The alarm cuts through the dark at exactly 4:30 a.m., a thin electronic beep from the nightstand, and Aiah's body tenses before her mind catches up. She doesn't open her eyes. She doesn't reach for the phone. Because Mikha's hand is already on her back, palm flat and warm against her spine, moving in slow circles that chase the sound away.

The aircon hums. The duvet covered them properly. Aiah's arm is draped over Mikha's waist, her leg thrown over Mikha's hip, and she can feel everything—the heat of Mikha's skin, the slight roughness of her palm, the way her thumb presses just a little harder at the base of Aiah's spine before sliding up again.

Aiah keeps her eyes shut. She wants to stay here, in this exact pocket of time, where the world is just the two of them and the steady rhythm of Mikha's hand. The alarm beeps again. Neither of them moves.

Mikha's fingers trace down her back, following the curve of her spine, and Aiah feels the bed shift as Mikha turns onto her side to face her fully. Their bodies press closer. Mikha's dick is hard against her thigh, then against her stomach as Mikha settles into the new position, and Aiah's breath catches in her throat.

She opens her eyes.

The room is dark, but the faint glow from her phone's alarm catches the edge of Mikha's jaw, the sharp line of it, the way her mouth is curved into a soft smile. Mikha is watching her. Just watching. Like she's been awake for a while. Like she's been waiting.

"Good morning, baby," Mikha whispers. Her hand slides from Aiah's back to her side, fingers splaying over her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast.

Aiah smiles back, still half-lost in sleep. "Good morning." Her voice comes out rough. She lifts her hand to Mikha's jaw, fingers tracing the bone.

Mikha leans in and kisses her. Soft. So soft it makes Aiah's chest ache, a slow press of lips that doesn't ask for anything, that just wants to be there. Aiah kisses her back, and they stay like that for a while, mouths moving together in the dark, unhurried. The alarm beeps a third time. Mikha's hand slides down to Aiah's ass, palm cupping the cheek, squeezing gently.

Aiah moans against her mouth.

Mikha takes the opening, tongue sliding past Aiah's lips, deepening the kiss. She grips Aiah's ass tighter, pulling her closer, and Aiah's hips buckle forward, grinding her front against Mikha's dick.

"Fuck," Mikha whispers.

They grind against each other slowly, Aiah's hips finding a rhythm, Mikha's hand still gripping her ass, pulling her in each time. Aiah can feel how hard Mikha is, the length of her pressed against her stomach, and she wants—she wants—

Mikha's hand slides lower. Past her ass, between her cheeks, fingers finding her pussy from behind.

"Ohh—love—" Aiah moans softly but still loud in the quiet room.

"You're so wet," Mikha breathes against her mouth.

Aiah can't answer. Mikha's middle and ring fingers are moving through her folds, slow and gentle, gathering the slickness, spreading it. Not pushing in. Just playing. Teasing. Aiah's eyes shut, her mouth falling open, a silent moan caught in her throat.

"Feels good?" Mikha whispers.

"Yeah," Aiah manages. Breathless. Her hand finds Mikha's trap muscle, gripping.

"Look at me."

Aiah opens her eyes. Mikha is right there, close enough that her breath is warm on Aiah's lips, and her gaze is steady and dark and completely focused. Then Mikha pushes her middle and ring finger inside her.

Aiah's moan breaks against Mikha's mouth. She doesn't close her eyes. She lets Mikha watch her—the way her jaw tightens, the way her brows pull together, the way her lips part around sounds she can't hold back. Mikha's fingers move slowly, curling, pressing against the front wall, and Aiah's hips buck, chasing the feeling each time Mikha pulls back.

"You're so warm," Mikha whispers. "So tight. You feel that? How you're gripping my fingers?"

Aiah can only moan. Her nails dig into Mikha's trap. Her hips are moving on their own now, grinding down onto Mikha's hand, and she can feel it building, that familiar coil tightening low in her belly.

"Love," she gasps. "I'm—"

Mikha stops. Pulls her fingers out completely.

