Scene 47¶
Notes26-01-23e¶
was Scene 43¶
[26-01-23]
Scene 43 — “Saturday” (Sarah POV)
Saturday happened the way I prefer things to happen:
in daylight.
In public.
With exits.
I chose the café, obviously. Neutral territory. Big windows. Plenty of foot traffic. A place where the tables are close enough that a man has to behave like a civilised mammal or everyone hears it.
I arrived five minutes early because I’m not going to be the woman who gets there and starts scanning the room like prey.
Carl was already there.
Of course he was.
He stood when he saw me—not dramatically, not “gentlemanly,” just polite—and offered a small smile that didn’t try to claim anything.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I replied.
He didn’t lean in for a hug. He didn’t touch my arm. He didn’t do the thing where men treat greeting as a test of access.
He just… existed at a respectful distance.
It was, frankly, unnerving.
We ordered coffee at the counter. He paid for his. I paid for mine. He didn’t argue about it.
That alone probably qualified him for sainthood.
We sat at a table by the window.
Carl asked, “Is this seat okay?” before he sat down.
I stared at him for half a beat.
“Yes,” I said. “You can sit. I’m not a queen.”
He smiled, faint. “Good. I didn’t want to guess wrong.”
That phrase—guess wrong—landed with a quiet thud.
Men usually guess. They guess because they assume it’s safer for them to risk your discomfort than risk their pride.
Carl was not guessing.
He was checking.
I took a sip of coffee and told myself not to be impressed by basic decency. The bar is on the floor. We should not be applauding men for stepping over it.
Still.
It was… a relief.
We talked.
Not the interview kind of talking, where a man tries to discover which version of himself you’d like and then shapeshifts accordingly.
Actual talking.
He told me he did electrical work for the Faire and a few local businesses. He liked fixing old things. He’d moved back to town after his dad got sick. He baked because it was cheaper than buying food and because it stopped his brain spinning at night.
I listened, alert for the hidden tells.
There weren’t many.
He didn’t complain about women. He didn’t complain about his ex. He didn’t imply he was “nice” in a way that made you brace for the invoice.
He asked questions that didn’t feel like fishing.
“What do you do when you’re not here?” “Do you like living in town?” “Do you have siblings?”
Normal.
I answered enough to be polite, but not so much that I’d be handing him my internal wiring diagram.
It was… okay.
More than okay, technically.
The problem was not Carl.
The problem was me.
Because halfway through the coffee, with the sun bright through the windows and his hands wrapped around his mug—steady, clean, capable—I realised something with a clarity that made me want to swear.
I didn’t want him.
Not in the sense that matters.
Not in the gut. Not in the chest. Not in the place that tilts you toward someone without negotiation.
I liked him.
I respected him.
I could even imagine being friends with him, which is the cruelest category of all.
But the part of me that had watched Bree and Lily glow didn’t wake up.
It stayed asleep, stubborn, unmoved.
Carl said something—some gentle joke about the Faire lights being “temperamental divas”—and I laughed genuinely.
Then my laugh stopped and I thought, sharply:
If he leaned across the table and kissed me right now, I would tolerate it like a dentist appointment.
That was my answer.
My phone buzzed with a message. Bree.
Bree: HOW IS IT Blink twice if you need rescuing
I stared at it for a second, then typed back:
Me: No rescue. He’s fine. I’m the problem.
I didn’t send the second part. I deleted it and sent:
Me: He’s on time. No red flags. Shut up.
Carl watched my face in that unobtrusive way decent people do.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said automatically.
Then, because he’d earned it by behaving like a grown man, I added: “You’re… surprisingly normal.”
Carl’s mouth twitched. “That’s either a compliment or a warning.”
“It’s both,” I said.
He laughed, and it was warm, uncomplicated.
He didn’t reach for me.
He didn’t fill the pause.
He let the conversation breathe.
That’s what made it worse.
Because it was harder to justify leaving.
When a man is awful, ending it is easy. It’s a clean moral decision.
When a man is decent, ending it feels like you’re throwing away something you’re supposed to want.
Carl checked his watch—brief, polite.
“I’ve got about twenty minutes before I have to go,” he said. “No rush, but I wanted to be upfront.”
Upfront.
Another competence.
I felt my irritation spike—not at him, at the world.
At the way I’d been trained to interpret “decent” as “good enough.”
At the way women are expected to accept a kind man like he’s a prize, regardless of whether their bodies agree.
Carl watched me for a moment, thoughtful.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Depends,” I replied.
