood, ayan, seafood."

Aiah turns to Mikha, frowning slightly. "You told him?"

"You said you were craving shrimp. Last week. In the car." Mikha shrugs like it's nothing, like she hasn't just pulled something out of Aiah's memory that Aiah barely remembers saying. "I messaged him while we were walking."

Aiah stares at her. "You were with me the whole time."

"I'm fast."

"You—" Aiah stops, because there's no point. She just shakes her head with a smile forming on her lips.

Mikha's smile widens. "Come on, Mrs. Lim. Let's eat."

Everyone settles around the table, standing. The farmers' wives come forward with their kids—a boy of maybe nine, a girl in pigtails who can't be older than four, a teenager with headphones around her neck. The kids stare at Aiah with open curiosity, then at Mikha with something warmer, something that looks a lot like love.

Mikha's hand finds the small of Aiah's back as Kuya Bert clears his throat and bows his head.

"Lord, thank You for this day. Thank You for the harvest, for the rain that's coming, for the people at this table. Thank You for bringing Mikha here safely, and for bringing ma'am Aiah, her wife, with her. Bless this food. Amen."

A chorus of amens. Aiah echoes it quietly, and when she opens her eyes Mikha is already looking at her, eyes soft and unreadable. Then Mikha looks away, picks up a shrimp, and the moment folds into the noise of the meal.

They eat with their hands. Aiah hesitates for half a second—she's in a white sundress, she's a guest, she doesn't know the rules out here—but Mikha nudges her, and Kuya Bert's wife, Aling Rosa, shows her how to scoop rice with her fingers, and after the first bite Aiah forgets to be careful. The fish is smoky and salty. The shrimp are sweet. The liempo is charred at the edges and she eats three pieces before she realizes she's been eating three pieces.

Around her, the table is loud. Mikha is loud. She's telling a story about a goat that got into the bunkhouse last summer and ate someone's slippers, and the farmers are laughing, and one of them counters with a story about Mikha falling into the irrigation ditch her first week here, and Mikha groans and throws a piece of eggplant at him, and the whole table loses it.

Aiah watches. She laughs when everyone laughs. She answers when one of the wives asks her politely where she's from, what she does, how she and Mikha met—and she gives them the clean version, the one they've been using, our families introduced us, and the wife nods like that's a perfectly normal way to fall in love. Aiah doesn't correct her.

But mostly she watches Mikha.

Mikha, who is loud here in a way she isn't in Manila. Mikha, who knows all their names, who asks about the boy's school and the teenager's headphones and the little girl's new shoes. Mikha, who reaches over without looking and refills Aiah's glass of water before it's even half empty. Mikha, who peels shrimp with quick, practiced fingers and drops them onto Aiah's side of the banana leaf without a word, one after another, until Aiah has a small pile of them.

Aiah pauses. "Love, that's enough na."

"No, no." Mikha doesn't look up. She's already working on a crab, cracking the shell with her thumbs, pulling the meat out in one clean piece and setting it next to the shrimp.

"Mikha."

"Hm?"

"Eat your own food."

"I am." Mikha pops a piece of crab into her mouth, then goes back to cracking. "See? Eating."

Aiah's chest does something complicated. She looks down at the pile of shrimp and crab meat on her leaf, and she thinks—she doesn't want to think it, but she does—that no one has done this for her since she was a child. Her mother used to peel shrimp for her. Her father used to crack crab for her at family dinners, and she'd watch his hands, and she'd feel small and safe in a way she stopped feeling a long time ago.

She eats the shrimp. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to.

By the time the food is gone, the sky has gone purple at the edges and someone has hung a string of bulbs over the table. The kids are running around with flashlights. Everyone starts cleaning. Aiah helps clear the table with the wives while Mikha stacks platters. They wash their hands at the outdoor tap.

Aiah lifts her dress to her nose. "I smell like the ocean."

"You smell like the farm," Mikha says, drying her hands on the towel. "It's a good smell."

"It's a strong smell."

"Good. Now everyone knows you've been here."

They sit on a wooden bench at the edge of the yard, away from the noise but still close enough to hear it. Mikha's arm comes around Aiah's shoulders, and Aiah leans into her, and for a while they just breathe.

Then Mikha kisses her temple. "How are you?"

"Happy." Aiah says, looking at Mikha. "I'm happy you brought me here. The people are kind. They love you. I'm glad you have this."