"Mikha Lim," Aiah mutters, a sharp frustrated sound.

Mikha chuckles. She brings her hand up between them, two fingers glistening, and holds Aiah's gaze as she slides them into her own mouth. Sucks them clean. Hums at the taste.

Aiah's hips jerk forward, empty and aching. Her hand reaches down under the covers, finds Mikha's dick, wraps around it and strokes once. Mikha's hand moves away from her mouth to hold Aiah's arm, her eyes fluttering shut, a moan escaping her.

"Fuck, baby," she breathes.

Aiah strokes again, slow, thumb dragging over the head. "I love your cock," she whispers. "I love how it aches for me."

Mikha rests her forehead against Aiah's, hips bucking into her hand, breathing ragged. "You're going to kill me."

"Not yet."

Aiah keeps stroking, watching Mikha come apart, the way her jaw clenches, the way her breath stutters. But then Mikha moves—pushes the covers down, grabs Aiah's wrist and pulls her hand away, holds her thigh firmly where it's still draped over her hip.

"I need to be inside you, please," Mikha whispers, her voice breaking.

"How many times do I need to tell you that you don't need to ask, my love?"

Mikha shifts her hips, guides herself to Aiah's entrance. The head of her cock presses against her, slick and hot.

Aiah's breath catches.

Mikha pushes in slowly. Just the tip at first, then more, inch by inch, and Aiah's hand grips her trap again, nails biting into muscle.

"Fucking hell. I was just inside you last night. But—fuck—" Mikha groans. "You're so tight."

Aiah can't speak. She can only feel, the way Mikha fills her completely until their hips are flush and there's nowhere left to go. Mikha stays there for a moment, forehead against Aiah's, both of them breathing hard.

Then she starts to move. Slow. Deep. Each thrust pulls almost all the way out before pushing back in, and Aiah's moans break against Mikha's mouth with every stroke. Mikha's hand finds her hip, holding her steady, and her rhythm builds—still deep, but faster now, the slick sound filling the dark room.

"Look at me," Mikha whispers again, and Aiah does. Their eyes stay locked as Mikha fucks her, slow and deliberate, each thrust hitting something that makes Aiah's toes curl. She can feel it building again, that coil, tighter this time, and she knows Mikha can feel it too—the way her pussy clenches around her, the way her breath goes shallow.

"I'm close," Aiah gasps.

"Me too." Mikha's voice is strained. "Come with me. Please."

Aiah's hips meet hers, matching her rhythm, and then it breaks—she comes with a cry that Mikha swallows with her mouth, her pussy clenching hard around Mikha's cock. Mikha follows a heartbeat later, a low groan pulled from her chest as she spills inside, hips stuttering, fingers digging into Aiah's hip.

They stay like that for a long moment, breathing together. Then Mikha pulls out slowly, carefully, and Aiah feels the loss of her like a physical thing. Mikha peppers her face with kisses—forehead, eyelids, cheeks, the corner of her mouth—slow and soft and unhurried.

Aiah keeps her eyes closed. She can feel Mikha's come leaking out of her, warm and slick between her thighs, and she doesn't move to wipe it away. She just breathes.

After a moment, Aiah opens her eyes.

Mikha is propped on her elbow, chin in her palm, watching her.

Aiah lifts her head and presses a quick kiss to Mikha's mouth. Just a peck. A small one. Mikha's lips curve against hers anyway.

"What do you want for breakfast?" Mikha asks.

"We can just drive-thru later," Aiah says. She shifts onto her back and stretches, her spine popping. "On the way back to Manila. I don't want to make the farmers cook this early."

Mikha nods. "Okay."

Aiah looks at Mikha. Then her eyes travels down, and there it is—Mikha’s dick, still hard, still standing up against her stomach, the head slick and flushed, insistent even after everything they just did.

Aiah looks back at Mikha. "You're still hard," she murmurs, her voice soft with wonder.

