Chapter Text
“Pull the chamber,” said Dr. Müller. “We’re not going to stabilize anything with drift on both sides.”
The intern hesitated. “But the markers aren’t all outside the buffer zone yet—”
“I know. Pull it anyway.”
There was a pause, then the faint click of the vacuum disengaging. The centrifuge slowed. The odor of warmed copper and antiseptic rose faintly under the fan system.
Across the room, Dr. Schmidt scribbled something into the logbook with short, staccato strokes. “That’s three false positives this week. Two with inhibition in the culture medium and now this—drift even before we apply current.”
“It’s not inhibition,” came a quiet voice from the opposite bench. “The binding sequence failed before the co-factor even stabilized.”
Müller turned. “Based on what?”
“The shift in the electrochemical curve,” she replied, without glancing up. Her hands moved through a series of slide racks, checking each sample under the narrow-beam lamp, one by one. “The protein folded too early. The moment the temperature reached 34.2, we lost structure. See it?” She pushed the chart forward.
Müller leaned in. Schmidt joined him. There, across the curve—just after minute four—was the break. The downturn wasn’t steep, but it was enough to flag.
Schmidt exhaled through his nose. “So it’s destabilization?”
“Or incomplete hybridization,” the woman added. “You can’t fold a scaffold that hasn’t anchored yet. We’re rushing it.”
Müller frowned. “That’s four weeks of work. Gone.”
“Not gone,” she replied. “Just misread.”
The intern hovered near the sink, latex gloves wrinkled at the wrists. “Should I prep another batch?”
“No,” Müller said. “We’re not wasting reagents until we verify the folding point.”
The woman across from him adjusted the lens on her scope. Her voice remained even, but clipped. “We’ll start from zero on the culture.”
“Everything?” Schmidt asked, already reaching for the protocol binder.
“Everything,” she confirmed.
Müller nodded, though his shoulders slumped. “Fine. Then we re-isolate the samples, re-sequence the primer, and cross-check every millivolt on the next curve. No exceptions.”
The intern spoke again. “Should I reassign the freezer log to reflect—”
“Don’t reassign anything,” the woman cut in. “Yet. Keep the controls labeled. If we isolate anything reproducible in the washout, I want the option to back-test it.”
There was silence for a few beats. Just the hum of the filtration system and the low thud of the incubator cycling in the background.
Müller turned to her again. “You’re sure the folding is the problem?”
“I’m sure the scaffold isn’t the solution,” she said.
Her voice didn’t waver. Neither did her hands. The charts beside her had already been annotated, margins inked with calculations and red slashes where the timing failed.
Schmidt muttered under his breath, but not with irritation—just resignation.
Müller straightened. “Then we run it your way. God help us if you’re wrong.”
The woman finally looked up from the scope.
“I’m not.”
The centrifuge clicked off entirely, the faint whistle of its slowed rotation lingering a moment too long.
Schmidt rubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrist, smearing graphite just beneath his brow. “I’m getting old,” he muttered. “This kind of week used to just feel long. Now it feels biblical.”
Müller grunted in agreement, then turned toward the woman still hunched over the annotated curve printouts. “Doctor, you should leave at a human hour today. It’s Friday. The building won’t evaporate without you.”
She didn’t look up right away. Her pen hovered over a line graph, paused in some thought. Then: “Science doesn’t care for calendars.”
Schmidt leaned back on his stool, tossing a pen toward the tray and missing it entirely. “Maybe not. But I have it on good authority your date does.”
That made Müller snort.
“She’ll start showing up here if you keep missing dinner,” he added. “And frankly, I don’t want to be interrogated while I’m still trying to calibrate the damn spectrometer.”
Schmidt didn’t miss a beat. “Assuming she’s real, of course.”
The woman didn’t respond at first.
She stood, collected the stack of readings she’d marked, and began sorting them methodically by batch number—unbothered on the surface, though her silence stretched just long enough to be noticed.
