Twenty-five
This time, she didn’t leave.
This time, she stayed.
London was aware before she was fully awake—the warmth on the other side of the bed, the shift in the room’s personality that meant she wasn’t alone. She lay still, taking it in. Not wanting to disturb Harper. Not wanting to disturb the fragile thing that had survived the night.
Outside, the light of a new year bled through the drapes, pale and unhurried, asking nothing—and promising nothing. Harper lay on her side, her body rising and falling with each slow breath. It must’ve been noon if it was anything.
With eyes closed, London tried to hold on to it longer.
As Harper slept—so peacefully—London re-lived a night that could have gone a dramatically different way.
Instead of Harper storming off, again, probably for the last time, she was in her bed, that carpenter jacket draped over the side chair where London had eaten so many dinners alone.
Harper’s boots were tucked neatly under the chair, too. And their clothes were—everywhere.
London remembered how the night had stretched and slowed, the two of them finding their way back to each other carefully.
And then, not so carefully. The way Harper’s hands moved like they were building something, certain, calculated, like she had all the time in the world and intended to use it.
The warmth of breath mingling, the heat of bodies relearning what they already knew.
How Harper laughed at something she’d said under the cover of dark—quiet and surprised, like London had gotten away with something.
The fumbling. And the connecting, in a way they hadn’t in so long.
The relief of being known by someone who had chosen, with all the information, to stay.
She remembered fighting the urge to keep apologizing, to keep explaining, to manage even this—coercing herself out of her head and into her body, into Harper’s hands, into the heat and urgency.
At some point, she stopped fighting.
When she re-opened her eyes, Harper was awake, wrapped in the duvet. Her face was sleep-warmed and unguarded, little crinkles from the pillow traced into her skin.
“I’m going to need coffee, sooner than you want to get it,” she said. “And good morning.” She pulled London into a little spoon and held her, like no time had passed.
London could go get coffee. She could warm the milk and pour the caffeine and shuttle it back to bed. In a minute. Or ten. She wanted to enjoy this—the simple, uncomplicated cocoon—as long as possible.
“Mm.”
They’d quietly agreed to try, which meant work. And there was the inn. The realtor. Sebastian, who would have already been downstairs for hours. There was this. And—everything else.
“Coffee,” Harper repeated into the back of London’s neck. “Don’t make me ask again,” she said, hugging her tighter.
“Not to be technical, but you didn’t ask the first time.”
Harper pffed through closed lips. “Sorry babe, you don’t get to be technical. Not yet. Read the crowd.”
Harper hadn’t called her babe in a very long time. So long, she’d forgotten that was ever part of their routine.
“Alright,” London groaned. “Coffee. Anything else? Want a pastry?”
“I want you to get your sweet little ass back here so we can pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist for the rest of today,” Harper said. “Before I have to go back to work. Let’s just have a day, okay? Before—reality.”
How so very practical. How so very Harper.
London didn't have answers to the questions already forming at the edges of her mind. But Harper hadn't asked for answers. She'd asked for a day. One day before reality reasserted itself, before the inn and the work and the figuring out began in earnest.
She could do that. She was learning how to do that.
“The whole day,” London agreed. “Back in sixty seconds.”
She padded down the stairs in a rumpled sweater and yesterday’s jeans, hair unaddressed and feet bare. She realized she looked like she was doing a walk of shame, when in fact, it was a victory lap, and she couldn’t care in the slightest what she looked like.
By mid-day, guests were long since out enjoying town. The inn was quiet, except for her footsteps and the low holiday music that still played. Christmas music would go on for another week, and then back to whatever Sebastian fancied daily.
When she rounded the corner to the kitchen, the coffee pot was full.
“Morning,” Sebastian said from behind, making her jump.
London grabbed the counter. “Oh my God, Bash, don’t do that!”
“Sorry, boss. Didn’t mean to scare you. Sleep well?” There was that Cheshire cat grin that said he knew something without requiring a single word.
“Matter of fact, I did.” London turned to the refrigerator.
Sebastian leaned against the counter, arms folded at the waist of his smart blue trousers. “You’re warming milk, huh?”
“I am. You can just say you know she’s here and we can go on with our day.”
“I actually didn’t know that, but I had a hunch. It’s unlike you to sleep this late. Then there’s the matter of your hair,” he gestured with a finger in a circle toward her head. “And—the milk.”
“I don’t need a ‘told you so,’ Sebastian. Not today.”
“I would never! I’m proud of you.” He winked. “Just try not to fuck it up.”
“Doing my best,” London said. She poured two cups of coffee and turned to go upstairs. “I’m unavailable today—you okay alone?”
“I’ve got it. Go, before she changes her mind.” He shooed her with both hands. “I don’t want to see you today, unless you’re foraging for food, water, or more towels.”
“Heard.” London raised a mug in his direction. He had no idea that she would absolutely not be looking for more towels.
# # #
Harper was exactly where she’d left her, except the duvet had slipped lower. One arm lay outside of it, the little linework tattoo on her shoulder now catching in the low light.
“That was more than a minute,” Harper teased. She sat up and ran a hand through her hair and the duvet dropped further.
London had seen this woman in all phases of her life—covered in sawdust, covered in nothing, and everything in between. Still, she had to actively pull her eyes away.