He nodded, accepting the boundary like it was normal.
“You seem… tense,” he said carefully. “Not because I’m here. Just—generally. If this is too much, you can tell me. I’m not trying to push.”
It was such a reasonable sentence that it made my throat tighten.
I had a choice right then.
Lie, keep it going, let it drift into something that would eventually become messy.
Or be honest early, before I’d created obligations.
I didn’t want to hurt him.
But I hated the idea of using his decency as a place to hide while I figured myself out.
So I said the truth I actually had.
“I’m not sure what I want,” I said, and kept my voice steady. “And I’m not going to make that your problem.”
Carl’s expression shifted—small, controlled. He didn’t flinch, but I saw the sting land anyway.
He nodded slowly.
“Okay,” he said. “Thank you for saying it.”
I blinked.
Of course he thanked me.
Decent men thank you for honesty even when it hurts.
Which makes you feel like a villain anyway.
“I’m not saying ‘never,’” I added quickly, because guilt is stupid and fast.
Carl’s eyes met mine.
His voice stayed gentle. “Sarah,” he said, “don’t offer me a maybe because you feel bad.”
I stared at him.
He gave a small shrug.
“I’d rather you say no,” he continued, “than say yes out of obligation. I don’t want to be the kind of man you tolerate.”
There was a quiet dignity in that sentence that made my chest ache.
And in that ache, I felt something else—something clarifying.
It wasn’t fear of repeat performance.
It wasn’t trauma.
It wasn’t “men are bad.”
It was simpler.
I just… wasn’t attracted to him.
Which meant the kindest thing I could do was to stop pretending it might change.
I exhaled.
“Okay,” I said, and forced myself to make it clean. “Then… no.”
Carl’s face tightened for a fraction. He swallowed. Then he nodded, once.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s clear. Thank you.”
He stood, picked up his mug, and took it to the counter like a man who had practiced not making women responsible for his feelings.
When he came back, he didn’t linger.
“I’m glad I met you,” he said. “Even if it’s not… that.”
I held his gaze. “You’re a good man,” I said. “That’s not nothing.”
Carl’s smile was faint and sad.
“I know,” he said quietly. “And it still stings.”
Honesty. Again.
Then he nodded once—no attempt at a hug, no touch, no lingering—and walked out into the sunlight.
I watched him go, throat tight, coffee cold in front of me.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead I felt… guilty.
Because I could tell I’d hurt him.
Not because he’d done anything wrong.
Because decency doesn’t protect you from rejection.
I sat there another minute, staring at my reflection in the café window, and thought, with grim, reluctant clarity:
Well. That settles that.
Then my phone buzzed again. Bree.
Bree: DID HE TRY TO KISS YOU I will bite him
I stared at it.
And to my own surprise, I laughed.
A real laugh.
Then I typed back:
Me: He didn’t touch me once. He’s decent. I’m… not into it.
I sent it.
And as I walked out into the daylight, guilt riding my shoulders like a stupid animal, I realised the worst part wasn’t rejecting a good man.
The worst part was that rejecting him had made the other truth harder to ignore:
Whatever I wanted, it wasn’t him.
And the shape of that “not him” was starting to look suspiciously like… her.
Notes26-01-23eb¶
Scene 43 Bridge¶
[26-01-23]
Bridge — “Ski Gear” (Sarah POV)¶
I didn’t go straight home after Carl.
I walked for a while, because walking keeps me from doing something stupid. It gives my brain time to catch up with my body.
It wasn’t even that he was attractive. He was—fine. He was clean. He was competent. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t push. He didn’t make my boundaries his personal enemy.
He was the kind of man you’re meant to feel grateful for.
And that was the problem.
Because I wasn’t grateful.
I was just… blank.
Like my nervous system had looked at him and said, Nope. Not you. And then refused to provide further details.
I kept thinking: maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s Ethan residue. Maybe it’s just my brain being dramatic because it doesn’t know how to be normal.
But fear doesn’t feel like blankness.
Fear feels like vigilance. Tight shoulders. Exit planning.
What I felt with Carl wasn’t fear.
It was absence.
Which is when the memory hit me, sideways, as if my brain had been waiting for the exact wrong moment to pull it off a shelf.
Year ten. Assembly hall. A girl with dark hair and quick hands and a laugh that made my chest do something embarrassing. I’d watched her for months the way you watch fire, pretending it was curiosity and not the stupid, soft thing under it.
I’d never told her. Not properly. I’d tried once, badly. A clumsy confession disguised as a joke.
