35

Kamala's office was dim except for the amber lamp on her desk and the soft flicker of light peeking through the old windows. Outside, the wind picked up—rustling leaves, faint echoes of laughter and footsteps down the hallway. But in here, it was quiet. Safe.

She didn't say anything at first. Just held the framed photo like it was something sacred. I watched her trace the edge of it with her thumb, and I swore I saw her swallow a lump in her throat.

"I'm proud of you," she said finally. Her voice was hushed, reverent. "You didn't let any of it break you."

I took a step closer. "I almost did."

She looked up at me, and something flickered in her eyes—worry, maybe. Or guilt.

"But you didn't," she whispered.

I reached for her hand. "Because you were always the voice in the back of my head. Even when I messed up. Even when I couldn't face you."

Kamala closed her eyes, breathing me in like I was the first thing that made sense all day. I slid her glasses off gently and set them down. My hand brushed the side of her face, and I felt her lean into it—like she'd been waiting for that kind of softness.

"I still don't know how to trust you the way I did before," she said honestly, quietly.

"I know," I said. "And I'm not asking you to pretend like nothing happened. I'm just... I'm here. I'm showing up every day. For you."

Her eyes met mine again. "I see that."

I leaned down and kissed her—not urgent or messy, just slow. Warm. The kind of kiss that says thank you and I missed you and I'm still choosing you all at once.

When I pulled away, she was smiling. Barely. But it was real.

"I don't want to go home yet," she murmured.

"Then don't," I said, already taking her hand. "Come back with me."

She didn't argue. We left the building together, coats wrapped tight against the cold. My car ride was quiet, save for the low hum of Frank Ocean on the radio. Her hand stayed in mine the whole drive.

My apartment was warm, the lights low, candles still half-burned from the last time she stayed over. I dropped my keys in the dish and slipped my shoes off. Kamala stood in the doorway a moment longer, taking in the familiarity of it all.

"Still smells like vanilla and lavender," she said with a soft smile.

"Always will."

She walked over slowly, shrugging off her coat, then leaned against the counter as I made two mugs of tea—chamomile for her, peppermint for me.

I slid hers across the marble. She took it with both hands.

"You really framed that picture for me?" she asked.

I nodded. "You deserved more than a text."

She stared at me for a long moment. "You're different."

I tilted my head. "How?"

"Calmer," she said. "Like you're more certain of yourself. Like the noise isn't so loud anymore."

I bit my bottom lip, then shrugged. "It's not. Not when you're around."

We sat on the couch, legs tangled together under the blanket, her head resting on my shoulder. My fingers lazily traced the curve of her wrist as we sipped our tea.

There were no secrets left in the room. No jealousy. No cold shoulders. Just her and me. Still learning. Still healing. Still loving.

"I want to take a real picture with you one day," I said quietly. "Not a secret one. Not one we have to hide."

She turned her head just enough to look at me. "You still see a future with me?"

I didn't even hesitate. "I only see one with you."

Her eyes softened.

And for the first time in a long while, we just sat there in the silence. No tension. No pretending. No proving. Just two women who'd been through hell and still chose each other.