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Through the blur of her vision, Miranda saw the clock by the bed read 5:45.
Faint light and the sound of running water seeped from behind the door in the corner. Andrea was probably gently turning the faucet, trying to make as little noise as possible. Miranda closed her eyes again, her fingers brushed across the still-warm sheets, slipped under the pillow and found a few strands of hair. She didn’t fall asleep combing Andrea’s hair last night—she only remembered being pulled into an embrace from behind, half-asleep, and then quickly drifting off again. Since Andrea had moved in a month ago, Miranda had discovered many of her quirks that she didn’t quite understand, like her preference for working on the bed instead of in the study, or her habit of not turning on the light while staring at her laptop. But every time Miranda walked into the bedroom and saw the screen's glow illuminating Andrea’s pale neck in the darkness, she couldn’t bring herself to complain. Andrea would show her unfinished articles or shut the laptop and smile as she asked about Miranda’s day. After freshening up, Miranda would let Andrea curl up in her arms, twirling soft hair through her fingers while listening to the day’s gossip from the newsroom. This bedtime ritual had, without her realizing it, become a physical habit—one that bypassed her rational thinking and made Andrea’s recent late nights harder to ignore.
The faint clinking of glass bottles reminded Miranda how unusually quiet it was outside—no shutter clicks, no whispers mixed with laughter. Perhaps it was because it was still early, or perhaps, finally, some other scandal had stolen the spotlight from their “big news.” The latter seemed unlikely, but before daylight broke, she allowed herself a moment of optimism. Miranda sat up, leaning against the headboard, waiting for the door to open. She had never been good at waiting, but watching the silhouette behind the frosted glass, she found a long-lost sense of order. Once the light behind the door went out, Andrea would appear—such a simple and certain thing. Unlike an impromptu board meeting or a cover shoot derailed by a celebrity’s sudden withdrawal.
“Did I wake you?” Andrea leaned against the doorframe, her face showing more apology than makeup. Miranda disliked the way guilt weighed down Andrea’s eyes, so when she sat beside her, Miranda pulled her hand over first. Andrea seemed to understand this was her way of stopping an apology, so she simply rested her head on Miranda’s shoulder. Since someone had started following Andrea during work, she had begun taking assignments farther away, turning hours-long commutes into a necessity. Her editor had initially suggested she take time off, but Andrea firmly refused. Miranda could understood—this job was something Andrea loved, and also a brief escape from the chaos they were in. Miranda just wished that now that she finally got to enjoy the comfort of her lover being nearby, it wouldn’t come with the added burden of watching the fatigue accumulate on Andrea’s face day by day.
“You’re not getting enough rest.” Miranda heard herself say it like she was scolding her daughters for not finishing homework on time. But Andrea just buried her face in Miranda’s neck and laughed. “I’m sorry, but coming from you, that’s just… you know what I mean.” Miranda knew she wasn’t the ideal person to lecture Andrea about overworking, but when she saw her own eye bags in the mirror, she only thought about concealer and the timing of her next facial. Yet when she saw the dark circles under Andrea’s eyes, her fingers tingled with the urge to reach out and wipe them away.
As if sensing her thoughts, Andrea wrapped her arms around Miranda’s waist, pulling her close and exhaled deeply. “There. Now I already feel much better.” Miranda remained skeptical that a hug could be equivalent to several hours of sleep, but if Andrea could feel the same warm wave of relaxation coursing through her, maybe her statement wasn’t entirely false.
By the time they went downstairs together, the footsteps and voices outside were slowly starting to pick up. Andrea walked straight to the coffee machine. She had an oddly strong attachment to being the one responsible for Miranda’s first dose of caffeine each morning. Miranda didn’t yet have an appetite for breakfast, but watching Andrea wrestle with the machine was too entertaining to miss, so she perched on a high stool by the bar.
“The twins called me yesterday afternoon. They’re doing fine at their grandma’s and are planning to visit the aquarium this weekend.”
“I know, they called me too.” Miranda sighed, remembering Caroline’s tone on the phone. “They’re worried about you. Said you sound really tired.”
Andrea turned around, slightly surprised. “That’s funny, because they told me they were worried about you. Asked me if I was sure you weren’t staying late at the office on purpose every night.”
Clink. The sound of the coffee cup hitting the counter perfectly timed their simultaneous realization. Miranda’s lips curled into a smile first. Andrea let out a snort and leaned on the counter, laughing so hard she couldn’t straighten up.
The girls had always been sensitive, so perceptive of emotions it sometimes worried Miranda. She still remembered during her first divorce, when the media screamed outside the door and Cassidy curled up crying against it. Back then, she found herself unable to hug them—comforting her children bullied by others was one thing, but comforting them for pain she had caused was another matter entirely. Every step closer pricked her with guilt like thorns, leaving her powerless. She knew the best decision was to keep them away from the center of the storm. So, the day the news with her and Andrea broke, she suggested they stay at their father’s house, afraid they’d collapse again under the pressure. Miranda hadn’t expected them to insist on staying. Even less did she expect to come home and find them asleep on Andrea. They had curled up on the sofa, all three of them tear-streaked and flushed. Caroline had her arms around Andrea’s neck, Cassidy was sprawled across Andrea’s lap, and Andrea’s head tilted back in peaceful sleep. A few days later, when they left as planned with their father, they even solemnly promised Miranda they’d come back immediately if she needed them. Miranda wasn’t entirely sure what had changed, but the anticipation of this change continuing wasn’t unpleasant.
The coffee was placed at her elbow, bread and yogurt in front of Andrea. Miranda decided that this kind of morning was… tolerable. If the clamor of the outside continued to fade, if Andrea kept her promise to stick around, if no more earth-shattering threats to their safety arose, maybe they could have countless mornings like this. The long list of ifs and conditions gave her a headache. She turned her eyes to the tulips in the vase on the table and naturally thought of Andrea’s excitement a few days ago, talking about visiting a bustling flower market. Miranda had always known Andrea loved flowers. Even back in her assistant days, Andrea had been well-versed in floristry. And long before Andrea kissed her for the first time, the bouquets she’d sent had already kissed Miranda countless times in her stead. Miranda still didn’t quite understand the charm of flower markets—but maybe, one day, she’d indulge Andrea’s dream and wander with her through seas of blossoms and people.
Andrea suddenly cleared her throat. “The girls’ next recital is next week. Can I come too?”
At some strange moments—like now—Miranda would look at Andrea and think: Courage really is such a small word. Even printed in the largest font on a billboard hanging from a skyscraper, it would still be barely visible from across the city. It was nothing compared to this kiss Andrea gave her after she nodded—coffee-scented, tinged with mint toothpaste. Miranda knew that even if Andrea took the train to another state or flew to Antarctica, that kiss would whisper endless nonsense in her ear, and drown out all the unnecessary noise when she needed it most.
A few minutes later, Miranda watched as Andrea tied her shoes, then turned at the door to give her a smile. The morning sunlight stretched into the entryway, casting a golden ribbon across her shoulder. She grabbed her phone from the shoe rack and pushed the door open, like a warrior drawing her sword.