34. Katerina
Chapter thirty-four
Katerina
Iwasn't sure what I imagined Bex's apartment would look like. Maybe some industrial loft with exposed brick and colorful graffiti murals. Or maybe a bare-bones space with nothing but a futon and a hissy cat.
But the moment I step in, I realize how limited my assumptions were.
This space is absolutely, undeniably Bex: a small living area with mismatched furniture, prints on every wall, a drafting table in one corner blanketed in half-finished sketches, and a chaotic arrangement of plants overtaking the windowsill.
I spot some leafy vine that has grown so long it trails halfway down the wall, like it decided it owns the place.
There's a single bookshelf that has overflowed onto the floor, stacks of well-thumbed paperbacks encroaching on a rug that looks like it might have come from a thrift store. Warm light filters through curtains the color of a faded sunset, giving the room a cozy, improvised glow.
It feels lived in. It feels warm in a way that isn't curated but simply real.
Bex sets her keys on a small table by the door, then glances over her shoulder at me. "It's a bit of a mess," she says, though I can tell she isn't truly apologetic.
I offer my best small smile. "It's nice," I answer quietly. And to my surprise, I mean it completely.
She gestures for me to follow, stepping farther inside. My pulse is still humming from our conversation downstairs. The talk about the license, about not wanting to run from each other this time, has left me feeling raw and light all at once.
I hover near the drafting table, glancing at the array of sketches that overlap like a puzzle.
Some are stylized lotus flowers, some are old-school tattoo flash designs with bold outlines, and a few are more detailed pieces of line art that remind me of fantasy novels.
One half-finished piece appears to be an intricate phoenix wing, all swirling feathers.
I feel a tingle of curiosity. "This is what your process looks like?"
Bex slides next to me, close enough that the side of her arm brushes mine. "A messy version of it, yeah," she says. "When I'm designing for a client, I usually have one or two main sketches. But if I'm messing around with personal projects, it all kind of spills out."
Her tone is casual, but I hear the self-conscious edge. She's letting me see something intimate, and I want to treat it with the care it deserves.
I nod, trying not to disturb the scattering of pages. "I love that. It's a glimpse into your mind."
Bex huffs softly, half laughing. "I'm not sure you want to see all of that."
I turn my head, meeting her gaze. "I do." The words emerge in a quiet, steady voice. "I really do."
Something in her eyes flickers, gratitude, maybe, or acceptance. She reaches over to a small electric kettle plugged in on the kitchen counter. "Want coffee? I need some after this entire morning."
I smile. "I'd like that."
She hops over to the sink, filling the kettle, and I find myself exploring the apartment in slow arcs, trailing my fingers over the spines of books stacked by the shelf.
Some are on art and tattoo history, others are random fantasy novels, a few are battered classics, and one is a travel guide to Japan.
On the windowsill, a succulent with droopy leaves threatens to topple over from its too-small pot. It looks precarious and charming, much like Bex's entire vibe.
Before I can stop myself, I say, "It's so different from my place."
Bex glances at me, eyebrows raised. "Your place as in the curated, color-coded palace?"
I stifle a laugh. "More or less. It's not quite a palace, but it's definitely more minimal. Less soul, if I'm honest."
She sets two mugs on the counter and flips off the kettle, which has just clicked. "I'm sure it's also calmer."
I meet her eyes, a flutter in my chest. "Maybe. But right now, I prefer this."
Her face softens. That moment might have turned into something more if not for the kettle starting to hiss. She pours boiling water into a French press, giving it a few quick stirs. The aroma of fresh coffee rises around us, strong and comforting.
I lean against the drafting table, arms folded. She lets the coffee steep, then turns to me. "So, you said you're applying for those fellowships. How soon are those deadlines?"
I smile, slightly self-conscious. "Next week. I'm finalizing the proposals now. I haven't told my parents. I'm actually thinking I might not until I know whether I get in."
Bex crosses her arms too, mirroring my stance. "That's probably smart, right? Fewer lectures from your dad about budgets or job security? You can handle it on your own terms."
I nod. "That's the idea. And after all the reflection about, you know, not letting them control my decisions, it felt like a test for me: do I want it enough to apply without seeking their green light?"
She gives me a tiny grin. "That's progress, Kit."
I exhale, letting my shoulders relax. "I'm trying."