Mikha's ears turn pink. Actually pink. Aiah watches the color creep up the tips of them, and something in her chest does a slow, sweet turn. The notorious Mikha Lim, blushing like a teenager caught sneaking out.

Mikha's hand comes up to palm Aiah's breast. Soft. Gentle. Her thumb traces the curve of it, slow and absent, like she can't help herself.

"I can't get enough of you," Mikha says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. She doesn't meet Aiah's eyes. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about it."

Aiah's heart slams once against her ribs. She's always known she has an effect on Mikha—she'd have to be blind not to. But this. This quiet admission, shy and honest, strips something bare.

She's never had this effect on anyone before. Not like this. Not to the point where they can't get enough of her.

She reaches up and pecks Mikha's nose, soft and quick. Mikha blinks, startled, and then that shy smile returns, the one that makes her look nothing like the chaos personified the papers write about.

"We should take a bath," Aiah says.

Mikha nods, her ears still red. She gets up first, holding out her hand. Aiah takes it, letting Mikha pull her to her feet. Her legs feel shaky, the aftermath of their morning still humming through her, but Mikha's arm comes around her waist, steadying her without being asked.

Mikha guides her toward the bathroom, her hand warm on the small of Aiah's back.

Inside, the tiles are cold under Aiah's feet. Mikha reaches into the shower and turns the knob, testing the water with her palm, adjusting it twice. Aiah stands behind her and watches the muscles move across Mikha's back, the way the pale skin stretches over her shoulder blades.

Mikha turns. She takes Aiah's hand and pulls her under the spray.

Warm water sheets down Aiah's shoulders. Mikha moves behind her, and Aiah hears the bottle of shampoo click open. Mikha's fingers slide into her hair, working the lather through, gentle at the roots, careful around her ears. She takes her time. Aiah closes her eyes and lets her head fall back a little, water running down her face.

Then Mikha's hands move to her shoulders, and the soap comes next, sliding down Aiah's back. Mikha washes her slowly. Every inch. The slope of her shoulders, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip. Her fingers trail down Aiah's spine and Aiah shivers, but Mikha doesn't rush. She cleans Aiah's arms, one at a time, lifting each wrist. She moves in front of Aiah and squats lower to wash Aiah's legs, working the soap down her thighs and calves, and Aiah watches the top of her red hair bob under the water.

Then Mikha's hand slides between Aiah's legs.

Aiah feels it—the hesitation. The way Mikha's fingers pause just at the outside of her folds, soap slick and warm, before they move. Mikha cleans her there too, slow and careful, spreading her gently, washing away what's left from earlier. Her touch is clinical, almost, but Aiah still shivers hard, her hand flying out to brace against the shower wall.

Mikha's jaw tightens. She doesn't push. She stands and moves again behind Aiah, pushing gently the remnants of soap on Aiah's shoulder.

Aiah turns around. She takes the shampoo and pours some into her palm, then reaches up and works it into Mikha's hair. Mikha closes her eyes and tips her head down obediently. Aiah scrubs gently at her scalp, watching the red strands darken under the water. She washes Mikha's neck, her shoulders, her back—running her soapy hands down the same path Mikha just traced on her. When she reaches Mikha's front, she takes her time there too. Her palms slide over Mikha's chest, down her stomach, and lower.

Mikha's cock twitches when Aiah's hand wraps around it, soap-slick, cleaning along the shaft. Aiah feels it jump against her palm even though she's not trying to be provocative. She keeps her touch light, rinsing the soap away. Mikha's breath goes uneven but she doesn't say anything.

Then Aiah turns, her back facing Mikha, letting the water rinse the soap from her skin.

She feels Mikha's arms wrap around her from behind. Warm. Solid. Aiah's hands settle on Mikha's wrists. She leans her head back against Mikha's shoulder and lets the warm water run over them both. Mikha's chin rests against her shoulder. Their breathing syncs. For a long moment, neither of them moves.