Müller cocked his head. “You know, we have been working together for five years. Never seen her. Not even a blurry Polaroid on your locker.”
“She doesn’t like photos,” the woman said, still focused on the papers.
Schmidt raised an eyebrow. “Or does she not exist?”
The intern froze mid-wipe at the counter, unsure whether to laugh or stay out of it entirely.
Müller took a long sip from his coffee—lukewarm by now—then leaned back against the edge of the bench. “Come on doc. You’ve been dodging this for months.”
The woman didn’t flinch. She slid the last of the batch readings into their assigned folder and clipped it shut with a clean snap. “I haven’t been dodging anything. I’ve been working. Something you should try.”
Schmidt wasn’t convinced. “So, let me get this straight—she doesn’t like photos, she doesn’t come to events, and you never mention her name. That’s not working. That’s suspicious.”
“I don’t talk about it,” the woman replied calmly, “because I’m not interested in having it dissected across the autoclave table.”
“She’s sensitive,” Müller said, nodding solemnly to the intern, who looked up just in time to regret it.
“I’m busy,” the woman added. “Some of us have to recalibrate the incubator protocols before Monday.”
“That’s what makes this so fascinating,” Schmidt said. “You’re never busy when it comes to the work. But this? Absolute no-fly zone.”
She didn’t rise to it. Just rinsed her hands under the tap, dried them with slow, careful movements. Her silence was sharp, not sulking—measured, not passive. It said enough.
Schmidt sighed and turned to the intern. “You’ll learn. In this lab, curiosity gets you shut down faster than a freezer door.”
The intern half-smiled, unsure again.
Müller gave the intern a pitying glance. “He means well,” he said, tilting his head toward Schmidt. “But he forgets not everyone here is paid to interrogate people.”
“I’m paid to interrogate data,” Schmidt said, leaning back in his chair. “Everything is data.”
The woman dried her hands and finally turned to face them, one brow raised. “Then maybe you should sign up to chair the gala committee. I hear they’re looking for volunteers who love asking questions no one wants to answer.”
Müller snorted. “Ah, yes. The gala. Two weeks and counting.”
Schmidt groaned. “Already? That explains the new flyers. Gold foil again. Last year they went over budget just printing the programs.”
The woman shook her head. “And yet, we’ll all go. Like always.”
“I’m not going,” the intern said too quickly, then looked around. “Am I?”
“You’re going,” Müller said flatly. “It’s in your contract. Page six. Footnote four.”
“There’s a footnote about gala’s?” the intern muttered.
“Of course,” Schmidt said. “It’s the highlight of the year. Dress code is formal. Conversations are miserable. Drinks are warm”
The woman tilted her head. “You forgot the live jazz. And the salmon that tastes vaguely of rubber tubing.”
“The salmon,” Schmidt said with mock gravity, “is the real experiment.”
Müller chuckled. “We lose at least three postdocs to food poisoning every year. A cleansing ritual, really.”
The intern looked horrified. “You’re kidding.”
“Mostly,” the woman snorted.
Schmidt turned to her, feigning curiosity. “And let me guess, you’re going with your… partner?”
A pause.
She smiled. Small. Controlled. “I don’t bring guests to functions. They’re for networking, not intimacy.”
Müller gave her a skeptical look. “That’s a very diplomatic way to say ‘mind your business.’”
She shrugged. “It’s accurate.”
Schmidt smirked but let it drop, turning back to the freezer logs. As the others busied themselves, the woman stepped back from the sink and reached up to unfasten the top button of her lab coat. The fabric was stiff from repeated washings, the collar still pressed but softened at the seams. She pulled at the sleeves, slow and methodical, easing one shoulder free, then the other, folding the coat in half lengthwise without rushing.
As she folded the fabric again, her thumb caught on the embroidery at the chest:
Dr. C. Kiramman
The thread was faded—just slightly—frayed at the edge of the “K.” She paused. Her thumb brushed over the letters, tracing them once. A quiet, private habit. Almost reverent.
