Scene 47

---

Notes26-01-23e

was Scene 44

Scene 44 — “Not a Blanket” (Sarah POV)

I told myself I was going out for a drink because I deserved one.

Because I’d done the adult thing with Carl. Because I’d been honest. Because I hadn’t caved to guilt or panic or habit.

All true.

Also, because I’d just opened the back of my own mental closet and found a teenage crush still sitting there, perfectly preserved, like ski gear with the tags still on.

I didn’t want to think about it.

So I chose the oldest strategy in the book: blunt the edges.

I went out alone, which is something I almost never do now, because I am not a romantic and I am not daft.

But I wasn’t looking for romance.

I was looking for noise. For anonymity. For the comforting blur of strangers who didn’t know my history or my rules.

I picked a bar that wasn’t my bar.

A place with warm lighting and too much bass and stools that stuck to the backs of your thighs when you stood up. A place where people came to forget themselves in public, together.

I ordered a drink and watched the bartender make it. I’m not stupid.

I took it to a table near the wall, back against something solid, because old habits are not the enemy—they’re a form of intelligence.

For the first half hour, it worked.

The drink eased the tightness in my chest. The noise kept my brain from spiralling. I scrolled my phone and pretended I was just waiting for a friend.

No one bothered me.

I should have left then.

I didn’t.

Because when you’ve spent your whole life being competent, it feels obscene to admit that you’re rattled by a memory from Year Ten. It feels weak to say: I think I might want something different from my life.

So I ordered another.

Still watching. Still careful. Still “fine.”

I told myself I’d go after that one. I even stood up once, like I meant it.

Then someone bumped into my table and apologised, and I sat back down because the apology made the world feel briefly civil again.

Another drink.

I was still coherent. Still upright. Still me.

And then… it happened.

Not dramatically. Not like the movies.

Just a wrongness—sudden and unmistakable—like my body had stepped on a stair that wasn’t there.

My stomach rolled. The room tilted, not pleasantly. My skin went hot and then cold, as if someone was adjusting my temperature with a remote. My tongue felt thick. My hands stopped feeling like mine.

I blinked hard. Once. Twice.

No, my brain said, sharp and furious. No, no, no.

I looked down at my glass.

Half-full. Nothing obvious. Nothing to point to and say that.

I tried to stand and my legs said, absolutely not.

Panic rose in me—fast, animal.

Not shame.

Not sadness.

Pure survival.

I grabbed my phone and fumbled it once, twice, before it unlocked.

The screen swam.

I could have called the police.

I could have called Bree.

I could have called… anyone.

But the only thought that mattered was this:

Call the woman who does not ask questions first.

Lauren.

My thumb hit her name. The phone went to my ear. The ringing sounded far away.

Then her voice, immediate, clear.

“Sarah?”

Something in my chest cracked with relief so sharp it almost hurt.

“Lauren,” I managed. My voice sounded wrong to my own ears—too careful, too slow. “I—I’m not right.”

Lauren didn’t panic. She didn’t do the “what did you do?” tone.

“Where are you?” she asked, calm as a seatbelt.

I forced the address out. I had to look at the menu board behind the bar to read the street name because my brain couldn’t hold it.

“Okay,” Lauren said. “Listen to me. Are you with anyone?”

“No.”

“Can you get outside?”

I glanced toward the door. It looked miles away.

“I—I think so.”

“Good,” she said. “Stand up slowly. Don’t finish your drink. Take your phone and your bag. Go straight out the front. Sit where you can be seen. I’m coming.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Sarah,” Lauren said, and her voice sharpened just enough to cut through the fog, “you’re doing brilliantly. Keep breathing. I’ll be there in minutes.”

Minutes.

It sounded like a lifetime.

I stood up carefully, one hand gripping the table until my knuckles went white. The room swayed. I waited until it settled.

I left the glass exactly where it was, because something in me—some last shred of angry competence—wanted it left behind like evidence, even if I didn’t know what I’d prove.

I moved toward the door.

Someone brushed past me and I flinched so hard my heart stuttered. I kept going anyway, because I am not prey and I am not staying.

The night air hit my face like a slap.

It should have helped.

It didn’t.

It made the nausea worse.

I stumbled to a low wall near the entrance and sat down. I pressed my palms against my thighs, anchoring myself. The world was too bright and too loud and too far away.

I stared at the street and tried to keep my eyes open.

Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.

Headlights swung around the corner and pulled up.

Lauren’s car.

The door opened and there she was—hair pulled back, face set, that particular mother-steel expression that says: I am here and the world will now behave.

She crossed to me quickly.

“Sarah,” she said, and crouched slightly so she was level with my face. “Look at me.”

I did. It took effort. But I did.

“Can you stand?” she asked.

“I—” My voice wobbled. “I think—”

“Okay,” she said. “We’re not rushing. Bree’s not here, so I’m your hands. Give me your bag.”

I handed it over like a child, and the humiliation should have killed me.

It didn’t.

Because Lauren didn’t treat me like a child.

She treated me like a woman whose body had been compromised and needed a plan.

Lauren slid an arm around my shoulders—firm, steady—and helped me stand.

“Walk with me,” she said.

I walked.

Each step felt like it was happening through water.

Lauren got me into the car, buckled my seatbelt with brisk competence, and shut the door like she was sealing me inside safety.

She got in and started the engine.

Only then did she speak again.

“I’m taking you to mine,” she said. “You’re not going home alone tonight.”

I swallowed. My throat felt wrong.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered automatically.

Lauren’s head snapped toward me.

“No,” she said, flat. “Not that. Not ever.”

The word landed like a slap and a hug at the same time.

I went quiet.

Lauren drove with one hand on the wheel and the other ready—just there, near the console, like she could catch me if my body tried to fall apart.

Halfway to her place, she asked, “Are you going to vomit?”

I blinked at the practical question, absurdly grateful for it.

“Maybe.”

“Okay,” she said. “There’s a bag. Use it if you need. You’re not embarrassing.”

I made a small sound that might have been a laugh if I’d had more oxygen.

At her apartment, Lauren guided me inside, shoes off, lights low, water poured.

She sat me on the couch and tucked a throw around my shoulders with the kind of efficiency that would make Mara nod once and say nothing.

Then Lauren crouched in front of me again.

“Sarah,” she said, “I’m going to ask you something and you can answer yes or no.”

I nodded.

“Do you feel safe right now?”

I blinked hard.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Good,” she said. “Then we slow down. We hydrate. We keep you awake enough to stay oriented. And if anything changes—breathing, chest, pain—we escalate.”

The word escalate should have frightened me.

Instead it steadied me.

Because Lauren wasn’t guessing.

She was managing.

I leaned back into the couch, dizzy, and my eyes burned unexpectedly.

Lauren saw it and didn’t comment. She just sat beside me, not touching, present like a wall you could lean on.

After a while, the nausea eased into something duller. The panic receded, replaced by exhaustion.

Lauren handed me another glass of water.

I drank.

My hands shook.

Lauren watched without judgement.

The silence stretched.

And in that silence, my brain—traitorous, inconvenient—offered me the thought I’d been avoiding all night:

You called her.

Not Bree.

Not the police.

Her.

Because somewhere in my body, Lauren had become the definition of “safe.”

Not as a concept.

As a person.

Lauren checked her phone, then looked at me.

“Do you want me to call Bree?” she asked gently.

I hesitated. Then shook my head.

“No,” I said, voice rough. “Not yet.”

Lauren didn’t press.

“Okay,” she said. “Then you sleep here. Bedroom’s yours. Door closes. I’ll be in the lounge.”

My throat tightened.

“You don’t have to—”

Lauren’s look cut clean through me.

“I do,” she said. “Because you’re not going to wake up alone and wonder if you imagined it.”

I swallowed.

“Okay,” I whispered.

Lauren stood, then paused.

“And Sarah,” she added, softer, “tomorrow we can talk about reporting it. Or checking in medically. Or none of that. But tonight you’re just… alive. That’s the job.”

Alive.

That word landed in my chest like a weight.

She guided me to the bedroom—nothing intimate, nothing loaded—just a woman escorting another woman to safety. She handed me a clean t-shirt, pointed at the bathroom, left the door ajar.

I changed slowly, clumsy and tired, then crawled into the bed like it belonged to someone else.

The room was dark and quiet.

I heard Lauren moving softly in the lounge—kettle, cupboard, the small sounds of a competent woman keeping watch without announcing it.

And then I slept.

---

In the morning, my mouth tasted like regret and my head felt full of sand.

I lay still for a moment, letting the hangover assemble itself into a coherent list of complaints.

Then I remembered everything.

The bar. The wrongness. The bench outside. Lauren’s voice, steady as a handrail.

The shame hit next—automatic, predictable.

You’re thirty-something and you called someone’s mum.

I sat up too quickly and had to stop. The room tilted. I pressed my palm to my forehead, breathing through it.

A tap at the door.

Lauren’s voice, careful. “You awake?”

“Yes,” I croaked.

She came in with water and toast like she’d done it a thousand times, and maybe she had.

She set the tray on the bedside table and looked at me, not hovering.

“How’s your head?” she asked.

“Like someone built a shed inside it,” I muttered.