She’d smiled—kind, puzzled—and said something like, “Aw, you’re sweet.”
And then she’d gone back to her friends.
No cruelty. No scandal.
Just… not returned.
It had been enough.
Enough to teach me that wanting like that was pointless. Risky. Public.
So I’d packed it away like you pack away ski gear in a town that doesn’t snow: shoved to the back of the closet, forgotten on purpose, mildly embarrassing when you rediscover it.
I hadn’t thought about her in years.
Not properly.
But now—now, after sitting across from a good man and feeling nothing—I could feel that old crush as clearly as if it had happened last week.
The heat. The pull. The stupid, traitorous eagerness.
Not for him.
For her.
For girls.
I stopped walking and stood on the footpath, suddenly furious.
Not at the girl from year ten.
At myself.
At the way I’d treated that part of me like a hobby I’d outgrown rather than a truth I’d postponed.
At the way the world makes it so easy to interpret “unrequited” as “wrong.”
I took a breath, sharp and cold, and felt the inconvenience of it settle in my ribs.
So that was it.
Not men.
Not trauma.
Not “I can’t do relationships.”
Just… that.
A buried part of me, choosing the most inconvenient moment to knock.
And because I’m Sarah—because I’m excellent at many things and awful at being gentle with myself—I did what I always do when something tender reappears unexpectedly.
I tried to drown it.
If you want, I can now continue directly into Scene 44 (the drink, the solo night out, the sudden illness, the panic call to Lauren, the night at Lauren’s, and the morning realisation—not a blanket). I’ll keep the spiking moment handled exactly as we discussed: sensory, uncertain, no procedural detour, full focus on Sarah’s fear + Lauren’s competent care. 💛
Notes26-02-04ev1¶
¶
[26-02-04]
Scene 47 — “The Bowl for Keys” (Lauren POV, past tense)
Sarah’s front door stuck slightly on humid nights.
Not much—just enough that you had to lift the handle a fraction and give it a firm push, like the house required you to arrive with intention.
Lauren followed her in, carrying two takeaway cups because Sarah had insisted on stopping for coffee on the way home even though Sarah had also insisted she didn’t “need” coffee to function.
Sarah kicked her sandals off near the mat, neat but not precious about it, then reached into her pocket and pulled out her keys.
She dropped them into a shallow ceramic bowl on the hall console.
The sound was small.
A brief clink.
But it hit Lauren with unexpected force.
Keys had become a language lately. A vocabulary of who had access. Who had permission. Who was safe.
Sarah’s keys sat there in the bowl like a quiet fact: this place had a system, and Sarah had built it on purpose.
Sarah turned, took the coffee from Lauren’s hand, and gave her a quick, approving look.
“Good,” she said. “You didn’t spill.”
Lauren huffed a laugh. “I’m not a child.”
Sarah’s mouth twitched. “You’d be amazed how many adults fail at cups.”
She walked toward the kitchen, coffee in one hand, the other pushing her hair back from her face in a tired gesture Lauren had started to notice too often—because noticing Sarah had become its own bad habit.
Lauren stood in the hallway for a moment, holding her own cup, watching Sarah move away.
The house was quiet. Not empty. Quiet the way a well-run space was quiet—orderly, contained, not waiting for a man to fill it with noise.
Lauren’s chest tightened.
It wasn’t fear this time.
It was longing.
Not lust. Not fantasy. Just a simple, aching hunger to be touched—gently, warmly, without being asked to pay for it. A hunger that lived in her shoulders, in the back of her neck, in the place between her ribs where she’d been holding her breath for years.
She tried to swallow it down.
She could do that. She was good at doing that.
But her body didn’t cooperate.
Her eyes stung suddenly, stupidly. The coffee cup warmed her fingers and made her feel very, very human.
Sarah paused at the kitchen doorway, as if she’d felt the change in the air.
She turned and looked at Lauren properly.
“What’s happening?” Sarah asked.
Lauren blinked. “Nothing.”
Sarah’s face remained steady. “No.”
Lauren hated how easy it was to be found out around her.
“I’m fine,” she tried again.
Sarah tilted her head slightly. The gesture was almost feline, an appraisal.
Then Sarah walked back into the hallway.
She didn’t rush. She didn’t hover. She simply crossed the distance like it belonged to her—which it did.
Lauren held very still, terrified of doing the wrong thing.
Sarah stopped a step away and looked at Lauren’s hands.
“Put the coffee down,” Sarah said.
Lauren stared. “Why?”