But Aiah can feel her. Mikha's dick pressed against her, hot and hard and very much still there, nestled between her ass cheeks. But Mikha isn't doing anything about it. Her hands stay at Aiah's waist. She isn't asking. She isn't pushing. She's just holding her, accepting that this is what Aiah wants and nothing more.

Aiah appreciates it even though she can feel how much Mikha wants to.

So she presses her ass back.

Mikha's breath catches against her neck. Her arms tighten a fraction. Aiah grinds again, slow, feeling the length of Mikha slide up between her cheeks.

"Fuck," Mikha whispers, her voice strained. "Baby, stop. I don't know how long I can hold back."

Aiah turns her head just enough that her mouth is near Mikha's ear.

"You don't have to."

She bends forward a little, hands gripping Mikha's wrists tighter to keep her balance. The water runs down her back, down the curve of her spine. She shakes her ass slightly, feeling Mikha's cock slide along the crease.

"Tangina," Mikha breathes. Her arms wrap tighter around Aiah. She presses forward, grinding her cock against Aiah's ass, and Aiah feels the heat of it through her whole body.

Mikha's hand travels down. Her fingers slide between Aiah's legs, spreading her folds, checking. Aiah knows what she finds—she's wet again, slick and ready, and it has nothing to do with the shower water.

"Fucking hell," Mikha says again, quieter this time.

She pulls her hips back. Her one arm wraps around Aiah's chest, hand palming her breast, thumb pressing hard over the nipple. Her other hand positions her dick, finding Aiah's entrance, then moves on Aiah's waist, holding her steady.

Then Mikha pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until her hips are flush against Aiah's ass. Her mouth is against Aiah's ear, and Aiah can hear every breath she takes, ragged and unsteady. Mikha thrusts. Slow. Deep. The angle is different from the bed, and she hits something that makes Aiah's knees buckle.

"Ohhh—" Aiah's hands scramble for the wall.

Mikha catches her, arm tightening around her chest. She thrusts again, same depth, and a grunt tears out of her throat. Her mouth finds Aiah's jaw and she sucks hard, teeth scraping, and Aiah moans through it, head falling back against Mikha's shoulder.

"I love you," Mikha whispers against her jaw. Thrust. "I love you." Thrust. "Fuck—I'm sorry—you have work—I'm tiring you out—"

Aiah laughs through her moans, the sound catching in her throat. It's so ridiculous. So endearing. Mikha is inside her, fucking her against the shower wall, and she's apologizing for it. Apologizing for wanting her too much.

She's adorable. Fucking adorable. And Aiah would do this for her again and again, every single morning, if it meant hearing Mikha say things like that. If it meant feeling wanted like this, cherished like this, like she's something worth loving instead of something to be endured.

Mikha's rhythm changes. Faster now. Harder. The wet slap of their bodies echoes off the tiles. Mikha's hand leaves Aiah's breast and grips her hip, fingers digging in, pulling her back onto every thrust. Aiah's palms slide on the wet wall and she gives up on holding herself up, letting Mikha take her weight, letting Mikha move her.

"Love—" Aiah gasps.

"I know, baby," Mikha breathes.

Aiah comes with a cry that echoes off the walls, her pussy clenching hard around Mikha, her whole body shaking. Behind her, Mikha groans low and long, driving in deep one last time, and Aiah feels her spill—warm and pulsing inside her, Mikha's hips stuttering, her arms wrapping around Aiah so tight it's almost hard to breathe.

They stay there under the water, both of them panting, Mikha still buried deep. Aiah's legs are shaking. She's not sure they'll hold her.

Mikha pulls out slowly, carefully, and immediately wraps her arm around Aiah's waist to take her weight. She kisses Aiah's shoulder. Then her cheek. Then her temple. Aiah lets her head fall back against Mikha's shoulder and just breathes.

"Let's get you dry, my love," Mikha murmurs. She turns off the water and reaches for the towel. She dries Aiah first, still holding her up with one arm, patting her down carefully—her hair, her back, her legs, between her thighs. Then she wraps her in the bathrobe and guides her to sit on the closed toilet lid.