"I love you." Mikha presses a quick kiss to Aiah's mouth.

Aiah smiles softly. "I love you."

Across the yard, the little girl in pigtails has wandered away from the other kids and is standing a few feet away, watching. Mikha notices her and holds out a hand.

"Lia. Come here."

The girl comes. Mikha lifts her onto her thigh, and Lia settles there with the ease of a child who has done this many times, her small hand resting on Mikha's shoulder. Mikha says something to her in a low voice, too soft for Aiah to hear, and Lia giggles. Mikha pinches her cheek. Lia swats her hand away. Mikha pinches it again, Lia shrieks with laughter, and Mikha laughs too.

Aiah watches them and feels her throat tighten.

She'd be a good parent.

The thought lands heavy, and she looks away before it can settle anywhere, her eyes dropping to her lap. She doesn't know where the thought came from. She doesn't know what to do with it. She pushes it down and keeps it there.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket.

She pulls it out. A message from her secretary, Patricia—a forwarded email from one of the gala's major sponsors, a company that's put up more money than anyone else. My apologies for messaging at this hour, ma'am. They're asking for a quick video call tonight. Not urgent, but they want to clarify some things about the seating and the press access. They said anytime before ten.

Aiah stares at the screen. The gala is two months away. She's been working on it for a year. Every detail matters—every sponsor, every seating chart, every photographer's angle—and a major sponsor asking for a call is not something she can decline, not when they've given what they've given, not when a single wrong answer could mean a pulled contract and a hole in the budget she'd have to fill.

Executives don't rest. Aiah learned that from her father, who took calls at her birthday dinners and answered emails at midnight and never once made her feel like she came second. She's not going to be the one who drops the ball on this.

She looks up. Mikha is still talking to Lia, tickling her side, both of them laughing.

Aiah touches Mikha's arm. "Love."

Mikha turns. Her face shifts—she reads Aiah's expression in half a second, the way she's learned to. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just—I have to go inside. A sponsor wants a video call. It's not urgent, but it's not nothing either."

Mikha's jaw moves. She doesn't argue. She sets Lia down gently, says something soft to her— go play, baby, I'll be right here —and Lia runs off toward the other kids. Mikha stands and holds out a hand to Aiah.

"Come on. I'll walk you in."

They cross the yard. Kuya Bert calls out from the table, where the men have gathered with a liqour bottle and a set of small glasses.

"Mikha! San ka pupunta? Bumili kami lambanog oh. Hindi pwedeng hindi ka iinom."

Mikha stops. She looks at Aiah. And Aiah sees it—the pull in her face, the way her eyes flick toward the table and then back, the way her mouth tightens at the corner. She doesn't want to go. She's hoping Aiah will say no.

Aiah laughs softly. "You should go."

Mikha pouts. Actually pouts, her lower lip pushing out, her brows drawing together, and Aiah has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing again.

"Mikha."

"I just want to stay with you."

"You can stay with me after." Aiah looks back at Kuya Bert, raising her voice so it carries. "She'll join po, kuya! Mag-shower lang po muna siya."

Kuya Bert beams. The other men cheer. One of them raises his glass in Mikha's direction and says something Aiah doesn't catch, and Mikha rolls her eyes but there's no heat in it.

Aiah takes her hand and pulls her inside.

The house is dim, cooler than the yard from the air condintioning. Aiah lets go of Mikha's hand and crosses to the couch, where she left her bag, and pulls out her laptop. She walks to the head of the dining table and sets it down, opening the lid.

"Go," she says, not looking back. "I'll be right here. You can see me from the window."

Mikha comes up behind her, arms wrapping around her waist, chin resting onto her shoulder.

"I don't want to go."

Aiah rubs Mikha's wrists and turns her head just enough to see Mikha's profile.

"You should, love. When will you get to see them again?"

Mikha sighs. It's a long, defeated sound.

Aiah turns in Mikha's arms, leans in, and kisses her—soft, slow. Mikha kisses back. Her hands slide down and grab Aiah's ass, squeezing. Aiah laughs against her mouth and pushes her gently by the chest.

"Go shower na. You smell like shrimp."

"So do you."

"Then we both have to shower. But I have a meeting, so you go first."

Mikha sulks—shoulders dropping, mouth pulling to the side—and Aiah has to fight the urge to kiss the expression off her face.

