Work Text:
It was mornings like this when Bette felt grateful that she had not only survived another day but that she had somehow stumbled into something worth waking for. The sunlight was still tentative, stretching itself carefully across Los Angeles, washing the city in pale gold. She lay still, half awake, half tethered to the restless churn of her thoughts, and for once, she didn’t mind the silence.
Most of the time, silence unsettled her. Her mind always raced toward deadlines, projects, expectations she could never fully outrun. But here, in this still hour, she felt her body remind her that she was alive: her pulse steady in her veins, her breath anchoring her back into herself. For someone who so often felt like she was fighting to justify her place in the world, the simplicity of that realization was a kind of miracle.
Dreams had always been a refuge for her — untidy, surreal spaces where she didn’t have to measure up, where she could be untouchable, unjudged. But they never lasted, and the waking world had a way of pressing itself back onto her chest. This morning was different. The edge between dream and reality blurred so much she had the urge to get up and turn on the lights just to be sure that she wasn’t in dreamland anymore, because she had read once somewhere that a way for you to know if you’re dreaming was to turn the lights on or off. Apparently, and as far as she had proven a couple of times before, dreams didn’t have lighting dynamics; nights weren’t as dark and mornings weren’t as bright, never this tender.
Then, a sigh. Soft, unforced, breathed into the quiet like an answer she hadn’t known she was waiting for.
Bette stilled. The warmth curled around her waist wasn’t memory or fantasy. It was real, grounding her deeper than the sunlight ever could. And in that moment, she understood why mornings no longer filled her with dread, why sleep no longer felt like escape. For the first time in years, there was someone who belonged in both her worlds — the sleepless nights and the new beginnings.
She turned her head. Hair spilled against the pillow, messy and golden in the half-light. Tina’s eyes were still heavy with sleep, lids drooping until they lifted and curved into a smile — soft, unguarded, the kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything but gave everything anyway.
“Morning,” Tina murmured, voice husky from sleep.
And God, it undid her. Bette Porter — the woman who thrived on control, who could command boardrooms and battle through the politics of the art world — found herself wordless before a simple greeting.
“Morning, baby,” she whispered back, and her voice cracked at the edges. She reached out, almost shy, and tucked a strand of hair behind Tina’s ear.
Tina chuckled softly, leaning into her touch. “You look like you’ve been awake for hours.”
Bette smiled wryly, because of course Tina would notice. Tina always noticed. “Just… thinking.”
“About?”
“About how… this feels. Being here. With you.”
There it was, a rare crack in her armor. And Tina, true to herself, didn’t rush to fill the space with platitudes. Instead, she simply inched closer, resting her forehead against Bette’s, their breaths mingling in the quiet morning.
“That’s the point, Bette,” Tina whispered, steady and sure. “You don’t have to think so hard. You just… let it.”
And for once, Bette let herself believe her. She closed her eyes, surrendering not to the dream, but to the reality of Tina’s presence — grounding her, softening her, and quietly teaching her that living didn’t always have to be a battle.
Outside, the city continued to wake. But inside, in their home where love was still new and fragile, the morning belonged only to them.