“Because you’re white-knuckling a paper cup like it’s going to run away,” Sarah replied.
Lauren’s throat tightened. She set the cup down carefully on the console beside the key bowl, hands moving with exaggerated calm.
Sarah watched her do it, then shifted closer—not crowding, not cornering, just closing the space enough that Lauren could feel her warmth.
Lauren’s heart thudded.
Sarah’s voice lowered slightly, the way it did when she meant something.
“Lauren,” she said, “you’re allowed to have a moment.”
Lauren swallowed. “I don’t want to be—”
“Don’t,” Sarah cut in, gentle but firm. “Don’t minimise. Don’t make yourself small to protect me from your feelings.”
Lauren’s eyes flashed up, startled.
“My… feelings?” she repeated, almost offended by the accuracy.
Sarah’s mouth curved once. Not mocking. Almost… pleased.
“Yes,” Sarah said. “Those.”
Lauren’s face warmed. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
Sarah stepped closer.
Then she stopped, very deliberately, as if drawing a line she would not cross without consent.
“I’m going to offer something,” Sarah said. “And you can say no.”
Lauren’s breath caught. “Okay.”
Sarah held her gaze.
“Come here,” Sarah said.
Two simple words.
Not do you want a hug? this time. Not a question that made Lauren think too much.
An invitation with confidence in it. A quiet assumption that Lauren deserved contact.
Lauren’s eyes filled instantly. She nodded once, helplessly, and stepped forward.
Sarah wrapped her arms around her in a firm, steady embrace—more encompassing than last night’s, less urgent, like a woman building a shelter out of her own body.
Lauren’s forehead pressed against Sarah’s shoulder.
Sarah smelled like soap and warm air and coffee.
Lauren’s breath shuddered out.
She didn’t cry hard. She didn’t collapse. She just… let herself be held.
Sarah’s hand came up to the back of her head—brief, grounding, fingers spreading through Lauren’s hair like a promise that she wouldn’t flinch away.
“It’s alright,” Sarah said, voice low. “I’ve got you.”
The words were so simple, so unadorned, that Lauren felt them land all the way down in her body.
She clung—lightly, carefully—fingers curling into the fabric of Sarah’s t-shirt, as if she still couldn’t quite believe she was allowed.
Sarah tightened her arms once in response.
Not demanding.
Reassuring.
Lauren’s heart slowed in her chest.
The house stayed quiet around them. The kind of quiet you could live inside.
After a long moment Sarah loosened her hold, but she didn’t let go completely. She drew back just enough to look at Lauren’s face.
Lauren couldn’t quite meet her eyes.
Sarah’s thumb brushed once along Lauren’s forearm, the smallest touch, and Lauren’s skin prickled with it.
Sarah’s gaze was steady, thoughtful.
“Better?” Sarah asked.
Lauren’s voice came out soft and raw. “Yes.”
Sarah nodded, satisfied, and—because she could never leave tenderness unbalanced—she added, dryly, “Good. Because I’m starving and I refuse to be emotionally profound on an empty stomach.”
Lauren’s laugh broke out, surprised and real.
Sarah’s mouth curved into a grin. “There she is.”
Lauren blinked at the phrase. There she is.
As if Lauren had been lost somewhere inside her own restraint and Sarah had simply… called her back.
Sarah stepped away and picked up her coffee again, then nodded toward the kitchen.
“Come on,” she said. “We’ll eat. Then you can tell me what you’re thinking. Or not. But you’ll be fed.”
Lauren glanced at the key bowl as she followed Sarah down the hall.
Sarah’s keys sat there, ordinary and heavy.
And beside them, Lauren’s spare key—Sarah’s gift—rested on its ring like a small, undeniable truth.
Lauren reached out, almost without thinking, and touched it lightly with her fingertip.
Not to take it.
Just to feel it.
Then she followed Sarah into the kitchen, heart quiet for the first time all day, and let the door swing gently closed behind her.
End Scene 47.
Notes26-02-06ev1¶
[26-02-06]
Scene 47 — “The Bowl for Keys” (Lauren POV, 1st person, past tense)
Sarah’s front door stuck slightly on humid nights.
Not much—just enough that you had to lift the handle a fraction and give it a firm push, like the house required you to arrive with intention.
I followed her in, carrying two takeaway cups because Sarah had insisted on stopping for coffee on the way home, even though Sarah had also insisted she didn’t need coffee to function.
She kicked her sandals off near the mat—neat, but not precious about it—then reached into her pocket and pulled out her keys.
