Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It was a house too big for two people who couldn’t stand to breathe the same air.

Stacey and Aiah’s marriage was a strange one—one they wouldn’t think that still existed these days. An arranged marriage to strengthen the alliance of their families. It was some sort of tradition to merge their families, but in truth—though it was convenient, Stacey would prefer marrying no one.

They really had no choice to begin with.

They don’t even get to complain, they were pressured into this—they were born for this.

They weren’t even aware of it until the first time they met—It was at her father’s office. Papers immediately given to them, not even giving them a chance to read the contents of it and were pressured into signing them.

“This is for you two’s own good—just sign the papers.”

Own good? It nearly made her laugh if she wasn’t so stuck in her own head which was barely working. 

Then just a week after signing those papers, they saw each other again. In front of the altar.

It had been four years since they exchanged meaningless vows, not even a spark of romance nor a tiny bit of hope was presented right there. It was all empty words, ones they would want to wash their mouth with soap right after spitting out insincerity. 

Then they were forced to live under the same roof. Just adding to their misery.

The honeymoon was skipped entirely—Stacey had "urgent work." Aiah didn't object. She spent the week reorganizing their new house, making sure her books were alphabetized on the central shelf in the living room. When Stacey got home and noticed, she rearranged them by color just to spite her.

Aiah didn’t say a word.

She simply changed them back the next day.

They were just two people who didn’t know each other. Strangers, basically, who are expected to fall in love after the arrangement or at least try to make something spark. Even friendship alone was one of the miracles they were expecting to happen.

To the outside world, they were the picture of a perfect couple—graceful smiles, intertwined fingers, and soft words spoken only when necessary. But behind closed doors, their hatred was tangible. 

They were just coexisting through gritted teeth and side-eyes.

The first year was the loudest. Stacey didn’t bother hiding how much she despised Aiah, and well… Aiah had a strange way of responding to hatred—with calm, with a smirk, with the kind of detached amusement that only infuriated Stacey further.

Their wedding photos hung neatly in the hallway, always perfectly centered, but if you looked closely, Stacey’s smile was too stiff, and Aiah's gaze never quite met hers.

The kitchen was a battlefield. They avoided cooking at the same time, but when they did, it became a passive-aggressive dance.

“Oh, you’re using that pan?” Stacey would ask sweetly, eyes locked on the one thing she suddenly needed.

“Feel free to take it. I’ll just—” Aiah would pick up a larger, more expensive pan and continue with zero concern. “—use something better.”

Stacey hated that. 

Aiah with her stupid PhD in something Stacey didn’t even care to remember, her stupid perfect handwriting, her stupid designer clothes that looked way stupidly good like it was the clothes that were blessed to be even worn by her.

She basically loathed Aiah. She was everything Stacey despised—effortlessly beautiful, intelligent beyond measure, and, worst of all, indifferent. It felt like Aiah never had to try, yet she excelled at everything. Meanwhile, Stacey fought tooth and nail for every ounce of recognition, every fleeting glance of admiration. 

Aiah was a shadow that Stacey could never escape, and every day she spent living under the same roof as her was suffocating.

Aiah, on the other hand, wasn’t as emotionally invested in their rivalry as Stacey was.

If anything, she merely responded to the unspoken competition because Stacey had started it. It was entertaining, in a way, seeing Stacey get riled up over the smallest things. So, Aiah played along—outshining her when she could, making sharp remarks, and maintaining an air of indifference that she knew drove Stacey mad.

She never reacted when Stacey “accidentally” left her laundry mixed in with whites or placed her iced coffee a little too close to Aiah’s paperwork. She never complained about the way Stacey talked too loud on her phone late at night or how her hair was always clogging the drain.

Instead, Aiah would retaliate with the tiniest, sharpest cuts.

Stacey’s favorite mug would mysteriously be “missing” for weeks, only to reappear after Stacey had given up looking. Aiah would set the thermostat one degree off from Stacey’s preference—just enough to annoy. She would “forget” to water Stacey’s plants when she left town. They both had a way of keeping score without ever writing it down.

They didn't fight in the traditional sense. No shouting matches or crying apologies. They were far too proud for that.

Their war was just filled with ugly pettiness and an unmatched level of coldness.

When they had guests, they played the part with disturbing ease. In front of family, they were a little too good at faking laughter, their hands brushing in front of relatives just long enough to convince, but never enough to feel real. When Stacey’s parents came over, Aiah made perfect coffee and Stacey praised her cooking like a script. When Aiah’s mother visited, Stacey smiled through clenched teeth while Aiah gently 

placed a hand on her back, all for show.

Sometimes Stacey would catch Aiah looking at her too long during breakfast. Like she was trying to figure her out. But before Stacey could say anything, Aiah would stand, rinse her mug, and leave like nothing ever happened.

They had no plans to separate. Not publicly. That would invite questions, shame. Besides, what would they even say?

“Hi, yes, we’re still married, but we’d rather sleep in bunkers than share a blanket.”

That sounds stupid. And they really can’t get out of this now.

On one particularly Sunday, they both reached for the TV remote at the same time.

And it was war again.

“Don’t,” Stacey warned, her voice low.

“I’m watching the documentary,” Aiah said, clutching the remote tighter.

“You watched it yesterday.”

“So? You rewatch ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ like it’s a religion.”

“At least it’s got content. Your documentary is literally about mold.”

“It’s about food preservation—”

“Same thing.”

They stared at each other.

Silence.

Then a tug-of-war began.

Aiah was stronger. But Stacey had faster reflexes. The remote flew into the air and landed on the floor with a crack.

Stacey gasped. “You broke it!”

“You pulled too hard!”

“You let go!”

“Well, what did you expect? I’m not going to wrestle over bacteria facts!”

“It’s fungi, you idiot—!”

Stacey had an important video meeting. She needed quiet. She told Aiah three days in advance.

At exactly 9:02 a.m., Aiah started vacuuming—right outside the door. Headphones in. Totally unaware, of course.

Stacey stormed out mid-meeting, whisper-screaming, “Are you serious right now?”

Aiah blinked. “Didn’t know. This is my day off, remember?”

The next day, Aiah was hosting a virtual conference panel. Stacey chose that moment to play Hev Abi on full volume while she “cleaned.”

“You’re being immature,” Aiah called out.

“You’re being fake,” Stacey snapped back.

But of course, Aiah postponed her conference for this. Just to listen to her wife vibing to Lil Kasalanan Shortie. To listen to her rapping along and singing the lyrics out loud like it was part of her soul at some point.

It was a ten out of ten concert. She would definitely reschedule whatever she has in her calendar to hear her having fun like this for the sake of being petty.

Stacey’s succulents were her pride. She named them. She spoke to them. She once accused Aiah of “looking at them wrong.”

When Stacey went on a weekend trip, she left detailed instructions.

Aiah followed them.

Except she moved the plants an inch to the left every day until Stacey came back and panicked—convinced they had been sunburnt.

“They looked like they needed a change of perspective,” Aiah said sweetly.

So Stacey replaced Aiah’s rosemary plant with plastic.

Aiah watered it for two days before realizing.

She didn’t even get mad.

She just wrote a note and stuck it into the pot:

“Fake plant, fake wife. Fitting.”

…

One evening, they both had events to attend. Separate, thankfully.

Stacey stepped out in a soft black wrap dress and heels. She didn’t expect Aiah to be home, but there she was—leaning in the doorway, wearing a red satin dress that looked like sin.

For a second, they stared.

Aiah’s eyes flickered, and she muttered, “Black’s not terrible on you.”

Stacey blinked. “Are you complimenting me?”

Aiah shrugged. “Don’t let it go to your head. It might not fit.”

“That was cute. Maybe next time, say it without sounding like a threat.”

“I don’t do cute,” Aiah replied, picking up her keys. “And I don’t do ‘next time’ either.”

They walked out of the house fifteen minutes apart. But that line replayed in both their heads for different reasons.

And at some point, Stacey’s face was fully red that whole evening.

While Aiah was screaming in her head, every single brain cell inside her head dying and in shambles. 

Four years in, and they had mastered the art of deception.

It was the kind of talent born out of necessity—not affection. When you’ve spent that long cohabiting with someone you resented to your bones, and still had to convince the world you were soulmates, you learned quickly how to put on a show.

That night, the party was at Aiah’s aunt’s estate. A garden affair—string lights overhead, soft jazz humming through the night air, tables dressed in white linen, with the scent of expensive food in the breeze.

Technically, not exactly match, but coordinate. Stacey insisted. “If we’re going to keep up this circus,” she said while rifling through the closet, “we should at least look like we put in effort.”

Aiah had looked up from her book, deadpan. “We?”

“You,” Stacey said. “You wear what I say, and I’ll do all the smiling.”

“I’d rather wear a trash bag,” Aiah had replied flatly, already rethinking half of her life choices.

“Good. I’ll get you one in black so it slims your soul.”

That was the deal. Or rather, the compromise forged out of years of mutual loathing and impeccable presentation.

Stacey wore a striking hot pink dress with a strapless, sweetheart neckline. She looked good, and she knew it.

Aiah wore royal blue.

Because pink was out of the question.

Royal blue suited her too well—it was a sleek dress that felt too clean like it was made solely for her. She didn’t believe in Stacey’s “matchy matchy” schemes, but she’d play along if it meant fewer arguments and a faster escape from the party.

(She always looked effortless—like she belonged in those lifestyle magazines Stacey secretly hated.)

As they stood in the hallway mirror before leaving, Stacey tilted her head and smirked. “We look cute.”

Aiah adjusted her earring. “You look like a cupcake.”

“Thanks,” Stacey chirped. “And you look like the girl who tries too hard not to look like she’s trying.”

Aiah didn’t respond. Just picked up her clutch and walked out. Stacey followed, unbothered. They were practiced.

“Stacey! Aiah!” someone called out.

And just like that, it began.

Stacey’s hand slipped around Aiah’s waist. Aiah leaned in, brushed her lips near Stacey’s cheek, but not quite on it. Their smiles were poised, perfect. Calculated.

They looked like a dream couple.

“Look at you two,” Aiah’s mother beamed, clasping her hands like she was seeing royalty. “Still glowing after four years. Isn’t that right, Stacey?”

“Hey, tita,” Stacey greeted with a polite smile. “She still makes me laugh every single day. And cry. Tears of joy.”

Aiah followed. “Good evening, mama. Beautiful setup.”

“Dear, you’re both always so… matching,” her mother beamed. “You two look like angels.”

“Opposite ends of heaven,” Stacey muttered under her breath.

Aiah gently squeezed her hand hard enough to be a warning. “Smile,” she whispered through her teeth.

And smile they did.

They posed for photos under the archway, smiled beside relatives they barely remembered, laughed at jokes from uncles who drank too much wine, and said “thank you” every time someone complimented their "strong marriage."

They even made up fake anecdotes about vacations they never took.

“Oh, Italy was beautiful,” Stacey said, flipping her hair.

“Mmm,” Aiah agreed. “She cried on a boat.”

“It was sea-sickness,” Stacey added quickly, eyes narrowing. “Not the drama.”

Aiah smirked. “Sure, sure.”

At dinner, they sat side by side, knees touching under the table—a calculated intimacy. Aiah leaned in occasionally to pour Stacey wine, fingers brushing her wrist. Stacey giggled once, high and airy, like Aiah had whispered something flirty and not, “Your lipstick’s smudged, and it’s making your mouth look crooked.”

She smiled wider. “Thanks, darling.”

Later, when the music started, Stacey was dragged into a dance by some uncle. She smiled through it all, her gaze flicking to Aiah across the lawn. Aiah was talking to a group of family friends, laughing that reserved, charming laugh Stacey always hated—like she was above it all, always amused.

After the third glass of wine, Stacey wandered back to her, already looking like she drank every single drop of alcohol. “Your fan club is growing,” she murmured sweetly as she took Aiah’s arm.

Aiah’s smile was deadly. “Jealous?”

“Repulsed,” Stacey said through her teeth. Then louder, for the crowd: “You know I only want your attention.”

“You always have it,” Aiah said with a raise of her brow. “Whether I want to give it or not.”

She then poured wine for both of them again and murmured under her breath, “You know, for someone who claims to hate me, you seem to be enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe I am,” Stacey said, sipping her glass. “At least here, people think you actually like me.”

Aiah’s smile didn’t falter. “They’d have to be blind to believe that.”

A group of titas nearby waved them over. They both turned on the charm again like flipping a switch.

By the end of the evening, they were tired. Not physically, but emotionally exhausted by the performance. Stacey’s cheeks were starting to ache from smiling while Aiah’s jaw was tight from clenching.

It was exhausting. 

The smiles, the touches, the fake whispers and pretend jokes—they were rehearsed movements, practiced over the years like breathing.

As the guests thinned out and the fairy lights blinked overhead, Aiah nudged Stacey’s elbow and murmured just loud enough to be heard:

“You forgot to fix your mascara. It’s smudging again.”

“And you forgot to blink like a normal person,” Stacey muttered back, still smiling as they posed for one last family photo.

Their parents hugged them tightly afterward. “Don’t forget to take home some food,” her mother called out as they said their goodbyes.

“Yes, Mama,” Stacey called sweetly. “We’ll heat it up together later.”

“You’re such a cute couple,” someone added as they walked toward the car.

Aiah opened the passenger door for Stacey. She got in without thanking her.

Once they were both inside, door closed, windows up, silence fell like a dropped curtain.

The illusion shattered.

Stacey muttered something about her heels being too tight. Aiah replied something about her attitude being tighter. Stacey rolled her eyes. Aiah drove faster.

They didn’t speak afterwards.

They didn’t need to.

The arranged marriage felt so fake, like they were just there. Married on the paper, living together, but strangers.

But at that party, they had been believable. Too believable.

It almost made Stacey shiver.

And that was the most infuriating part of all.

They got home just before midnight, silence stretching thin between them like static.

The ride had been quiet. Not the cold kind of quiet, but the drained, post-performance kind—the quiet of two people who had kept their faces frozen in place for too long, smiling and laughing on demand.

They didn’t speak as they entered the house. They never said good night—what were they, best friends?

Stacey kicked off her heels by the door immediately. “Don’t leave your dress on the bathroom floor this time. I’m not your maid.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Aiah replied, locking the door behind her. “But you’re welcome to iron it for me.”

“Eat glass.”

“After you.”

She didn’t glance at Stacey as she made her way to the bedroom.

What Aiah didn’t expect though, was for her wife to follow.

For the last four years, Stacey had claimed the guest room. Not on paper, of course. On paper, they were blissfully in love, tangled in bedsheets and late-night whispers. But in reality? That spare room—once used for visiting relatives—was now Stacey’s own quiet sanctuary, her pink silk pillowcases and essential oil diffuser set like a fortress. It was the only place she let her guard down.

Tonight, though, Stacey trailed behind.

Her head was pounding. Her feet ached. Her body ached. Her soul ached from hours of smiling so hard her cheeks might crack. Hair already coming undone from its artful bun—hell, she hasn't taken off her dress yet. She looked wrecked. 

Still pretty, of course. 

Stacey always looked pretty.

But the shine had dulled. Her eyes were heavy. Her steps, clumsy.

Aiah turned around just as Stacey bumped into the doorframe.

“Lost?” Aiah asked, monotone.

Stacey blinked up at her. “I forgot which one’s my room.”

Aiah arched a brow. “Four years, Stacey.”

Stacey snorted. “Yeah, I know. Funny.”

But she didn’t move. Didn’t turn to leave. She just stood there for a beat too long, then shuffled past Aiah like a drifting ghost, and—without comment—dropped onto the bed.

Right. On. Top. Of. Aiah.

There was a long, stunned silence.

Aiah blinked, startled. “You’re—what the hell—”

But Stacey was dead weight. Fully knocked out.

Her head rested on Aiah’s shoulder, arm slung over her stomach, one leg flopped between Aiah’s. She smelled faintly like rosé and sweat and her overused jasmine perfume. Her fake lashes were half hanging off. Her mouth slightly open.

Aiah stared at the ceiling.

“This is not happening,” she muttered.

She tried nudging her. Nothing.

Stacey let out a soft snore. A small snort, really.

Aiah groaned quietly. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She could’ve pushed her off. Could’ve left. Could’ve dragged her back to her precious guest room.

But she didn’t.

Because she was just as tired. Just as done. Her bones ached with the same kind of weight—the kind that came not from dancing or drinking, but from pretending for hours on end that they were in love.

The adrenaline had worn off. Her arms were heavy. Her head sank slightly to the side. And before she knew it, she was wrapping it around Stacey’s shoulder, careful not to wake her, more out of instinct than tenderness.

Aiah let her eyes close.

She told herself it was for warmth. For comfort. For silence.

There were no whispered apologies. No change of heart. No soft confessions in the dark.

Just the hum of the air conditioner. The faint creak of the bed. And two tired women lying beside each other, pressed together not by desire or affection, but exhaustion. A war truce, not peace.

It was the first time in four years they shared a bed.

And somehow, the house felt quieter than usual.

For all the years of cold shoulders and calculated jabs, Aiah had never seen Stacey this quiet, this unguarded. She breathed in soft, even pulses. Her brow wasn’t furrowed. Her lips weren’t pursed in annoyance.

She looked... human. Still infuriating. Still dramatic. Still Stacey.

But human.

And Aiah, half-asleep herself, pulled her a little closer.

Just to keep her from rolling off the bed.

Nothing more.

She told herself that, again and again, even as Stacey mumbled something against her collarbone in her sleep.

“...tired.”

Aiah answered without thinking. “I know.”

Just for the night.

No next time. This was just an exception.

Aiah woke up on the floor.