Lauren’s mouth twitched. “Fair.”

I took the water with both hands. Drank. Slowly.

Lauren sat on the chair near the window, not on the bed—space respected.

“Do you remember what happened?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, and my voice went quieter. “I… felt wrong. Too fast.”

Lauren nodded, filing it.

“Okay,” she said. “We don’t have to decide anything this second. But I want you to know: you did the right thing calling.”

The words landed, warm and sharp.

I stared at the toast like it contained answers.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” I said.

Lauren’s gaze held mine.

“You didn’t bother me,” she replied. “You trusted me.”

My throat tightened again, stupidly.

I tried to deflect.

“Because you’re terrifying,” I said dryly.

Lauren’s laugh was small. “I’ll take it.”

I took another sip of water, hands still slightly shaky.

Then I said the thing that had been sitting in my chest since the bench outside the bar.

“Lauren,” I began, and my voice caught. “I… I think I use you as—”

“A safety blanket,” Lauren finished gently, not mocking.

I blinked, embarrassed.

Lauren tilted her head.

“It’s not an insult,” she said. “You were scared. You reached for the safest person you know. That’s rational.”

I looked down at my hands.

“But,” Lauren continued, quiet now, “I don’t think that’s the whole truth.”

My pulse did a strange, hot little stumble.

I looked up.

Lauren’s expression was open—still adult, still in control—but softer than I’d ever seen it, like she was allowing herself to be human in front of me.

“Sarah,” she said, “you don’t have to decide anything today. But you should know something.”

I waited. Breath held.

“I like you,” Lauren said. Simple. Clean. “As you are. Sharp. Difficult. Funny. Honest when it costs you.”

The room went very still.

My skin prickled.

I should have made a joke.

I couldn’t.

Lauren didn’t move closer. She didn’t take my hand. She didn’t try to seal the moment into a story.

She just let the truth sit there, like a cup placed gently on a table.

And in the quiet that followed, I realised—with a clarity that made my chest ache—that this feeling in me wasn’t relief anymore.

It wasn’t gratitude.

It wasn’t even safety.

It was… wanting.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just a steady, inconvenient pull toward the woman in the chair.

I swallowed, suddenly terrified—not of her, not of intimacy, but of the sheer scale of how much sense it made.

“I’m not—” I started, and stopped.

Lauren waited, patient.

I took a breath, careful.

“I think,” I said slowly, “I called you because I wanted you to come.”

Lauren’s eyes softened.

“Yes,” she said, so quiet it was almost a whisper. “I know.”

My heart thudded once, hard.

I stared at her, and for the first time in a long time I didn’t feel like I had to be clever to be safe.

I just had to be honest.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” I admitted.

Lauren nodded once.

“Good,” she said. “Then we do nothing dramatic. We do boring.”

I huffed a laugh. “Boring.”

“Boring,” Lauren confirmed. “Tea. Toast. Water. A quiet day. And later—when your head stops trying to kill you—we talk. Like adults.”

My throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t shame.

It was something warmer.

Something that felt, inconveniently, like hope.

I nodded.

“Okay,” I said.

And Lauren’s smile—small, steady—was the softest kind of victory.

Not conquest.

Not rescue.

Just two women, choosing to treat the moment with care.

Like everything else in our world that mattered. 💛

---

Notes26-02-04ev1

[26-02-04]

Scene 48 — “Not Temporary” (Lauren POV, past tense)

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Sarah’s kitchen was narrow in the way older houses often were—designed for one person to work efficiently, not for two adults to hover in each other’s gravity.

Lauren followed her in anyway.

Sarah set her coffee down on the counter with a decisive clink and opened the fridge.

“Right,” she said, rummaging. “I’ve got eggs, salad stuff, cheese, and… something I’m fairly sure is still edible.”

Lauren leaned on the doorframe, watching. It felt strange to be in someone else’s kitchen and not feel like she had to perform usefulness to justify her presence.

“Do you want help?” Lauren asked, careful.

Sarah didn’t look up. “Yes.”

No softening. No false modesty. Sarah didn’t do the polite dance where women pretended they didn’t need anyone.

She pulled out a carton of eggs, a bunch of greens, and a small tub of something that might have been hummus or might have been an experiment.

“Wash the salad,” Sarah said. “And don’t argue with me about how you’d wash it at home. This is my house. I am in charge of bacteria here.”

Lauren let out a laugh.

“Understood,” she said, and moved to the sink.

The tap water ran cool over her fingers. The sound of it was immediately calming, as if the nervous system recognised domestic tasks as safe terrain.

Sarah cracked eggs into a bowl with one hand, stirring with brisk competence. The rhythm was soothing—tap, split, pour, toss shell, repeat.

Lauren dried her hands and reached for a tea towel, folding it neatly out of habit.

Sarah noticed, of course.

“You’re one of those people,” Sarah said, a faint smile in her voice.

Lauren blinked. “One of what people?”

“The ones who fold tea towels like it’s a moral position,” Sarah replied.

Lauren laughed again, but her cheeks warmed. “It’s just… tidier.”

Sarah’s eyes flicked to her briefly—amused, affectionate in a way Sarah probably didn’t realise she’d started to show.

“Mm,” she said. “Keep it. It’ll be useful when the world collapses.”

Lauren moved around the counter to put the salad into a bowl.

The space between them was small. Too small to be neutral.

Their shoulders brushed—light contact, a soft collision of fabric and warmth.

Lauren’s breath caught, absurdly.

Sarah didn’t startle. She didn’t apologise. She simply shifted a fraction closer to make room for Lauren rather than moving away from her.

The gesture felt… pointed.

Lauren’s heart did that odd, tender stumble again, like it was learning a new tempo.

She focused on the salad, on the neatness of leaves, on the ordinary purpose of a bowl.

Sarah slid a pan onto the stove and turned the heat on. The blue flame caught and steadied.

“Sit,” Sarah said over her shoulder.

Lauren blinked. “I’m fine.”

Sarah’s gaze cut to her. “Lauren.”

There was no anger in it. Just a quiet insistence that Lauren stop trying to earn her right to exist in the room.

Lauren pulled out a stool and sat at the little breakfast bar, hands folded in her lap. The posture was strangely intimate—like being allowed to be idle while someone else cared for you.

Sarah plated the eggs, then set two plates down with firm hands.

“Eat,” she said. “And if you say ‘I’m not hungry’ I will assume you’re lying and respond accordingly.”

Lauren smiled and picked up her fork. The first bite tasted like butter and pepper and something clean and simple.

Sarah ate too, standing for a moment before sitting opposite her, elbows on the counter.

For a minute they just… ate. No crisis. No planning. No messages.

Lauren felt her shoulders lower a fraction with each swallow.

The day began to feel possible.

Then Sarah’s phone buzzed again.

A text, not a call.

Sarah glanced at it and huffed.

“Still him?” Lauren asked, heart tightening.

Sarah shook her head once. “Different idiot. But yes, he’s still blocked. He can shout into the void. I’m not his void.”

Lauren exhaled. She hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath.

Sarah watched her face, and Lauren felt it—Sarah’s attention, that sharp awareness that could be cutting in the workroom but was somehow different here.

More… personal.

“Tell me something,” Sarah said.

Lauren’s fork paused. “Okay.”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful.

“When you touched that spare key earlier,” Sarah said, “what was that?”

Lauren’s face warmed instantly. “I didn’t— I wasn’t—”

Sarah lifted a hand, stopping the spiral with a gesture. “No. I’m not accusing you. I’m asking.”

Lauren swallowed, throat suddenly tight.

“It’s just…” Lauren began, then faltered because the truth was embarrassingly simple.

Sarah waited without filling the silence.

Lauren forced herself to keep going.

“It was symbolic,” Lauren admitted softly. “It made me feel… like I wasn’t trespassing.”

Sarah’s expression changed—small, subtle, but real.

She looked almost… pleased. Not smug. Not triumphant. Something gentler than either.

“Good,” Sarah said.

Lauren blinked. “Good?”

Sarah set her fork down and leaned forward slightly, forearms on the counter, voice lower now.

“Yes,” Sarah said. “Because you’re not.”

Lauren’s heart thudded hard.

Sarah held her gaze, steady as a lighthouse.

“You know you’re not a temporary situation, right?” Sarah said.

Lauren froze.

The words were simple, almost casual. But they were loaded—like a door left open on purpose.

Lauren’s mouth went dry. “Sarah…”

Sarah’s expression stayed calm, but Lauren could see it now: the quiet recalculation behind her eyes. The possibility forming. The idea that intimacy might not be a man-shaped inevitability but a woman-shaped choice.

Sarah spoke again before Lauren could drown in the moment.

“I’m not saying you have to decide your whole life this week,” Sarah said. “I’m saying: while you’re here, you’re here. You’re not a guest. You’re not a burden. You’re not on probation.”

Lauren’s eyes stung.

“I don’t want to—” she started automatically.

Sarah’s gaze sharpened.

“Don’t,” Sarah said, gentle but firm. “Don’t minimise. Not in my kitchen.”

Lauren laughed softly, half sob, half relief.

Sarah’s mouth curved. “There we go.”

Lauren stared at her, heart full of something bright and frightening.