She presses the coffee, pours us both some in mismatched mugs, and passes one my way. We drift toward the small sofa under a cluster of framed prints. The cushion sinks as we sit, thighs almost touching.
I sip. The coffee is dark, bold, a bit stronger than I'm used to, but I like it. The murmur of the city vibrates through the walls, and a truck rumbles past outside.
Neither of us rushes to fill the silence.
It feels like we've said the big things already, that we want to keep the license, that we aren't running.
Now we're in the aftermath of that confession, learning the texture of each other's presence all over again.
Not the delirious adrenaline of Bourbon Street, but something quieter, more decided.
Eventually, Bex sets her mug aside on a battered side table. She angles closer, resting one arm along the back of the sofa, her fingers just brushing my shoulder. "So. Are we actually doing this?"
I feel my heart give a warm thump. "I think so. Unless you changed your mind in the last five minutes."
She breathes a faint laugh. "Nah." Then her face goes serious, eyes searching mine. "It's just, I've spent the last couple weeks trying to figure out if we belong in the same storyline. And I keep landing on yes, even when it makes no sense."
A flutter of nerves tugs at me. "I land on yes too."
Her mouth curves slowly. "Good. Because I had a plan to lock you in the closet if you said no."
I snort. "I'd like to see you try."
We grin at each other, and for a second it feels like that easy banter we had in New Orleans, except now it carries more weight. We both know how it feels to lose that closeness.
I place my mug next to hers, the ceramic still radiating warmth. "So what does yes look like right now?"
Bex glances at the stairs that lead back down to the shop. "Well, you're free to leave at any time, obviously. There's no kidnapping happening." A small smirk. "But if you wanted to stay, we could keep talking, maybe order some late lunch, see what happens."
The subtle hush in her tone suggests maybe we'd do more than talk. I feel my pulse skip. The memory of Bex's mouth on mine downstairs lights a new wave of heat in my chest.
My eyes slide across the apartment, noticing how close everything is, how the bedroom door stands half open to reveal a narrow bed. The comforter is a deep blue, slightly rumpled at the edges. I can imagine the early sun filtering in, Bex sprawled across those sheets with half her hair in her face.
That flicker of an image makes me short of breath.
"I'd like that," I say softly, returning my gaze to hers.
She shifts, letting her arm slip down onto my shoulder, and I shiver at the contact. I realize how rarely we've been this close while both sober and not in a frantic, emotional meltdown. It's new territory.
Her hand slides to the nape of my neck, warm against my skin. A faint wave of goose bumps chases down my arms, and I exhale, leaning into the touch.
We let a minute pass. The city noise drifts in from the open window, an occasional horn or distant shout. Neither of us speaks. We just breathe in tandem, eyes locked, until the tension becomes something too alive to ignore.
Then Bex leans in, pressing her forehead to mine. Her hair tickles my face, carrying that subtle shampoo scent that reminds me of the night in New Orleans. I close my eyes, my body tilting forward.
When our lips meet, it isn't frantic or rushed. It's gentle, exploratory, like we're discovering a new pattern. I catch the faint taste of coffee on her mouth. She makes a low sound, deep in her throat, and it sends heat flickering through me.
We inch closer, torsos brushing. She cradles my cheek with one hand, the other splayed on my lower back. My fingers find the hem of her T-shirt, sliding just underneath to rest against the bare skin of her waist. She shivers at the contact.
We kiss for a slow, unmeasured span of time, no phones, no next steps. It takes on a certain weight, the kind of gravity that makes the rest of the world recede. I'm aware of each breath, each shift of muscle as we fit ourselves closer.
Eventually, she eases back a fraction, lips parted. "Bedroom," she says softly, not even phrasing it as a question.
I nod, heartbeat drumming.
She stands first, offering me her hand. I take it. The walk to the bedroom feels short, maybe five steps, but each step is loaded with everything we haven't dared to articulate in the last two weeks.
Inside, the bed is as modest as it looked from the doorway: a simple frame, a small side table, a lamp with a crooked shade. I notice a half-folded hoodie dropped on the floor. A pair of sneakers leaning against the wall.
My gaze snaps back to Bex. Her eyes search mine, asking permission. I answer by cupping her face, pulling her in to kiss her again. This time the closeness feels more urgent. Our hands roam, finding the lines of each other's bodies that we'd only half remembered from that rushed night.