“Dr. Kiramman?” Müller’s voice cut through the soft murmur of machines. Not loud, not impatient—just enough to pull her back.
Caitlyn blinked once, the coat still in her hands. “Sorry—what?”
He nodded toward the corner station. “Do you want me to set the initial conditions for the inhibitor trial before we shut down?”
She followed his gaze to the console at Station C, its interface still dimly lit, the last readout frozen on the aborted run from earlier.
Caitlyn shook her head. “No. Leave it.”
Müller glanced up. “You sure?”
She folded the lab coat once more, tighter this time. “We’ll rerun it Monday. Fresh prep, full buffer cycle. No point doing it now with half the lab shutting down.”
Müller flicked a few switches, dimming the interface screen. “Understood.”
The final systems powered down one by one—monitors humming into silence, switches flicking off with soft clicks. Schmidt double-checked the logbook, tearing off the top sheet to slide into the archive folder. The intern rinsed the last glass cuvette at the sink, hands red from the cold despite the gloves.
By the time the lab door opened, the sky outside had deepened into a washed-out grey, streaked with smoke from distant chimneys. Snow hadn’t fallen, not yet, but the air was sharp—dense with the stillness Berlin wore in winter.
They emerged one by one, boots and shoes crunching against scattered gravel just past the loading dock. A sliver of orange sunset hovered above the rooftops, dulled by frost.
Schmidt pulled a beanie over his ears, already rubbing his hands together. “Twelve minutes until my bus shows,” he muttered. “If it hasn’t frozen to the curb.”
Müller opened the driver’s side of a weathered Opel. “You live two stops away. Walk.”
“Tell that to my shoes.”
Caitlyn said nothing. She stood just beyond them, coat collar upturned, her breath fogging the air. She held her bag in one hand, the folded lab coat tucked beneath the other arm. She thanked herself for remembering to bring gloves this morning.
The intern wheeled his bicycle to the street, balancing it with effort as he pulled on a second scarf. “See you Monday, ducks!” he called, pushing off with a wobble, his wheels slicing thin tracks into the pavement.
“Careful on the ice,” Müller said over his shoulder. Then, to Caitlyn: “You waiting for someone?”
She shook her head once. “Cab.”
Schmidt raised an eyebrow. “Fancy.”
“Late,” she corrected. “As usual.”
Müller turned the ignition and shut the door with a quiet thud. “Enjoy your mystery dinner.”
Caitlyn didn’t reply—just watched the taillights fade down the narrow street, then turned back to the quiet, near-empty curb.
She checked her watch. Still a few minutes.
The wind picked up, soft but biting. It carried the distant clang of a tram and the smell of diesel from the main road beyond. She tucked her hands into her coat pockets and tilted her head upward, watching the breath escape her mouth in small, visible bursts.
A low rumble announced the cab before it appeared—a grey Mercedes, grill dull with road salt, tires grinding slowly over the icy patchwork of asphalt. It pulled up beside her with a mechanical sigh, exhaust curling in white puffs into the air.
The driver leaned across the passenger seat and cracked the window, warm air spilling out.
“Frau?”
Caitlyn stepped forward and opened the door, slipping inside with practiced motion. The door thudded shut behind her.
“Prenzlauer Berg,” she said, brushing a flake of frost from her collar. “Brasserie Achtzehn.”
The driver gave a short nod, pulled the lever, and merged back into the quiet traffic. Caitlyn settled into the worn leather, her gaze drifting to the blurred city beyond the window.
Outside, Berlin moved past in slivers—steel-grey storefronts, tram cables sagging under frost, the faded orange of street lamps cutting sharp lines through the dusk. People stood at corners, shoulders hunched against the cold, breath rising in clouds. Others moved quickly, heads down, boots loud against the salt-dusted walkways.