“But you—” Lauren began again, the old question rising like a reflex.

Sarah’s eyebrow lifted. “Yes?”

Lauren swallowed. “You said you date men.”

Sarah’s smile was slow this time, and it did something to Lauren’s stomach—something warm and dizzy.

“I said I’ve dated men,” Sarah corrected. “Past tense. Context. History.”

Lauren’s breath caught.

Sarah’s fingers tapped once on the counter—restless energy contained.

“I didn’t say that was the shape of my future,” Sarah said quietly.

The sentence landed like a small explosion—silent, but it changed the air in the room.

Lauren’s hands trembled in her lap.

She wanted to reach across the counter and touch Sarah. Just a hand over her wrist. A brush of fingers. Something tiny and honest.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t trust herself not to want more.

Sarah saw the hesitation anyway. Of course she did.

She stood, walked around the counter—close, close enough that Lauren felt her warmth—and paused beside her stool.

Lauren looked up, heart hammering.

Sarah reached down and, with an almost offhand gentleness, tucked a loose strand of Lauren’s hair behind her ear.

The touch was brief.

But it was intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex.

It was care with precision. Presence with intention.

Lauren went utterly still.

Sarah’s voice dropped, private.

“One step at a time,” she murmured.

Lauren nodded, unable to speak.

Sarah’s mouth curved—just a little—and she walked back to her side of the kitchen as if she hadn’t just tilted Lauren’s world on its axis.

She picked up her plate.

“Right,” Sarah said briskly, because she couldn’t linger in tenderness too long without turning it into action. “Eat. Then we make a list of what you still need from the house. And then—” she glanced at Lauren, eyes bright “—we get you through this like a woman who’s done being managed.”

Lauren stared at her plate, then up at Sarah again.

The air felt different now.

Not charged with danger.

Charged with possibility.

Lauren took another bite of eggs and tasted, for the first time in a long time, something that felt almost like appetite.

Not just for food.

For life.

End Scene 48.

---

Notes26-02-06ev1

[26-02-06]

Perfect choice — and for exactly the right reason. 💛 Variant C makes Sarah more attractive, not less: she’s decisive and disciplined, protective without being patronising. That’s very “Sarah,” and it honours Lauren’s fragility without turning her into a patient.

Here’s Scene 48 rewritten with the Variant C calibration, seamlessly (Lauren POV, 1st person, past tense). I’ve kept your rhythms, your domestic sensory beats, and the “bacteria dictatorship” humour, but I’ve re-anchored the “not temporary” line so it lands as sanctuary + structure, with the romantic possibility held in restraint and precision.

---

Scene 48 — “Not Temporary” (Lauren POV, 1st person, past tense)

Sarah’s kitchen was narrow in the way older houses often were—designed for one person to work efficiently, not for two adults to hover in each other’s gravity.

I followed her in anyway.

She set her coffee down on the counter with a decisive clink and opened the fridge.

“Right,” she said, rummaging. “I’ve got eggs, salad stuff, cheese, and… something I’m fairly sure is still edible.”

I leaned on the doorframe, watching. It felt strange to be in someone else’s kitchen and not feel like I had to perform usefulness to justify my presence.

“Do you want help?” I asked, careful.

Sarah didn’t look up. “Yes.”

No softening. No false modesty. Sarah didn’t do the polite dance where women pretended they didn’t need anyone.

She pulled out a carton of eggs, a bunch of greens, and a small tub of something that might have been hummus or might have been an experiment.

“Wash the salad,” she said. “And don’t argue with me about how you’d wash it at home. This is my house. I am in charge of bacteria here.”

A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it.

“Understood,” I said, and moved to the sink.

The tap water ran cool over my fingers. The sound of it was immediately calming, as if my nervous system recognised domestic tasks as safe terrain.

Behind me, Sarah cracked eggs into a bowl with one hand, stirring with brisk competence. The rhythm was soothing—tap, split, pour, toss shell, repeat.

I dried my hands and reached for a tea towel, folding it neatly out of habit.

Sarah noticed, of course.

“You’re one of those people,” she said, faint amusement threading through her voice.

I blinked. “One of what people?”

“The ones who fold tea towels like it’s a moral position,” she replied.

I laughed again, cheeks warming. “It’s just… tidier.”

Her eyes flicked to me briefly—amused in a way that felt dangerously close to affectionate.

“Mm,” she said. “Keep it. It’ll be useful when the world collapses.”

I moved around the counter to put the salad into a bowl.

The space between us was small. Too small to be neutral.

Our shoulders brushed—light contact, fabric and warmth—and my breath caught, absurdly, like my body had been waiting all day for the smallest permission.

Sarah didn’t startle. She didn’t apologise. She simply shifted a fraction closer to make room for me rather than moving away.

The gesture felt… deliberate.

My heart did that odd, tender stumble again, like it was learning a new tempo and hating itself for how quickly it wanted to follow.

I focused on the salad. On the neatness of leaves. On the ordinary purpose of a bowl.

Sarah slid a pan onto the stove and turned the heat on. The blue flame caught and steadied.

“Sit,” she said over her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

Her gaze cut to me. “Lauren.”

There was no anger in it. Just a quiet insistence that I stop auditioning for my place in the room.

I pulled out a stool and sat at the little breakfast bar, hands folded in my lap. The posture felt strangely intimate—being allowed to be idle while someone else cared for me.

Sarah plated the eggs and set two plates down with firm hands.

“Eat,” she said. “And if you say ‘I’m not hungry,’ I’ll assume you’re lying and respond accordingly.”

I smiled, picked up my fork, and took a bite.

Butter. Pepper. Something clean and simple.

Sarah ate too, standing for a moment before sitting opposite me, elbows on the counter.

For a minute we just… ate. No crisis. No planning. No messages.

I felt my shoulders lower a fraction with each swallow, like my body was being reminded that survival didn’t have to be constant.

Then her phone buzzed again.

A text, not a call.

She glanced at it and huffed.

“Still him?” I asked, my heart tightening before I could stop it.

Sarah shook her head once. “Different idiot. But yes, he’s still blocked. He can shout into the void. I’m not his void.”

I exhaled. I hadn’t realised I’d been holding my breath.

Sarah watched my face—really watched it—and I felt that familiar discomfort: being seen too clearly, too quickly.

“Tell me something,” she said.

My fork paused. “Okay.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful.

“When you touched that spare key earlier,” she said, “what was that?”

Heat rushed into my face.

“I didn’t— I wasn’t—”

She lifted a hand, stopping the spiral. “No. I’m not accusing you. I’m asking.”

I swallowed, throat suddenly tight.

“It’s just…” I began, and faltered because the truth was embarrassingly simple.

Sarah waited without filling the silence.

I forced myself to keep going.

“It was symbolic,” I admitted softly. “It made me feel like I wasn’t trespassing.”

Her expression changed—small, subtle, but real. Not smug. Not triumphant.

Pleased.

“Good,” she said.

I blinked. “Good?”

Sarah set her fork down and leaned forward slightly, forearms on the counter, voice lower.

“Yes,” she said. “Because you’re not.”

My heart thudded hard.

She held my gaze—steady as a lighthouse—and then she said it, plain and decisive, as if she’d been waiting for the right moment to make it a rule.

“You are not a temporary situation.”

The words hit me, and panic rose immediately—my mind trying to turn them into a story it hadn’t earned.

Sarah saw it on my face and sighed.

“Not like that,” she said bluntly, kind in the same breath. “I mean: you’re not couch-surfing. You’re not a guest who has to earn air. You’re not on probation.”

My eyes stung.

“I don’t want to—” I started automatically.

Her gaze sharpened. “Don’t.”

The single word landed like a hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t minimise,” she said. “Not in my kitchen.”

A laugh escaped me that was half sob, half relief.

Sarah’s mouth curved. “There we go.”

I stared at her, heart full of something bright and frightening and utterly unfamiliar: being cared for without negotiation.

Then I heard myself say it—the practical objection my brain grabbed like a life raft.

“But… won’t I get in your way?” I asked, voice tight. “Your dating. Your life.”

Sarah blinked at me, then looked almost offended.

“Lauren,” she said slowly, “are you trying to manage my personal life while you’re actively falling apart?”

“I’m not—” I began, mortified.

She exhaled through her nose, a laugh that wasn’t unkind. “God.”

Then she leaned back in her chair, studying me like she was deciding whether to say something she’d been holding in her mouth for weeks.

“All right,” she said. “Since you’ve brought it up.”

My pulse skittered.

“I’ve dated men,” she said. “That’s history.”

I swallowed, trying to keep my face neutral.

“But I’ve been watching women at Wardrobe,” she continued, and there was something quietly intent in her voice now—less banter, more truth. “Bree and Lily. Celeste and Charli.”

I went very still.

“It looks… better,” Sarah said, almost grudging about the honesty. “It looks safer. It looks like people actually see each other. No tests. No transactions. No stupid power games.”

My throat tightened.

“And yes,” she added, meeting my eyes without flinching, “it has appeal.”

My mind went into overdrive so fast I almost felt dizzy.

This was the same Sarah who’d spent years armouring herself in sarcasm and standards. The same Sarah who could cut a man down with two words and then go back to pinning a hem like he’d never existed.