Flat on her back, blanket-less, neck slightly sore from the angle her pillow had landed when she must’ve been kicked off her own bed sometime during the night.

She blinked once at the ceiling.

Then again—letting the pain settle into her bones like an insult.

Then slowly turned her head to look up at the mattress.

It was a battlefield.

Pillows scattered. Sheets unraveled.

And sprawled out in the center like a queen who won by default—Stacey.

She was asleep.

Still.

She was drooling faintly on Aiah’s side of the bed, one arm tossed above her head like she was reaching for a dream, one leg kicked up against the headboard. The covers were twisted into a fortress around her torso, clenched in a death grip.

Aiah exhaled through her nose.

“Of course,” she muttered.

She sat up, popped her neck, and rubbed her temple before standing with the grace of someone who had experienced this level of nonsense before—even if not quite like this.

She didn’t wake Stacey.

Maybe because she knew it was pointless.

Maybe because part of her… didn’t mind seeing her like that. Not talking. Not throwing a jab. Just sleeping, like the bratty storm from the night before had finally passed.

Or maybe Aiah just didn’t want to admit the smallest truth burning under her ribcage: Stacey looked annoyingly soft like that.

God, her hair was a mess. Her lips parted. There was mascara under one eye. She looked like a Grecian disaster wrapped in a pink dress she hadn’t even bothered to change out of.

And somehow, Aiah couldn’t look away. She had zero interest in starting her day angry.

She didn’t bother to even whisper a curse at her.

“Messy sleeper,” she mumbled, walking off to the bathroom.

By the time she was showered, dressed, and standing in front of the mirror fixing her earrings, Stacey was still out cold.

Aiah glanced over her shoulder.

Stacey had now migrated into a fetal position in the center of the bed, buried under the comforter like a hibernating woodland creature. She was hugging the sheets like they were a teddy bear, cheek pressed into a pillow, hair in chaotic tangles across her face.

Aiah leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

She hated how normal it felt, watching her like this. Like it wasn’t strange. Like they weren’t supposed to be mortal enemies who communicated solely through sarcastic comments and temperature sabotage.

She wasn’t smiling.

But she wasn’t scowling either.

God. She hated this.

She hated that after four years of throwing silent tantrums across the same kitchen, she could still find a moment like this—quiet, calm, even kind of sweet—and feel something that wasn’t hate rise up in her chest.

No. Not sweet. That wasn’t the word.

Just... inconvenient.

Four years of cohabitation and war, and this was the first time she’d seen Stacey sleep past seven. The first time she’d seen her not curated, not composed. No lip balm. No sarcastic smile. No walls.

Just a girl, hugging a sheet and drooling slightly into the pillow.

But then Stacey shifted, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she curled deeper into the blankets—and Aiah’s chest tightened just the tiniest bit.

She shook her head.

“Nope,” she said aloud, grabbing her bag and keys. “You’re still a menace.”

But—maybe that’s what made her tolerable.

Maybe the hatred wasn’t real.

Not all of it.

She just matched her. Step for bratty step. Eye roll for eye roll. Stubborn, snarky, impossible to live with—but also weirdly impossible to ignore.

That was the problem.

She wasn’t sure if they were fighting or flirting half the time. Didn’t even know if Stacey knew the difference.

Aiah lingered for one more second before glancing at her watch.

Seven forty two AM.

She had to go.

“Stacey,” she said, raising her voice just enough. “I’m leaving.”

A muffled groan emerged from beneath the sheet, followed by Stacey blindly flopping an arm out in the general direction of goodbye. The sheet stayed wrapped around her like armor.

Aiah rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.

“Your hair looks like a bird died in it,” she added, grabbing her bag.

“Then I hope it haunts you all day,” Stacey mumbled from the bed, eyes still closed.

Aiah left the room with a laugh—small, quiet, like a crack in stone.

She left a cup of water on the nightstand, though. No note. No words. Just a glass of cold water for a hangover she assumed was coming.

Because that’s what you do, right?

Even when you’re at war.

Even when you share a house built on pettiness.

Even when you can’t quite tell if you hate your wife—

Or if you just got really good at pretending you do.

Aiah’s office was tucked into the corner of the company building's third floor—glass walls, quiet, tidy. It was one of the few spaces she considered sacred. Her lunch break was the only time she got to pretend the world didn’t exist, especially the part of the world that snored like a gremlin and hogged every damn blanket.

Aiah was halfway through her reheated adobo, headphones in, spreadsheet open but mercifully ignored.

That was when the door slammed open.

Not a knock. Not a polite push.

A slam.

She barely had time to look up—fork halfway to her mouth, rice balancing precariously. Actually, she really didn’t even have to look up. That specific brand of dramatics? 

That was definitely Stacey.

And sure enough—heels clicking across the floor, the faint scent of overpriced florals and recklessness trailing in—Stacey stormed in like she owned the place. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t look at Aiah.

Just stomped up to her desk, pulled something out from behind her back—

BAM.

A book hit the desk with a thud, barely missing Aiah’s rice bowl.

Aiah blinked. Looked at it. Then at Stacey.

It was the book.

A first edition with a navy-blue dust jacket and silver-foil spine. "The Anatomy of Silence", the book Aiah had been eyeing for weeks every time she passed that damn indie bookstore near the café. The one she kept touching, flipping through, and returning to the shelf because, as she insisted: "I’ll buy it when it’s on sale. Or when I’m less broke. Or when the universe tells me to." (As if she wasn’t a CEO.)

Well, it’s not that she didn’t want it. But because wanting things too much made her feel... stupid.

And there it was.

On her desk. Gift-wrapped in precisely zero affection.

She looked up again.

Apparently, the universe was a brat in mismatched socks and a half-zipped hoodie.

Not a greeting. Not a snide remark. Not even a “you’re welcome.”

She just glared at Aiah—expression unreadable—and then turned on her heel, strutting out like a hitman finishing a contract.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Aiah blinked. Stared at the book. Then back at the door. Then the book again.

She exhaled slowly, set down her fork, and ran a hand down her face.

“What the hell is your damage,” she muttered into the empty room, half to herself, half at the ghost of Stacey’s presence still lingering in the air.

She reached for it cautiously, like it might explode.

Her fingers hovered over the edge of the cover. It was the exact one. Hardcover. Limited print. That specific edition that had sold out online but somehow wasn’t good enough for her to ask for because she refused to hand Stacey that kind of power.

She stared at the title.

Stared harder.

Aiah reached out and slid the book closer.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t roll her eyes.

Aiah just picked up the book.

Turned it over. No note. No receipt.

Just the weight of it in her hands.

She opened the cover. Scanned the inside. On the title page, in small, clean handwriting—not hers—was written:

“Don’t be gross and cry about it. You can stop staring at it like a loser now btw. You're welcome.

 – S.”

Aiah pressed her lips together so tightly they went white.

No heart. No soft edges. Just that.

Of course she had to make even kindness feel like a personal attack. Like Aiah was the one being difficult for wanting something quietly. Like she hadn’t noticed Stacey watching her pick it up that day, trace the title, sigh, and walk away.

It was so Stacey. Always doing something in a way that made it impossible to say thank you without looking like you’d lost.

Aiah closed the book. Set it down. And finished her adobo in complete silence, but with that warm, annoying weight in her chest she didn’t want to name.

Maybe she just hated that Stacey never gave her a simple moment. Every encounter—every gesture, even the good ones—came wrapped in chaos and pride and the unspoken challenge—

Feel something, I dare you.

But for the first time that day, Aiah’s chest felt less tight. Her shoulders less knotted.

And her heart?

Well.

Let’s just say she’d start that book after a meeting.

Aiah opened the front door with one hand and shut the door behind her with a sigh. The day had been long. Clients, deadlines, passive-aggressive emails. Her back ached. Her brain ached more.

She dropped her bag on the entry table and toed her shoes off. The house was unusually quiet—no clinking dishes, no music playing from the kitchen, no sarcastic “you’re late again, what a shock” from the living room.

Suspiciously quiet.

Not peaceful. Not that.

It was the kind of quiet that felt wrong—like the calm right before the ground breaks open.

Which usually meant one of two things:

Stacey wasn’t home.

Or she was brewing chaos in silence.

She made it halfway to the kitchen when she heard it.

Not a sob. Not a wail.

But a choked sniffle. Wet, quiet, panicked.

Aiah froze.

It came again, muffled, from the hallway. Guest room—Stacey’s room, her self-declared territory. 

Aiah hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek.

Logic told her to ignore it. Pride told her to turn the other way.

But instinct?

Instinct made her follow the sound down the hallway, cautious, curious, annoyed, alert. When she reached the threshold of Stacey’s room—the guest room that had long since become a pink-flavored den of solitude—she found the door cracked open.

She peeked in.

Stacey was on her knees.

She was surrounded by disheveled blankets and half-pulled storage bins, looked like she was seconds from either a scream or a breakdown. Her hair was a mess—sleeves pushed up, eyes red.

She wasn’t sobbing, not loudly. But her breath hitched in stutters, the kind that only happen when you’ve already cried yourself hoarse and now your body’s just trying to hold the pieces together.

Aiah didn’t say anything. Just stood there.

She saw how her hands were trembling as she rifled through a basket of socks.

“I know it was here. It was here last night,” Stacey whispered to herself, wiping at her face roughly. “I always leave it here—always, it never moves—what if—what if—”

“Stacey?” Aiah finally called out, voice low, still standing in the doorway.

Stacey flinched.

Then froze.

But she didn’t look up. Didn’t dare to. She knew that voice was no danger.

“I can’t find it,” she muttered. “It was here. I left it right here.”

“What?”

“My bear,” Stacey whispered, sharper now, breath catching. “The pink Care Bear. Cheer Bear. The one with the rainbow on its stomach—do not make fun of me, I swear to God—”

“I’m not,” Aiah said quickly.

Stacey wiped her nose with the back of her hand, frustrated and childlike in the worst way, and kept looking. “I had it yesterday. I know I left it here—I know I did. It was right here. I always keep it—under the pillow or beside the lamp—where the hell is it, where—”

Aiah knew where that thing she was looking for.

Because she had taken it.

Correction: She washed it.

The stupid pink Care Bear.

It was in the laundry basket. Clean. Folded. Sitting gently on top of a pile of freshly washed towels in the corner of the laundry room. 

Because she’d seen it that morning—half-buried in sheets, the poor thing limp and faded, one little ear stained with god-knows-what. It had smelled like Stacey’s perfume and a week’s worth of crying and sleep and whatever else Stacey did while clutching the damn thing.

And maybe she’d acted on autopilot. Maybe she wanted to do something... nice without anyone knowing. Or maybe she wanted to prove she could be good at caring, too.

So she took it. Quietly.

But it was her fault, she hadn’t left a note.

And now Stacey was kneeling on the floor, fighting panic, like something irreplaceable had vanished without warning. She looked like her world had quietly cracked over a stupid bear.

It wasn’t really just a bear.

Aiah knew that. Anyone looking at her wife right now would know that.

Aiah stepped forward, still not fully inside the room.

“I have it.”

Stacey’s head whipped around.

Her eyes were glassy, rimmed red, nose pink.

“What?” Her voice was raw. Accusatory.

“I took it,” Aiah admitted, stepping forward. “This morning. It was half-wrapped in your sheets. Looked like it hadn’t been washed in a while.”

A beat of silence.

Stacey stared at her like she'd just confessed to a murder.

Stacey’s mouth dropped open, stunned. “You took Cheer Bear? Without telling me?!”

“I washed it!” Aiah said, defensively, then added, “And dried it properly. No heat. Tumbled low. Folded it with towels.”

Stacey stared at her, eyes glassy, lips parted. “You washed my bear.”

“It was filthy.”

“It smelled like me.”

“It smelled like the back of a bus. Jesus, you’ve been crying into that thing since the Obama administration.”

Aiah turned and disappeared briefly, returning with the bear nestled in her arms like an offering.

Fresh.

Pink.

Fluffy again.

Stacey took it immediately, cradling it to her chest. She buried her face into its head and breathed in.

Stacey sniffled. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Didn’t think it’d be that deep.”

“It’s my comfort thing.”

“Well, now it’s clean comfort.”

A pause.

Stacey looked down at the bear, fingers smoothing over the fur with practiced care. She didn’t say thank you. Of course not. She just stood there, red-eyed and barefoot, wearing an old hoodie that probably wasn’t even hers, hugging the bear like it was holding her back.

“You could’ve just asked,” she said after a long pause. “Instead of tearing the whole room apart like a gremlin.”

Stacey’s eyes lifted slowly, defensive. “I didn’t know you took it. You just do things. Without asking.”

“Yeah, well,” Aiah muttered, voice low. “You do things without thinking.”

Another silence.

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

Stacey, still hugging the bear, let out a quiet, breathy scoff. “I didn’t say thank you.”

“I noticed.”

When Aiah turned to leave, the younger woman spoke up.

“I got it the day I found out we were getting married.”

She froze mid step, not daring to take another.

Stacey stroked the soft curve of the bear’s head. “That day we met, when our dads gave us the papers and said it was for our own good.” Her breath hitched, clearly holding back her tears again. “I went out. Bought this from the grocery toy aisle. On impulse. I think I needed something to hold. Something that wouldn’t expect anything from me.”

Aiah didn’t speak. She just turned around again—and sat down beside her, knees barely brushing.

“I’m sorry,” she said, finally.

Stacey didn’t respond right away.

“Don’t be. Just—tell me next time.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

A long moment passed.

Stacey curled her legs beneath her, hugging Cheer Bear with both arms now. Her face was calmer. Red, still blotchy, but the kind of blotchy that said she could sleep now.

Aiah sat there.

She stayed.

Not as a wife. Not as an enemy.

Just the only person who knew what that bear meant.

Sure, next time. Even if she doesn’t do ‘next time’.

The rest of the week was spectacularly uneventful.

Which, in this house, meant spectacularly annoying.

They didn’t mention the bear again.

Not the crying. Not the laundry. Not the moment on the bedroom floor when Stacey had clutched a stuffed animal like it was the last soft thing in the world and Aiah had simply stayed.

The thing about Aiah and Stacey was that despite what happened just yesterday—or last night, rather—nothing ever actually changed.

Nope. 

Nothing.

Instead, the truce—if it could be called that—dissolved the minute Monday turned into Tuesday and they were now arguing about a damn toothbrush.

“You used my toothbrush,” Aiah accused, holding it up like evidence in a murder trial.

Stacey didn’t even look up from buttering her toast. “It’s black. Mine is pink.”

“Mine is black.”

“Your taste in colors for a toothbrush is offensive.”

“You’ve been using it for days.”

“Well, guess what, sweetheart? I’ve been sharing a marriage with you for four years. I think the bacteria’s mutual by now.”

Aiah threw the toothbrush in the trash.

Stacey didn’t blink.

That afternoon, the kettle went missing.

“You took the electric kettle again,” Aiah said flatly, arms crossed, standing in the kitchen in her socks.

Stacey didn’t even look up from where she was scrolling on her phone. “I borrowed it.”

“For what? You drink iced coffee.”

“I boiled water for my skincare routine. Sorry I’m glowing and you’re bitter.”

Aiah stared. “You boiled tea water to wash your face?”

“Yes.”

“You’re unwell.”

“Your skincare routine is just crying in the shower.”

Aiah grabbed a mug, muttering curses in three languages.

So to get her revenge, she left exactly three drops of milk in the carton and put it back in the fridge the next day.

Stacey discovered this atrocity at 6:42 a.m. while trying to make coffee.

She didn’t yell. She didn’t scream. She simply poured the remaining milk into Aiah’s travel mug with a little note taped to the lid:

“Since you like leaving things half done, enjoy. — S”

Aiah didn’t drink the coffee.

But she did order a gallon of oat milk to be delivered to the house under Stacey’s name. It showed up at noon while Stacey was on a video call.

She had to explain it to the delivery man. In front of her boss.

She didn’t talk to Aiah for the rest of the day.

On thursday, Stacey left a passive-aggressive sticky note on the bathroom mirror.

“Dear wife,

Some of us wake up with frizz. Some of us aren’t bald.

Please stop stealing my conditioner.

— S.”

Aiah added her own below it:

“Dear S,

Your conditioner is 2-in-1 shampoo.

You’re not special.

Kindly leave me alone before 8 a.m.”

So of course, in true Stacey fashion—She “accidentally” used all of Aiah’s shampoo.

“Yours smells like sadness and clinical depression,” she shrugged from the bathroom door. “You’re welcome. I’m doing you a favor.”

“It’s sulfate-free. I paid seven hundred pesos for it.”

“Then next time, don’t label it like a hotel bottle.”

Aiah replaced the shampoo with dish soap.

Stacey didn’t realize until mid-shower.

The scream could be heard three blocks away.

It was just a regular monday.

Kind of gray outside, kind of cold. The kind of morning that made getting out of bed feel like betrayal.

Stacey blinked awake in her room, really, no matter what the house deed said—arms tangled around her Care Bear. The pillow was warm, her hair a mess, and the air already tasted like bitterness and silence.

Stacey didn’t even stir until her phone vibrated under the pillow.

There it was.

A text from Aiah, sent at 5:23 a.m., which in Stacey’s opinion should be a crime punishable by law.

She groaned. Squinted at the screen. No one else texted her this early except delivery promos and her mom asking for K-drama recommendations.

5:23 AM

From: Loser

Left early for a meeting. Can you cook something and drop it off at my office later? Also maybe coffee. Employees can’t prepare mine properly. Please don’t forget. Thanks.

Stacey stared for a full minute.

Then flopped onto her back, threw an arm over her eyes, and dramatically groaned into the silence of the room.

The next message was three minutes after the previous one.