Caitlyn didn’t watch them closely. Her reflection in the window held her attention more than the city did. Half-lit, half-ghost. Her hair still faintly static from the lab. A smudge of ink at the edge of her right thumb.
She rubbed at it absently with her sleeve.
The cab turned left, tires hissing through an icy bend, then crossed under the U-Bahn tracks near Schönhauser Allee. The thrum of rails overhead vibrated faintly through the roof of the car.
The cab slowed as they entered the quieter stretch of Prenzlauer Berg, the road narrowing beneath trees stripped bare. Just ahead, Brasserie Achtzehn came into view—its windows glowing amber behind streaks of condensation, the door framed by an unlit string of last year’s holiday lights no one had bothered to take down.
The driver pulled up to the curb without a word.
Caitlyn reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a folded note, already creased from use. She counted the bills, added a modest tip, and handed the money forward.
“Danke,” she said, her voice clipped but not unkind.
The driver nodded. “Schönen Abend, Frau Doktor.”
She offered a faint smile, then opened the door.
The air outside bit sharp at her cheeks as she stepped out, the cab door swinging shut behind her with a muted thud. Exhaust curled at her ankles and drifted upward, briefly blurring the low golden light spilling from the restaurant’s window.
Caitlyn crossed the sidewalk without hurry, each step steady against the uneven stone. She paused at the door, gloved fingers resting on the brass handle—slightly tarnished, faintly warm from the interior heat pressing against the glass.
Inside, the brasserie glowed in soft amber. Candlelight flickered on the tables, caught in the bottoms of wine glasses and the folds of white linen napkins. The murmur of conversation drifted through the pane, indistinct but gentle. No music, just the clink of cutlery, the rise and fall of voices, the rhythm of dinner being quietly had.
She pulled the door open.
Warmth met her instantly. The scent of roast shallot, butter, wine. The dry rasp of radiator heat underfoot.
A server in a pressed apron looked up from behind the small mahogany podium. Recognition softened his posture.
“Bonsoir, madame,” he greeted, slipping automatically into French.
Caitlyn nodded, unbuttoning the top of her coat. “Table for two. Kiramman.”
He glanced at the reservation ledger, already moving to fetch a second menu. “Of course. Right this way.”
The server stepped aside as Caitlyn approached the table.
And there she was—already seated.
A redhead, framed in the glow of the window’s low amber light. Hair swept back loosely, a few strands curling along her cheek. She wore a black wool coat still shrugged over her shoulders, one hand resting idly around the stem of a half-filled wine glass. She didn’t turn right away—just lifted her eyes from the table as Caitlyn neared, and smiled. Not wide. Not expectant. Just something steady. Certain.
Caitlyn moved around the table, leaned in without hesitation, and embraced her—not stiff, not formal. One arm across the shoulder, one around the back.
“I’m late,” Caitlyn murmured as she drew back.
The redhead nodded once, raising an eyebrow. “Again.”
Caitlyn let out a breath—half laugh, half surrender—and slipped into the seat across from her. “I know. I’m sorry.”
There was no irritation in the other woman’s face. No edge to her voice. Just a small shake of the head and then, simply:
“Happy anniversary.”
Caitlyn looked up from her napkin, her lips parting into the kind of smile she rarely gave freely.
“Happy anniversary, Sofia.”
Sofia swirled the wine gently in her glass, watching the legs trail down the inside curve. Her voice, when it came, was soft—but not without weight.
“I’d hoped,” she said, “that if there was ever a day you’d be on time… it would be today.”
Caitlyn’s smile faltered at the edges.
“We had a lot of work,” she replied, adjusting the angle of her silverware. “Müller didn’t want me to leave before we ran the prep logs. He was—insistent.”
Sofia took another sip of wine, eyes drifting to the flickering candle between them before returning to Caitlyn.
“Dr. Müller seems to want a lot from you lately.”
Caitlyn leaned back slightly, folding her napkin in her lap with careful fingers. “It’s just the work. The deadlines. The gala’s getting close. Everyone’s on edge.”