"I don't want to go out."

"Love."

"I'll just watch you work."

Aiah chuckles and shakes her head. "You'll be bored. Bond with them."

Mikha opens her mouth to argue. Aiah kisses her again—quick, a peck on the lips—and turns before Mikha can say anyting, pulling out a chair and sitting down in front of her laptop.

Mikha stands still for a moment. Then she walks over, leans down, and presses a kiss to Aiah's temple.

"I love you," she whispers.

Then she's gone, footsteps heading toward the bedroom, and the door clicks shut.

Aiah opens the meeting link. Mrs. Cruz's face appears on the screen—mid-fifties, sharp glasses, the kind of woman who has been running corporate sponsorships since before Aiah was born. Mrs. Cruz says good evening and apologizes for the sudden meeting request, Aiah greets back and tells her it's okay, and they get into it: the seating arrangement, the press access, the question of whether the sponsor's logo can go on the step-and-repeat backdrop, the timing of the program.

It's not hard work. It's just work—the kind Aiah has been doing since she was twenty-three, the kind she's good at, the kind that makes her feel like she's standing on solid ground.

She hears the bedroom door open. She glances up.

Mikha comes out in a fresh white shirt and black shorts, her hair still damp, pushed back from her forehead. She looks at Aiah. She pouts again—deliberately this time, a performance—and Aiah has to cover her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing on camera.

She mouths, Go, love.

Mikha sighs heavily. She looks at the main door like it's personally offended her. Then she looks back at Aiah. Aiah raises her eyebrows. Mikha gives up and walks out.

Aiah watches her go through the window. Mikha crosses the yard, and the men at the table call out to her, and she raises a hand, and someone hands her a glass, and she sits down and the whole table reshapes itself around her. Aiah can hear the laughter from here, muffled through the glass.

"Ms. Arceta?" Mrs. Cruz says.

Aiah blinks and turns back to the screen. "Sorry. Yes. The step-and-repeat—I think we can accommodate that, but I'll need to check with the venue on the dimensions."

They keep going. Aiah takes notes, answers questions. Every few minutes she glances up, out the window. Mikha is still at the table. At some point the little girl, Lia, has climbed onto her lap, and Mikha is holding her with one arm while she talks, her other hand around a glass. She's laughing at something. Then she's leaning over to say something to the boy beside her, and the boy laughs too, and Mikha ruffles his hair.

Aiah watches her and feels the warmth settle in her chest.

"Ms. Arceta, are you still with me?"

Aiah looks back at the screen. She's smiling. She can feel it on her own face, and she doesn't bother to hide it.

"Yes, Mrs. Cruz. I'm here."

~~

The call ends at 9:20. Aiah closes the laptop and sits for a moment in the quiet. Through the window, Mikha is still at the table, Lia asleep against her chest now, one of the men mid-story with a glass raised.

Aiah stands, stretches, and walks to the bedroom.

The room is dim, lit only by the lamp on the far nightstand. Both duffle bags—hers, dark green; Mikha's, black—sit open on the low bench at the foot of the bed. Aiah frowns and steps closer. Empty. Both of them, completely empty.

She turns and opens the cabinet.

Their clothes are there. Folded neatly.

Aiah reaches in and takes her sleepwear off the top of the pile. She holds it against her chest and stands there a moment longer, looking at the neat rows of their clothes side by side in the cabinet. Then she closes the door and walks to the bathroom.

The shower is hot and it hurts her shoulders in the good way. She washes the farm off her skin and stands under the water with her eyes closed until the heat starts to go. When she steps out, she wraps a towel around her hair, another around her body, and dries off. She pulls on the shorts and the top. The silk is cool against her skin.

She blow-dries her hair, working through it section by section, watching herself in the mirror. The gala. Two months. She runs through the revised layout in her head while she dries. She has to be at the office before eight tomorrow. That means leaving the farm by five-thirty, at the latest. She does the math. She should be asleep by ten-thirty.

She checks her phone. 9:45.

She sets the dryer down, runs her fingers through her hair once, and steps out of the bathroom.

The bedroom window is curtained. She walks toward it, pushes it slightly, and looks out.

Mikha is still at the table. Her cheeks are pink—pink in a way that has nothing to do with the yellow bulbs. Her eyes have gone soft and heavy, the way they do after a few drinks, and she's leaning on her elbow, listening to Kuya Bert tell her something with both hands. She nods along. She smiles at the right places. But Aiah can see it from here: she's sleepy. She's had enough.