5:26 AM

From: Loser

You do cook better than me. But don’t let that get to your head, it won’t fit. 

That did it.

Stacey flung her pillow across the room.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, sitting up, hair falling into her face. “She leaves before dawn and still manages to annoy me.”

6:27 AM

To: Loser

make ur own breakfast. im not ur maid lol

6:28 AM

To: Loser

but fine. only bc ur coworkers pity u when u look like a sad hungry rat.

She locked the phone before she could see the reply. Tossed it onto the nightstand like it had personally offended her and stared at the ceiling for a full minute.

Then she sighed.

Dragged herself up. Hair wild. Shirt stretched and inside out.

Stacey stood in the kitchen, barefoot and grumpy, frying garlic rice with too much oil and exactly the way Aiah liked it. She cracked eggs like she was committing a crime. Threw longganisa into the pan like it had personally offended her.

Grumbling the whole way through.

"She's so bossy. Always asking for things like I’m her assistant-slash-prison wife."

She flipped the egg. Salted it to perfection. Sliced tomatoes like a culinary hitman.

“I swear, if she ever says ‘thank you’ like a normal person, the sky will split open and angels will weep.”

Still, her hands moved without hesitation. Like they’d done this a hundred times before. Like her fingers had memorized exactly how crispy Aiah liked her garlic, how soft the yolk should be, how much vinegar to pack with the meat.

Stacey sighed.

Coffee brewed in the corner. She even remembered to pour it into Aiah’s favorite stainless steel tumbler, the one with the stupid faded sticker of a puppy.

And then—like she hadn’t just gone through a mild existential crisis over breakfast—Stacey packed it all neatly into a lunchbox, scribbled “Don’t text me at 5 a.m. again or I’ll poison you. – S.” on a sticky note, putting it on top of the lid and leaned against the counter for a second.

Just standing there.

She rubbed a hand across her face.

Maybe it was the early hour. Or the leftover ache in her arms from tossing and turning all night. Or maybe it was just the unsettling realization that this had become a rhythm. Familiar. Worn in.

Aiah left early.

Stacey complained.

Then did exactly what was asked.

Not because she was being nice. No, God forbid. She just didn’t like the thought of Aiah skipping meals. Not when she worked too hard. Not when she went quiet from stress and pretended not to be.

What? They were supposed to be there for each other anyway. In sickness and health.

So yeah. Stacey would show up later—sunglasses on, expression blank, full brat mode engaged.

And she’d hand the lunchbox over without a word.

Because if Aiah wanted softness, she could find it in the rice. Not in Stacey’s mouth.

That was the deal.

The office lobby was too quiet when Stacey arrived.

Not the usual hum of quiet conversations or the ringing of phones. It was tense—like someone had said something they shouldn’t, and now everyone was trying not to breathe too loud.

She walked in holding the lunch box, sunglasses still on despite being indoors, because she had a brand to protect—the tired, reluctant wife with an attitude problem and flawless eyeliner.

The receptionist spotted her immediately. Nodded. “Ma’am. CEO Arceta is in her office—”

“I know where she is,” Stacey said, not unkindly, just clipped. Cool. Like someone who’d done this a hundred times.

Because come on, she had no intention of lingering. The plan was simple—walk into Aiah’s office, drop off the food with a snide comment or just nothing at all, then walk right back out before she could get pulled into any stupid workplace drama or—God forbid—small talk with Aiah’s coworkers who all looked at her like she was the tall pink gremlin Aiah occasionally mentioned but rarely brought up.

She glanced around, eyes scanning for that familiar straight back and annoyingly perfect posture.

She didn’t have to look far.

Aiah was right there. In the middle of the hallway, standing a little too close to a junior staffer with a ponytail and wide, nervous eyes.

Then she heard her.

Not Aiah’s usual tone. Not the dry, clever remarks or carefully tempered sarcasm.

This was raised.

Sharp.

Almost—furious.

The words were indistinct, but the tension in Aiah’s voice snapped through the air like static.

“I don’t want to hear excuses,” Aiah said, low and tight, jaw set in that specific way she only used when she was royally pissed off. “You were told. Twice. What do you not understand about—”

The staff around her were doing their best to look busy, suddenly invested in spreadsheets and staplers. But every glance drifted toward the corner where Aiah stood near a conference room door, speaking—no, yelling—at a junior staffer. A young woman. Probably mid-twenties. Nervous. Pale.

The girl flinched at something Aiah said.

That’s weird.

Aiah, who never lost her composure.

Aiah, who practically breathed silence and control.

Then suddenly, she stopped talking.

Mid-sentence.

Her eyes flicked past the girl’s shoulder—and landed directly on Stacey.

The change was immediate.

Like flipping a switch.

Her spine straightened, her mouth closed, and that tightly-wound anger evaporated into something smoother, quieter. Calculated, even. Her expression went blank—just a touch too quickly.

“That’s all. We’re done here,” Aiah said, voice now low and disinterested.

The woman looked like she might protest—but didn’t. She turned, humiliated, and walked away with stiff shoulders and pink cheeks.

Stacey watched the whole thing with narrowed eyes, one brow slowly lifting. Something about it didn’t sit right. Aiah didn’t usually lose her cool. Not at work. Not in front of people. Definitely not at some poor intern’s expense.

And she definitely didn’t just stop mid-tirade like someone hit pause on a movie.

Stacey stepped forward, not bothering to hide the suspicion in her face.

“Should I come back later?” she said flatly, lifting the bag slightly.

Aiah turned to her like nothing had happened. “No. It’s fine.”

She took the bag from Stacey’s hand with no expression, but her fingers lingered just a second too long around Stacey’s wrist. Almost like she was grounding herself.

“So,” Stacey said coolly. “Did she forget to call you ‘Your Highness,’ or what?”

“Something like that,” Aiah said. “You’re late.”

“You’re welcome,” Stacey snapped. “Next time I’ll poison the vinegar.”

Aiah’s smile twitched. Just barely.

But her eyes? They were somewhere else. Distant. Clouded.

Stacey squinted. Something about the shift in Aiah’s mood—it wasn’t just office stress. It wasn’t just annoyance.

If it were any other day, she would’ve dug her heels in, demanded an explanation, maybe made a joke about Aiah’s "evil boss arc." But something about Aiah’s silence felt loaded. Not the kind of silence that asked to be provoked. The kind that sat deep and heavy in her shoulders.

So instead of asking any more questions that might get her wife even more agitated, she simply didn’t leave. She stayed.

Aiah was seated now, the packed breakfast container unopened on the desk beside her laptop. She was staring blankly at the screen, fingers frozen over the keyboard, jaw locked tight. The lines around her mouth were drawn tight.

She walked around the desk in slow, easy steps—like the ground wasn’t cracked with something strange. Like the air wasn’t still thick with the remnants of Aiah’s fury.

Stacey stood there for a second, looked down at her tightly knotted muscles, and—without a word—placed her hands on her wife’s shoulders.

Aiah stiffened—just a twitch—but didn’t pull away.

Then sighed, shoulders slumping a fraction under the pressure of warm fingers and quiet, bratty affection in disguise.

“You’re tense,” Stacey murmured. “And kind of scary.”

“I’m always scary.”

“No, you’re cold. Different thing.”

Aiah let out something that might have been a laugh. Or just breath.

Stacey’s thumbs pressed gently at the base of her neck. Circles. She had no formal training in massage, but four years of war came with certain intel.

“Don’t start yelling at people just because you’re pissed about something else,” Stacey muttered near her ear, fingers beginning to press into the knots between bone and muscle. “Not a cute look, babe.”

Her voice was teasing, but quiet. Calm.

Aiah tilted her head slightly. Still silent.

“I mean,” Stacey added, her voice lighter, “I should know. I do it all the time. And you just roll your eyes and call me a spoiled menace. So what gives?”

Aiah’s shoulders rose with a breath. Fell.

“She said something about you,” she said finally. Quiet. Flat. No drama, no flourish—just fact. “Behind my back. Called you useless. Said you didn’t do anything to deserve being here.”

Stacey blinked.

Aiah continued, tone sharp but low. “Said you were just some brat I got stuck with because of a deal. That you couldn’t hold a conversation without making it about yourself. That your whole personality was pink lip gloss and entitlement.”

Stacey's hands froze.

Aiah looked down at the food bag, but didn’t touch it.

“I don’t care if people hate me,” she said. “But they don’t get to talk about you like that. Not in my office. Not ever.”

The silence that followed was heavy—but not uncomfortable.

She blinked.

This wasn’t the first time. She’d seen it before—once, in their first year of marriage, when an older supervisor made a passing comment about how "pretty girls like Stacey don’t really have to work for anything." Aiah had fired him the next week.

Second year of marriage, when an older department head at a company dinner made a smug comment about “pretty, decorative wives.” Aiah hadn’t said anything then. Just stared. Cold. Icy. Silent.

The man was fired the next day.

Then again last year. A manager joking about “CEO Arceta’s unqualified plus-one” during a team retreat.

Gone by Monday.

Stacey had called Aiah a tyrant for it. Accused her of overreacting. Of using power like a hammer.

Because she noticed that no matter how good they were at their jobs—Aiah didn’t tolerate that.

“You’ve got a scary firing finger,” Stacey said softly, kneading her thumbs in a slow rhythm along the side of Aiah’s neck. “Makes me feel powerful.”

Aiah snorted. Just a little.

“You are powerful. You just forget sometimes.”

That made Stacey pause again. A tiny beat. Just long enough for something tender to pass between them.

She broke it with a scoff.

“You’re lucky I cooked your breakfast.”

“I am,” Aiah said.

No sarcasm. No smugness.

Just that.

And Stacey, caught off guard again, shook her head and leaned down until her chin rested lightly on top of Aiah’s head.

“You could’ve just texted me she was being a bitch, you know,” she mumbled.

Aiah’s voice came back, quiet:

“But then you wouldn’t have come.”

Stacey rolled her eyes.

But she stayed right there with her wife. She stayed and ate lunch with her until she was sure that Aiah wasn’t going to jump on someone anymore with how ugly her mood was.

…

The office was quiet after hours.

The kind of silence Aiah usually liked—structured, complete. Everything filed away. Tasks boxed and ticked off. Her desk clean except for the tumbler Stacey had brought earlier, now empty, save for a fading trace of coffee at the bottom.

She gathered her bag, locked the door behind her, and took the elevator down to the parking lot.

It was late—later than usual. The meeting had dragged, traffic had done its usual hellish thing, and all she wanted was a hot shower, a lukewarm meal, and a long silence. Maybe with her back against her half of the headboard while Stacey clung to her pillow fortress in the guest room.

The car unlocked. Sleek, black, spotless. Her sanctuary between obligations.

She slid into the driver's seat and sighed. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on her phone, ready to switch on her playlist for the drive home—a mix of ambient piano and the occasional haunting acoustic cover.

But then, her phone buzzed.

No message.

Just a location pin.

From Stacey.

Aiah blinked at it.

It was a bar. Not the kind she'd expect Stacey to willingly walk into, much less spend time in. Neon lights and cheap beer. A little too loud. A little too sticky. The kind of place that smelled like old lime wedges and regret.

She frowned.

7:42 PM

To: Mrs. Arceta-Sevilleja

Why are you at a bar?

A buzz.

7:43 PM

From: Mrs. Arceta-Sevilleja

Coworkers dragged me here

7:43 PM

From: Mrs. Arceta-Sevilleja

Impromptu drink night idk

7:44 PM

From: Mrs. Arceta-Sevilleja

I dont wanna stay here im not in the mood

7:45 PM

From: Mrs. Arceta-Sevilleja

Can u pick me up

7:45 PM

From: Mrs. Arceta-Sevilleja

Or call me a cab or smt

7:46 PM

From: Mrs. Arceta-Sevilleja

Idk

Aiah stared at the screen.

Read it twice.

Three times.

She sighed.

She didn’t respond right away.

She thought about her plans—about the leftovers she was going to reheat, the nothingness she was looking forward to.

And then she turned the keys in the ignition.

Of course she was going.

Because who was Stacey kidding?

Like Aiah would ever just call her a cab and move on.

Aiah would’ve left a board meeting for her. Hell, she’d resign as CEO and torch the entire company down to the carpet threads if Stacey asked in that same begrudging tone she used when pretending not to need anything.

Because behind all the bratty texts and quiet wars, Stacey still reached out to her when she didn’t want to be where she was.

Not her friends. Not her cousins. Not even a cab app.

Her.

Aiah loosened her tie.

This wasn’t an errand.

This was an instinct.

An unconscious reroute of her entire evening, of her entire life if needed.

Because when Stacey dropped a pin—whether on a map, or in the middle of an ongoing, four-year-long cold war—it meant something.

It meant: You.

It meant that she needed Aiah. 

And that was enough for Aiah to drop everything else. Enough for Aiah to sacrifice going to a hellish traffic later once she picks up Stacey from that bar.

The bar was everything Aiah expected it to be and less.

Loud music vibrated off the walls, drowning out conversation and thought. It reeked of spilled liquor and desperation—cologne-heavy and too warm, like everyone had exhaled at once and hadn’t stopped since.

Aiah stepped in, dark slacks sharp, blazer fitted, expression unreadable. She didn’t belong here, and she didn’t need to. 

And then—there.

In the back corner.

Stacey.

Perched stiffly at the edge of a table packed with coworkers, all of them already in that flushed, loud haze of happy-hour banter. She didn’t laugh with them. Didn’t even fake it. She looked completely out of place—tense, fidgeting, fingers twisting the edge of a napkin like she was trying to vanish into it.

Her eyes flicked toward the door every few seconds.

Like she was waiting.

Like she was praying for someone to walk in and give her an excuse to bolt. A miracle.

Or a ride home.

Aiah’s heart did something strange.

She didn’t pause. Didn’t analyze. Just moved toward her like it was muscle memory.

Aiah watched as one of the coworkers—a guy with too much gel in his hair—slid another shot glass in front of her. Stacey waved it off weakly at first, lips pursed in that awkward half-smile she used when she was trying to be polite but also seconds away from biting someone’s head off.

Then she caved.

Because someone clinked their glass against hers and said something like “Come on, just one. You’re too tense. Live a little.”

She forced a smile. It looked painful.

“One,” she said, voice loud over the noise. “Sure. One.”

She knocked it back in one motion. Her nose scrunched immediately after. Her mouth twisted. 

Aiah picked up the pace.

“That’s it! You’re in now! Another!”

And like some dumb challenge had been issued, another shot was poured. Stacey hesitated, only for a second.

She took it.

Two.

Aiah’s hand curled into a fist at her side.

She was still five feet away.

The third shot came with a chant.

Stacey was grimacing. Clearly trying to keep up appearances, laughing like it didn’t burn on the way down.

Three.

“Alright, alright,” someone shouted, “one more for good luck!”

“Guys, I’m not really a—” Stacey tried, voice thin.

The fourth glass was already being filled.

She went for it. Even when everyone knew she was a featherweight, her eyes were already starting to glaze, her shoulders slackening and yet she was trying to make it quick as if she could escape the taste—Aiah was already there.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

Her voice cut clean through the music.

Every head turned.

There was Aiah—towering, unreadable, cold as hell and three seconds away from flipping the whole table if someone so much as joked about “one more.”

Stacey jolted slightly, eyes wide as she looked up and found Aiah standing beside her like a bad omen—or, in this case, a very concerned wife.

The coworker holding the fifth glass froze mid-pour. “Uh—whoa. You’re…”

Aiah didn’t look at them. Her eyes were on Stacey.

She blinked. Cheeks flushed, lips parted like she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or just finally saved.

“You’re here,” Stacey muttered, blinking like she couldn’t quite believe it.

“I’m always here,” Aiah snapped softly, already reaching for the glass before Stacey could lift it again. “You can’t even take two without starting to slur.”

“I wasn’t slurring—”

“You were about to,” Aiah hissed under her breath, already helping her up by the elbow in one smooth, practiced motion. “Come on.”

Aiah turned to Stacey’s co-workers, her voice not unkind but firm. “She’s done. Don’t serve her another thing.”

No one argued. No one even blinked.

Stacey’s coworkers suddenly found their drinks very interesting.

Stacey pouted—actually pouted—and leaned slightly against her, a little heavier than usual.

Aiah didn’t flinch.

She just steadied her, shot a warning glare at the gel-haired guy who looked ready to say something, and turned with Stacey tucked against her side.

The car door shut with a muted thunk, sealing out the bar’s chaos. Inside, the silence was thick and clean, like a balm Aiah had been waiting for all night.

She helped Stacey buckle up, though the woman kept mumbling about how she could “do it herself,” arms floppy and eyes heavy.

Aiah just clicked the seatbelt without comment and started the engine.

Stacey slumped into her seat, head knocking lightly against the cold window. Her breath fogged the glass with every exhale.

She kept one hand on the wheel, the other tightening and loosening against the leather as she exhaled through her nose.

“You know you can’t handle four shots,” she started, voice calm but disapproving. “You didn’t even need to drink that much. You know that.”

No reply.

Just a faint hum from the passenger seat. Not agreement. Not disagreement. Just Stacey.

Aiah sighed.

“You asked me to come,” she went on. “So why didn’t you wait? Why’d you let them push you like that?”

Stacey didn’t respond.

Or rather, she let out a small hnnngh, which might have been the start of a sentence—or maybe a groan of regret.

Aiah glanced at her briefly. Her head was still tilted to the side, cheek smushed against the window like a sullen cat. Her eyes were half-closed.

“You could’ve said no.”

“I did.”

A pause.

“Then you gave in.”

Another pause. Then:

“Yeah.”

Aiah pressed her lips together.