Sofia tilted her head, her voice quiet but direct. “You’re a full-grown adult, Caitlyn. You can leave a little early if you want to. No one’s chaining you to the bench.”
Caitlyn didn’t answer right away. She glanced toward the window, watched as a tram shuddered past outside—its lights flickering behind the frost-glazed glass.
“Müller’s my mentor,” she said finally, voice low. “I don’t exactly have a choice.”
Sofia set her glass down carefully. “You were his intern five years ago. You’re not now. You’re a full doctor. Equal titles, same responsibilities. He doesn’t get to decide when your day ends.”
Caitlyn looked at her then, mouth parted slightly, expression unreadable. She exhaled, sat straighter. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”
Sofia’s expression didn’t change. “You never do.”
The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t cruel. Just true—and maybe that was worse.
Caitlyn swallowed. Folded her napkin again. Unfolded it. Her hands didn’t know what to do with themselves.
Sofia’s eyes remained on Caitlyn, steady and searching. “You say you don’t want to talk about it, but then you let it hang between us until it turns into something heavier than it has to be.”
Caitlyn opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the waiter approached—tall, courteous, with a pencil behind his ear and a leather-bound pad in hand.
“Guten Abend. Ready to order?”
Sofia sat back, letting the shift in atmosphere happen with a faint smile. “I’ll try the duck confit,” she said, handing over her menu without a second glance. “And a glass of the Barbera, if it’s open.”
The waiter nodded. “Excellent choice. And for you, ma’am?”
Caitlyn didn’t need to look. “The roasted sea bass. With the house white.”
He scribbled quickly, collected both menus, and stepped away with a polite nod. The sound of plates clinking and chairs shifting filled the silence left behind.
Sofia turned back, brows raised just slightly. “You always get the sea bass.”
Caitlyn shrugged, smoothing her hands along the tablecloth. “It’s reliable.”
“That’s not the same as good.”
“It’s what I want.”
Sofia studied her for a moment, then leaned in just slightly. Her voice was quiet—not confrontational, not cruel. Just wondering.
“Is it really?” she asked. “Or is it just easy to want what won’t surprise you?”
Caitlyn didn’t respond right away. Her eyes flicked toward the window again, the reflection of candlelight rippling across the glass. The clink of silverware, the soft murmur of German and French rising and falling around them, all seemed to recede for a breath.
Then, with a faint curve of her lips—meant more for deflection than amusement—she said, “Do we really have to philosophize about fish?”
Sofia smiled faintly, resting her elbows on the table and lacing her fingers together. “You could just try something new. Once. See what happens.”
Caitlyn’s eyes narrowed, not in anger but fatigue—the kind that builds in layers, one unspoken comment at a time. “Why does it matter what I order, Sofia?”
Sofia sat back slightly, hands unlacing. “It doesn’t,” she said. “It really doesn’t. I’m just… trying to talk to you.”
There was no bite in it. Just truth. A quiet offering that somehow made the table between them feel wider.
Sofia reached for her glass again, fingers tracing the rim. Her tone shifted—softer now, more tentative. “I’ve been thinking about Italy.”
Caitlyn looked up.
“For Christmas,” Sofia added. “I thought I might go. Just for a few days.”
Caitlyn nodded once, polite, unreadable. “That sounds lovely.”
Sofia studied her for a moment. “Would you come with me?”
Caitlyn hesitated. It was barely visible, but Sofia saw it—how her shoulders stiffened just enough. The breath she took before answering.
“I can’t,” Caitlyn said. “There’s work.”
Sofia tilted her head slightly. “You work on Christmas?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“You haven’t been back in five years,” Sofia said. “Not once. Don’t you miss it?”
Caitlyn’s eyes didn’t waver. “No.”
The single syllable sat heavily between them, louder than anything said before.
Sofia didn’t argue. She only nodded, once, and set her glass down. “Right.”