Aiah turns and walks out the bedroom, toward the main door. She opens it, crosses her arms over her chest and calls out, gentle but loud enough to carry.

"Love. Time to come in."

Mikha turns. Her whole face changes when she sees Aiah—goes bright, then soft, then a little stupid, the way it does when she's had a few.

She turns back to Kuya Bert, says something Aiah can't hear and puts her hand on his shoulder. The men at the table groan. One of them calls out something that sounds like a protest, and another raises his glass in Aiah's direction like a challenge.

Aiah stays inside, arms still crossed because she doesn't have undergarments underneath. "Sorry po, kuya. We have to leave early tomorrow. Maaga po ang pasok ko sa office."

Kuya Bert waves her off with both hands. "Ay, syempre. Syempre. Sige, Mikha, tulog na kayo. Salamat sa pagbisita." He stands, a little unsteady, and bows his head toward Aiah. "Good night, ma'am Aiah. Ingat kayo bukas."

"Good night po. Thank you for everything."

Mikha hands Lia carefully to one of the farmer's wife, Lia's mother. Then she pushes herself up from the bench. She walks toward Aiah with a small smile on her face, her steps are careful in the way of someone who is more drunk than she's letting on. She stops in front of Aiah and just looks at her.

Aiah smiles softly. "You clearly enjoyed yourself."

Mikha chuckles. Low, rough. She doesn't deny it.

Aiah steps back, holds the door open, and lets Mikha walk through first. Then she closes it behind them. The noise of the yard drops to a muffled hum.

She walks to the kitchen. Mikha follows—Aiah can hear her bare feet on the tile behind her. She opens the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, cracks the cap, and holds it out.

"Drink."

Mikha takes it. She tips her head back and drinks half the bottle in one long swallow. She sets it down on the counter and looks at Aiah. Then she steps in, wraps her arms around her, and her face goes into Aiah's neck.

"I missed you," she whispers.

Aiah laughs softly and rubs her back. "I was gone for an hour."

"Still." Mikha's arms tighten. "You were in here working and I was out there and I kept looking at the window."

Aiah holds her a moment longer. Mikha's skin is warm and she smells like lambanog and smoke and herself underneath. Aiah breathes her in and rubs one slow circle between her shoulder blades.

"Come on," she says. "Bed."

They walk toward the bedroom. Aiah turns off the kitchen light as they pass. The hallway light. The lamp in the living room. By the time they reach the bedroom door, the house behind them is dark.

Mikha closes the door. It clicks shut, and the room goes quiet—just the hum of the aircon and the muffled sound of the men outside.

Aiah walks to the bed and pulls the duvet back. The sheets are cool and clean-smelling, sun-dried, and she settles onto her side of the mattress and pulls the covers up to her chin. The lamp on the far nightstand throws a soft yellow circle on the wall. She looks at Mikha, who is still standing by the door with her hand on the frame.

"Turn off the light," Aiah says.

Mikha nods. But she doesn't go for the switch first. She picks up the aircon remote from the nightstand and presses it twice, and the unit above the window hums louder, colder. Then she flicks the light off. The room goes dark except for the thin line of moonlight coming through the gap in the curtains.

Aiah hears her moving. Bare feet on tile, the soft drag of fabric. She turns her head on the pillow and watches Mikha's shape in the dim room—watches her unbutton the white shirt and let it fall off her shoulders, watches her unclip the shorts and step out of them. The moonlight catches the line of her back, the flex of muscle at her shoulder blades, the pale length of her legs. She peels off everything else except the black boxers, and then she crosses to her side of the bed and lifts the duvet.

The mattress dips. Mikha slides in close and reaches for her, one arm going under Aiah's neck, the other across her waist, and pulls her in. Aiah goes willingly. She puts her leg over Mikha's hips, her arm around Mikha's waist, and presses her face into the crook of Mikha's shoulder. Mikha's skin is warm and smells like lambanog and soap and something underneath that Aiah has come to know as just her. Aiah tilts her head up.

Mikha looks down at her. She kisses Aiah's forehead, slow, her lips staying there a beat longer than they need to.

"I hate lambanog," Mikha says. Her voice is low, a little rougher than usual. "This is the only time I'm drinking it again. It gets me tipsy after like three shots. Three."