And here she was, in her narrow kitchen, calmly admitting she’d been noticing something else. Something woman-shaped.

I stared at her as if she’d shifted the world a few degrees.

Sarah pushed back her chair and stood.

She walked around the counter toward me—close, close enough that I could feel her warmth—and stopped beside my stool.

I looked up, heart hammering.

Her gaze flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

For a second I was certain she was going to kiss me.

Instead, she reached down and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

The touch was brief.

Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex.

Care with precision. Presence with intention.

I went utterly still.

“That,” she murmured, “is as far as I’m going tonight.”

My breath shook. “Why?”

Sarah’s mouth twitched—not amused. Disciplined.

“Because you’re raw,” she said. “And because I’m not taking advantage of the part of you that’s starving for kindness.”

My eyes filled instantly.

She held my gaze, steady.

“One step at a time,” she said. “Eat. Sleep. Tomorrow we deal with Roger. Then—” a deliberate pause “—then we’ll see what we both want when you’re not in survival mode.”

I couldn’t speak. I could only nod.

Sarah stepped back, the air cooling where her warmth had been.

And then, because she could never leave tenderness unbalanced for too long, she pointed at my plate with mock sternness.

“Eat,” she ordered. “I’m not having you faint dramatically in my kitchen. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

A shaky laugh broke out of me, startled and real.

Sarah’s grin flashed. “There she is.”

I took another bite of eggs and tasted, for the first time in a long time, something that felt almost like appetite.

Not just for food.

For life.

End Scene 48.

---

If you like, I can now re-tune Scene 47 → Scene 48 transition with one or two tiny “bridge” lines so Sarah’s “watching Wardrobe” observation feels even more seeded (without making it obvious). Just a couple of micro-glances or a throwaway remark earlier in 47 that retroactively supports this moment. 😊

---

x

xx

[26-02-06]

Yes — lovely catch. 😊 And you’re right to flag the “dating men” line: it’s very easy for it to sound like a manifesto (or like Sarah is rewriting her identity on the spot) when what we want is Sarah being precise, grounded, and a bit allergic to grand declarations.

Below are:

1. Two tiny bridge inserts for Scene 47 (micro-seeding, not obvious)
2. One tiny bridge insert for the top of Scene 48 (to carry the thread cleanly)
3. A replacement set for the “men” line(s), in three tonal options, so Sarah stays Sarah.

You can mix-and-match — but I’ve written them so they slot in cleanly.

---

1) Scene 47 micro-seeds (choose 1–2)

Insert A — at Wardrobe, after Lucy in the coat / before the wrap-up

This plants the “Sarah has been watching women” idea without spelling it out.

As Lucy turned in the coat, Bree drifted closer, still laughing, and Lily’s hand landed at Lucy’s back—brief, unthinking, perfectly placed.

Sarah’s eyes flicked there. Just a flick.

Something in her face shifted—too quick to name—before she went back to her seam as if she hadn’t seen a thing.

Insert B — in the car, after Sarah says “We’ll do it,” before she asks about high school

This makes Sarah’s later line feel like it’s been simmering in her mind all day.

Sarah watched the road for a moment, then said, almost to herself, “You know what I like about that place?”

“Wardrobe?” I asked.

“Mm.” A pause. “Women. Getting on with it. No theatre. Just… solid.”

I didn’t know what to do with that, so I nodded and kept driving.

Either of those makes Scene 48’s “I’ve been watching…” feel earned.

---

2) Scene 48 bridge line (top-of-scene carryover)

Right after: “Sarah’s kitchen was narrow…” add this:

The quiet followed us in like a third person—settling, not intruding—like the house knew how to hold women gently after a hard day.

It ties the “Wardrobe safety” feeling to “Sarah’s home safety” in one breath.

---

3) Fixing the “dating men” line(s)

I suspect the bit that feels off is this in the revised Scene 48:

“I’ve dated men,” she said. “That’s history.”

It risks sounding a little… speechy or like Sarah is issuing an identity statement. She’d more likely de-centre men entirely (very Sarah) and speak in behavioural/values terms: what she wants, what she won’t tolerate, what she’s been noticing.

Here are three options, from most “Sarah” (dry/grounded) to most emotionally revealing — all still controlled.

Option 1 — Dry, precise, de-centres men (my favourite)

Replace the whole mini-exchange with:

Sarah blinked at me, then looked almost offended.

“Lauren,” she said slowly, “are you trying to manage my love life while you’re actively falling apart?”

“I’m not—” I began, mortified.

She exhaled through her nose. “God.”

Then, because she couldn’t leave it alone, she added, “I’ll date whoever I please. But I’m not currently taking applications.”

My stomach dropped in a way that wasn’t disappointment exactly—more like vertigo.

Sarah’s gaze held mine. “What I am doing is paying attention to what looks sane. And what looks safe.”

A pause. Deliberate.

“And lately,” she said, “that’s been women.”

This keeps her strong, non-performative, and it’s not “I am X,” it’s “I’m noticing Y.”

Option 2 — Still grounded, but references her past without making it the centre

If you want her to acknowledge history without sounding like a TED talk:

“I’ve spent years defaulting to men because that was the path of least resistance,” Sarah said.

She shrugged once, like she hated that this counted as self-disclosure.

“But I’m not obligated to keep repeating the same pattern just because it’s familiar.”

It’s less “identity” and more “pattern recognition” — very Sarah.

Option 3 — Softest / most intimate, but still disciplined

If you want it to feel like a rare, honest reveal:

“I used to think men were… inevitable,” Sarah said quietly.

Her mouth twitched, humourless. “Like weather.”

She met my eyes. “Turns out that’s not true. Turns out I get to choose.”

Still not a declaration — a permission statement.

---

Quick recommendation (so it stays consistent)

• Use Insert A (Wardrobe micro-glance) + Option 1 (de-centre men) That combo makes Sarah feel most like herself: sharp, protective, quietly radical — without “coming out” in a way that feels sudden or performative.

If you paste the exact sentence you’re reacting to (or even just tell me “it was the line beginning with…”), I’ll do a surgical rewrite of that paragraph so it drops in flawlessly with your exact wording around it. 💛

---

Notes26-02-09rv1

[26-02-09]

---

Scene 48 — “Not Temporary” (Lauren POV, 1st person, past tense)

Sarah’s kitchen was narrow in the way older houses often were—designed for one person to work efficiently, not for two adults to hover in each other’s gravity.

I followed her in anyway.

She set her coffee down on the counter with a decisive clink and opened the fridge.

“Right,” she said, rummaging. “I’ve got eggs, salad stuff, cheese, and… something I’m fairly sure is still edible.”

I leaned on the doorframe, watching. It felt strange to be in someone else’s kitchen and not feel like I had to perform usefulness to justify my presence.

“Do you want help?” I asked, careful.

Sarah didn’t look up. “Yes.”

Sarah didn’t do the polite dance where women pretended they didn’t need anyone. She pulled out a carton of eggs, a bunch of greens, and a small tub of something that might have been hummus or might have been an experiment.

“Wash the salad,” she said. “And don’t argue with me about how you’d wash it at home. This is my house. I am in charge of bacteria here.”

A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it.

“Understood,” I said, and moved to the sink. The tap water ran cool over my fingers. The sound of it was immediately calming, as if my nervous system recognised domestic tasks as safe terrain. Behind me, Sarah cracked eggs into a bowl with one hand, stirring with brisk competence. The rhythm was soothing—tap, split, pour, toss shell, repeat.

I dried my hands and reached for a tea towel, folding it neatly out of habit.

Sarah noticed, of course.

“You’re one of those people,” she said, faint amusement threading through her voice.

“One of what people?”

“The ones who fold tea towels like it’s a moral position,” she replied.

I laughed again, cheeks warming. “It’s just… tidier.”

Her eyes flicked to me briefly—amused in a way that felt dangerously close to affectionate.

“Mm,” she said. “Keep it. It’ll be useful when the world collapses.”

I moved around the counter to put the salad into a bowl. The space between us was small. Too small to be neutral. Our shoulders brushed—light contact, fabric and warmth—and my breath caught, absurdly. Sarah shifted a fraction closer to make room for me rather than moving away. The gesture felt… deliberate.

My heart did that odd, tender stumble again, like it was learning a new tempo and hating itself for how quickly it wanted to follow. I focused on the salad. On the neatness of leaves. On the ordinary purpose of a bowl. Sarah slid a pan onto the stove and turned the heat on. The blue flame caught and steadied.

“Sit,” she said over her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

Her gaze cut to me. “Lauren.”

There was no anger in it. Just a quiet insistence that I stop auditioning for my place in the room. I pulled out a stool and sat at the little breakfast bar, hands folded in my lap. The posture felt strangely intimate—being allowed to be idle while someone else cared for me. Sarah plated the eggs and set two plates down with firm hands.

“Eat,” she said. “And if you say ‘I’m not hungry,’ I’ll assume you’re lying and respond accordingly.”

I smiled, picked up my fork, and took a bite. Butter. Pepper. Something clean and simple. Sarah ate too, standing for a moment before sitting opposite me, elbows on the counter.

For a minute we just… ate. No crisis. No planning. No messages.