Enough for their server to return with two plates balanced neatly on his tray. He set the duck confit in front of Sofia, and the fish in front of Caitlyn, offering a quick smile before disappearing again into the low murmur of the restaurant.
Caitlyn adjusted the angle of her fork, then, as if rerouting the moment entirely, said, “How’s your class?”
Sofia looked up, surprised by the shift but accepting it. “They’re awake this semester,” she said, easing a small piece of duck onto her fork. “More questions than usual. A few of them are actually listening. I think one even likes me.”
Caitlyn allowed a faint smile. “Teenagers interested in botany? Unheard of.”
“I know. I’m tempted to assign more homework just to balance the scales.”
Caitlyn speared a piece of sea bass but didn’t eat it right away. “That’s your method of reward, then?”
“Fear is the beginning of learning,” Sofia deadpanned, then gave a little shrug. “But honestly? They’re good. Better than last year.”
“That’s good.
Sofia nodded, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. “They’re young. Restless. Always halfway between thinking they know everything and realizing they don’t. It’s exhausting, but… I don’t know. I like seeing the moment it clicks. When someone actually sees the world differently than they did before.”
Caitlyn finally took a bite, chewing slowly. “That sounds… meaningful.”
“It is. Most days.” Sofia leaned back a little in her chair, her fork idling at the edge of her plate. “It’s not a lab, but it’s alive.”
Caitlyn met her gaze for a moment. “I didn’t mean it wasn’t important.”
“I know,” Sofia said. Her tone wasn’t sharp, but there was a softness to it that felt heavy. “I just sometimes wonder if you ever want something that isn’t the lab.”
Caitlyn looked down at her plate again, her fingers lightly adjusting the edge of her napkin. “I do want things,” she said quietly. “I just don’t always know how to hold them, you know.”
Sofia didn’t respond right away. She reached for her wine again, swirling it once before taking a sip.
“I know,” she said finally. “I’ve always known Caitlyn.”
Caitlyn set her fork down gently, the faint clink barely audible over the hum of conversation around them. She looked at her plate, then at Sofia—tried to find a steadiness in her own breath.
“I shouldn’t have taken the conversation there,” she said. “Not tonight. I’m sorry.”
Sofia didn’t hesitate. She reached across the table and placed her hand over Caitlyn’s, warm and certain. Her thumb traced once along the back of Caitlyn’s hand, then stilled.
“It’s alright,” she said softly. “You don’t have to apologize.”
Caitlyn looked at their hands, then up into Sofia’s face. The smile there wasn’t wide. It wasn’t forced. It was real—quiet, present, and without demand.
Sofia gave Caitlyn’s hand one last gentle squeeze before letting go and reaching for her fork again.
“Alright,” she said, the tone brightening just enough to shift the mood without jarring it. “Now, please—try this.”
She gestured to her plate, where a carefully carved piece of duck confit sat surrounded by dark berries and thin slices of roasted root vegetables. “It’s actually good. And I’m not sharing just because it’s our anniversary. I’m sharing because I want to be smug when you admit it’s better than your fish.”
Caitlyn gave a soft, reluctant laugh. “You’re trying to guilt me into changing my mind about my order.”
“No,” Sofia said, eyes gleaming. “I’m trying to lure you into admitting that something new might be worth it.”
Caitlyn hesitated, then reached out her fork—poised with faint reluctance—and speared a small piece from Sofia’s plate. She brought it to her lips, chewed once, then paused.
“Well?”
Caitlyn chewed again, slower this time.
“…It’s not bad,” she admitted.
Sofia leaned back, triumphant. “Not bad,” she repeated, raising her wine glass in a silent toast. “That’s the highest form of praise from you.”
Caitlyn smirked faintly, wiping the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Oh, it’s too late for that,” Sofia said, grinning as she took another bite of her own. “You’ll be ordering duck by spring.”