“You hate drinking,” Aiah continued, voice softer now. “And those people don’t know you. You don’t have to prove anything to them. You don’t need to be polite with people who aren’t even listening. You don’t have to play along with people who don’t care about what you want. If you didn’t want to go, you could’ve said so much earlier too. To them. Or to me.”

Stacey shifted but didn’t speak.

“I’ve seen you buzzed before. It takes one shot. Two, if you eat beforehand.”

A pause.

Another glance.

“You didn’t eat, did you?”

Stacey’s lips moved. Mumbled. “You ask too many questions.”

“And you don’t get it. I didn’t want to make it weird.”

“It’s already weird when you look like you’re begging for someone to save you in the middle of a crowd.”

Stacey didn’t respond to that.

Just let her eyes close, the sound of the tires on the road soothing in a way she wouldn’t admit. She tilted her head a little more, the glass catching her breath in small, foggy clouds.

“I came the second you sent me that location,” Aiah added after a long silence. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Stacey murmured.

“I always do.”

“I know.”

“Then stop acting like you have to ask me like I’ll say no.”

For a while, there was only the sound of the road, tires against asphalt. The occasional streetlight passing over them like flickers of spotlight—brief illuminations, then gone.

Stacey curled further into her seat, arms wrapped around herself. She sniffed.

Aiah resisted the urge to reach out.

“I’m not trying to ruin your life, you know,” Stacey whispered after a beat, eyes still closed. “Even if I act like it.”

“I know,” Aiah said, eyes back on the road.

And she did.

Stacey didn’t mean to be a brat. Not always. Not deep down. She just didn’t know how else to protect the parts of herself that had been thrown into a marriage she never asked for.

But Aiah?

She’d signed the same papers.

And she’d choose Stacey. Every time. She didn’t care if it had been four years of tolerating this woman. She would choose her even if you put her in a room filled with billions of pretty girls.

Aiah would always choose her wife. Over anything. Over anyone.

Then Stacey whispered, “You’re annoying.”

Aiah’s lips quirked faintly. “So are you.”

Stacey slumped a little lower in her seat, head bonking lightly against the glass again.

But she smiled. Just a little.

Aiah didn’t mention it.

It was past ten by the time they got home.

The house was quiet, dark except for the porch light Aiah had forgotten to turn off that morning. She was usually home before sunset. Usually, dinner was half-warm on the table, or at least something passive-aggressively reheated in the microwave by one of them—leftovers from the previous night, a sandwich neither wanted, or one of those dinners where silence was the loudest ingredient.

But tonight?

There was nothing.

No food. No bickering. No complaints thrown from kitchen to couch.

Just the soft click of the front door as Aiah pushed it open, holding it for Stacey, who stumbled in after her, still flushed from alcohol, still smelling faintly of smoke and too many people.

Neither of them said a word.

No lights were on inside the house. The darkness wasn’t heavy—it was soft, like a blanket waiting to be lifted. Familiar and undisturbed.

Stacey remained quiet. Just looked up at Aiah with heavy-lidded eyes, blinked slowly, and then—without warning—latched onto her like a sleepy koala, arms curling around her waist, face buried against her shoulder.

Aiah froze.

“…Really?”

Stacey pressed her face against Aiah’s shoulder, arms wrapping around her waist with the weight of surrender. Like it had finally hit her—they were home. Safe. Out of the noise. Just the two of them, in their complicated little corner of the world.

Aiah’s hands rose automatically, steadying her wife by the elbows before Stacey could collapse entirely.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t joke. Just let her hold on.

They kicked their shoes off in silence, barely able to aim straight.

Then eventually, they shuffled to the couch.

Aiah sat down first, leaning back and letting the exhaustion catch up to her in full. Her bones ached in that way only emotional drain could cause.

Stacey followed, settling beside her, arms still looped around one of Aiah’s. Her cheek pressed against Aiah’s shoulder again like gravity had chosen that spot for her.

They sat like that for a while.

The house, still quiet.

The echo of the bar gone. Just the two of them, breathing in sync.

Then Aiah turned, the smallest movement.

And she caught it—Stacey’s face. Her brows furrowed, eyes glossy, lips trembling like she was on the edge of something she didn’t have a name for.

“Stacey?” Aiah asked softly.

And then—

“I didn’t cook dinner,” Stacey whispered, voice hoarse, small.

Aiah blinked. “What?”

Stacey looked like a kicked kitten, guilt pooling in her eyes before they even fully met Aiah’s. “I said I would. And then I didn’t. I just… forgot. Or didn’t want to. Or something. And now I didn’t. And you didn’t eat. And it’s just… I’m sorry.”

She buried her face into Aiah’s sleeve.

And cried.

The same kind of cry when she lost her cheer bear.

The soft, defeated sobs that soaked right into the sleeve of Aiah’s blouse as Stacey turned her face into her shoulder, trying to muffle the guilt there like it could be hidden.

Aiah’s mouth parted slightly, caught off-guard.

Stacey rarely cried. And when she did, it wasn’t like this. Not a breaking, aching sort of cry. Not a “sorry” cry. Not a cry that made her seem so small and human and nothing like the bratty hurricane she was most days.

Aiah didn’t move at first.

She didn’t know how.

This—this wasn’t the bratty, mean-spirited version of her wife she was used to. This was soft, unraveling Stacey. The Stacey who took four shots just to keep up appearances. The Stacey who texted for help instead of calling a cab.

The Stacey who’s now crying over dinner like it was the last thread holding her dignity together.

Aiah looked down at the mess of dark hair against her arm.

Then, slowly, she brought her free hand up and ran her fingers through Stacey’s hair. Gentle, rhythmically. Like it was a lullaby.

“It’s okay,” she said, voice low, measured. “It’s fine. I don’t care about dinner.”

“But you worked all day…” Stacey mumbled. “I didn’t even bring snacks or anything. I forgot. I forgot everything.”

Aiah let out a quiet chuckle, not unkind. “You brought me earlier. Remember?”

Stacey sniffled. “That was this morning.”

“It still counts.”

“I suck at being your wife,” Stacey said in a tiny, broken voice, muffled against her sleeve.

“…Stacey,” Aiah said, barely above a whisper.

“I just didn’t want to disappoint you again,” Stacey croaked, muffled into fabric. “You’re always so—so you. And I’m just… this.”

“This?”

“I can’t even cook dinner.”

Aiah let her eyes fall shut, heart pulling tight in her chest.

“I didn’t marry you for dinner.”

Stacey didn’t say anything after that. She just stayed curled into her, still crying—softer now, like the worst of the storm had passed. Just rain now. Gentle and sad.

Aiah reached up, hand brushing carefully through the loose strands of hair falling from Stacey’s messy bun.

“You could’ve burned the house down and I still would've come to pick you up,” she murmured. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

“But I want to,” Stacey whispered. “I just—I don’t know how to do this.”

“Neither do I,” Aiah admitted.

…

The sunlight that poured into the kitchen the next morning was soft, too gentle for the chaos that still clung to Aiah’s chest.

Aiah sat at the edge of her bed, already dressed in her usual sharp blazer and slacks, but she hadn’t moved for ten full minutes. Her hair was brushed, watch already fastened around her wrist, but her eyes were locked on nothing in particular—just the spot on the hardwood floor where her shoes had rested the night before.

The house was unusually quiet, save for the distant hum of the shower from down the hall—Stacey’s.

Stacey, who had already yelled once this morning from her room, something about "Why are there no clean towels?! Aiah, you do laundry like a psycho!"

Aiah hadn’t responded.

She was still hearing something else.

She was still in last night.

Not the bar. Not the car ride. But after—once the crying had faded into hiccups and Stacey, in her drunk haze, had mumbled something half-apologetic before clinging tighter.

Aiah remembered how they had sat there for what felt like an hour. Stacey’s face buried in her sleeve. Her breath warm. Her words muffled.

Stacey really had no damn memory of last night.

Of curling up into Aiah’s side like a child desperate for something solid.

Of sobbing quietly into her blouse, mascara smudging both their sleeves.

Of whispering “Stay in my room tonight. Please. Just for tonight.”

And then—

"I hate you so much."

Aiah had looked at her then, heart in her throat. “Why?”

And Stacey, half-asleep and eyes barely open, had let it fall out like a secret she didn’t mean to tell.

“Because I like you.”

“Because you don’t even see it.”

Stacey didn’t even stop to let Aiah process everything.

“You’re so perfect. You do everything right. Everyone likes you. You always win. And you just… walk around like you’re clueless.”

“You’re pretty. You’re smart. You’re kind—well, okay, sometimes—and you keep pretending like I don’t matter but then you do all these stupid things that make me feel like I do and it’s—it’s confusing and I hate you. So much.”

She had sniffled again, rubbing her face against Aiah’s shoulder like a guilty cat.

“I hate you so bad I think I might be in love with you,” she whispered, so quietly Aiah almost thought she’d imagined it.

Now, in the bright light of morning, Stacey remembered none of it.

The morning was weird.

Stacey felt it the moment she stepped into the kitchen.

Because Aiah—the same woman she swore she couldn’t stand for more than a minute without throwing a snide comment—was being soft.

Not her usual kind of composed, arms-crossed, eyes-rolling kind of soft.

No.

Warm.

Gentle.

Unsettlingly kind.

She narrowed her eyes.

Stacey was grumpy from the start. She didn’t even know why. Maybe she woke up too late. Maybe her stomach was twisting because of those four dumb shots. Or maybe it was because she hated how Aiah looked so composed that morning in her crisp button-down shirt and gold watch—hated that Aiah made her feel like she was standing there with unbrushed hair and half a brain cell.

Which, to be fair, she was.

She slumped into the dining chair and grumbled, “You’re up early. Trying to win CEO of the Year or something?”

Aiah, already at the stove, turned slightly and smiled. Smiled. No eye-roll. No snark. Just that quiet little smile she only ever used in front of other people.

“Just trying to have a good day,” she said.

Stacey blinked.

Okay. Weird.

And it didn’t stop there.

While Stacey poked at her breakfast, still too stubborn to admit she appreciated Aiah leaving her portion before work, Aiah slid into the seat across from her, reached out without a word, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Stacey’s ear.

Stacey nearly dropped her fork.

“What the hell are you doing?” she whispered, stunned.

Aiah only gave her a brief look. “You had something on your face.”

“I did not.”

“You do now.” A subtle smirk. “It’s called a blush.”

Stacey’s jaw dropped—then snapped shut as she looked away, heart suddenly beating way too fast for a Wednesday.

They didn’t do this. Whatever this was.

Aiah sipped her coffee again, entirely too graceful for this early in the morning.

Something was off. Aiah was being weirdly affectionate? Like, her face was softer. Her voice was less mocking. And she didn’t even make a single snide comment about Stacey walking into the kitchen wearing mismatched socks.

“Are you dying?” Stacey asked suddenly, narrowing her eyes.

Aiah finally looked up, brows arching. “Why would you ask that?”

“You’re being nice.”

A small, lopsided smile crept onto Aiah’s face. “Maybe I just like you today.”

“Ew.”

But the way Stacey ducked her head and tried to hide behind her mug of coffee betrayed her.

It wasn’t ew. Not really.

And the part where Aiah reached out to hold her hand across the table, fingers curling around hers like it was a habit instead of an anomaly—yeah, that part had her absolutely thrown.

She didn’t even pull away.

She should’ve. She wanted to. But she didn’t.

Because the warmth was too good. And the look on Aiah’s face was too gentle to make fun of.

After breakfast, Aiah gathered her things to leave for work.

Stacey was already preparing to retreat back to her room-slash-office when she heard the unmistakable clack of heels pause behind her. She turned.

Aiah stood by the front door, coat slung over her arm, keys in hand. “I’ll be late tonight. Don’t wait up.”

“Dinner?” Stacey asked before she could stop herself.

Aiah tilted her head. “Only if you don’t cry on me again.”

Stacey scowled. “I did not cry.”

“Mmm.” Aiah gave her a smile—one of those real ones. The kind Stacey had never gotten without strings. “I’ll bring something home.”

And before walking out the door, turned back, leaned closer to her—

And pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Soft.

Quick.

Like she’d done it a hundred times before.

“Bye,” she said, voice low, and walked out the door.

Stacey stood frozen in place.

Cheek burning.

Heart racing.

Mouth slightly open in protest she never got to form.

What the actual hell?

A kiss? On the cheek? From Aiah?

She staggered back into the kitchen like she’d been smacked in the face with a flower bouquet.

Her hand was on her cheek. Still warm.

She sat there for at least ten minutes, her scrambled eggs completely untouched, lips slightly parted like she’d just seen a ghost.

It was driving her insane.

Not the kind of cute, overthinking type of insane—the proper, full-scale, pacing-around-the-living-room, muttering-to-yourself level of chaos that comes only when someone kisses you, smiles like it’s no big deal, and walks out like they didn’t just turn your whole world upside down.

By 9:32 AM, Stacey was already glaring at her phone like it had personally betrayed her.

She fired off a text. Then another.

9:32 AM

To: Loser

Wwhat. The hell was that

9:32 AM

To: Loser

You kissed me

9:33 AM

To: Loser

Like??? WITH Your lips???

9:34 AM

To: Loser

EXPLAIN IT TO ME!!!

No response.

She waited.

Refreshed the thread.

Still nothing.

By 9:40, she was chewing her nails and typing again.

9:40 AM

To: Loser

Aiah. hey. Hello excuse me

9:41 AM

To: Loser

Be honest was that a pity kiss

9:42 AM

To: Loser

I know I LOOKED STUPID!!! My socks are bullshit!!! YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO KISS ME!!!

And finally—at 9:43—a reply lit up her screen.

9:43 AM

From: Loser

😘

Stacey stared at the screen. The audacity. The absolute menace of it.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?” she screamed, phone in hand.

She launched her phone onto the couch and threw herself face-first into the throw pillows like they’d somehow absorb her rage and/or confused affection. Which, of course, they didn’t.

She groaned into the cushions, muffled and dramatic, her legs kicking out like a child throwing a tantrum.

This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. She was supposed to grumble through Valentine’s like she had for the past four years—complain about couples, hate on cheap boxed chocolates, and pretend like her wife wasn’t stupidly attractive when she laughed.

Instead?

She was wearing Aiah’s hoodie.

Remembering the kiss like it was tattooed on her skin.

And losing her mind in the middle of the living room, while working from home.

Worst part?

Her neighbors probably heard her scream.

Again.

She shot upright, grabbed her phone, and typed another message with her thumbs moving like vengeance had possessed her.

9:45 AM

To: Loser

STOP BEING CRYPTIC AND ANSWER ME

9:46 AM

To: Loser

Im literally two seconds away from walking into ur office and body slamming you into your desk

9:47 AM

To: Loser

Can u just be honest r u making fun of me or want me ruined

9:49 AM

To: Loser

I WILL TELL YOUR DAD YOU CRY AT DOG VIDEOS AT NIGHT WHEN U THINK THAT IM ALREADY ASLEEP!! I HAVE RECORDED AUDIO FILES AIAH DONT TEST ME

9:55 AM

To: Loser

MARAIAH QUEEN ARCETA-SEVILLEJA!!!

Silence.

Stacey’s laptop pinged. A meeting reminder. She slammed it shut.

This was not a work-appropriate crisis.

She stood up. Paced. Sat back down. Stared at her phone. Tried to eat a cookie. Choked on the cookie. Threw the cookie.

And her phone buzzed a second later.

10:00 AM

From: Loser

We’ll talk tonight.

Stacey threw her head back and screamed again.

This time, she was pretty sure the postman heard her.

Stacey was finishing her third lap around the living room, muttering curses and theories about whether Aiah had been replaced by a much nicer clone.

She had already changed her outfit thrice. Not because she cared. Obviously not.

She just—well, maybe she accidentally spilled juice on her first shirt. And the second one was too wrinkled. And the third one? Too obvious. She settled on a hoodie and shorts. It screamed I didn’t try, which, in her head, meant I definitely don’t care that you kissed me this morning and then ghosted me all day.

She didn’t wait by the door. That would be insane.

She only happened to be walking past it. Casually. Like any other Wednesday night where her wife definitely didn’t kiss her cheek and definitely didn’t leave her spiraling into a phone-based emotional breakdown.

When the doorbell rang, she opened it faster than a human should reasonably be able to react.

And froze.

Because Aiah was standing there, briefcase in one hand… and a bouquet of pink tulips in the other.

Not roses. Tulips. Stacey’s favorite. Her undisclosed favorite.

Stacey blinked.

Then blinked again.

“Who gave you that?” she asked, voice tight, eyes narrowing like lasers. “Is it your secretary? Are you seeing someone? Is it a man? Or—oh my God—is it Lara from accounting? I always knew she was weird.”

Aiah’s lips curled into a chuckle—deep, warm, far too amused. “Seriously?”

“Don’t seriously me, woman. You don’t just bring home flowers. That’s not in your behavior chart.”

Aiah stepped in, casually sliding past her with the bouquet. “You have a behavior chart?”

“I should. It’d explain why you kissed me this morning like we’re—” she trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “—married.”

“We are,” Aiah said, her tone maddeningly light as she turned and held the bouquet toward her. “And this is for you.”

Stacey’s words jammed up in her throat.

She looked at the bouquet.

Then at Aiah.

Then back at the bouquet.

“…Me?”

Aiah nodded. “Happy Valentine’s, Stacey.”

Silence.

More blinking.

Stacey looked at the bouquet, then at Aiah, then back at the bouquet as if it might bite her.

“You… you bought me flowers?” she asked, voice cracking halfway like a fourteen-year-old on a karaoke machine.