I felt my shoulders lower a fraction with each swallow, like my body was being reminded that survival didn’t have to be constant.

Then her phone buzzed again.

A text, not a call. She glanced at it and huffed.

“Still him?” I asked, my heart tightening before I could stop it. Sarah shook her head once.

“Different idiot. But yes, he’s still blocked. He can shout into the void. I’m not his void.”

I exhaled. I hadn’t realised I’d been holding my breath. Sarah watched my face—really watched it—and I felt that familiar discomfort: being seen too clearly, too quickly.

“Tell me something.”

My fork paused. “Okay.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful.

“When you touched that spare key earlier,” she said, “what was that?”

Heat rushed into my face.

“I didn’t— I wasn’t—”

She lifted a hand with a quick toss of her blonde hair, stopping the spiral. “I’m just asking.”

I swallowed, throat suddenly tight.

“It’s just…” I began, and faltered because the truth was embarrassingly simple.

Sarah waited without filling the silence.

I forced myself to keep going.

“It was symbolic,” I admitted softly. “It made me feel like I was… part of this. Of here.”

Her expression changed—small, subtle, but real.

Pleased.

“Good!”

I blinked. “Good?”

Sarah set her fork down and leaned forward slightly, forearms on the counter, voice lower.

“Yes,” she said. “Because you’re are.”

My heart thudded hard. She held my gaze—steady as a lighthouse—and then she said it, plain and decisive, as if she’d been waiting for the right moment to make it a rule.

“You are not a temporary situation.”

The words hit me, and panic rose immediately—my mind trying to turn them into a story it hadn’t earned. Sarah saw it on my face and sighed.

“Not like that,” she said bluntly, kind in the same breath. “I mean: you’re not couch-surfing. You’re not a guest who has to earn air. You’re not on probation.”

My eyes stung.

“I don’t want to—” I started automatically.

Her gaze sharpened. “Don’t.”

The single word landed like a hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t minimise,” she said. “Not in my kitchen.”

A laugh escaped me that was half sob, half relief.

Sarah’s mouth curved. “There we go.”

I stared at her, heart full of something bright and frightening and utterly unfamiliar: being cared for without negotiation.

Then I heard myself say it—the practical objection my brain grabbed like a life raft.

“But… won’t I get in your way?” I asked, voice tight. “Your dating. Your life.”

Sarah blinked at me, then looked almost offended.

“Lauren,” she said slowly, “are you trying to manage my personal life while you’re actively falling apart?”

“I’m not—” I began, mortified.

She exhaled through her nose, a laugh that wasn’t unkind. “God.”

Then she leaned back in her chair, studying me like she was deciding whether to say something she’d been holding in her mouth for weeks.

“All right,” she said. “Since you’ve brought it up.”

My pulse skittered.

“I’ve dated men,” she said. “That’s history.”

I swallowed, trying to keep my face neutral.

“But I’ve been watching women at Wardrobe,” she continued, and there was something quietly intent in her voice now—less banter, more truth. “Bree and Lily. Celeste and Charli.”

I went very still.

“It looks… better,” Sarah said, almost grudging about the honesty. “It looks safer. It looks like people actually see each other. No tests. No transactions. No stupid power games.”

My throat tightened.

“And yes,” she added, meeting my eyes without flinching, “it has appeal.”

My mind went into overdrive so fast I almost felt dizzy.

This was the same Sarah who’d spent years armouring herself in sarcasm and standards. The same Sarah who could cut a man down with two words and then go back to pinning a hem like he’d never existed.

And here she was, in her narrow kitchen, calmly admitting she’d been noticing something else. Something woman-shaped.

I stared at her as if she’d shifted the world a few degrees.

Sarah pushed back her chair and stood.

She walked around the counter toward me—close, close enough that I could feel her warmth—and stopped beside my stool.

I looked up, heart hammering.

Her gaze flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

For a second I was certain she was going to kiss me.

Instead, she reached down and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

The touch was brief.

Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex.

Care with precision. Presence with intention.

I went utterly still.

“That,” she murmured, “is as far as I’m going tonight.”

My breath shook. “Why?”

Sarah’s mouth twitched—not amused. Disciplined.

“Because you’re raw,” she said. “And because I’m not taking advantage of the part of you that’s starving for kindness.”

My eyes filled instantly.

She held my gaze, steady.

“One step at a time,” she said. “Eat. Sleep. Tomorrow we deal with Roger. Then—” a deliberate pause “—then we’ll see what we both want when you’re not in survival mode.”

I couldn’t speak. I could only nod.

Sarah stepped back, the air cooling where her warmth had been.

And then, because she could never leave tenderness unbalanced for too long, she pointed at my plate with mock sternness.

“Eat,” she ordered. “I’m not having you faint dramatically in my kitchen. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

A shaky laugh broke out of me, startled and real.

Sarah’s grin flashed. “There she is.”

I took another bite of eggs and tasted, for the first time in a long time, something that felt almost like appetite.

Not just for food.

For life.

End Scene 48.

---

u

uu

✨ The Brush ✨

---

---

✨ smsmsm ✨

Scene 44 — “Not a Blanket” (Sarah POV)

I told myself I was going out for a drink because I deserved one.

Because I’d done the adult thing with Carl. Because I’d been honest. Because I hadn’t caved to guilt or panic or habit.

All true.

Also, because I’d just opened the back of my own mental closet and found a teenage crush still sitting there, perfectly preserved, like ski gear with the tags still on.

I didn’t want to think about it.

So I chose the oldest strategy in the book: blunt the edges.

I went out alone, which is something I almost never do now, because I am not a romantic and I am not daft.

But I wasn’t looking for romance.

I was looking for noise. For anonymity. For the comforting blur of strangers who didn’t know my history or my rules.

I picked a bar that wasn’t my bar.

A place with warm lighting and too much bass and stools that stuck to the backs of your thighs when you stood up. A place where people came to forget themselves in public, together.

I ordered a drink and watched the bartender make it. I’m not stupid.

I took it to a table near the wall, back against something solid, because old habits are not the enemy—they’re a form of intelligence.

For the first half hour, it worked.

The drink eased the tightness in my chest. The noise kept my brain from spiralling. I scrolled my phone and pretended I was just waiting for a friend.

No one bothered me.

I should have left then.

I didn’t.

Because when you’ve spent your whole life being competent, it feels obscene to admit that you’re rattled by a memory from Year Ten. It feels weak to say: I think I might want something different from my life.

So I ordered another.

Still watching. Still careful. Still “fine.”

I told myself I’d go after that one. I even stood up once, like I meant it.

Then someone bumped into my table and apologised, and I sat back down because the apology made the world feel briefly civil again.

Another drink.

I was still coherent. Still upright. Still me.

And then… it happened.

Not dramatically. Not like the movies.

Just a wrongness—sudden and unmistakable—like my body had stepped on a stair that wasn’t there.

My stomach rolled. The room tilted, not pleasantly. My skin went hot and then cold, as if someone was adjusting my temperature with a remote. My tongue felt thick. My hands stopped feeling like mine.

I blinked hard. Once. Twice.

No, my brain said, sharp and furious. No, no, no.

I looked down at my glass.

Half-full. Nothing obvious. Nothing to point to and say that.

I tried to stand and my legs said, absolutely not.

Panic rose in me—fast, animal.

Not shame.

Not sadness.

Pure survival.

I grabbed my phone and fumbled it once, twice, before it unlocked.

The screen swam.

I could have called the police.

I could have called Bree.

I could have called… anyone.

But the only thought that mattered was this:

Call the woman who does not ask questions first.

Lauren.

My thumb hit her name. The phone went to my ear. The ringing sounded far away.

Then her voice, immediate, clear.

“Sarah?”

Something in my chest cracked with relief so sharp it almost hurt.

“Lauren,” I managed. My voice sounded wrong to my own ears—too careful, too slow. “I—I’m not right.”

Lauren didn’t panic. She didn’t do the “what did you do?” tone.

“Where are you?” she asked, calm as a seatbelt.

I forced the address out. I had to look at the menu board behind the bar to read the street name because my brain couldn’t hold it.

“Okay,” Lauren said. “Listen to me. Are you with anyone?”

“No.”

“Can you get outside?”

I glanced toward the door. It looked miles away.

“I—I think so.”

“Good,” she said. “Stand up slowly. Don’t finish your drink. Take your phone and your bag. Go straight out the front. Sit where you can be seen. I’m coming.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Sarah,” Lauren said, and her voice sharpened just enough to cut through the fog, “you’re doing brilliantly. Keep breathing. I’ll be there in minutes.”

Minutes.

It sounded like a lifetime.

I stood up carefully, one hand gripping the table until my knuckles went white. The room swayed. I waited until it settled.

I left the glass exactly where it was, because something in me—some last shred of angry competence—wanted it left behind like evidence, even if I didn’t know what I’d prove.

I moved toward the door.

Someone brushed past me and I flinched so hard my heart stuttered. I kept going anyway, because I am not prey and I am not staying.

The night air hit my face like a slap.

It should have helped.

It didn’t.

It made the nausea worse.

I stumbled to a low wall near the entrance and sat down. I pressed my palms against my thighs, anchoring myself. The world was too bright and too loud and too far away.