Caitlyn shook her head, but the tension had faded from her shoulders. She lifted her own glass, tapping it gently against Sofia’s. “We’ll see.”
Sofia’s smile softened again at that—less teasing now. More settled.
The playful edge in her eyes dimmed just slightly—not disappearing, but shifting into something quieter.
“It’s good to see you like this,” she said, her voice lower now. “Just… here. Not in a labcoat. Not in your head.”
Caitlyn looked at her for a long moment, then nodded once, the gesture small but honest. “I’m trying.”
“I know you are.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It settled between them in a way that felt earned—like something built slowly, not spoken into being.
Sofia picked up her fork again, prodding a piece of roasted parsnip, but her gaze flicked back toward Caitlyn with the barest trace of purpose.
“We’ll need to talk, though.”
Caitlyn tilted her head, the edge of a frown forming. Opening her mouth already.
Sofia held up a hand. “Not now. I promise. Not tonight. But soon.” She let a pause hang there, then added with a small, knowing smile, “Let’s talk about Christmas first.”
───※ ·❆· ※───
Caitlyn slipped the key into the lock with a quiet clack, her gloved fingers steady despite the cold. The door gave a soft resistance before it opened inward, letting the warm hush of their home spill into the winter dark.
Sofia stepped in behind her, unwinding her scarf as she moved through the threshold, boots brushing against the entry rug. Caitlyn followed, pulling the door shut with a low thud and turning the lock behind them. The air inside still carried traces of morning coffee and the sharp, familiar scent of their floor polish. Familiar. Quiet.
Caitlyn shrugged off her coat, fingers working at the buttons. Sofia’s arms slid around her waist before the last one came undone, hands slipping beneath the wool to rest against the fabric of her blouse.
They didn’t speak.
Caitlyn turned in her arms, her coat half-hanging, and their mouths met—soft at first, then fuller, slower. Caitlyn’s hands rose to Sofia’s shoulders, dragging the coat from her own frame with one hand, the other curling lightly in Sofia’s collar.
Shoes were forgotten at the door. Scarves left half-folded on the bench.
They moved through the entryway like they’d done it a hundred times—Caitlyn pushing Sofia back gently with quiet kisses between words unspoken, Sofia’s fingers tugging at Caitlyn’s wrist, her breath light but eager.
They made it as far as the edge of the hallway before Sofia’s mouth found Caitlyn’s neck again—slower now, unrushed, lips tracing the curve just beneath her ear before descending lower, pressing against the hollow of her collarbone.
She kissed once, then again—right beside the thin silver chain resting just above Caitlyn’s sternum. Her lips brushed the edge of the small, familiar pendant nestled there. She didn’t ask what it was, didn’t pause to wonder. If she noticed the shape of it, or the way Caitlyn’s breath caught, she said nothing.
Caitlyn’s eyes slipped closed.
It had been years.
And what once felt like a promise—unshakable, burning—now rested against her skin the way some memories do: constant, faded, unwilling to be buried but no longer loud enough to claim anything.
Sofia kissed her again. A little lower. Her hands smoothing beneath Caitlyn’s blouse, fingertips splaying across her spine, and Caitlyn leaned in, guiding them further down the hall, deeper into the quiet.
They reached the bedroom without a word—feet soundless on the wood floor.
Caitlyn guided Sofia gently back onto the bed, their hands never parting, movements deliberate. The comforter folded beneath them, pulled by the weight of bodies finding the center, the space between breaths narrowing.
Their mouths met again—deeper now, with no space left to disguise intention.
Caitlyn’s blouse slipped off her shoulders first. Sofia’s hand followed its path down her arm before letting it fall to the floor. Her fingers returned to Caitlyn’s waist, steady and warm.
They moved together without instruction.
No jokes, no teasing. Just the sound of breath. Fingertips against bare skin. A silence full of knowing.
Caitlyn leaned forward, her brow brushing Sofia’s, her hand resting over Sofia’s ribs, counting heartbeats. And then, just as the room began to fold inward around them—just as closeness tipped toward something more—
The shrill ring of the telephone split the air.