Aiah nodded, smile unfaltering. “Yes, Stacey. For Valentine’s. Because despite the fact that you threatened to body-slam me earlier and accused me of dating three different departments, you’re my wife.”

She held the bouquet out.

Stacey stared at it like it was some ancient relic. Like touching it might awaken a dormant curse. Or worse—feelings.

Her fingers curled around the stems slowly. Hesitantly.

“…These are tulips.”

“I noticed. Every time we pass a flower shop. And last year, when we were at your cousin’s wedding. You kept pointing at them and saying, ‘They’re so superior to roses, like if flowers had a hierarchy, tulips would be the CEO.’”

Stacey flushed. “I said that once—”

“You said it three times and you were wine drunk.”

“I hate you,” she mumbled under her breath.

Aiah’s grin widened. “Sure you do.”

And then she stepped inside like it was any other night. Shoes off. Bag on the counter. She disappeared into the kitchen like she hadn’t just caused a whole internal system error in her wife’s brain.

Stacey stood at the door for a good ten seconds, bouquet still in hand, mouth open slightly like she was buffering.

And then—

“Oh.”

Her voice cracked in surprise. “Oh.”

That was all she could manage before her eyes widened in horror and her body practically launched itself backward into the couch, bouquet in hand like it was burning her palms.

Aiah raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Stacey squeaked.

“You look like you're malfunctioning.”

“I am malfunctioning,” she hissed into the bouquet. “You broke the protocol. We have a truce. Mutual bratdom. This is illegal.”

Aiah laughed quietly and leaned over the back of the couch to rest her chin on Stacey’s shoulder.

“You look cute when you’re flustered.”

Stacey let out a strangled noise and held the bouquet up to hide her face.

“I hate you,” she muttered.

“Sure you do,” Aiah said, her voice low and close.

The dinner table had never been quieter.

Not the polite kind of quiet where people respectfully eat in peace. No—it was the kind of quiet that made Stacey hyper-aware of every clink of silverware, every shift in her chair, every second that ticked past like it was loaded with suspense.

Across the table, Aiah was glowing.

Actually glowing.

She had that soft, easy smile on her lips as she chewed, humming once in a while like dinner was a five-star meal and she wasn’t just spooning spoonfuls of Stacey’s desperate last-minute stir-fry into her mouth like it was made by angels.

Meanwhile Stacey?

She was loading. Or malfunctioning in real time if that was the better term.

Fork frozen mid-air. Blinking at her plate like she forgot what food was. Or how chewing worked.

Because everything was wrong.

First, Aiah had kissed her cheek this morning. Then gave her tulips. Then smiled at her like nothing was out of the ordinary. And now she was acting like they were on an actual date—like this was some kind of food-based emotional blackmail.

It was criminal.

It was infuriating.

It was confusing.

Why was she like this? Why now?

This wasn’t what she was used to. Not the cold war dynamic they’d mastered. Not the petty bickering, the arm's-length sarcasm, the constant bratty sabotage that defined every domestic scene they shared.

This was something new.

Something dangerously close to sincerity.

And Stacey didn’t know how to handle sincerity unless it came wrapped in passive-aggressive sass and a side of eye rolls.

Stacey ate a single dumpling and nearly choked. Because it tasted good. Offensive.

“Is it too gingery?” Aiah suddenly asked, tilting her head like a saddened puppy.

“I—what? No. It’s fine. Shut up,” Stacey mumbled, stabbing another dumpling like it had personally wronged her.

Dinner ended without bloodshed. Barely.

Stacey gathered their dishes in silence. Aiah just leaned back in her chair, sipping water with that same dreamy, satisfied look on her face like she hadn’t just turned Stacey’s entire emotional landscape into a minefield.

Water. Soap. Scrub. Rinse.

Don’t think about the kiss.

Don’t think about the flowers.

Don’t think about how soft Aiah looked with her sleeves rolled up and that little satisfied smile on her face after eating.

She was deep in her washing trance when she felt it—warm arms around her waist.

Stacey froze, nearly dropping a plate.

“Jesus Christ—” she choked out, heart thudding like a drumline in her chest.

Aiah rested her chin on Stacey’s shoulder, her voice quiet—close.

“Can we talk after?”

The plate in Stacey’s hands wobbled.

“Jesus,” she whispered, eyes wide, heartbeat doing somersaults.

Aiah leaned in behind her, resting her chin lightly on Stacey’s shoulder. “Relax,” she murmured, voice low and soft enough to send shivers down her spine. “Can we talk after this?”

Stacey stood frozen. Red as a warning light. Her brain short-circuited at the contact, the closeness, the intimacy of Aiah just holding her like that.

Like it wasn’t a big deal.

Like they hadn’t spent the past four years finding new ways to silently sabotage each other.

“NO—yes—I—yeah,” Stacey stammered, voice shooting up an octave. “Talk? Yeah. Sure. Later. I’m—washing. I have to—this sponge is—very important.”

The sponge was shaking.

Her ears were red.

She squeezed Stacey’s waist once, gentle and warm. Aiah even had the audacity to smile against her neck—God, she could feel it—and pulled away with a casual hum, like she hadn’t destroyed every single system that her wife had in place.

“I’ll be upstairs.”

And with that, she turned and walked off.

Stacey stood there like a frozen Sims character. Water still running. Soap bubbles clinging to her fingers. Tulips still in a vase just across the room.

She stared down at the last plate.

Then whispered to herself:

“Oh no...”

Stacey climbed the stairs slower than she ever had in her life.

Stacey padded slowly up the stairs, hands still faintly smelling of dish soap, her heart rattling against her ribs like it was desperate to escape the conversation ahead.

Can we talk after this?

Actually, just that question alone should’ve been illegal when said by someone with arms that are warm as hell and smiles all soft.

She kept her eyes down as she reached the hallway, pausing for a moment in front of the room that had never been hers. It was Aiah’s. It had always been Aiah’s. And yet ever since last night, the line between “yours” and “mine” had begun to blur.

She reached her bedroom door, hesitated—and froze at the sight inside.

Aiah.

Lying on her bed.

Wearing a loose shirt and sweats, one leg crossed over the other, arm tucked behind her head like she belonged there.

Which she technically did.

They were married, after all.

But that had never stopped Stacey from aggressively gatekeeping her own bedroom like it was a dragon-guarded fortress for the past four years.

Aiah glanced up and grinned. “Took you long enough.”

“You’re in my bed.”

“I was tired of knocking on the guest room every time I needed to talk to you,” Aiah replied smoothly, then patted the space beside her. “C’mere. Let’s talk here.”

Swallowing her pride—and a very uncooperative flutter in her chest—Stacey quietly walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, as far from Aiah as gravity would allow without falling off entirely.

Silence sat between them. Big. Heavy. Loud.

Stacey clenched her hands in her lap, refusing to look over, but she could feel Aiah watching her. Could feel her breathing.

Finally, Aiah broke the stillness with a quiet voice. “You remember what happened last night?”

Stacey stiffened.

“No,” she lied, far too fast.

Aiah raised a brow. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Pause. “Maybe.”

Aiah bit her lip, then looked down at her lap, fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve.

“You were drunk,” she said. “You cried because you didn’t get to cook dinner. And then you begged me to stay in your room. You hugged me. A lot. Like, a lot a lot.”

Stacey shot up like a spring-loaded toaster. “Okay—that doesn’t count, I was emotionally compromised.”

“You told me you hated me,” Aiah continued, calm as ever, “because you had feelings for me. And that I was too dense to get the hint.”

Silence.

Stacey’s entire system went blue screen of death. She stood so fast the bed squeaked.

Stacey stood up fast, face burning, hands waving as she scrambled for dignity. “Okay, first of all—I said I think I hate you. And I’m allowed to have feelings. That’s not a crime. It’s not even—like—real.”

“Stacey.”

“No, because if you think I meant—”

“Stacey.” Aiah’s voice dropped a note. Warm. Steady. Serious.

Stacey stilled.

“Can you just… sit?” Aiah said softly, patting the bed beside her again. “Please?”

Her knees trembled as she obeyed.

Aiah scooted closer, just enough to keep her voice low, private. Intimate.

“I’ve been in love with you,” she said, “for the past four years.”

Stacey’s breath caught.

Aiah smiled sheepishly, almost like she was the flustered one now. “Ever since that first week. When you moved into the house and got mad that I organized the book by alphabetical order instead of by color. And then tried to rearrange it just to piss me off.”

“I—I did do that.”

“You’ve been bratty, annoying, dramatic, impossible to live with—”

“Gee, thanks—”

“—and the most beautiful, ridiculous, wonderful person I’ve ever met.”

Stacey’s mouth opened. Then closed.

Then opened again.

Nothing came out.

“I know I pretended like I didn’t care,” Aiah continued, voice quieter now. “But I did. I always did. Every time you looked at me like you hated me, I wanted to ask why. Every time you slept in the guest room, I wanted to knock and ask you to come back. I’ve just… been matching your bratty energy because I didn’t know how to get close to you without scaring you off.”

Stacey could barely breathe. Her cheeks were crimson. Her eyes wide.

“You—you’re serious,” she whispered.

Aiah nodded, a bit nervous now. “Completely.”

Stacey looked horrified.

“You’re lying,” she whispered.

“Nope, I’m not. Every time you’re bratty to me, I die a little and come back stronger.”

“That’s—that’s unhealthy—”

“I know.”

“And kind of twisted—”

Aiah nodded solemnly. “Still true.”

Stacey’s whole face was red now. Like tomato red. She was practically glowing from the heat of her own embarrassment. She couldn’t even hide behind her usual scowl—it had melted off somewhere between the words down bad and for years.

“I…” she started, then faltered. “You liked me this whole time?”

Aiah smiled—gently this time. “Not just liked you. I was stupid for you. Still am.”

Stacey looked away, grabbing the nearest pillow and screaming into it like it was a life raft. Her muffled voice was only partly comprehensible.

“WHYYYY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Aiah teased.

She reached over and gently tugged the pillow down.

The pillow slipped from Stacey’s hands, landing somewhere between them—forgotten.

Her fingers curled into the sheets, gripping tightly. She wasn’t sure if it was to hold her composure or to keep herself from reaching out first.

Aiah stood slowly.

Not with anything dramatic, not like a movie scene—but with the kind of quiet purpose that made Stacey’s pulse skip. Her shadow stretched across the bed as she stepped closer, gaze soft but steady.

She stopped just in front of Stacey—close enough that Stacey had to tilt her head up to meet her eyes.

Stacey didn’t pull away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t throw out some sharp-edged quip to dodge the moment like she usually would.

Because there, between them, hanging in the air like a fragile thread of glass, was something unspoken—but understood. Something soft and powerful and years in the making.

Their eyes locked.

Stacey tilted her head up, heart rattling against her ribs, eyes searching Aiah’s.

In them, she saw it.

The same thing burning in her own chest.

You, it’s always been you.

Aiah’s eyes asked the question without a word.

Can I?

And Stacey—God, she barely nodded, just the slightest dip of her head, but it was enough.

That was all it took.

Aiah’s hand lifted, pausing in midair. She let it hover, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs. And then—slowly, carefully—she placed it on Stacey’s waist.

The world felt impossibly quiet.

And then—finally, finally—Aiah leaned in, and Stacey did too. Their foreheads brushed. Then their noses. Their lips met, soft and tentative and nothing like that first kiss they were forced to share under flashing cameras and polite applause.

This one was different.

This one was real.

It wasn’t perfect—Stacey’s breath hitched, and Aiah’s hand shook slightly. But it was theirs. Not demanded by tradition or forced by obligation. Not mechanical.

Aiah kissed her slowly—reverently—like she’d been waiting a lifetime to earn it.

And Stacey?

Stacey melted into it.

Her hands found Aiah’s arms, gripping gently, pulling her just a little closer. She could taste years of things left unsaid, of dinners shared in silence, of late-night texts turned into small, strange gestures of affection they both pretended not to care about.

But she cared.

God, she cared.

When they finally pulled back, just a breath apart, Stacey’s forehead bumped gently against Aiah’s. Her lips were still tingling. Her chest ached in the best kind of way.

And for the first time in four years, she whispered something into the space between them that she didn’t quite mean to say—but meant with every fiber of her being.

“…I don’t hate you.”

Aiah grinned.

Soft.

Devastating.

“I know.”

The silence between them hummed.

Not heavy, not awkward—but charged. Bright. Unspoken things flickering like candlelight between two sets of wide eyes and burning cheeks.

They gave themselves a moment to realize just how soft each other’s lips were, how familiar yet brand new this felt. How right it felt.

Then Aiah leaned in again—this time with less hesitation, more ache.

Their lips met again.

The third kiss wasn’t gentle like the second.

It was full of four years of swallowed feelings. Four years of every stupid argument, every bratty word that masked worry, every eye-roll that actually meant “please notice me,” every late-night whisper into pillows they never had the courage to say aloud.

It was no longer about uncertainty or slow, tentative feeling. It was something deeper now—hungrier. Years of repressed emotions and buried affections folded into the press of their mouths, and Stacey didn’t even try to stop it.

Aiah’s hands pulled Stacey closer by the waist, firm and needy, as if grounding herself in the reality that yes, this was happening—that Stacey wanted this, wanted her.

The kiss deepened.

Stacey made a quiet, muffled sound as her hands slid up to rest around Aiah’s neck, pulling her in until their bodies were flush, close, finally allowed to be what they had always wanted to be.

A fourth kiss followed—breathless and heady, all tongue and teeth and desperation.

Then a fifth, softer, more tender.

They were releasing everything.

Stacey pulled back first, gasping softly, cheeks burning, lips swollen. Aiah followed a second later, just as breathless.

Their foreheads pressed together again, a familiar, grounding touch—but now it was laced with something different.

Intimacy.

Truth.

Home.

Stacey laughed first. A light, breathless sound that spilled from her lips before she could catch it.

Aiah followed a second later, grinning like a fool, eyes still half-lidded and dazed. “That… was overdue.”

“Four years overdue,” Stacey said, cheeks red, voice wobbly as she tried to breathe.

Their fingers stayed curled at each other’s sides, unwilling to let go.

Stacey blinked at her, flustered but glowing. “You’re still annoying.”

“You’re still a brat.”

“Can I kiss you again?”

“You better.”

They laughed again, foreheads still pressed together, bodies still clinging like they were scared it might all disappear if they let go.

…

In the days that followed, things between Aiah and Stacey were… well, different, but not too different.

Their kisses had been a long time coming, sure, but the way they interacted afterward was still oddly familiar, like they were still figuring out how to be with each other in this new territory. The only noticeable difference?

Aiah was no longer trying to poke and prod Stacey into reactions.

She wasn’t the same girl who’d tease and make snarky remarks to get under Stacey’s skin. No, now she was the one doing all the little things Stacey never thought she’d see—lovey dovey little moments, hand squeezes, whispers of affection when no one else was looking. Aiah was still the same person, but softer, gentler, as if finally understanding how to give Stacey the affection she’d been craving, even if Stacey didn’t always know how to ask for it.

“Stop it,” Stacey muttered, face red, as Aiah slid into the kitchen beside her and wrapped her arms around her waist, burying her face in the crook of Stacey’s neck as if she couldn’t bear to be more than an inch away. “This is… ridiculous.”

Aiah pressed a kiss to her skin anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m ridiculous? You’re the one who’s acting like you’re in love with me or something.” Stacey’s voice was a mix of irritation and something else. Something she didn’t yet want to admit. But the red in her cheeks didn’t quite go away.

Aiah’s lips quirked up in that signature smile. “I am in love with you. What’s the matter? You don’t like it?”

She rolled her eyes, though her heart fluttered at the words. "You're going to make me act like a lovesick teenager, aren't you?"

“Oh, definitely,” Aiah said with mock sincerity, pulling her into a tight hug. “And I’ll hold you to it. But don’t worry, love, you’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.” Stacey huffed, crossing her arms, though she couldn’t quite keep the grin from creeping across her face. “Stop calling me cute.”

Aiah leaned down to kiss her cheek, lingering just a little too long. “You are cute.”

Stacey’s eyes narrowed, but the pink on her cheeks betrayed her. “Quit it.”

“I can’t help it. You’re irresistible,” The older woman teased, her fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from Stacey’s face before tucking it behind her ear. The moment was sweet, quiet, and tender, and it made Stacey want to squirm.

“I still don’t get how you went from making me want to punch you to… this.” Stacey scowled, though the effort was half-hearted. “This is weird.”

“Well, weirder things have happened, haven’t they?” Aiah teased, her fingers gently tracing Stacey’s jawline.

Stacey sighed, a little louder than necessary, clearly trying to fight the grin threatening to break free. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Aiah raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about to fall in love with me all over again,” Stacey said, narrowing her eyes. But there was no real anger in her voice, just that soft, teasing edge that had become familiar.

Aiah’s lips quirked. “Congratulations, you’re actually right. I’m about to fall in love with you again and I don’t think I could stop myself from doing so.”

She stared at her for a moment, still holding onto her crossed arms like she was trying to resist the warmth in her chest. “You really are a freak.”

“And you’re a brat,” Aiah shot back, smiling as she tucked a strand of hair behind Stacey’s ear. “But you’re my brat now.”

“Ugh. You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

Stacey didn’t reply at first, instead turning away slightly with a pout—trying so hard to keep the walls up, trying to hold on to the pretense of indifference when Aiah’s affection was overwhelming her. She was grumpy and stubborn, as she always had been.

And Aiah?

Well, Aiah wasn’t backing down. She was leaning in—literally—and was so much more affectionate than she used to be, showering Stacey with attention and soft smiles that made the grumpy girl’s knees buckle. Aiah wasn’t letting the old dynamic go, but she wasn’t trying to provoke her anymore.