I stared at the street and tried to keep my eyes open.

Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.

Headlights swung around the corner and pulled up.

Lauren’s car.

The door opened and there she was—hair pulled back, face set, that particular mother-steel expression that says: I am here and the world will now behave.

She crossed to me quickly.

“Sarah,” she said, and crouched slightly so she was level with my face. “Look at me.”

I did. It took effort. But I did.

“Can you stand?” she asked.

“I—” My voice wobbled. “I think—”

“Okay,” she said. “We’re not rushing. Bree’s not here, so I’m your hands. Give me your bag.”

I handed it over like a child, and the humiliation should have killed me.

It didn’t.

Because Lauren didn’t treat me like a child.

She treated me like a woman whose body had been compromised and needed a plan.

Lauren slid an arm around my shoulders—firm, steady—and helped me stand.

“Walk with me,” she said.

I walked.

Each step felt like it was happening through water.

Lauren got me into the car, buckled my seatbelt with brisk competence, and shut the door like she was sealing me inside safety.

She got in and started the engine.

Only then did she speak again.

“I’m taking you to mine,” she said. “You’re not going home alone tonight.”

I swallowed. My throat felt wrong.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered automatically.

Lauren’s head snapped toward me.

“No,” she said, flat. “Not that. Not ever.”

The word landed like a slap and a hug at the same time.

I went quiet.

Lauren drove with one hand on the wheel and the other ready—just there, near the console, like she could catch me if my body tried to fall apart.

Halfway to her place, she asked, “Are you going to vomit?”

I blinked at the practical question, absurdly grateful for it.

“Maybe.”

“Okay,” she said. “There’s a bag. Use it if you need. You’re not embarrassing.”

I made a small sound that might have been a laugh if I’d had more oxygen.

At her apartment, Lauren guided me inside, shoes off, lights low, water poured.

She sat me on the couch and tucked a throw around my shoulders with the kind of efficiency that would make Mara nod once and say nothing.

Then Lauren crouched in front of me again.

“Sarah,” she said, “I’m going to ask you something and you can answer yes or no.”

I nodded.

“Do you feel safe right now?”

I blinked hard.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Good,” she said. “Then we slow down. We hydrate. We keep you awake enough to stay oriented. And if anything changes—breathing, chest, pain—we escalate.”

The word escalate should have frightened me.

Instead it steadied me.

Because Lauren wasn’t guessing.

She was managing.

I leaned back into the couch, dizzy, and my eyes burned unexpectedly.

Lauren saw it and didn’t comment. She just sat beside me, not touching, present like a wall you could lean on.

After a while, the nausea eased into something duller. The panic receded, replaced by exhaustion.

Lauren handed me another glass of water.

I drank.

My hands shook.

Lauren watched without judgement.

The silence stretched.

And in that silence, my brain—traitorous, inconvenient—offered me the thought I’d been avoiding all night:

You called her.

Not Bree.

Not the police.

Her.

Because somewhere in my body, Lauren had become the definition of “safe.”

Not as a concept.

As a person.

Lauren checked her phone, then looked at me.

“Do you want me to call Bree?” she asked gently.

I hesitated. Then shook my head.

“No,” I said, voice rough. “Not yet.”

Lauren didn’t press.

“Okay,” she said. “Then you sleep here. Bedroom’s yours. Door closes. I’ll be in the lounge.”

My throat tightened.

“You don’t have to—”

Lauren’s look cut clean through me.

“I do,” she said. “Because you’re not going to wake up alone and wonder if you imagined it.”

I swallowed.

“Okay,” I whispered.

Lauren stood, then paused.

“And Sarah,” she added, softer, “tomorrow we can talk about reporting it. Or checking in medically. Or none of that. But tonight you’re just… alive. That’s the job.”

Alive.

That word landed in my chest like a weight.

She guided me to the bedroom—nothing intimate, nothing loaded—just a woman escorting another woman to safety. She handed me a clean t-shirt, pointed at the bathroom, left the door ajar.

I changed slowly, clumsy and tired, then crawled into the bed like it belonged to someone else.

The room was dark and quiet.

I heard Lauren moving softly in the lounge—kettle, cupboard, the small sounds of a competent woman keeping watch without announcing it.

And then I slept.

---

In the morning, my mouth tasted like regret and my head felt full of sand.

I lay still for a moment, letting the hangover assemble itself into a coherent list of complaints.

Then I remembered everything.

The bar. The wrongness. The bench outside. Lauren’s voice, steady as a handrail.

The shame hit next—automatic, predictable.

You’re thirty-something and you called someone’s mum.

I sat up too quickly and had to stop. The room tilted. I pressed my palm to my forehead, breathing through it.

A tap at the door.

Lauren’s voice, careful. “You awake?”

“Yes,” I croaked.

She came in with water and toast like she’d done it a thousand times, and maybe she had.

She set the tray on the bedside table and looked at me, not hovering.

“How’s your head?” she asked.

“Like someone built a shed inside it,” I muttered.

Lauren’s mouth twitched. “Fair.”

I took the water with both hands. Drank. Slowly.

Lauren sat on the chair near the window, not on the bed—space respected.

“Do you remember what happened?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, and my voice went quieter. “I… felt wrong. Too fast.”

Lauren nodded, filing it.

“Okay,” she said. “We don’t have to decide anything this second. But I want you to know: you did the right thing calling.”

The words landed, warm and sharp.

I stared at the toast like it contained answers.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” I said.

Lauren’s gaze held mine.

“You didn’t bother me,” she replied. “You trusted me.”

My throat tightened again, stupidly.

I tried to deflect.

“Because you’re terrifying,” I said dryly.

Lauren’s laugh was small. “I’ll take it.”

I took another sip of water, hands still slightly shaky.

Then I said the thing that had been sitting in my chest since the bench outside the bar.

“Lauren,” I began, and my voice caught. “I… I think I use you as—”

“A safety blanket,” Lauren finished gently, not mocking.

I blinked, embarrassed.

Lauren tilted her head.

“It’s not an insult,” she said. “You were scared. You reached for the safest person you know. That’s rational.”

I looked down at my hands.

“But,” Lauren continued, quiet now, “I don’t think that’s the whole truth.”

My pulse did a strange, hot little stumble.

I looked up.

Lauren’s expression was open—still adult, still in control—but softer than I’d ever seen it, like she was allowing herself to be human in front of me.

“Sarah,” she said, “you don’t have to decide anything today. But you should know something.”

I waited. Breath held.

“I like you,” Lauren said. Simple. Clean. “As you are. Sharp. Difficult. Funny. Honest when it costs you.”

The room went very still.

My skin prickled.

I should have made a joke.

I couldn’t.

Lauren didn’t move closer. She didn’t take my hand. She didn’t try to seal the moment into a story.

She just let the truth sit there, like a cup placed gently on a table.

And in the quiet that followed, I realised—with a clarity that made my chest ache—that this feeling in me wasn’t relief anymore.

It wasn’t gratitude.

It wasn’t even safety.

It was… wanting.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just a steady, inconvenient pull toward the woman in the chair.

I swallowed, suddenly terrified—not of her, not of intimacy, but of the sheer scale of how much sense it made.

“I’m not—” I started, and stopped.

Lauren waited, patient.

I took a breath, careful.

“I think,” I said slowly, “I called you because I wanted you to come.”

Lauren’s eyes softened.

“Yes,” she said, so quiet it was almost a whisper. “I know.”

My heart thudded once, hard.

I stared at her, and for the first time in a long time I didn’t feel like I had to be clever to be safe.

I just had to be honest.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” I admitted.

Lauren nodded once.

“Good,” she said. “Then we do nothing dramatic. We do boring.”

I huffed a laugh. “Boring.”

“Boring,” Lauren confirmed. “Tea. Toast. Water. A quiet day. And later—when your head stops trying to kill you—we talk. Like adults.”

My throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t shame.

It was something warmer.

Something that felt, inconveniently, like hope.

I nodded.

“Okay,” I said.

And Lauren’s smile—small, steady—was the softest kind of victory.

Not conquest.

Not rescue.

Just two women, choosing to treat the moment with care.

Like everything else in our world that mattered. 💛

---

Scenes Replaced

---

All previous scene versions are no longer being considered. The following scene will be published as Scene 48.

---

---

Notes26-02-10rv1

There’s Always Tomorrow

[26-02-10]

Scene 49 — “There’s Always Tomorrow” (Sarah POV, past tense)

---

I noticed it in the stupid, domestic gaps.

Not the dramatic moments—the door locks, the blocked numbers, the way you learn to breathe again after a man has spent years teaching your body to cringe.

No. It was smaller than that.

It was how Lauren hovered half a second longer when I passed her in the hallway.
How her eyes tracked my hands when I put a mug down.
How she recalibrated her distance—one step closer, then one step back—as if she was testing an invisible fence with the tip of her toe.

I’d seen hunger before. Men carried it like a claim, like they were owed.

Lauren’s was different.

Lauren’s was the kind that didn’t want to take anything. It wanted to be given something and not feel guilty for receiving it.

That was what undid me.