Aiah laughs against her shoulder. "Maybe it's because you're tired. The drive. The walk. The whole day."

"Maybe." Mikha's hand moves on Aiah's side, slow, up and down, the heel of her palm pressing gently into the curve of Aiah's ribs. "How was your meeting?"

"It was fine. Long." Aiah shifts, tucking her cold feet against Mikha's calf. "Mrs. Cruz—she's the sponsor's rep—she wants their logo on the step-and-repeat backdrop. I told her I'd check the venue dimensions. Then there's the seating. They want their table closer to the stage, but that shifts everybody else. I have to redo the whole chart."

"You'll figure it out."

"I know. It's just—the gala's two months away. I've been working on it for a year. Every detail matters."

Mikha's hand stops moving. She tilts her head down to look at Aiah properly. "You've been working on it a year?"

"Since last October."

"And you still take calls at nine at night on a farm."

Aiah smiles. "Executives don't rest."

"Yeah, I know. I've met your father." Mikha's hand resumes its slow rub. "I'm proud of you."

Aiah goes still for a second. She's heard those words before—from her father, from her mother, from Maloi and Stacey—but not from Mikha. Not like this, in the dark, after a day of farm dust and boodle fight and a little girl asleep on Mikha's chest.

"Thank you," she says quietly. "I hope the event goes smoothly."

"It will."

"You don't know that."

"I know you." Mikha says it simply, like it's a fact she's checked. "It will."

Aiah is quiet. Then she says, "I love you."

Mikha answers without a beat. "I love you too."

Aiah's brows knit. She pulls back half an inch, just enough to look at Mikha's face. "I don't like the 'too'."

Mikha blinks. "Why?"

"It doesn't feel sincere to me." Aiah's voice is even, but her eyes stay on Mikha's, watching. "It feels like the words are saying it back to me because I said it first. Like the person I said it to is just obligated to say it back. That's why I don't like 'I love you too' or 'I love you more'." She pauses. "Stacey and Maloi know that. I know it's weird. I just wanted you to know."

Mikha is quiet for a moment. Then she says, "It's not weird."

Aiah searches her face.

"I appreciate you telling me," Mikha says. Her hand comes up and takes Aiah's jaw, thumb resting on the hinge of it. "I mean that."

She leans down. Her mouth is close to Aiah's ear when she whispers it.

"I love you."

Then she kisses her. Soft. Just pressure, no hurry, her thumb still holding Aiah's jaw like she's keeping her in place for it. Aiah kisses back, and the kiss stretches—one long moment, then a breath, then another kiss, then another breath. Mikha's mouth is warm and tastes faintly of lambanog, and Aiah doesn't mind it. She has her hand on Mikha's shoulder, then in her hair, and Mikha's hand slides from her jaw down her neck, down her shoulder, down her side, over her hip, and lands on the swell of her ass. She squeezes once, gentle, and Aiah moans into her mouth.

She rolls her thigh against Mikha without thinking about it. Mikha groans. Her hips shift, and Aiah feels her—hard, thick, pressing through the boxers against Aiah's inner thigh. Aiah's breath catches.

Mikha pulls back just enough to look at her. Then she pushes the duvet off both of them, swings a leg over, and moves with Aiah as Aiah rolls onto her back. Mikha settles on top, her weight braced on one forearm, and finds Aiah's mouth again before Aiah can say anything.

She doesn't stay at Aiah's mouth long. She goes down. Her lips move along Aiah's jaw, down her throat, into the hollow at the base of her neck, and Aiah tips her head back into the pillow and lets her. Aiah's hands come up into Mikha's hair, gripping, holding her where she is. Mikha's mouth reaches Aiah's breast, still covered by the silk top, and she closes her lips over the nipple through the fabric and bites—gently, just enough that Aiah's breath hitches and her back lifts off the mattress an inch.

Mikha's hand finds the other breast. She palms it through the silk, squeezes, and Aiah hums low in her throat. She arches up, chasing the warmth of Mikha's hand, and Mikha gives her more—mouth on one side, hand on the other, working her until the silk is damp and clinging.

Then Mikha sits up on her knees and pulls the top up. Aiah lifts her arms to help her, and the silk comes off over her head and lands somewhere on the floor. Mikha's mouth is back on her before the cold air even reaches her skin.