She was simply loving her.

One evening, Aiah walked into the living room with a cup of coffee—she just came back home from work, her eyes practically sparkling as she plopped down on the couch next to Stacey, snuggling up against her like they’d been doing this for years.

“I bought you something,” Aiah announced with a bright grin, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Stacey frowned, glancing up from her phone. “What now?”

“Something that’s perfect for you.” Aiah handed her a small bag with a playful smile. “I got you the biggest donut I could find. Thought you could eat your feelings.”

Stacey’s expression softened, and her lips tugged at the corners. “I don’t eat my feelings.”

“Liar.” Aiah leaned in, brushing a kiss on Stacey’s temple as she handed her the donut. “But you’re welcome, anyway.”

Stacey’s cheeks flamed, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she took the donut with a small, reluctant smile. “You really are ridiculous.”

Aiah’s hands slipped around her waist, pulling her closer. “And you’re still cute when you try to act like you’re not secretly in love with me.”

Stacey shook her head, but she didn’t pull away.

She didn’t want to pull away.

“I made you coffee,” Aiah said sweetly the next morning, placing the mug in front of Stacey with both hands, like she was presenting her an offering to a goddess.

Stacey narrowed her eyes. Suspicious.

“What’s in it?”

“Love,” Aiah answered, without missing a beat.

Stacey blinked. Her ears turned red. “...Gross.”

And yet she drank it anyway.

At lunch, Aiah texted her.

11:42 AM

From: Loser

How’s my lovely wife doing? Missing me yet?

11:45 AM

To: Loser

I will block u

11:46 AM

From: Loser

Okay but only after I send this selfie of me missing you.

And true to her word, a photo followed—Aiah, in her office chair, with the most pitiful lovesick expression imaginable. Stacey threw her phone across the room.

When Aiah got home that evening, she hugged Stacey from behind the moment she walked through the door. No words. No greetings. Just arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder, a little hum vibrating against Stacey’s ear.

Stacey almost melted. Almost.

“Stop acting like we’re in a romcom,” she grumbled, squirming. “You’re being weird.”

“Not weird. In love,” Aiah murmured.

“Gross.”

“You keep saying that,” Aiah teased, spinning her gently around. “But you’re blushing.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes you are.”

Stacey shoved her away, weakly. “Go take a shower.”

“Only if you join me.”

Stacey’s hand twitched. “AIAH!”

She stormed off, muttering something about “divorce,” but the way her hand hovered over her chest, the way her lips curled at the edges. Yeah. Aiah saw it.

Stacey wasn’t fooling anyone.

Three days into their unofficial-official making up, Stacey was seriously considering setting fire to her own kitchen.

Because Aiah—affectionate, smug, terribly soft Aiah—would not stop hovering.

“You cut vegetables so cutely,” Aiah said, resting her chin on Stacey’s shoulder again.

Stacey froze mid-slice. “What does that even mean.”

“It’s just the way your brows furrow and your lips pout a little when you focus—it’s very romantic. Domestic. Wife core.”

“I will throw this carrot at you.”

Aiah laughed. “I’m into that.”

Stacey made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a growl. She couldn’t deal with this new version of Aiah. She’d married an annoying perfectionist with sharp wit and an eye-roll permanently etched into her expression—not this lovestruck, handsy dork who kissed her temple in between cutting onions.

And yet her heart kept stuttering every time she turned around and saw Aiah smiling like that. That same gentle smile she used to only see when they were in front of their families. Except now? It was just for her.

No audience.

No performance.

Just Aiah being in love.

That weekend, they went out for groceries together for the first time in forever. The town hadn’t seen them side-by-side since their wedding photos had gone up on community boards. They were infamous for always arriving at family functions in separate cars—even when they came from the same house.

But this time?

Aiah held Stacey’s hand as they entered the store.

Stacey, of course, tried to shake it off.

“You don’t need to act like we’re—”

“I’m not acting,” Aiah said simply, lacing their fingers tighter.

Stacey stared at their joined hands. “...People are staring.”

“Let them.”

It should’ve annoyed her. It should’ve made her want to hide behind a shelf of canned beans and scream.

Instead, it made her giddy.

Oh, she’d never admit it.

But even as she fake-grumbled about it, she didn’t pull away.

Even as she scolded Aiah for buying the wrong brand of cereal, she let her hand linger on Aiah’s back a moment too long.

Even as they bickered over aisle five, she caught herself smiling like an idiot.

That night, after dinner (which Aiah cooked and Stacey insulted the entire time but finished every bite of), they settled on the couch.

Stacey on her usual end.

Aiah on hers.

They glanced at each other.

No one moved.

Then Aiah smirked and patted the seat next to her. “You know you want to.”

“I don’t,” Stacey said.

And then moved anyway.

The second she sat down, Aiah pulled her close, tucked her head beneath her chin like it was routine. Like it was always meant to be this way.

“You’re unbearable,” Stacey muttered, even as she melted into her.

“Only for you.”

“Still gross.”

“Still yours.”

The quiet that settled wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t tense.

It was the kind of silence that came with peace. With understanding. With two people who’d been fighting so long they forgot what it was like to rest in each other.

The next morning, the two of them were lounging around the kitchen, Aiah dancing around, making pancakes while Stacey sat at the counter, scrolling through her phone.

Aiah had somehow ended up humming to herself—some offbeat song, most likely a random tune she’d heard the night before. She seemed lighter than usual, the quiet hum in her voice making her sound carefree, as she swayed side to side. Every so often, she’d glance at Stacey, catch her eye, and shoot her a teasing grin.

“Stop staring at me,” Stacey muttered, not looking up from her phone, though her lips twitched. “It’s weird.”

“I’m not staring. I’m admiring,” Aiah quipped, giving her a wink. “That’s not the same thing, honey.”

She couldn’t hold back a groan, but she couldn’t hide her smile either. “You’re so unbearable.”

“I know,” Aiah replied, flipping a pancake with exaggerated flair. “But you love it.”

The words weren’t new. The joke wasn’t new. But the way Aiah said it now—without malice, without that old playful bite. And somehow, that was the change. Because Stacey had to admit that yeah, she did love it.

She loved the way Aiah’s affection didn’t feel like it was meant to rile her up anymore.

It was genuine.

It was easy.

“Don’t make me throw this pancake at you,” Stacey threatened, only half-joking as she lowered her phone, eyes narrowing on the other older woman.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Aiah taunted, tossing the pancake into the air and catching it perfectly in the pan. “You’ve never had the guts.”

Stacey raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

The playful challenge was evident, and Aiah laughed, a light sound that made Stacey's heart skip. She shook her head, setting the pancake down on the plate in front of her before walking over, fully expecting Stacey to throw something. But Stacey, ever the brat, just stood there—arms crossed, giving Aiah that look. That familiar, grumpy, adorable look that still made Aiah's chest tighten.

The joke continued as it always did, but now, it was warmer, and Stacey was learning how to play along. Instead of turning away, refusing to engage, she would smirk and roll her eyes, but stay close. Aiah wasn’t pushing her buttons anymore—she was making it safe to let Stacey respond.

Another family gathering.

It had been four years of these. Four years of practiced smiles, staged compliments, hand-holding timed to perfection, stolen glances choreographed like ballroom dance.

And this time?

Maybe it was the way Stacey held Aiah’s hand not like it was choreographed, not like it was staged, but because she simply wanted to. Maybe it was the way Aiah didn’t bother fixing Stacey’s hair this time or smoothing down her dress like she usually did for effect. Instead, she tugged at a loose thread on Stacey’s sleeve and muttered, “You didn’t even lint-roll this, did you?”

And Stacey? She just rolled her eyes and smacked Aiah’s hand away. “It’s a backyard barbecue, not a gala.”

“Still could’ve tried,” Aiah said under her breath.

“Still could’ve remembered to zip your clutch, but here we are,” Stacey bit back, smirking.

It wasn’t the cold politeness their families had grown used to — the too-perfect couple act, the hand-in-hand sweetness, the compliments thrown like confetti. It was… raw. Bratty. Honest.

And everyone noticed.

One of the uncles squinted at them from the buffet table like he’d forgotten his glasses.

“Did they… fight?” one cousin whispered to another, eyes darting between the two girls now bickering in front of the lemonade dispenser.

“No, that’s not—wait. Are they flirting?”

The confusion only escalated.

“Don’t put that on my plate,” Stacey said sharply the moment Aiah dumped a full scoop of sweet potato mash next to her rice.

“You said you wanted some,” Aiah replied, piling vegetables onto her own plate before sneakily transferring them to Stacey’s when she wasn’t looking.

“I said a little. This is a mound.”

Aiah shrugged, completely unbothered. “You’re always hungry anyway.”

Stacey’s fork froze midair. “I will stab you.”

“Use a sharper fork.”

Their bickering earned a few stares. Polite, confused ones from distant cousins, bewildered ones from titas who had once said, “Aren’t they so composed? So peaceful together?”

But the most shocked of all?

Aiah’s mom.

The woman blinked as she sat beside Stacey, catching the younger girl fuming and mumbling curses about her “dumb wife” under her breath.

Then came the vegetables.

Stacey picked through her plate dramatically before turning to Aiah’s mom, lips pressed together in mock betrayal.

“Tita, Aiah keeps dumping her food on my plate. She’s twenty-nine and still a picky eater. Fix your daughter.”

Aiah, across the table, didn’t even look up from her rice. “Snitch.”

“Picky baby.”

“You love me.”

“Didn’t you eat these just a few months ago?”

“I was trying to impress you!”

Stacey blinked. Then raised an eyebrow. “Eating vegetables isn’t something to be impressed about, bro.”

Everyone stared.

Not because it was loud. Not because it was crass.

But because it was real.

Gone was the overly curated couple—the ones who used to arrive with perfectly matched outfits and robotic affection. Gone was the tension masked in smiles. Gone were the quiet resentments behind held hands.

Now?

There were no more perfectly rehearsed laughs. No more over-the-top gestures. No more minding their posture for photos or waiting for cues to hold each other’s hand.

They were just... them.

Stacey feeding Aiah a spoonful of pancit while muttering, “Eat this before you faint from skipping breakfast again.”

Aiah wiping the edge of Stacey’s lips with her thumb, completely unbothered, and saying, “You always eat like a gremlin.”

Stacey swatting her hand away with a loud, “You wish you were this cute when you’re messy.”

Surprisingly—no one was scandalized.

Their families were confused, sure. Maybe even a little shocked. But there was something about the way the two now carried themselves — a quiet contentment under all the sass and snark — that no one could deny.

They weren’t playing perfect anymore.

They didn’t have to.

Aiah brushed a leaf out of Stacey’s hair. Stacey handed her the last slice of leche flan. They fought over who had to say goodbye to the relatives first and who would drive the car.

And even as they bickered all the way back to the car, fingers still laced together, Stacey still blushing when Aiah kissed her cheek to shut her up — it was clear.

This was them.

Just Aiah leaning over with a casual, “Hey,” before gently brushing Stacey’s bangs out of her eyes, using the moment to murmur, “You look beautiful today.”

Stacey’s ears burned. She scowled. “Don’t do that in front of the lumpia.”

“Your favorite person cooked those. You should be thanking me. I’m your favorite person.”

“I’m going to throw this fork.”

“And miss your only chance to impress me?”

“You married me.”

“And you’re lucky I did.”

Aiah and Stacey didn’t even notice what they caused.

They were too busy pretending to fight over the last leche flan. (Though they were going to bring it home together.)

They didn’t even make it past the front door without Stacey tripping on her own heels.

Aiah caught her, barely, arms locking around her waist as Stacey groaned and buried her face into the crook of Aiah’s neck. She smelled like the red wine served at dinner—sweet and rich, with the kind of edge that made her cheeks glow a little more than usual.

“I hate your ties,” she slurred, tugging on the loose one Aiah had yet to take off. “They’re all ugly.”

Aiah raised a brow as she locked the door behind them, turning just in time to catch Stacey leaning her full weight into her chest like she was made of jelly.

“That so?” she asked, already slipping an arm around her waist to keep her steady.

“Yeah.” Stacey’s nose scrunched as she poked at Aiah’s chest with one finger. “Ugly. Makes you look too serious. Like a CEO villain.”

“Which I am.”

“Exactly.” Stacey hiccupped, then blinked slowly up at her. “But like… a hot villain. That’s the worst part.”

Aiah snorted. “You’re wine-drunk.”

“I’m honest.”

“You’re a menace.”

Stacey only hummed, eyes fluttering as she buried her face into Aiah’s shoulder. “Why do you smell so good?” she mumbled, muffled into her blazer. “I hate this. Affection is gross.”

Aiah, thoroughly amused, slowly guided them to the couch. “Want me to stop then?”

“No,” Stacey said too quickly. Then quieter, with a small frown, “Just saying it’s gross.”

“I see,” Aiah said, untying her tie one-handed while still supporting Stacey. “So you want the gross affection.”

Stacey gave a lazy nod.

They reached the couch, and Stacey collapsed onto it like a deflated balloon, dragging Aiah down with her.

Aiah laughed softly and tried to get up—only for Stacey to clutch her arm tighter and whimper.

“Nooo. Where are you going?”

“I was going to get you water. You’re wine-drunk.”

“Noooo. Just sit here. I’ll die if you leave.”

“Pretty sure you’ll be fine for sixty seconds.”

“I hate you,” she muttered, “You made me like this.”

“Like what?”

“This,” Stacey said, gesturing vaguely between them. “All soft and needy. Like a pathetic stray cat.”

Aiah smiled, brushing the hair out of her wife’s flushed face. “You’ve always been like this.”

Stacey gave a half-hearted glare. “I will bite you.”

“You already have.”

And she had — not that Aiah was going to bring that incident up again.

Stacey pouted, hands reaching out for her again like she hadn’t just been grumbling about physical touch. The second Aiah leaned in, she wrapped her arms around her neck and demanded, “Kiss.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Kiss,” she repeated, tugging gently.

Aiah gave in, of course. Pressed a warm kiss to her lips, gentle and slow — but the moment she started pulling away to adjust her position—

“Hey,” Stacey whined. “No. Come back.”

“I’m still right here,” Aiah laughed, returning just as fast to peck her again.

And again.

Each time Aiah moved even an inch, Stacey would frown or whimper or reach for her like a sleep-deprived toddler. “Don’t go,” she said softly, eyes heavy-lidded now. “It’s nice like this.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Your tie is still ugly.”

Aiah chuckled, finally settling with Stacey practically wrapped around her like a blanket. “I’ll burn them all tomorrow if you just sleep.”

“You promise?”

“Mhm. Every last one.”

A long pause.

“…except the one you wore on our wedding.”

Aiah glanced down, surprised. “You remember which one that was?”

“Of course I do.” Stacey yawned, already curling against her. “I spent the whole day thinking you looked better than me. Hated that tie so much. Was so mad.”

Aiah’s smile softened. She kissed Stacey’s forehead gently, whispering, “You were the most beautiful one there.”

“Mmph. Flatter me again and I’ll cry.”

“Noted.”

A few minutes passed like that — warm, close, quiet — before Stacey spoke again, much sleepier this time.

“…I really don’t hate you, you know.”

Aiah kissed the top of her head, smiling. “I know.”

“And affection isn’t that gross.”

“Say that again when you’re sober.”

She leaned into Aiah’s chest, sighing contentedly, her fingers lazily drawing shapes on Aiah’s arm as if they hadn’t just lived the last four years in constant, petty warfare.

She was relaxed.

Open.

Soft.

Aiah held her, all night long.

Stacey blinked awake to a faint chill in the air.

The spot beside her was cold.

She reached out instinctively, hand brushing against the wrinkled sheets—empty. No warmth, no familiar weight. Her brows furrowed in confusion before she sat up and rubbed her eyes. The soft scent of Aiah’s perfume still clung to the pillows, the faintest echo of last night’s affection.

But the woman herself? Gone.

Stacey blinked again, groggy, only now realizing she was still wearing her sleep shirt and that her hair was probably a mess. She shuffled out of bed and toward the kitchen like a confused cat.

The house was too silent. Too still.

She dragged herself out of bed with a yawn and shuffled into the kitchen. That’s when she saw it: a cup of coffee on the counter. Untouched. Cold.

No steam, no fresh aroma. Just a sad, half-sipped drink that made something sink in her chest.

There wasn’t a note. Not a sticky one on the fridge, not a scribbled message by the door. Not even a stupid text.

Not even one word.

Not even—

“Happy anniversary,” Stacey muttered aloud, her voice sharp and bitter as she opened the fridge for absolutely no reason.

She didn’t even want breakfast.

She closed the door, hard.

It was their fifth wedding anniversary.

Fifth.

Five years of bickering, cold shoulders, stolen glances, and only recently—kisses, warmth, confessions. They had just begun to crack the code of each other. Had just peeled back the layers, started becoming something like soft. Real.

And Aiah had the audacity to leave. Early. Without a word. Not even a half-assed emoji or a sarcastic voice note like she usually did. Not even a “Breakfast’s on the counter, dummy.”

It was nothing.

Nothing.

Stacey stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, staring down the abandoned coffee mug like it owed her a fight.

The weight in her chest twisted.

She paced a little. Checked her phone again. No notifications.

“Unbelievable,” she whispered, chewing the inside of her cheek.

She dropped onto the couch like gravity betrayed her. Arms crossed, expression darkening.

Sulking.

Definitely sulking.

She hated herself for sulking. But she couldn’t stop.

After everything—after all the walls she had to tear down just to say those things, to let Aiah see that vulnerable side, to hold her the way she wanted to for so long—Aiah forgot?