“Sorry. I ran into Sebastian in the kitchen.” She set a steaming mug on Harper’s nightstand. “He noticed I made two cups of coffee.”
“Nothing gets by him.” Harper took a long sip and made a sound of satisfaction that registered to London as a job well done.
“Good?”
“Mm.” The almost smile lingered, a subtle contentedness that London hoped would continue. “And?”
“And what?”
“What did he say, when he noticed?”
“Oh, the usual. Business stuff.”
“London. I don’t want to tiptoe around this place.” Harper held her gaze. “What did he say?”
“He’s proud of us, and—” London slid into bed beside her, close enough to feel the warmth again, immediate and distracting. “He told me not to fuck it up, to which I said: I’m doing my level best.”
Harper let out a quiet laugh and took another sip. “That’s practical advice. For both of us.”
As they sipped coffee, an easy silence emerged. How many times she had she taken this for granted? Coffee in bed. Nowhere to be, nothing to do. Just existing with someone who made her life better.
“I’ve missed this,” she said, not meaning to announce what her mind was thinking. It happened anyway.
“Me, too.” Harper reached for London’s hand, and there it was. That thing that happened when their skin touched. The little zing that lit up London’s body like a live wire ready to spark.
Don’t rush it, she told herself. This is new again. Tender.
But it didn’t feel new, and that was the disorienting part.
It felt—familiar. The way their hands fit together. The temperature of Harper’s skin—warmer, now. The way her thumb found that same place on London’s knuckle like no time had passed at all.
London let herself look this time. They’d both aged.
Time and life and the elements had left their marks with fine lines and little crinkles and a dark spot here and there.
And still—this was the most stunning version of Harper she’d ever seen.
Propped against the headboard, hair sleep-scrunched, eyes wiser.
There was no performance in it. No edge. Just her.
And maybe that was the difference.
At thirty, London would have moved without thinking.
Closed the space, closed the feeling, closed the deal.
She would’ve chased an urge, trying to secure it before it disappeared.
At forty, she might have overcorrected, held back too hard, second-guessed every move, turned her desire to not fuck it up into something too fragile to touch.
Now—she followed Harper’s lead. She stayed. Stayed in the moment, with the coffee and closeness and quiet.
They were close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off Harper’s arms. Close enough that she could shift an inch and their legs would brush.
Close enough that she could take the coffee from her hands, set it aside, and follow the pull that was already building—low and steady and impossible to ignore.
Harper’s fingers adjusted—so slightly, so tentatively—it landed like a question. Is this okay?
London answered without speaking, turning her hand just enough to fully entwine their fingers. It’s more than okay.
And with that micro adjustment, she saw Harper’s face relax. An understanding. Like she’d felt it, too. The carefulness. The knowing that this wasn’t something to rush through.
That last part had been the point, hadn’t it? Deciding on a life together—again, but with intention.
London could feel her heartbeat now. Slower than it would’ve been years ago, the urgency of attraction less desperate somehow, but still present. Heavier. More deliberate, like her body understood the stakes and her mind was still catching up.
“I meant what I said.” Harper’s voice landed like a rock in a still pond and her hand moved to London’s thigh. “About today. I want to spend it here, like this.”
It was hard to think now. Her body reacted instantly. A flicker of heat spread fast and settled low. She didn’t move. Didn’t lean in. Just felt it—on purpose.
“Mm-hm.”
“But I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves.” Harper’s hand shifted—slow, deliberate—higher along London’s thigh, like she was testing the promise.
A small smile tugged at London’s mouth. “That feels like a mixed message.”
“Exactly.”
London felt it everywhere. She steadied herself against the instinct to do something with that—the very blatant ask for her to just let go.
But there was nothing to prove. And that was new, too.
Instead of rushing, she shifted just enough to lean her shoulder against Harper’s. A subtler move. Quieter, but bigger impact. Harper’s body responded by angling into hers, like permission had been given and this was taking way too long.
London’s eyes slipped closed.
This.
Last night had been about immediacy. About remembering. Late night, unguarded, overdue. Urgency. Longing. Crashing into each other like they used to, like it might be the last chance.
London didn’t want it to be the last chance. She wanted the long haul—she knew that now. Correction: she knew that again.
This was knowing what was in reach and choosing to take it slowly anyway.
“I’ve missed this. I’ve missed you,” she said, softer this time. Less accidental. More true. She lifted a hand to cup Harper’s cheek. “I hope all of this—the long road, the ups and downs—is just a chapter,” she said. “Not the full story. I don’t want to lose you again.”
Harper didn’t answer with words. She answered by dramatically setting the mug on the nightstand, then holding London’s gaze long enough to make sure.
No hesitation
Harper tugged off the tank top she’d been wearing, and a swift move found her straddling London. Harper answered with a kiss—nothing like before. Not routine. Not memory. This was fireworks and then—no thoughts. No sounds. Just her.
“You’re going to ruin my good intentions.”
“Good,” Harper murmured, her mouth brushing London’s. “That was my plan.”
London’s hands found her without thinking—at her waist, steadying, pulling her closer. This was going to take a while—slow, messy, exacting—and this time, they were choosing it together.