It would’ve been easy to call it a rebound and be done with it. Neat label, tidy reasoning. But nothing about Lauren’s marriage had ended last week. It had ended slowly, years ago—ended in thousands of small moments where affection didn’t arrive, where kindness wasn’t the default, where she’d learned to survive on silence.

The only thing that had happened recently was that she’d finally stepped out of the freezer.

I could handle the practical parts. Safety plans. Logistics. Buddy systems. Door locks turned twice. What I wasn’t used to was this: warmth that wanted to become… something else.

And the fact that I wanted it too. That was the part I hadn’t planned for.

That was the part that made me feel—ridiculously—like a teenager. I’d always been on the receiving end of initiation. Men decided. Men pressed. Men assumed. Even the decent ones still arrived with a kind of forward momentum, like intimacy was a track they expected you to step onto.

Women didn’t do that to me. Not in my life.

And now, if I wanted this to be woman-shaped, it meant I had to do something I’d never done before:

I had to lead without pushing.
I had to offer without taking.
I had to be brave, but not loud about it.

That night, after dinner, the house settled into its quiet. Lauren had showered and come out in one of my old t-shirts—soft, oversized, sleeves too long. Her hair was still slightly damp at the ends. She looked younger like that, not in age, but in vulnerability, like someone who hadn’t yet learned that comfort wasn't only permitted but encouraged.

I watched her cross the lounge room and sit at the far end of the couch. Far enough to be polite. I sat down too, close enough to feel her heat, and still didn’t move. The television murmured some forgettable show. Neither of us watched it.

Lauren’s hands were folded in her lap like she was waiting for instructions.

I felt something hot rise in my chest and I didn’t like what it wanted.

Protective, I told myself.

No.

That wasn’t it.

Possessive.

The word startled me. I pushed back against it immediately—hard.

Not my style. Not my rules.

And yet I wanted her so badly it made my thoughts snag. Could I want her and still be good?

I turned my head to look at her.

She was staring at the screen without seeing it, breathing shallow, shoulders as if on a hangar. Even safe, her body was still practising danger strategies.

“Lauren.”

She jumped a little, then forced a smile, almost guiltily, like she was about to apologise for... something.

“What?” she asked, a bit quickly, I thought.

I kept my voice calm.

“Please come here.”

Her eyes flicked to mine, startled by the certainty.

“Are—” she began, then stopped. Her throat moved as she swallowed. “Are you… sure?”

That heat was becoming troublesome.

“It’s not a couch treaty,” I said. “I’m just asking you to come here.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, half laughter, half nerves. She didn’t move. I softened it—just a fraction.

“You can say no,” I added. “But I’m not going to pretend I don’t want you closer.” A beat. “Please?”

That did it.

Lauren finally saw my door. Unlocked, open. Her breath caught.

She looked down at her hands, then back up at me like she was bracing for consequences. Then she rose, slowly, and moved along the couch until she was sitting beside me. Close enough that our shoulders almost touched.

Almost.

She stopped there, perfectly still, like a deer that had wandered into a warmth it wasn’t sure about. I let the silence rest for a moment, feeling her closeness, and looked at her hands. Then I raised my eyes to hers and said, very quietly,

“You can want things, now.”

Lauren’s eyes brightened instantly. She blinked hard, furious with herself.

“I’ve never felt like this. How can I know what I want?” she whispered.

I knew what I wanted: her. But I wanted her willingly entering my open door—not me pushing her in. So I smiled at her eyes and made the simplest offer I could manage.

“I want to kiss you.”

Her whole body went still.

The air changed.

Lauren looked at me, motionless. I forced myself not to move, not to do the thing men did—closing distance as if hesitation was consent. Instead I asked, my voice steady,

“Do you want that?”

Lauren pressed her lips together, momentarily, as if biting them, and then her mouth fell open. She nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

“Yes.”

That faint, barely whispered word was the most soothing sound this side of rain falling. I lifted my hand slowly—so she could see every inch of it—and touched the side of her face with my fingertips, light as breath. Lauren leaned into my hand.

Something in my chest went dangerously soft.

I kissed her.

A gentle, careful kiss—asking, not claiming.

Lauren made a sound so small it was barely there, and then she kissed me back—tentative at first, like she was still half expecting everything to vanish. And then, gradually, she softened. Her shoulders dropped. Her breath deepened. Her whole body sighed into our closeness.

I pulled back just enough to look at her.

Her eyes were glassy. Her mouth was slightly parted.

She looked sedated.

“You okay?”

Lauren huffed and nodded quickly, as tears slipped down, furious little betrayers.

“I can’t seem to get enough of this—of you,” she whispered.

I felt relief, suddenly. This woman was opening herself to me. To me!

“I know.”

Lauren’s lips trembled. “I didn’t realise it would feel like—”

“Like a human being?” I supplied.

A laugh broke out of her, watery and disbelieving.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Like being… human.”

I nodded once, satisfied.

Then I said the part that mattered most, the part I needed her to hear.

“We go at your speed and to meet your needs,” I told her. “Juust know that I can meet you whereever you are. You don’t have to hold back for me. Clear?”

Lauren stared at me, eyes wide. Then she nodded again, more firmly this time.

“Clear,” she whispered.

Good.

I shifted closer, and this time our shoulders touched properly.

Lauren leaned into me, comfortably now, assured. I draped the throw over us, a practical gesture. Lauren’s head settled against my shoulder. She stayed there, breathing slowly.

For a while we didn’t speak. The television murmured on. The house held us.

Lauren’s eyelids fluttered. I felt the change before I saw it—the way her body stopped bracing, the way her weight became honest.

She fell asleep.

And in the quiet, I thought—simple and steady, like a promise you didn’t need to announce out loud:

There’s always tomorrow.

End Scene 49.

Notes260212rv1

Revised

[260212]

Reframed Scene (Trimmed, Deepened, Realigned)

---

I noticed it in the little things.

Not the clear desisions or change in direction, like blocked numbers or relearning how to breathe.

No—little. Subtle.

Like, the way Lauren hovered half a second too long in doorways.
Or, how her eyes followed my hands when I set something down.
Even the way she recalibrated distance like she was testing invisible borders.

When Lauren first got here, she had been sorting her life out in real time, and I’d been doing what I do: keeping the day functional while she did it.

But somewhere in the last twenty-four hours, it stopped being only that, in the way a pattern changes and you don’t notice until you’re already adjusting to it.

I started thinking in her. I started measuring the house by where she was. I started hearing quiet and taking it personally. I told myself it was temporary.

I didn’t believe myself.

I’d seen hunger before. Men wore it like a claim.

Lauren’s wasn’t like that.

Hers felt like something carefully folded away for so long that it's unsure who owns it.

And I wanted it.

That was the part I hadn’t anticipated.

It would’ve been easy to call it timing, rebound, proximity. None of that fit. Nothing about her marriage had ended recently. It had eroded years ago. The only recent thing was that she’d stepped into warmth.

And warmth does things to a body.

That night the house settled into quiet. Lauren crossed the lounge room in one of my old shirts, sleeves long, hair still damp at the ends. She sat at the far end of the couch.

Polite distance.

I sat down too. Closer than polite. Still didn’t move.

The television murmured. Neither of us watched it.

Her hands were folded like she was waiting to be told something.

Heat rose in my chest.

Protective.

No.

Possessive.

The word annoyed me.

I didn’t own people. I didn’t take what wasn’t offered.

But I wanted her.

I turned my head.

“Lauren.”

She startled slightly. “What?”

“Come here.”

No flourish. No drama.

Her throat moved. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She moved slowly along the couch until our shoulders nearly touched. Stopped there, like proximity had edges.

I let the silence sit. Then, softer:

“You don’t have to hold yourself like that.”

Her breath shifted.

I reached up, slow enough that she could see it coming, and touched her face. Just fingertips.

She leaned in.

That undid me.

“I want to kiss you,” I said.

She didn’t hesitate this time.

“Yes.”

So I kissed her.

Careful at first. Measured. Asking.

She answered just as carefully.

And then something changed.

Her hands stopped hovering. They settled at my waist. Firmer. Certain.

The kiss deepened.

I felt the current and stepped into it willingly. Pulled her closer. Let the heat climb. Let myself forget for a second that I was supposed to be the steady one.

Her breath shortened.

Mine did too.

The space between us disappeared.

Lauren pressed in harder — not frantic, just sure. Hungry in a way that felt startlingly honest.

God, I wanted that.

I matched her.

For one dangerous beat, I stopped measuring.

Her fingers tightened at my back. The kiss tipped — not wrong, not wild — just fast. Fast enough that I could feel where it would lead if we didn’t slow it.

And I wanted to keep going.

That was the problem.

Instead, I changed the air.

I inhaled deeply, deliberately. Held it. Let it out slower than the moment required, warm against her cheek.

Kept my hand firm at her back, but stilled the other. Changed the angle of my mouth. Slowed the pressure, not the closeness.

Stayed.

Lauren’s breath stuttered at the shift — not pulling away, just recalibrating.

I touched my forehead lightly to her temple.

“Stay with me,” I murmured.

Not correction. Invitation.

Her hands softened.

Her mouth followed mine.

The urgency didn’t vanish. It deepened.

Heat without scramble.