“I should throw that ugly tie away,” she grumbled to herself. “Forget it’s our anniversary, fine. See what I’ll forget next time.”

She knew Aiah remembered things. Knew she remembered dates. She’d remembered Stacey’s board exam schedule from three years ago, for God’s sake. She remembered what snacks Stacey liked from which store, what shows she watched when she was stressed, what mug was her favorite when she was sad.

So why not this?

Why forget today?

The sulking turned into full-on brooding by noon. Stacey was still curled up on the couch, clutching the pillow like it was her last defense against heartbreak. She wasn’t even mad anymore.

Stacey picked up her phone again.

Still nothing.

She slammed it face down on the couch and shouted into a pillow.

“Stupid CEO,” she muttered. “Heartless. Emotionally unavailable. Dumb. Ugly ties. Traitor.”

Her cheeks were already puffed out in frustration. She looked like a kicked puppy. Her thumb hovered over Aiah’s name on her contact list, ready to fire off something snarky.

But she didn’t.

She threw her phone back on the couch.

No way she was texting first.

Let her sweat.

Let her forget.

Fine.

A sigh slipped past her lips anyway, slow and heavy.

She curled up on the couch, pillow hugged tightly to her chest.

One whole morning of silence.

And the clock ticked louder than usual.

…

She didn’t answer any calls. Ignored every message from her coworkers. Didn’t even bother to open the email notification that pinged a few times. She sat on the couch with her legs tucked under her, hoodie swallowing her frame, arms crossed, face an unreadable storm cloud.

If Aiah wanted to play cold, then fine. Two could play that game.

They’d done it before, after all—four years of being brats to each other had practically turned sulking into a second language. If Aiah could just forget their anniversary like it was any other day, then Stacey could pretend it didn’t matter either. Totally fine. Totally normal.

She seethed.

Only internally, of course. Her face stayed blank, but her insides were doing backflips of betrayal.

Because what the hell did last night even mean then?

Those kisses—were they fake?

Was all that sweetness just temporary, a sugar rush before Aiah sobered up and remembered she never actually liked Stacey to begin with?

Every now and then, her fingers would twitch toward her phone. She’d pick it up, stare at the screen, scroll to Aiah’s name in her contacts, hover for a second… and then throw it back onto the couch.

Nothing. Not even a single emoji.

Her mind wouldn’t stop racing. 

Were those I love yous fake? 

Was Aiah just drunk on the moment—high on Stacey finally letting her walls down—and now that she had her, she didn’t care anymore?

Stacey leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands gripping her own hair as if she could keep her thoughts from spiraling.

Did I do something wrong?

Was I too clingy last night?

Did I annoy her?

Does she want space? Am I back to being too much again?

“God, what if I kissed her too much?” she muttered into her hands. “What if she got bored?”

The living room felt colder than usual. The silence, heavier. She looked around the house that had been theirs for five years. The couch they fought on. The kitchen they bickered in. The hallway where they used to pretend to smile at each other whenever family visited. All of it—suddenly unbearable.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

“Maybe I really am annoying,” she whispered to herself. “Maybe I imagined it.”

She wiped it away angrily.

No. No, screw that. She wasn’t going to cry over this. If Aiah was done—if she was really going to pretend like nothing happened between them—then Stacey wasn’t going to chase her.

But oh, it hurt.

God, it hurt.

Because it wasn’t just a kiss anymore. It wasn’t just a “moment.” It had been everything Stacey had longed for, denied, buried for years. And now it felt like she was being told, in the coldest, quietest way possible, that none of it mattered. That she didn’t matter.

So she curled back on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, heart pounding in a mess of longing and confusion.

If Aiah really was done, then maybe she’d go back to sleeping in the guest room.

Maybe it was safer there.

The sound of the door unlocking jolted Stacey from her sulking daze.

She blinked, glanced at the clock. It was late. Way too late. Past 10 PM.

She sat up straighter on the couch, arms still crossed tight. She had mentally prepared herself to be asleep by now, to pretend she didn’t care even if Aiah came back at midnight. She had even told herself—half-convinced herself—that maybe she wouldn’t look at her wife when she walked in.

But then the door creaked open. Aiah stepped inside.

Stacey was on the couch, lights dim, blanket hugged to her chest, TV on—but she wasn’t watching. She hadn’t moved in an hour. She wasn’t even mad anymore.

She was just numb.

So when she heard the front door, the jingle of keys, the familiar click of heels that were unmistakably Aiah’s, her first reaction wasn’t even anger.

It was disbelief.

Oh. So she did have the audacity to come home.

Stacey didn’t even look at her at first. She stayed glued to her spot on the couch, jaw clenched, eyes flicking vaguely toward the entryway like she might glare her into dust.

And then Aiah stepped into the light, and—

Oh.

Her hair was messy. Her lipstick was gone. Her suit jacket was off, sleeves rolled up, shirt a little wrinkled from clearly being worn the whole damn day.

But what really made Stacey pause wasn’t any of that.

It was the bouquet in her hand.

It wasn’t the kind of bouquet you’d find at a fancy floral boutique, wrapped in expensive white parchment and ribbon.

No, this one was... chaotic.

This one was mismatched—wildflowers, some roses, baby’s breath, even what looked like sunflowers poking awkwardly out at the back. The wrapping was clumsy, uneven. One corner of the paper was folded the wrong way.

But it was beautiful. In that sincere, clumsy, Aiah kind of way.

Stacey blinked.

She hadn’t even had time to say anything before Aiah stepped fully into view, balancing the bouquet in one arm and holding two heavy shopping bags in the other.

“Hey,” Aiah said, a little breathless, cheeks flushed from the cold night air. “Sorry I’m late.”

Stacey just stared.

Aiah took a careful step forward, tone softer, more gentle. “Happy anniversary, Stacey.”

She placed the bouquet down gently on the coffee table like it was some kind of offering—like something sacred—and Stacey finally found her voice.

“You’re—” she croaked. “You’re late.”

“I know,” Aiah replied immediately. “I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve left a note. I didn’t mean to disappear, I just— I wanted to do something.”

Stacey glanced down at the bouquet.

Then at the bags.

“What’s all that?”

Aiah nudged one bag open and grinned sheepishly. “Makeup. Mostly the brand you ran out of last week and complained about. And that sunscreen that smells like peaches. And... new dresses. I picked colors you like.”

Stacey blinked again, like her brain was buffering.

“You remembered?”

“I remember everything you like,” Aiah said, softer now. “Even if you pretend I don’t.”

She sat beside Stacey carefully, not too close, just enough to give her space—but close enough to feel the warmth between them.

“Today’s the fifth one,” Aiah murmured. “Fifth anniversary. Five years of... whatever it is we’ve been doing. But this year was the first time we actually meant something. So I didn’t want to just... do it the way we always do.”

Stacey stared down at her lap. Her fingers twisted into the edge of the blanket. Her eyes stung.

“I left early to get these,” Aiah added, gently placing the makeup and dress bags on the table. “Didn’t want you to see what I was doing. That’s why I didn’t leave a note. I figured… it’d ruin the surprise.”

“…You idiot,” Stacey whispered, voice cracking.

Aiah blinked. “Huh?”

“You’re an idiot,” Stacey said again, louder this time, standing up—and now her voice definitely cracked, tears immediately pricking her eyes. “You absolute, stupid, dumb, romantic idiot—”

She didn’t finish. She just stood there, trembling with a thousand emotions and five years’ worth of unsaid things lodged in her throat.

But then Aiah was there, placing the bouquet down on the table, and pulling Stacey into her arms like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like it was always meant to be this way.

“I’m sorry for making you think I forgot,” Aiah murmured against her hair. “You didn’t leave my mind even once today.”

Stacey let herself cry quietly, clutching Aiah’s blazer with shaking fingers.

“You really made that bouquet?” she mumbled into her shoulder.

“Nearly stabbed myself with a thorn,” Aiah chuckled. “Twice.”

“…Dumbass.”

The living room lights were dimmed. Aiah had lit a few candles on the dining table—not the fancy, tall ones you’d see in weddings, but the small, warm-scented ones she’d picked up from the convenience store earlier that week. Their dinner sat on mismatched ceramic plates, the smell of Stacey’s favorite pasta still fresh. And next to it? A small chocolate cake with a crooked “5” candle melting slowly.

Stacey poked at her spaghetti. Suspicious.

“What’s this for again?” she asked, eyeing the huge flatscreen TV now paused on the streaming app, the title "The Wailing" displayed ominously.

“Our romantic anniversary movie night,” Aiah grinned as she walked over with two wine glasses.

“...This isn’t romantic. This is a horror film.” Stacey frowned. “You know I hate horror. My heart’s gonna give out in the first five minutes.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Aiah said smugly, plopping beside her on the couch and nudging her side with her shoulder. “So you can hide behind me when the ghosts show up.”

“I will. And I’ll bite your shoulder if I get scared.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Aiah deadpanned, sipping her wine.

Stacey glared at her. “You’re so mean on our anniversary.”

“And yet you’re still married to me. Fascinating.”

Before Stacey could retaliate, the movie started.

It was a strange sight, the contrast between the carefully prepared candlelit dinner and the blood-curdling movie that began to play twenty minutes in. The moment the first jumpscare happened, Stacey jolted so hard she nearly launched her plate.

“Oh my—Aiah!”

“Shh,” Aiah said, chewing on steak like it was a regular Thursday night and not the end of the world playing on screen.

“Aiah,” she whispered, already halfway in tears. “Is it over?”

“That was just the first exorcism scene,” Aiah whispered back, eyes still on the screen. “You’ve got two hours to go.”

“Two?!” Stacey screeched, before immediately slapping her hand over her mouth when something banged on-screen. She dove under Aiah’s arm like a terrified cat. “I hate this. I hate you.”

“You hate me on our anniversary?” Aiah pouted.

“I hate how you planned this and somehow knew I’d end up like this!”

Aiah gently wrapped her arms around her, pulling her close and letting Stacey bury her face into her chest. “Okay, okay. We’ll stop.”

“Promise?”

“Swear on your Care Bear.”

“…Okay,” Stacey mumbled. “Turn it off.”

Aiah chuckled and reached for the remote, switching the screen to something softer—an animated film with talking dogs and soft colors. Instantly, Stacey relaxed.

She peeked up at her wife from under the blanket that she had somehow acquired in the midst of her panic.

“…You still suck.”

“But you love me,” Aiah said with a grin.

“Unfortunately,” Stacey grumbled, but her fingers curled around Aiah’s shirt and she leaned in anyway, settling in the crook of her shoulder like it was the most natural place in the world.

Dinner went cold. But the cake was eaten halfheartedly sometime around the credits of the next film, and the rest of the wine disappeared between them.

Fifth anniversary, and somehow, it still felt like the first real one.

By the time the entire bottle was finished, Aiah was already half-asleep, her head tilted to the side, cheek smushed slightly against the couch pillow, lips parted just a little as her breathing grew slow and steady.

Stacey blinked at her, utterly unimpressed. “Seriously?” she whispered.

She was still wide awake.

Hell no was she going to sleep. Not yet. Not when she had a gift of her own.

She carefully shifted, trying not to wake her wife as she slid out of Aiah’s embrace, only to blink in amused disbelief when Aiah’s arms tugged her right back in, like clockwork.

“You’re heavy,” she whispered, even though Aiah couldn’t hear her. “And dramatic.”

She draped the nearest throw blanket over her and sighed. Her fingers brushed a few strands of hair away from Aiah’s forehead before she sat beside her, legs curled up, arms crossed.

She didn’t plan to cry. And she didn’t.

But she did look at Aiah with this stupidly soft expression that she'd deny to hell and back if anyone asked.

Because Aiah had remembered the anniversary. She had planned a night just for them. She had chosen horror films because Stacey clung to her like a lifeline. She had bought her makeup and flowers she probably handpicked one by one like a weirdo. She kissed her. Told her she loved her.

And here she was, passed out like a tired cat after winning a long, four-year war.

Stacey smiled to herself as she leaned down and whispered against Aiah’s temple, soft and warm, “I love you, too.”

She curled up at Aiah’s side then, her arms looping around her wife’s middle, her head resting lightly over Aiah’s chest, lulled by the slow thud of a heartbeat that, honestly, meant more to her than anything she’d ever admit out loud.

Her gift?

She sighed.

Yeah, it could wait.

She’d been writing that one letter ever since Valentine's Day—the day they finally stopped pretending and started peeling back their defenses. Every day since then, she’d added something. A paragraph. A joke. A little moment she didn’t want to forget. Sometimes it was sweet. Sometimes it was angry. Sometimes it was just raw, confused, awkward, soft. But she wrote it all down, bit by bit, hidden in plain sight.

Posted on Medium.

No tags. Just a locked little post marked private.

Because Aiah was nosy as hell, and Stacey knew if she tried to hide a handwritten letter, she’d find it within a week.

This way? It’d stay secret until she was ready to send the link.

Maybe tomorrow.

Or the day after that.

Or the next anniversary.

But for now, she had her head on Aiah’s chest, her heart tangled up with hers, and the room was quiet, safe, and warm.

For once, Stacey didn’t wake up with a grumble. No dramatic sighs or pillow complaints. She blinked awake on the couch, still curled in the arm Aiah had draped over her during the night. The woman herself was still asleep, her expression soft and unguarded in a way Stacey rarely saw. Her brows weren’t drawn in focus or irritation. She wasn’t composed or collected. She was just… Aiah. And for a moment, Stacey didn’t even move. She simply stared.

Then slowly, carefully, she slipped away. Not in the sneaky, bratty “you didn’t see me leave” kind of way. But with something that resembled reverence—like she wanted to carry the softness of the moment in her palms and not let it break.

A yawn escaped her as she padded toward the kitchen, hair mussed, sleeves of her hoodie slightly too long. She rubbed at her face, then stood in front of the stove and quietly began making breakfast. Eggs. Toast. Longganisa. She hummed to herself—some random melody, off-key but content.

No muttering. No complaints. No sarcasm in the air.

Just peace.

Aiah woke to the smell first. She stirred, turned over, and blinked up at the ceiling before registering what was happening. It was… quiet.

Too quiet.

Still groggy, she stood up and followed the scent, only to find Stacey—her usually chaotic, sarcastic, pain-in-the-ass wife—standing barefoot in the kitchen, focused entirely on plating eggs.

Her hair was messier than usual, her oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder, and her expression unusually soft.

"You're awake," Stacey said without looking back. Her voice was light, almost shy. “Sit down. It’s almost ready.”

Aiah blinked. “Are you… sick?”

Stacey threw a spatula in her direction. “Sit down or I’ll change my mind.”

Chuckling, Aiah obeyed. But not before she crossed the kitchen, opened the cabinet to grab two mugs, and started their coffee. A small routine. Hers—black. Stacey’s—two sugars, a splash of milk.

They moved around each other with ease. No bumping shoulders just to be annoying. No snide remarks. Just brief brushes of fingers and warm glances that felt less like marriage and more like something newly bloomed.

At one point, while Stacey flipped the last of the toast, Aiah approached from behind and slid her arms around her waist. Her chin rested against Stacey’s shoulder, her lips brushing the skin of her neck.

“Morning,” she murmured softly.

Stacey went very, very still.

Then: “You’re clingy.”

“You like it.”

Stacey bit her lip, suppressing a smile. “Shut up and get the jam.”

Aiah didn’t let go immediately. She kissed Stacey’s cheek first—quick, just enough to make her flustered—before slipping away to finish the coffee. The plates were filled, the table set without a word.

When Stacey turned around to give Aiah her plate, Aiah stole a kiss from her lips this time. Not rushed. Not heated. Just... warm. Morning breath and all. Stacey stared, stunned for a second, lips still parted in disbelief before she squinted at her.

“That was gross,” she said.

“You kissed back,” Aiah smirked.

“I did not—”

“Wanna do it again?”

Stacey shoved the plate into Aiah’s hands, face flushing. “Eat your longganisa, idiot.”

But even as she turned away, she was grinning—grinning so wide she had to bite her lip just to calm her face down.

And behind her, Aiah sipped her coffee like she hadn’t just broken the long-standing tradition of chaotic mornings in their household.

It felt so peaceful. To be like this.

Aiah was slipping on her blazer by the front door, the last of her coffee in one hand, the other fiddling with her keys. Stacey was drying her hands on a towel, standing by the doorframe to the kitchen, watching.

There was no argument. No teasing jabs. Just the sound of car keys clinking against each other and the distant chirp of a bird outside their window.

Stacey didn't say anything.

Neither did Aiah—at least, not right away.

She turned, smiling just a little. Not smug. Not flirty. Just… soft. Like the morning had settled something in her chest.

“You’ll eat properly, right?” Aiah asked, lifting an eyebrow as she took a few steps closer. Her voice still had that familiar edge of mischief, but the concern in it was real.

Stacey rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Who cooked breakfast again?”

“Mm.” Aiah hummed, stepping right into Stacey’s space. “Right. My wife. Who I adore.”

“Gross,” Stacey muttered, looking away—but her ears were red.

Aiah grinned.

Then, without any dramatics or theatrics—just gently—she leaned forward and kissed Stacey on the cheek. Right where her blush was blooming.

“Text me if you need anything,” she murmured after the kiss, lingering just a little in Stacey’s space. “And don’t burn the kitchen while I’m gone.”

“You’re the one who almost burned rice last time—”

“Bye, baby,” Aiah said, flashing her a quick wink as she pulled away and headed out the door, closing it behind her.

Stacey stood there for a good ten seconds, lips pressed together, brows furrowed like she was trying to piece together a math equation.

Because damn it.

Damn it, Aiah kissed her cheek again. So casually. So softly.

And called her baby?