She dropped them into a shallow ceramic bowl on the hall console.
The sound was small.
A brief clink.
But it hit me with unexpected force.
Keys had become a language lately. A vocabulary of who had access. Who had permission. Who was safe.
Sarah’s keys sat there in the bowl like a quiet fact: this place had a system, and Sarah had built it on purpose.
Sarah turned, took the coffee from my hand, and gave me a quick, approving look.
“Good,” she said. “You didn’t spill.”
I huffed a laugh. “I’m not a child.”
Her mouth twitched. “You’d be amazed how many adults fail at cups.”
She walked toward the kitchen, coffee in one hand, the other pushing her hair back from her face in a tired gesture I’d started to notice too often—because noticing Sarah had become its own bad habit.
I stood in the hallway for a moment, holding my own cup, watching her move away.
The house was quiet. Not empty. Quiet the way a well-run space was quiet—orderly, contained, not waiting for a man to fill it with noise.
My chest tightened.
It wasn’t fear this time.
It was longing.
Not lust. Not fantasy. Just a simple, aching hunger to be touched—gently, warmly, without being asked to pay for it. A hunger that lived in my shoulders, in the back of my neck, in the place between my ribs where I’d been holding my breath for years.
I tried to swallow it down.
I could do that. I was good at doing that.
But my body didn’t cooperate.
My eyes stung suddenly, stupidly. The coffee cup warmed my fingers and made me feel very, very human.
Sarah paused at the kitchen doorway, as if she’d felt the change in the air.
She turned and looked at me properly.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
I blinked. “Nothing.”
Her face remained steady. “No.”
I hated how easy it was to be found out around her.
“I’m fine,” I tried again.
Sarah tilted her head slightly. The gesture was almost feline—an appraisal.
Then she walked back into the hallway.
She didn’t rush. She didn’t hover. She simply crossed the distance like it belonged to her—which it did.
I held very still, terrified of doing the wrong thing.
She stopped a step away and looked at my hands.
“Put the coffee down,” she said.
I stared. “Why?”
“Because you’re white-knuckling a paper cup like it’s going to run away,” she replied.
My throat tightened. I set the cup down carefully on the console beside the key bowl, hands moving with exaggerated calm.
Sarah watched me do it, then shifted closer—not crowding, not cornering, just closing the space enough that I could feel her warmth.
My heart thudded.
Her voice lowered slightly, the way it did when she meant something.
“Lauren,” she said, “you’re allowed to have a moment.”
I swallowed. “I don’t want to be—”
“Don’t,” she cut in, gentle but firm. “Don’t minimise. Don’t make yourself small to protect me from your feelings.”
My eyes flashed up, startled.
“My… feelings?” I repeated, almost offended by the accuracy.
Sarah’s mouth curved once. Not mocking. Almost… pleased.
“Yes,” she said. “Those.”
My face warmed. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
She stepped closer.
Then stopped, very deliberately, as if drawing a line she would not cross without consent.
“I’m going to offer something,” she said. “And you can say no.”
My breath caught. “Okay.”
She held my gaze.
“Come here,” she said.
Two simple words.
Not do you want a hug? this time. Not a question that made me think too much.
An invitation with confidence in it. A quiet assumption that I deserved contact.
My eyes filled instantly. I nodded once, helplessly, and stepped forward.
Sarah wrapped her arms around me in a firm, steady embrace—more encompassing than last night’s, less urgent, like a woman building a shelter out of her own body.
My forehead pressed against her shoulder.
She smelled like soap and warm air and coffee.
My breath shuddered out.
I didn’t cry hard. I didn’t collapse. I just… let myself be held.
Her hand came up to the back of my head—brief, grounding—fingers spreading through my hair like a promise that she wouldn’t flinch away.
“It’s alright,” she said, voice low. “I’ve got you.”
The words were so simple, so unadorned, that I felt them land all the way down in my body.
I clung—lightly, carefully—fingers curling into the fabric of her t-shirt, as if I still couldn’t quite believe I was allowed.
Sarah tightened her arms once in response.
Not demanding.
Reassuring.
My heart slowed in my chest.
The house stayed quiet around us. The kind of quiet you could live inside.
After a long moment she loosened her hold, but she didn’t let go completely. She drew back just enough to look at my face.
I couldn’t quite meet her eyes.
Her thumb brushed once along my forearm, the smallest touch, and my skin prickled with it.
Sarah’s gaze was steady, thoughtful.
“Better?” she asked.
My voice came out soft and raw. “Yes.”