Aiah watches Mikha dry herself. The red hair plastered to her forehead. The way she rubs the towel through it fast, then slower. Her cock is soft now but still huge, hanging between her legs, and Aiah feels a small, satisfied warmth in her chest just looking at her.

Mikha finishes. She leans down in front of Aiah, hands on her knees, and pouts her lips.

Aiah laughs. She pecks her quickly.

"You're ridiculous."

"You married me."

"I know." Aiah stands, and Mikha's hands find her waist automatically, steadying her.

They walk out of the bathroom together. Mikha pulls on a simple white hoodie and brown shorts. Aiah takes out a simple office dress—navy, structured, nothing flashy—and slips it on. She sits at the edge of the bed and starts working a towel through her hair.

Mikha doesn't sit. She moves around the room, gathering their clothes from the floor, folding them into the duffle bags. She pulls the rest of their clothes from the cabinet and tucks them in too, then strips the bed and folds the used sheets and the towel from last night into a neat pile, carrying them to the laundry basket in the corner.

Aiah watches her over the towel. Mikha moves quietly, no complaints, no dramatics. Just doing it. The way she does everything when she thinks no one is looking.

It's 5:50 a.m. when they walk out of the farmhouse.

The sky is still grey-blue. A few of the farmers are already in the fields, and some are sitting on the chair in the front yard with mugs of coffee. They look up when Aiah and Mikha step out.

"Ma'am Mikha! Ma'am Aiah!" One of them waves.

Mikha lifts a hand. "Good morning. We're heading out."

"Balik po kayo agad," another one calls.

"We will," Aiah says, smiling. "Soon."

Kuya Bert walks out from the oustide kitchen, a mug in his hand. "Kape muna kayo bago umalis."

Mikha shakes her head softly. "Thank you, Kuya, but Aiah's going to be late for work if we stay." She glances at Aiah. "We'll just grab breakfast on the road."

Kuya Bert smiles. He looks at Aiah, then back at Mikha, and there's something fond and knowing in his face. "Sige. Drive safe Mikha ha. Salamat sa pag bisita. Ingat po kayo, ma'am Aiah."

"Thank you, Kuya Bert. Ingat din po kayo rito," Aiah says.

Mikha opens the passenger door. Aiah climbs in. Mikha tosses the duffle bags in the back, then walks over to Kuya Bert and the other farmers to shake hands and say goodbye properly—one by one, taking her time. Aiah watches through the windshield. The way they laugh at something she says. The way one of the older men claps her on the shoulder.

Mikha finally walks back to the driver's side and gets in. She starts the engine. Then she reaches over and takes Aiah's hand, lacing their fingers together on the console, and drives out of the farm with one hand on the wheel.

They don't talk much on the road. The province slides past—rice fields, then billboards, then the grey sprawl of the city. Aiah does her makeup while listening to Mikha's humming. They stop once at a Starbucks drive-thru. Mikha orders a coffee and two slices of cheesecake, and Aiah feeds her bites between stoplights, holding the little plastic fork up to Mikha's mouth while Mikha keeps her eyes on the road.

They pull up to the Arceta Corporation building at 8:15. Mikha parks at the curb and turns to her. Aiah leans over and they kiss—quick, but not rushed. Mikha's hand cups her jaw.

"You're so pretty. I love you," Mikha whispers.

Aiah chuckles. "I love you." She opens the door, then pauses. "Drive safely."

Mikha nods. "What time do you finish?"

"Around six."

"Okay." Mikha's eyes are soft. "I'll pick you up."

Aiah smiles. She leans back in and kisses Mikha once more, brief and warm, then pulls away.

"Thank you," she says.

She steps out of the car and closes the door. Mikha waits until she's through the glass doors of the lobby before driving off.

Inside, the elevator hums upward. Aiah catches her reflection in the polished steel. She touches her lips without thinking.

It's 8:15. She's late.

And for the first time in her executive life, she doesn't care.