Skin now. Mikha's tongue flat against her nipple, then her lips closing around it, sucking, then her teeth again—light—and Aiah moans, loud, and her hand flies up to cover her own mouth.

Mikha stops. She lifts her head and reaches up and pulls Aiah's hand away from her mouth. Her fingers close around Aiah's wrist and press it back down to the pillow.

"Don't."

Aiah looks up at her.

"I made this bedroom soundproof," Mikha says. "The windows are one-way. I did it because I cry in here. I throw things. I don't want anyone to hear it." She says it plainly, no weight on it, like she's reading a label. "So you don't have to worry about being loud. I like you loud."

Aiah doesn't answer. She's not sure what to say to that, to the image of Mikha crying alone in this room with the windows blacked out.

Mikha doesn't wait for an answer. She goes back to Aiah's breasts—mouth and hand, lapping and squeezing—and then she starts moving down. She kisses every inch of the way. The dip below Aiah's ribs. Her stomach. The soft skin above her hip. Aiah's breathing gets harder, her hands back in Mikha's hair, holding on.

Mikha's palms press Aiah's thighs open. Then she lowers her head and kisses Aiah's pussy over the silk shorts.

Aiah's hips jerk up off the bed. "Fuck," she whispers.

Mikha doesn't rush. She rubs her thumb over Aiah through the silk—slow circles, light pressure—and Aiah can hear how wet she already is, the fabric clinging and slick under Mikha's thumb.

"I can feel it," Mikha says. Her voice is low, almost lazy. "You're dripping through the shorts." She keeps rubbing. "I appreciate you staying inside earlier. When you called me in." Her thumb presses a little harder. "I didn't want the farmers seeing your ass cheeks bouncing around out there. I know you don't like wearing anything under your sleepwear."

Aiah is gasping. "I would never risk it." Her voice comes out ragged. "My body is only for you."

Mikha hums, approving. "Good."

She hooks her fingers in the waistband of the shorts and pulls. Aiah lifts her hips to help, bends her knees up, and Mikha slides them off her legs and drops them off the side of the bed.

Then Mikha is looking at her. Aiah's legs are open, she's shaved and wet and she can feel the cool air of the aircon on her, and Mikha just stares. Her hands move over Aiah's under-thighs, her hips, her waist, and then up to palm her breasts again, holding them, thumbs moving over the nipples.

"Please," Aiah says. Her hands come up and rest on top of Mikha's. She opens her legs wider.

Mikha's eyes drop between them. "Fuck, baby." Her voice has gone rough. "You're soaking."

Aiah's hips buck again.

Mikha leans down.

The first touch of her mouth is slow. Her tongue drags up the whole length of Aiah's pussy, flat and warm, from the bottom to the top, and Aiah's whole body curls up off the bed. Then Mikha does it again, harder, and this time she closes her lips around Aiah's clit and sucks.

Aiah moans. Her back arches, her legs clamp around Mikha's ears, and her hands dive into Mikha's hair and hold. Mikha doesn't stop. She laps at her, tongue working in steady strokes, then circles, then back to long drags, and her hands stays to Aiah's breasts and squeeze—not hard, just enough that the pressure keeps Aiah riding the edge. She groans against Aiah's pussy, and the vibration goes through Aiah like a current.

Aiah's legs start to shake. She's chasing it, hips rolling against Mikha's mouth, and she comes without a sound—just her body seizing, her thighs locking around Mikha's head, her breath stopping in her chest.

Mikha doesn't stop.

"Baby—" Aiah gasps, her voice breaking. "Sensitive."

Mikha's mouth keeps working. She's relentless, tongue and lips and the flat of her tongue, and Aiah's second orgasm builds so fast she doesn't have time to brace. It hits her and she squirts—actually squirts, a hot gush against Mikha's chin—and her nails dig into Mikha's arms, hard enough to leave marks.

Mikha pulls her face back and looks. She props herself on one elbow and watches, and Aiah can see her face in the dim light—amazed, and proud, a small smile pulling at her mouth. She slides two fingers into Aiah while Aiah is still coming, curling them, helping her ride it out until the last of the shaking stops and Aiah's body goes limp into the mattress.

Mikha pulls her fingers out and puts them in her mouth. She sucks them clean, watching Aiah the whole time.

"Fuck," she says. "That was so hot."