Her breath turned heavier now, slower, warmer against my skin. I could smell soap and something faintly electric underneath it — the kind of scent that only shows up when someone stops pretending.

I kissed her again, slower this time. Intentional. Thorough.

Not rushing to the end of anything.

Letting it build properly.

She made a quiet sound — different now. Not startled. Not overwhelmed.

Present.

When I finally drew back a fraction, she didn’t look ashamed.

She looked lit.

I brushed my thumb along her jaw.

“There’s no rush,” I said quietly. Not a warning. A promise.

Her eyes held mine. Steady.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

That was the gift.

She leaned into me again, not urgently now. Willingly.

And this time, when I draped the throw over us and she settled against my shoulder, the weight of her felt chosen, not collapsed.

Her breathing evened out slowly.

She fell asleep.

And I stayed there, feeling the warmth of her, knowing exactly how close we’d come to tumbling, and exactly why we hadn’t.

There’s always tomorrow.

End Scene 47. ...was 38 and 39

Notes26-02-13ev1

[260213]

😄🧵💛👭 💞 🖤 🍓 🌶 🚪 🔑 🛋 🫧 🌩 🌧 🧵 🪡 👗 👚 👜 👠 🩰 💄 💋 🎻 📒 ✂ 🩸 💧 🚺 ⚧ ♀ ⚜

[260213]

✨ The Brush ✨🔥💛🌿😏😭💛✅😈💛

Scene 47 — “There’s Always Tomorrow”
(Sarah POV, 1st person, past tense)

Scene 47 — opening rewrite (Sarah POV, 1st person, past tense)

---

💋 There’s Always Tomorrow 💋

[ Sarah ]

I heard the keys settle before the house did.

Lauren’s fingers brushed her spare key on the way past the bowl, a tiny, unconscious gesture, and then the sound of the door swinging closed folded the day in on itself. The kitchen light came on. The house exhaled.

So did I.

In the car, it had been her voice. It feels so… wonderful to be alive, because my future includes Sarah.

Ridiculous, reckless sentence. I’d felt it land in my chest, changing my breathing and making my mouth dry.

In the hallway, it had been her body. The way she’d put the coffee down because I’d asked; the way she’d come into my arms like she was falling into something she hadn’t realised was for her. The way she’d clung, light but real, like she was afraid wanting too much might break the spell.

And the way I’d almost—almost—tilted her chin up.

If I had, she wouldn’t have stopped me—her eyes had told me as much. Was that why I didn’t? I’d promised her we’d go at her speed. Tonight, I thought that meant holding her until her breathing slowed, feeling her melt and then carefully, deliberately, letting the moment end with both of us still upright.

But later, I wasn’t so sure.

I noticed a lot about her in little things.

Not the clear decisions or changes in direction, like blocked numbers or relearning how to breathe.

No—little. Subtle.

The way her eyes followed my hands while I rinsed plates, like my wrists held answers. The way she hovered half a second too long in the doorway before following me into the kitchen. The way she recalibrated distance around me, as if she was testing invisible borders she wasn’t sure about.

When Lauren first got here, she had been sorting her life out in real time, and I’d been doing what I do: keeping the day functional while she did it.

But tonight, all that felt about as relevant as last week’s casserole.

Somewhere between the red light on the drive home, the key dropping into the bowl, and her face pressed into my shoulder while she tried not to cry, the axis shifted. I started thinking in her. I started measuring the house by where she was. I started hearing quiet and taking it personally.

I’d told myself her stay with me was temporary. That it was about keeping Lauren safe. Nothing else mattered.

And all that carefully designed scheme—one designed specifically to keep her safe, even from me—evaporated when I saw the hunger in her eyes. A raw, deep, clean hunger.

I’d seen hunger before. Men wore it like a claim.

Lauren’s wasn’t like that.

Hers felt like something carefully folded away for so long that it wasn’t sure who owned it. When she leaned into me, when her fingers curled in my shirt, it came out in little, frightened pieces—no demand, just a plea not to be sent back.

The scheme hadn’t even considered hunger as a possibility. Need as something to address. Want as a factor you didn’t get to ignore.

And the real reason it vanished?

I wanted it. I wanted her.

That was the part I hadn’t anticipated: that holding her together in my hallway would make me want to take her apart somewhere softer, slower, with no one watching but us.

We ate. We talked about safe things—Charli, the solicitor, whether Wardrobe could bully the real estate agent into co-operating. She was still shaken from the day, but there were more laughs than flinches now. Every time she smiled at me across the table, I could feel that key in the bowl behind her like a small, heavy fact: she wasn’t just passing through.

Later, when the dishes were done and the cups were rinsed and the house settled into its night-quiet, Lauren crossed the lounge room in one of my old shirts, sleeves long, hair still damp at the ends. She sat at the far end of the couch.

Polite distance.

I sat down too. Closer than polite. I still didn’t move.

The television murmured. Neither of us watched it.

Her hands were folded like she was waiting to be told something.

Heat rose in my chest…

It would’ve been easy to call it timing, rebound, proximity. None of that fit. Nothing about her marriage had ended recently. It had eroded years ago. The only recent thing was that she’d stepped into warmth.

And warmth does things to a body.

We ate. We talked about safe things for a while—Charli, work, the solicitor, the way the sun hit the Wardrobe windows in the late afternoon. She was still a little shell-shocked from the day, but there were more laughs than flinches now. Every time she laughed, I could hear the echo of that moment in the car, the way she’d looked at me like her future had just grown a new room.

Later, when the dishes were done and the cups were rinsed and the house settled into its night-quiet, Lauren crossed the lounge room in one of my old shirts, sleeves long, hair still damp at the ends. She sat at the far end of the couch.

Polite distance.

I sat down too. Closer than polite. I still didn’t move.

The television murmured. Neither of us watched it.

Her hands were folded like she was waiting to be told something.

Heat rose in my chest.

Protective.

No.

Possessive.

The word annoyed me.

I didn’t own people. I didn’t take what wasn’t offered.

But I wanted her. That hadn’t changed since the red light and her heart-stopping, ridiculous honesty in the car. If anything, the key in the bowl and the way she’d folded into my arms had made it worse—in the best possible way.

I turned my head.

“Lauren.”

She startled slightly. “Yes?”

“Come here.”

Her throat moved. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She moved slowly along the couch until our shoulders nearly touched. Stopped there, like proximity had edges.

I let the silence sit. Then, softer:

“You don’t have to hold yourself like that.”

I reached up, slow enough that she could see it coming, and touched her face. Just fingertips. She leaned in.

That undid me.

“I want to kiss you,” I said.

She didn’t hesitate this time.

“Yes.”

So I kissed her.

Careful at first. Measured. Asking.

She answered just as carefully.

And then something changed. Her hands stopped hovering. They settled at my waist. Firmer. Certain.

The kiss deepened.

I felt the rush of the current and stepped into it. Pulled her closer. Felt the heat climb, let it. Let myself forget for a second that I’d intended to be the steady one.

Her breath shortened.

So did mine.

The space between us disappeared. Lauren pressed in more insistently—not frantic, just sure. Hungry in a way that felt startlingly honest. Every part of me wanted that.

I matched her honesty.

For a dangerous few moments, I stopped measuring. I let myself move with her in the rushing current. Her fingers tightened at my back. And then the kiss tipped—not wild—just fast. Fast enough that I could feel where it would lead if we didn’t slow it.

I so wanted to keep going.

But instead, I changed the air. I inhaled deeply, deliberately. Held it. Let it out slower than the moment required, warm against her cheek. Kept my hand firm at her back, but stilled the other. Eased the angle of my mouth. Slowed the pressure, not the closeness.

Stayed.

Lauren’s breath stuttered at the gentler pace—not pulling away, just recalibrating. I touched my forehead lightly to her temple.

“Stay with me, dear heart,” I murmured. An invitation. Her hands softened. Her mouth followed mine.

The urgency didn’t vanish. It deepened.

Her breath turned heavier now, slower, warmer against my skin. I could smell soap and something faintly electric underneath it—the kind of scent that only shows up when someone stops pretending. I kissed her again, slower this time. Intentional. Thorough. Not rushing anywhere. Just letting it build properly.

She made a quiet sound—different. Present.

When I finally drew back a fraction to look into her eyes, she didn’t look regretful.

She looked lit.

I brushed my thumb along her jaw.

“Softly-softly,” I said quietly. A promise. Her eyes held mine. Steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She leaned into me again, willingly. And this time, when I draped the throw over us and she settled against my shoulder, the weight of her felt chosen, not collapsed. Her gift: herself, trusting.

Her breathing evened out slowly.

She fell asleep.

And I stayed there, feeling the warmth of her.

There’s always tomorrow.

---

That should feel emotionally seamless:

• 46 ends with Lauren’s heart quiet and the key as a “small, undeniable truth”.
• 47 opens with Sarah hearing the keys settle and noticing the pattern change in the little things; she’s already carrying the car confession and hallway hug in her body.
• The kiss is clearly mutual, clearly wanted, and Sarah’s restraint is active pacing, not shutdown.

From here, a few-days-later erotic scene will have a rock-solid foundation to build on. And we can absolutely sketch that ignition when you’re ready

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t

tt

✨ The Brush ✨

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