She nodded, satisfied, and—because she could never leave tenderness unbalanced—added, dryly, “Good. Because I’m starving and I refuse to be emotionally profound on an empty stomach.”
My laugh broke out, surprised and real.
Sarah’s mouth curved into a grin. “There she is.”
I blinked at the phrase. There she is.
As if I’d been lost somewhere inside my own restraint and Sarah had simply… called me back.
Sarah stepped away and picked up her coffee again, then nodded toward the kitchen.
“Come on,” she said. “We’ll eat. Then you can tell me what you’re thinking. Or not. But you’ll be fed.”
I glanced at the key bowl as I followed her down the hall.
Sarah’s keys sat there, ordinary and heavy.
And beside them, my spare key—Sarah’s gift—rested on its ring like a small, undeniable truth.
I reached out, almost without thinking, and touched it lightly with my fingertip.
Not to take it.
Just to feel it.
Then I followed Sarah into the kitchen, heart quiet for the first time all day, and let the door swing gently closed behind me.
End Scene 47.
Notes26-02-09rv1¶
😄🧵💛👭 💞 🖤 🍓 🌶 🚪 🔑 🛋 🫧 🌩 🌧 🧵 🪡 👗 👚 👜 👠 🩰 💄 💋 🎻 📒 ✂ 🩸 💧 🚺 ⚧ ♀ ⚜
[26-02-13]
Scene 46 — “A Bowl for Keys” (Lauren POV, 1st person, past tense)
Sarah’s front door stuck slightly on humid nights.
Not much—just enough that you had to lift the handle a fraction and give it a firm push, like the house required you to arrive with resolve. I followed her in, carrying two takeaway cups because Sarah had insisted on stopping for coffee on the way home, even though she had also insisted she didn’t need coffee to function.
She kicked her sandals off near the mat—neat, but not precious about it—then reached into her pocket and pulled out her keys. She dropped them into a shallow ceramic bowl on the hall console. The sound was small.
A brief clink.
But it hit me with unexpected force.
Keys had become a language lately, a vocabulary of who had access. Who had permission. Who was safe. Sarah’s keys sat there in the bowl like a quiet fact: this place had a system, and Sarah had built it on purpose.
Sarah turned, took the coffee from my hand, and gave me a quick, approving look.
“Well done,” she said. “You didn’t spill.”
I huffed a laugh. “I’m not a child.”
“You’d be amazed how many adults fail at cups.”
She walked toward the kitchen, coffee in one hand, the other pushing her hair back from her face in a tired gesture I’d started to notice too often—because noticing Sarah had become my little fixation. I stood in the hallway for a moment, holding my own cup, watching her move away.
The house was quiet. Not a silence of vacancy, but the quiet of a well-run space: orderly, contained, not waiting for a man to fill it with noise.
I felt something fill me—something so long absent I’d thought it had disappeared.
Longing.
Not lust, not exactly. Just a simple craving to be touched—gently, warmly. A hunger that lived in my shoulders, in the back of my neck, in the place between my ribs where I’d been holding my breath for years.
I tried to swallow it down. I could do that. I’d had years of practice.
But now, my body didn’t cooperate. My eyes stung suddenly, stupidly. The coffee cup warmed my fingers and made me feel very, very human. Sarah paused at the kitchen doorway, as if she’d felt a change in the air, then turned and looked at me properly.
“Lauren?”
I gulped. “It’s okay. It’s nothing.”
Her face remained steady. “Nothing.”
I hated how easy it was to be found out around her.
“I’m fine,” I tried again.
Sarah tilted her head slightly. The gesture was precise—an appraisal. Then she walked back into the hallway, crossing over to me with an enigmatic soft smile. I held very still, terrified of doing the wrong thing.
She stopped a step away and looked at my hands.
“Why don’t you put the coffee down,” she said carefully.
I stared at her. “Why?”
“Because you’re white-knuckling a paper cup like it’s going to run off with your coffee,” she replied.
My throat tightened. I set the cup down carefully on the console beside the key bowl, hands moving with exaggerated calm. Sarah watched me do it, then moved closer—closing the space enough that I could feel her warmth.
My heart thudded.
Her voice lowered slightly.
“Lauren,” she said, “you’re allowed to feel whatever you feel.”
I swallowed. “I don’t want to be—”
“Don’t,” she cut in, gentle but firm. “Those days are behind you. No more making yourself small. Have your feelings.”
My eyes flashed up, startled.
“My… feelings?” I repeated, almost offended by the accuracy.
