The Next Morning

I don’t know exactly when I fall asleep... only that it’s well after Emily does. I hear it first. The soft, fluttery exhale that turns into a gentle snore. Her signature sound.

She swears up and down she doesn’t snore. Would fight me in court over it. But I’ll never correct her. That sound? That little, rhythmic hum that lets me know she’s safe, warm, and out cold beside me? That’s mine. Mine alone. A lullaby I didn’t know I needed until I met her.

I kiss her forehead gently, careful not to disturb her, but I whisper that she's the center of my universe. I hear her hum, murmuring unintelligibly in reply. and let the weight of the night pull me under.

When I wake, it’s to filtered morning light bleeding in through the blinds, sharpening the dust motes in the air like spotlighted glitter. My arm reaches instinctively to the left, but the space beside me is empty. Still warm, faintly perfumed with her.

I roll onto my back, groggy, letting my eyes adjust. That’s when I see it.

On her pillow: a single sheet of folded paper, center-creased, with a perfect lipstick kiss on the outside—soft plum red. Emily’s favorite shade. The one she wears when she wants to feel powerful. It smudges slightly as I touch it, still faintly waxy. Still fresh.

I sit up, take the note carefully in both hands, and open it.

“Got called in earlier. You looked so cute sleeping that I didn’t want to wake you. I’ll call you. Be back in a few days. Love you.

P.S. I think you should wash those sheets. We RUINED them.

XOXO, Emily.”

I laugh. Quiet. Honest. The kind that warms your ribs from the inside out.

I press the note to my lips, then set it back down on her pillow. “Yeah,” I murmur to no one. “We definitely did.”

I glance down at the bed. Jesus, she’s not wrong. The sheets look like a crime scene of lust—twisted, rumpled, still damp in some spots. There’s a telltale patch where she came apart under me, again and again. Another where I finished, deep and hard, until she screamed.

Yeah. We ruined them.

I slide out of bed with a stretch and a groan, my back sore in a satisfying way. My cock gives a lazy twitch as I step over her panties and leggings still balled up by the foot of the bed.

I gather the sheets—soft cotton, formerly pale gray, now a wreck of sweat, sex, and satisfaction—and toss them into the laundry.I strip the bed, tossing the sheets into a bundle and hauling them to the washer. I add extra detergent, just to be safe, then slap the lid down and turn it on. As the drum starts to churn, I head into the kitchen, still bare-chested and sleep-warm, and start the coffee machine. The smell hits instantly: rich, dark roast with a hint of the vanilla pods Emily keeps tucked in the canister. Her little ritual.

I lean against the counter, still in my boxers, sipping my second cup by the time I unlock my phone. I’m about to message Iris to see if I can pull a work-from-home card today, when the screen buzzes with a text.

Lunch meeting with Kate. La Bonne Soupe. 12:30. Dress casual. Don't be late.

I chuckle softly. Of course she’s already scheduled me before I even asked. Of course she knows I was about to ask. She’s always three steps ahead.

I stare out the window at the quiet Brooklyn street below, trees swaying just enough to move the shadows on the sidewalk. It’s one of those moments where life feels... aligned.

Emily. Iris. Two brilliant women. Different corners of my world. One is my home, my heart. The other, my rock and ruthless architect of every professional win I’ve had in the last three years.

I don’t know what I did in a past life to deserve this kind of balance. But I know what I’ll do in this one to keep it. Everything.

I tap a quick thumbs-up emoji back to Iris and set my mug down with a sharp little clink. Time to get dressed. I shower quick but thorough, letting the hot water chase last night’s sin off my skin while the ghost of it lingers in memory. I scrub extra hard behind my ears. Emily always teases me for missing that spot and dry off.

I grab a dark gray polo, snug enough to show the chest and arms I’ve worked for. Black jeans—clean, tapered, casual but sharp. And finally, the boots.

Emily loves these boots. She once said they made me look “ruggedly fuckable,” and I’ve worn them every chance I get since.

Then I pause.

I look back at the laundry door, still humming, and smile.

“We ruined them.”

Damn right we did.

I snag my phone, keys, and the folder of shoot concepts just in case Kate wants to brainstorm. The check Emily saw last night is tucked back into my desk drawer now, right next to her nude sketch. I grab it... I have some time.