61
The front door clicked softly behind them as they stepped inside. Amanda dropped the keys in the bowl by the entryway and let out a deep, breathy sigh — the kind you release when you've been holding it in for hours without realizing.
Ericka toed off her shoes slowly, leaning against the wall. The scarf she'd worn all day loosened at her neck, and her eyes — heavy with relief and the weight of the long morning — found Amanda's across the room.
"Do you want to order something in?" Amanda asked, already moving toward the kitchen. "I can grab that pho place you like, or the weird fancy vegan sushi that shows up in biodegradable—"
"No," Ericka said softly, cutting her off with a tiny smile. "Let's cook something."
Amanda paused mid-step, turning back. "Really?"
Ericka nodded, pushing away from the wall. "Something simple. I just... I want normal tonight."
Amanda smiled at that — a soft, fond thing. "Normal I can do."
They moved around the kitchen in a familiar, almost rhythmic dance. Ericka went for the music first, opening her phone and cueing up an old RB playlist Amanda had made weeks ago. Smooth harmonies filtered through the room, wrapping around them like honey.
Amanda grabbed a bottle of wine — something dry and floral — and popped the cork with a flourish that earned her an amused look from Ericka.
"What, no wine glass spin?" Ericka teased as Amanda poured.
"I'm saving that for the really dramatic moments," Amanda said with a grin, handing her a glass. "Like if we burn the pasta or have to listen to that one Brandy song that makes you cry."
Ericka rolled her eyes but took a sip. "You like that song."
"I do," Amanda admitted. "But I like it more when it doesn't lead to a full existential crisis over the garlic bread."
Ericka chuckled, leaning against the counter. "Thanks, by the way."
"For what?" Amanda asked, opening the fridge.
"For today. For everything. For being..." She shrugged, her voice going quiet. "Here."
Amanda met her gaze and walked over, resting one hand on Ericka's hip. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be." And with that, she leaned in and kissed Ericka gently — a tender press of lips, brief but full of meaning.
The moment stretched, slow and sweet, before Amanda broke it with a playful clap of her hands. "Alright, what are we making, Chef?"
"Pasta," Ericka said confidently, "because I can do that without setting the house on fire."
"Famous last words."
They got to work.
Amanda chopped garlic while Ericka stirred the sauce. There was no rush — no meeting to run to, no calls buzzing in the background. Just the sound of soft music, wine glasses clinking, and the occasional burst of laughter when Amanda "accidentally" flung a noodle across the counter.
Halfway through stirring, Ericka set the spoon down and turned, watching Amanda toss chopped basil into the pan like a cooking show host.
"You're different here," she said softly.
Amanda paused, looking over her shoulder. "Different how?"
Ericka smiled. "You're lighter. You laugh more. You're... softer."
Amanda looked down for a second, her lips quirking. "I think it's because I'm not wearing heels and mentally fighting ten CEOs at once."
Ericka stepped closer, sliding an arm around her waist. "It's more than that."
Amanda turned, resting her forehead lightly against Ericka's. "Maybe it's because I'm standing in a kitchen with someone I'm in love with, making pasta and pretending I'm on Chopped."
Ericka laughed and kissed her again — soft, warm, and lingering longer this time, as if tasting the comfort of the moment itself.
They ate at the island, plates still steaming, music humming low in the background. Amanda twirled noodles absentmindedly on her fork while Ericka rested her chin in her hand, watching her.
"I keep thinking about how this could've gone," Ericka said suddenly, voice low. "How close it was. How different this night might've been."
Amanda didn't look away. "But it's not different. You're here. We're here."
Ericka nodded slowly, blinking away the sudden shine in her eyes. "Yeah. We are."
Amanda reached across the island, brushed Ericka's cheek with her thumb, and leaned forward to kiss her — slow and quiet, like punctuation at the end of a thought.
After dinner, they curled up on the couch — Amanda in sweatpants, Ericka in one of Amanda's oversized shirts — and just existed. No big speeches. No intense declarations. Just shared warmth and soft touches as the music played on.
Ericka rested her head on Amanda's chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart beneath her ear.
"You've got a good rhythm," she mumbled.
Amanda grinned, brushing her fingers through Ericka's curls. "That's just the wine talking."
"No, really," Ericka insisted, her eyes closed. "It's calming."
Amanda kissed the top of her head. "You can listen to it any time."
The room dimmed as the sun dipped low, golden light turning dusky lavender. The wine glasses sat empty on the coffee table, the scent of basil and garlic still lingering in the air.
There was no plan for tomorrow. No next big thing waiting to pounce.
Just this — the quiet, the warmth, the knowing.
Amanda held Ericka a little tighter as the music played on, her eyes drifting closed. Ericka tilted her head up and kissed the edge of Amanda's jaw, then her lips, then just nestled in again, fingers loosely curled in Amanda's sleeve.