Sarah’s mouth curved once. Not mocking. Almost… pleased.
“Yes,” she said. “Those.”
My face warmed. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
She stepped even closer, so close that her breath reached me in an unexpected place. But she paused, as if at a door she would not enter without an invitation.
“I’m going to offer you something,” she said. “And you can say no.”
I could scarcely breathe. “Okay,” I managed.
She held my gaze.
“Come.”
One simple word.
A quiet assumption that I deserved contact. My eyes filled instantly. I tucked my chin down, helplessly, and let myself melt against her. Sarah pulled me into her warmth—more encompassing than last night’s, less urgent, like a shelter made of her. My forehead pressed against her shoulder. She smelled like soap and warm air and coffee.
I was afraid to exhale, fearing it would all vanish. But I finally did… and she was still there. I let myself be held.
I felt her hand on the back of my head—fingers spreading through my hair like a promise. I leaned my head into her fingers, long-lost feelings taking nourishment from her tenderness.
“You’re good, Lauren,” she said, voice as soft as down. “I’ve got you.”
The words were so simple, so unadorned, yet I felt them flow through me as if they’d gone straight past my head and into my bones. I clung to her—lightly, carefully—fingers curling into the fabric of her t-shirt, as if I still couldn’t quite believe I was allowed. Sarah tightened her arms in response. My heart slowed in my chest.
The house stayed quiet around us. Quiet with no edge to it.
After a long moment she loosened her hold, but she didn’t let go completely, drawing back just enough to look at my face. I couldn’t quite meet her eyes. Her thumb brushed once along my forearm, the smallest touch, and my skin prickled with it. Sarah’s gaze was steady, thoughtful; her smile, mysterious.
“Better?”
I didn’t recognise my voice. “Yes.”
She nodded, satisfied, and—because she could never leave tenderness unbalanced—added, dryly, “Good. Because I’m starving and I refuse to be emotionally profound on an empty stomach.”
My laugh broke out, surprised and real.
Sarah’s mouth curved into a grin.
“There she is.”
I blinked at the phrase.
There she is.
As if I’d been lost somewhere inside my own restraint and Sarah had simply… found me. She stepped away and picked up her coffee again, then nodded toward the kitchen.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s eat. You can tell me what you’re thinking, if you want. But right now, you need food.”
I glanced at the key bowl as I followed her down the hall. Sarah’s keys sat there, ordinary, heavy. And beside them, my spare key—Sarah’s gift—rested on its ring like a small, undeniable truth.
I reached out, almost without thinking, and touched it lightly with my fingertip.
Just to feel it.
Then I followed Sarah into the kitchen, heart quiet for the first time all day, and let the door swing gently closed behind me.
End Scene 46.
Notes26-02-13ev1¶
[26-02-13]¶
😄🧵💛👭 💞 🖤 🍓 🌶 🚪 🔑 🛋 🫧 🌩 🌧 🧵 🪡 👗 👚 👜 👠 🩰 💄 💋 🎻 📒 ✂ 🩸 💧 🚺 ⚧ ♀ ⚜
Scene 46 — “A Bowl for Keys”
(Lauren POV, 1st person, past tense)
💛 A Bowl for Keys 💛
[ Lauren ]
Sarah’s front door stuck slightly on humid nights.
Not much—just enough that you had to lift the handle a fraction and give it a firm push, like the house required you to arrive with resolve. I followed her in, carrying two takeaway cups because Sarah had insisted on stopping for coffee on the way home, even though she had also insisted she didn’t need coffee to function.
She kicked her sandals off near the mat—neat, but not precious about it—then reached into her pocket and pulled out her keys. She dropped them into a shallow ceramic bowl on the hall console. The sound was small.
A brief clink.
But it hit me with unexpected force.
Keys had become a language lately, a vocabulary of who had access. Who had permission. Who was safe. Sarah’s keys sat there in the bowl like a quiet fact: this place had a system, and Sarah had built it on purpose.
Sarah turned, took the coffee from my hand, and gave me a quick, approving look.
“Well done,” she said. “You didn’t spill.”
I huffed a laugh. “I’m not a child.”
“You’d be amazed how many adults fail at cups.”
She walked toward the kitchen, coffee in one hand, the other pushing her hair back from her face in a tired gesture I’d started to notice too often—because noticing Sarah had become my little fixation. I stood in the hallway for a moment, holding my own cup, watching her move away.
The house was quiet. Not a silence of vacancy, but the quiet of a well-run space: orderly, contained, not waiting for a man to fill it with noise.