Aiah is still trying to breathe. Her chest is rising and falling, her skin is flushed, and she can feel the wet spot spreading under her hips. She watches Mikha sit up on her knees, hook her thumbs in the waistband of the boxers, and push them down and off. Her cock is hard, thick and flushed, curving up against her stomach, pre-cum leaking, and Aiah's mouth goes dry at the sight of it.

Mikha comes back down over her. She braces on her forearms and kisses Aiah's closed eyes, her forehead, her parted lips. Aiah smiles, still catching her breath.

"I've never squirted in my life," she says. Her voice is hoarse. "That felt good. You're an animal."

Mikha chuckles. "Sorry, my love."

"Don't be." Aiah opens her eyes and reaches up, takes the back of Mikha's neck, and pulls her down into a deep kiss. Mikha kisses her back, and her hand traces Aiah's side—slow, soft, up and down the length of her ribs and waist and hip—while the kiss goes on.

They stay like that for a while. Mikha's mouth on hers, then her throat, then her mouth again. Her hand warming Aiah's skin back up, bringing her down slow, and Aiah lets her. She lies there and lets Mikha touch her, and the ache builds again, low and patient.

She feels Mikha's cock against her stomach, hard and hot, and every small shift of Mikha's hips smears wetness against her skin. Aiah waits until she's sure. Then she says it.

"Put it in."

Mikha lifts her head. She looks at Aiah for a second, checking. Then she shifts, braces herself, and reaches down. Aiah feels the head of her cock drag along her folds—gathering slickness, coating itself—and then press, just the tip, at her entrance.

They both make a sound. Mikha's jaw tightens. Aiah's eyes close.

Mikha bows her head into Aiah's neck. Her arms come around Aiah's body and pull her in until there's no space left between them—chest to chest, hips to hips—and she pushes in slowly. Inch by inch. Aiah feels every one of them, the stretch and the fullness, and she wraps her arms around Mikha's neck and holds on.

Mikha starts to move.

Slow and deep. She pulls out almost all the way and pushes back in, and Aiah feels her everywhere. Mikha changes the angle—once, twice—until she finds the spot that makes Aiah's moans jump an octave, and then she stays there. She pushes in, pulls out almost all the way, pushes in, pulls out only halfway, pushes in again. Over and over. The rhythm is steady and deliberate, and Aiah can't do anything but take it and moan.

Mikha isn't fucking her like she's trying to finish. She's fucking her like she has all night. Every thrust is firm and gentle at the same time, and every time she bottoms out her hips grind against Aiah's and her breath comes out hot against Aiah's neck.

"I love you," Mikha groans into her shoulder.

"I love you," Aiah gasps back.

They build together. Aiah feels it coiling low in her belly, feels Mikha's thrusts getting shorter and harder, feels her own pussy start to clench around Mikha's cock. Mikha's arms tighten around her, and her rhythm breaks—one deep push, then she's coming, buried all the way inside, her whole body going rigid and then shuddering. Aiah comes with her, a second wave rolling through her, and they hold each other through it, both of them breathing hard into each other's necks.

Mikha kisses Aiah's mouth softly as she pulls out. She doesn't go far. She stays over her a moment, foreheads touching. Then she gets up.

Aiah lies there and watches her cross to the bathroom. The light flicks on, and Aiah blinks at the brightness. She hears water running. Mikha comes back with a small wet towel in one hand and a big dry one in the other.

She folds the dry towel and lays it under Aiah's hips, covering the wet patch. Then she takes the small towel and wipes Aiah clean—gentle, careful, slow, no hurry at all. When she's done she takes the wet towel back to the bathroom and disappears again. When she comes back she's holding a bottle of water.

She sits on the edge of the bed and hands it over. Aiah pushes herself up on one elbow and drinks half of it. Mikha takes the bottle back and finishes the rest in one long swallow. Then she sets it on the nightstand and slides back under the duvet, pulling Aiah down onto her chest.

Aiah goes. She puts her arm across Mikha's stomach and her face into the hollow below her collarbone. Mikha's hand comes up to her head, fingers working gently through her hair, slow circles at her scalp.

"I love you," Mikha whispers into the dark.

"I love you," Aiah whispers back.

Mikha's fingers keep moving. Aiah's eyes close. The aircon hums, cold and steady, and Mikha's heartbeat is slow under her ear, and somewhere far outside the window the men are still laughing at the table.

Aiah lets the sleep pull her under.