She groaned into her hands, stomping back into the kitchen with a red face and muttering to herself, “I’m gonna need stronger coffee today.”

Aiah had barely even touched the doorknob before it was flung open with far too much excitement for someone who’d supposedly “hated affection” just weeks ago.

“Welcome ho—!” Stacey had started to yell, only to blink as she caught sight of Aiah still standing in the doorway, looking somewhere between confused and caught off guard by the ambush-level greeting.

“Stacey, I haven’t even—”

She didn’t get to finish.

Because Stacey had already thrown her arms around her.

Then she kissed her cheek.

A literal kiss.

Right on the cheek.

A soft, clingy, all-too-fond kiss, the kind that melted Aiah down to her bones because of how intentional it was. Stacey didn’t just lean in. She wrapped her arms around Aiah’s neck like a hook, tugged her down just slightly, and then kissed her with such a flustered kind of glee that it made Aiah stumble slightly back against the door. Still wearing her heels. Still holding her bag. Still with the scent of her office lingering on her.

“Welcome home,” Stacey mumbled against her skin, pulling back slightly but not really letting go. Her cheek rubbed softly against Aiah’s jaw as she nuzzled close, clinging to her like she’d been counting down the hours to this moment. “You’re late. I almost threw hands with the clock.”

Aiah blinked, stunned—because no matter how many times Stacey did this, it still knocked the breath out of her.

This was the same woman who used to stomp off whenever Aiah would so much as try to hold her hand in front of guests. The same woman who had once told her that “marriage is a joke,” and that “romantic crap is reserved for people who weren’t forced into a contract they didn’t want.”

And yet here Stacey was now—clinging to her like she was her home.

Aiah’s arms found her waist on instinct, dropping her bag to the floor with a soft thud. “I haven’t even stepped inside,” she whispered against Stacey’s hair.

“Don’t care,” Stacey said, voice muffled against her shoulder. “I missed you.”

“You saw me this morning.”

“I miss you when you’re not around.”

Aiah could physically feel her heart doing somersaults. “Oh god, what happened to my grumpy wife?”

“I’m still grumpy,” Stacey retorted, though it didn’t hold much weight considering she was basically latched onto her like a koala. “But I’m also…” she trailed off for a second, burying her face deeper into Aiah’s shoulder. “...soft. For you.”

Aiah grinned, her voice soft with affection. “That so?”

“Shut up. I’m serious.”

“I know,” Aiah whispered, pulling her even closer. “I know you are.”

Aiah smiled down at her, brushing her nose lightly against Stacey’s temple. “I missed you too, by the way.”

“You better.”

“I screamed in front of my dad today.”

Stacey leaned back, eyes wide. “What—why?”

Aiah bit back a grin and kissed the tip of her nose. “Because someone sent me a selfie.”

“You screamed?” Stacey repeated, utterly flustered. “Like out loud?”

“In front of him. He thinks I’ve lost my mind.”

“You have,” she muttered, blushing furiously, face pressing back into Aiah’s neck to hide it. “You married me, after all.”

Aiah kissed her again, this time properly, on the side of her head.

“And I’d do it all over again.”

Stacey groaned. “Gross. Why are you being so gross again.”

“You clung to me the second I got home.”

“Shut up.”

“No. I love you.”

“…Shut up.”

They barely made it to the couch before Stacey threw herself all over Aiah like she was some human-sized pillow—except the second her cheek touched Aiah’s shoulder, she let out the loudest, most dramatic groan imaginable.

“Aiiaaahh,” she whined, stretching her name into a long, theatrical complaint as she buried her face into Aiah’s shirt and immediately retracted. “Your stupid tie is stabbing me in the face again.”

Aiah, who had just finally settled back into the couch and sighed like her soul had left her body, cracked one eye open. “Then don’t lay on my neck, drama queen.”

“Where else am I supposed to put my head? The couch armrest?” Stacey grumbled, now shifting dramatically until she laid across Aiah’s lap, arms crossed under her chin and glaring up at her. “It’s like sleeping on a torture device.”

Aiah smirked, way too amused. “We’ve been home for a solid ten minutes. You could’ve just waited.”

“I did wait,” Stacey huffed, sitting up again and tugging lightly at Aiah’s tie, lips jutting into a pout. “It’s been ten whole minutes. That’s like a year in cuddle time.”

Aiah chuckled, her hand lazily coming up to untie the offending piece of clothing. “So impatient.”

“I’m suffering.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m in pain.”

“It’s a silk tie—”

“It’s emotional pain, Aiah.”

That earned a quiet snort. Aiah finally slid the tie free from around her neck, unbuttoning the top button of her shirt with a soft exhale of relief.

“There,” she said, tossing the tie onto the coffee table. “Happy now?”

Stacey didn’t respond with words—just an instant, triumphant flop of her head right back into the crook of Aiah’s now bare neck and shoulder, sighing dreamily like she’d just found her rightful place in the universe. Her arms curled tightly around Aiah’s waist, face smushed against her collarbone.

Aiah raised a brow. “Wow. Not even a thank you?”

“I suffered, Aiah,” came Stacey’s muffled, sleepy reply. “You owe me so much for putting up with that hell ribbon.”

Aiah snorted and leaned her head back against the cushion, one arm sliding around Stacey’s shoulder, the other gently carding through her messy bun. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“You’re lucky I allow cuddles.”

By the next second, her arms slackened around Aiah’s waist, her breath evening out against her shoulder. Her cheek stayed smushed against Aiah’s collarbone like she belonged there—like she was molded to fit that exact spot. Her nose twitched slightly in her sleep, lips parted just barely, eyelashes fluttering softly over her cheeks with each breath. Warm. Gentle. Real.

Aiah didn’t move.

She just stared at the ceiling, her arm still wrapped around Stacey’s shoulders, her other hand slowly brushing through her wife’s hair—soft, quiet strokes that she didn’t even realize she was doing until her fingers paused at a knot and carefully worked through it.

And then came the sigh. That long, defeated, aching kind of sigh—the one that felt like something cracked inside her chest.

She was doomed.

Absolutely doomed.

She had been so stupid, she thought. So, so stupid. For four years, she played the game. Matched the brat. Bit back just as hard. They made the rules together, set the tone of their ridiculous rivalry marriage—but never once did she think she'd survive if she lost that game. Because losing meant exactly this.

Falling.

Feeling.

Loving.

It hit her harder than it ever had. If Stacey hadn’t gotten drunk that night, if she hadn’t clung to her like a lifeline and cried into her sleeves over a dinner she forgot to cook—if she hadn’t confessed with puffy cheeks and half-lidded eyes that she hated Aiah because she liked her too much—then maybe they wouldn’t be here. Twisted together in the quiet warmth of their shared home, after years of silence and sarcasm. Maybe they'd still be acting, still be clawing at each other with pride too sharp to admit what burned beneath.

But they weren’t.

And now Aiah was stuck, ruined, undone in a way she could never recover from. Because this? This was what she ached for.

The way Stacey curled toward her like she was safe here.

The way her hair smelled faintly like strawberries from the shampoo she always pretended not to share.

The way her arms stayed wrapped around Aiah even in her sleep, like her body was still seeking her out instinctively.

Aiah closed her eyes, heart aching. She never thought love would feel like this. Like a war finally ending. Like laying down every weapon. Like the silence left behind was actually peace.

She wanted to burn every single one of her ugly ties if it meant Stacey would stay like this. She’d throw out the whole damn wardrobe. She’d throw out the job, the car, the titles, the whole empire if Stacey whispered in her sleep that she wanted her to stay.

She pressed a gentle kiss into Stacey’s hair and whispered, “You wrecked me.”

And she meant every word.

Then she jolted slightly at the buzz of her phone against the coffee table, the soft vibration oddly loud in the hush of the room. Stacey didn’t even stir. She was snoring now, the soft little grumbly kind that Aiah used to tease her for when they were still pretending not to care. Her face was buried into Aiah’s side, lips barely parted as she clung to sleep like a brat clung to pride.

Still half-trapped in that warm haze of emotion, Aiah reached over and grabbed her phone, squinting as the screen lit up.

One new message.

From Stacey.

She blinked.

9:50 PM

From: Mrs. Arceta-Sevilleja

Happy fifth, asshole.

A scheduled message. Sent just now. Aiah stared at it, confused, until she noticed the little label beneath the text: Scheduled Message. Meaning—Stacey had set this up before. Before she fell asleep. Probably when Aiah had still been wrapping up work, before she even made it home.

Aiah’s heart tugged painfully.

The message kept going. It wasn’t short. It started off simple, as if Stacey was just casually ranting again.

9:50 PM

From: Mrs. Arceta-Sevilleja

Anyway. I scheduled this because I knew if I told you in person I’d probably cry, or yell, or worse—kiss you again, and we both know I suck at starting anything without being a mess about it…

And then it kept going.

Aiah read on in silence, every line like a thread unraveling something in her chest. It was Stacey in her most raw form: defensive, grumpy, reluctant to show affection, and yet somehow soft and vulnerable beneath it all. She spoke about how annoying Aiah was. How stupidly pretty she looked when she was angry. How unfair it was that Aiah could ruin her whole day with a smile. How much she hated that it took them four entire years to get their heads out of their asses. How much she missed Aiah—even when they lived under the same roof. Even when they fought over dinner and eye rolls and sleeping in separate rooms.

And then—

I hated you because I loved you. And I thought you didn’t. I thought I’d rot inside that stupid guest room before you’d ever look at me like I was anything more than some spoiled brat you got stuck with.

Aiah swallowed.

She looked down at Stacey again. Her brat. Her wife. Her absolute walking contradiction of a girl. Snoring with her head on Aiah’s chest like she hadn’t just sent a digital confession that had Aiah teetering on the edge of sobbing at midnight.

The last part of the message was a link. Just a simple hyperlink.

You’re probably busy with work. So I wrote you something instead. Just… read it when you can. It’s nothing much. Just some stupid article on Medium you’ll probably roll your eyes at. But I’ve been writing it every day since Valentine’s.

Aiah clicked it, of course. 

Happy fifth, asshole.

Happy Valentine's too, I guess.

(Yeah, I'm a mess for scheduling this instead of telling you in person. Sue me.)

I wasn't sure how to write this. I've rewritten it about ten times, which is already a miracle considering I don't even like writing unless I'm trying to prove someone wrong or file a complaint about how gross your ties are.

But I guess this isn't about winning something. Or proving something.

I just wanted to say something real.

You know, I used to think this house was just a place I got thrown into. Like it had walls and furniture and photos we took just to make our moms happy.

It was all fake.

Arranged. We were.

And for a while, I thought maybe we'd never really belong here - not as us, anyway.

Not without the masks.

The first year we got married, I hated you. God, I hated you so much. You were so perfect. So composed. So cold. You made me feel like a chaos bomb that never stopped ticking. And I thought you pitied me. Or worse, that I was just another burden you had to carry because of what our families expected. And maybe I was.

I don't think I ever said it, but every time you made me tea without asking, or came back with that stupid custard I like, or defended me from relatives I could barely stand…

I noticed. I really did.

I just didn't know how to accept that maybe it wasn't an act. That maybe you did care.

I think I started loving you in year two. Quietly. Secretly. Like if I even thought about it too hard, it would disappear. And by the time year three came, I was already too far in. But you kept being so hard to read. I thought you were just doing all that because you were kind, not because you actually wanted me.

Then year four was just… silence. Bitten tongues. Missed dinners. Sleeping with walls between us - real and imagined. I cried more that year than I ever admitted. I'd find myself just sitting in the guest room, holding that stupid pink Care Bear I pretended I didn't like, wondering if this marriage was always meant to be a prison sentence we were both too polite to escape.

But then Valentine's came. And I got drunk. You picked me up. You were there. You stayed.

And when I said all that shit - about hating you because I loved you and you didn't even notice - 

You held me like you'd been waiting four years just to do that.

And I realized something:

I've been punishing you for not being able to read my mind, when I never even gave you a chance to see inside it.

I was angry that you didn't love me the way I wanted, while ignoring that maybe, just maybe, you were loving me in all the ways you knew how.

Quietly. Softly. In little things. In everything.

So I decided that night I'd try. Too. Just like you.

Try to stop shutting down every time you got close.

Try to speak a little more.

Try to let our house feel more like a home and less like a stage.

I didn't want to be someone else. But I did want to be someone better.

For you. For us.

You've probably noticed this already but, I've been working on my temper lately. Or maybe you haven't noticed that yet. Maybe you just think I've gone soft. (I haven't. Don't get used to it.) But I want to be better - not different, just better. A better version of me. Still loud, still sarcastic, still a brat… but also someone who says "I missed you" without biting my tongue off. Someone who can kiss you good morning without waiting for you to do it first.

We changed.

So I want this house to change too. For this house to be a home. I want it to smell like burnt toast when I mess up breakfast and feel warm when you walk through the door. I want to pick fights over stupid things like the laundry or toothpaste and then make up five minutes later because we're both too tired to stay mad. I want all of it.

I want you.

I want to spend the rest of my life with you - not because our families said so. 

Not because we signed a paper. 

But because I wake up now and want to see your face. 

Because every part of me aches to be near you. 

Because even though I still groan when you touch me too much, I'll secretly lean closer every time.

You're my annoying, unfairly hot, smugly affectionate, overachieving, pillow-stealing wife.

And I guess I'll be loving you for a long, long time.

Even if I still roll my eyes when you wear that hideous mustard-colored tie.

Even if I still call you dramatic for needing three pillows and a blanket fort just to fall asleep.

Even if I get mad when you leave your shoes in the hallway or forget to refill the water pitcher or steal bites off my plate even after I said no.

I love you.

I love the way you hum when you're brushing your teeth. 

I love the way you tilt your head when you're confused, even though you'll deny it every time I mention it. 

I love how your laugh sounds when you're not trying to be polite or restrained, when it's just real and loud and yours. 

I love how you look at me when I say something stupid and the way your nose scrunches when I tease you too much. 

I love your heart. The one you try so hard to keep guarded but always ends up bleeding soft when you're with me.

Sometimes I still catch myself being afraid. That maybe one day you'll wake up and realize this isn't the life you wanted. That you could've had someone calmer. Someone more eloquent. Someone who doesn't cry during cat food commercials or snore like a chainsaw when she's too tired to notice.

But then you smile at me. Or hold my hand without saying a word. Or tell me I look good when I know I've been in the same shirt for three days. Or kiss my cheek like it's just something you're meant to do. And I stop being afraid.

Because if someone like you - who sees all my sharp edges, all my petty tantrums, all my worst days and mood swings and the deep, awful fears I don't even say out loud - can still love me, then maybe I've already found the safest place in the world.

You are home.

You've been home for a while now. I just didn't know how to walk in and stop standing at the door.

So this letter?

It's not just a love letter.

It's a promise.

That I'll keep choosing you, even on the days I'm mad at you.

That I'll fight for us, even when it's easier to run.

That I'll keep learning how to love you better.

That I'll be your idiot, your chaos, your soft place to land.

That I'll keep building this life with you - no longer just out of obligation, but because I want to.

Because I need to.

And maybe someday, I'll even stop complaining about your ugly ties.

Maybe.

But for now,

Happy anniversary, Maraiah.

Thank you for waiting for me.

You're the only person I've ever wanted to be annoyingly domestic with.

And I love you so, so much, it physically makes me cringe to admit that in writing.

- S

(P.S. If you show this to anyone, I will actually move out. No refunds.)

The screen of her phone had long dimmed, but her heart was still lit up in the quiet glow of Stacey’s words—warm, sprawling, messy and honest, just like the girl asleep in her arms. She had to blink fast, furiously even, but it didn’t stop the tears from welling up. Didn't stop the tightness in her throat either, or the way her fingers trembled a little as she held the phone against her chest, like it was some delicate piece of magic she was afraid might disappear if she let go.

The living room was silent except for the low hum of the AC and Stacey’s snoring—light, uneven, with a little whistle at the end that Aiah always teased her for but secretly adored. And God, she really was adorable. Her face was smushed against Aiah’s shoulder, eyebrows slightly furrowed in her sleep like she was about to start another one of her bratty rants even in her dreams. Her arm was sprawled across Aiah’s waist, one leg thrown carelessly over hers like Stacey had no concept of space when cuddling. She never did.

"God, I’m so in love with you it’s pathetic,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, choked by emotion.

She cried harder, silently, as she held Stacey tighter—like if she blinked too hard, it would all disappear. The couch, the smell of Stacey’s shampoo, the weight of her snuggled into her side. The warmth. The realness of it all.

All those years. Four years of silence and sharp words and pretending. And now… now this?

Now she had this girl curled into her like she was home.

Now she had a letter filled with all the love she thought she’d never hear in words.

Aiah pressed her lips to Stacey’s forehead—soft, trembling, reverent.

“I love you,” she whispered, barely audible, like the words might shatter if spoken any louder. Her voice cracked at the end. “God, I love you so much.”

Stacey didn’t stir.

She just snored lightly against her, drooling a little onto Aiah’s shirt, unaware of how completely she had just unraveled her wife.

And Aiah didn’t mind. Not one bit.

She closed her eyes, still holding her phone loosely in one hand, its screen now dark and useless. Her other hand stayed wrapped around Stacey’s waist, pulling her closer as she breathed in the scent of the girl she used to think she hated—and now couldn’t live without.

“I’ll show you every day,” she whispered again, lips barely moving. “I’ll make up for everything.”

And with that final promise hanging in the quiet, love-soaked air of their shared home, Aiah let sleep take her too.

Still holding her wife.

Still smiling through the tears.

That even if she was reluctant to be hers the first day that they met—she was completely, utterly, and irreversibly in love.