I felt something fill me—something so long absent I’d thought it had disappeared.
Longing.
Not lust, not exactly. Just a simple craving to be touched—gently, warmly. A hunger that lived in my shoulders, in the back of my neck, in the place between my ribs where I’d been holding my breath for years.
Once, I would have swallowed it down and called it discipline. Now, my body didn’t cooperate.
My eyes stung suddenly, stupidly. The coffee cup warmed my fingers and made me feel very, very human. Sarah paused at the kitchen doorway, as if she’d felt a change in the air, then turned and looked at me properly.
“Lauren?”
I gulped. “It’s okay. It’s nothing.”
Her face remained steady. “Nothing.”
I hated how easy it was to be found out around her.
“I’m fine,” I tried again.
Sarah tilted her head slightly. The gesture was precise—an appraisal. Then she walked back into the hallway, crossing over to me with an enigmatic soft smile. I held very still, terrified of asking for too much.
She stopped a step away and looked at my hands.
“Why don’t you put the coffee down,” she said carefully.
I stared at her. “Why?”
“Because you’re white-knuckling a paper cup like it’s going to run off with your coffee,” she replied.
My throat tightened. I set the cup down carefully on the console beside the key bowl, hands moving with exaggerated calm. Sarah watched me do it, then moved closer—closing the space enough that I could feel her warmth.
My heart thudded.
Her voice lowered slightly.
“Lauren,” she said, “you’re allowed to feel whatever you feel.”
I swallowed. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You aren’t,” she cut in, gentle but firm. “Not here. Not with me. Have your feelings.”
My eyes flashed up, startled.
“My… feelings?” I repeated, almost offended by the accuracy.
Sarah’s mouth curved once. Not mocking. Almost… pleased.
“Yes,” she said. “Those.”
My face warmed. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—”
She stepped even closer, so close that her breath reached me in an unexpected place. But she paused, as if at a door she would not enter without an invitation.
“I’m going to offer you something,” she said. “And you can say no.”
I could scarcely breathe. “Okay,” I managed.
She held my gaze.
“Come.”
One simple word.
A quiet assumption that I deserved contact. If she’d tilted my chin up then, I don’t think I would have stopped her. But she didn’t.
My eyes filled instantly. I tucked my chin down, helplessly, and let myself melt against her. Sarah pulled me into her warmth—more encompassing than last night’s, less urgent, like a shelter made of her. My forehead pressed against her shoulder. She smelled like soap and warm air and coffee.
I was afraid to exhale, fearing it would all vanish. But I finally did… and she was still there. I let myself be held.
I felt her hand on the back of my head—fingers spreading through my hair like a promise. I leaned my head into her fingers, long-lost feelings taking nourishment from her tenderness.
“You’re good, Lauren,” she said, voice as soft as down. “I’ve got you.”
The words were so simple, so unadorned, yet I felt them flow through me as if they’d gone straight past my head and into my bones. I clung to her—lightly, carefully—fingers curling into the fabric of her t-shirt, afraid that wanting too much might break the spell. Sarah tightened her arms in response. My heart slowed in my chest.
The house stayed quiet around us. Quiet with no edge to it.
After a long moment she loosened her hold, but she didn’t let go completely, drawing back just enough to look at my face. I couldn’t quite meet her eyes. Her thumb brushed once along my forearm, the smallest touch, and my skin prickled with it. Sarah’s gaze was steady, thoughtful; her smile, mysterious.
“Better?”
I didn’t recognise my voice. “Yes.”
She nodded, satisfied, and—because she could never leave tenderness unbalanced—added, dryly, “Good. Because I’m starving and I refuse to be emotionally profound on an empty stomach.”
My laugh broke out, surprised and real.
Sarah’s mouth curved into a grin.
“There she is.”
I blinked at the phrase.
There she is.
As if I’d been lost somewhere inside my own restraint and Sarah had simply… found me. She stepped away and picked up her coffee again, then nodded toward the kitchen.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s eat. You can tell me what you’re thinking, if you want. But right now, you need food.”
I glanced at the key bowl as I followed her down the hall. Sarah’s keys sat there, ordinary, heavy. And beside them, my spare key—Sarah’s gift—rested on its ring like a small, undeniable truth.
I reached out, almost without thinking, and touched it lightly with my fingertip.
Just to feel it.
Then I followed Sarah into the kitchen, heart quiet for the first time all day, and let the door swing gently closed behind me.
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✨ The Brush ✨❌🙋♀️🥹😈💛