Caitlyn froze. Her breath caught halfway between a word and a sigh.
Sofia exhaled, slow and tight, her hand still resting against Caitlyn’s side.
“Leave it,” she said softly.
Caitlyn didn’t answer.
The ring came again—sharp, persistent, slicing through the warmth of the bedroom.
“It’s probably nothing,” Sofia added, more firmly now. “It can wait.”
But Caitlyn had already shifted. She pulled back—carefully, as if trying not to break the moment entirely, though the moment had already been broken.
Her bare feet found the floor. She reached for the robe draped over the nearby chair, shoulders tense as she slipped it on without speaking.
Sofia sat up slightly, watching her.
“Caitlyn,” she said, quieter this time. “Please.”
Caitlyn paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other knotting the sash at her waist.
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
Then she was gone, her figure swallowed by the darkened hall. The ring echoed once more from the living room—unyielding. Sofia closed her eyes and sank slowly back into the bed, one hand trailing over the hollow space Caitlyn had left behind.
Caitlyn moved through the hallway with quiet steps, the robe brushing against her calves, her breath shallow in the stillness. The only light came from the kitchen nightbulb—a faint yellow glow spilling across the tile and into the corner of the living room.
The phone rang again.
She could see it now—black, heavy, coiled cord twisted from use, resting on the end table beside the armchair. It lit up each time it rang, a pulsing flash that felt louder than the sound itself.
Her feet slowed.
She always hesitated, didn’t she? At this hour, the phone became something else. Not a device, not a convenience—just a question she didn’t want to answer.
No one called after midnight unless it mattered.
Unless it was bad news.
Or… something else. Someone else.
She stood a few feet away, hands tucked into the pockets of her robe, listening to the ring stretch into its next breath. One more. One more after that. Still, she didn’t move.
The sound filled the space around her ribs, thudded behind her temples.
She stared at the receiver, pulse thudding in her throat. The light blinked again.
It wasn’t work. Not at this time.
It must be important. Or urgent.
Or—God help her—love.
Caitlyn stepped closer and wrapped her fingers around the receiver, lifting it with a slow, measured breath.
The plastic was cold—colder than she expected. Smooth along the handle, but worn at the edges where fingers had gripped it too many times. The cord tugged slightly as she raised it, the familiar resistance of something tethered, something rooted in place.
She brought it to her ear. The weight of it settled into her palm.
There was a pause—just a breath of silence, stretched and listening.
Then the faint static of a line connecting. Not the harsh kind, not broken. Just the soft murmur of distance, of something waiting on the other end.
No voice yet.
No name.
Caitlyn stood in the glow of the kitchen light, her hand tightening slightly on the receiver.
She cleared her throat once.
“Doctor Kiramman,” she said quietly, evenly. “Who is this?”
A pause. Then a breath—shaky, close, unmistakably familiar.
“Hey, sprout.”
The voice was rough around the edges, trembling. A sound scraped raw by something too big for the throat to carry alone.
Caitlyn’s chest tightened.
“Jayce?” she said, already lowering herself into the nearest chair. The robe tugged tight at her knees as she sat, one hand still bracing the receiver, the other gripping the armrest.
He didn’t answer right away.
There was a sound—wet, cracking slightly at the edges. A breath half-swallowed. Then a laugh, thin and bursting through something thick.
“Oh my God, you’re crying,” Caitlyn whispered.
“I’m—” he tried to speak, then laughed again. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. Sorry. I—shit, I’m sorry.”
“What’s going on?” she asked, her tone sharper now, uncertain. “Jayce, what happened? Is Mel alright?”
A sniff. Another laugh. And then:
“He’s here,” Jayce said. “He’s—he’s here, Cait. Baby Niko. Ten fingers, ten toes, a whole set of lungs—he screamed the second they cut the cord.”
Caitlyn blinked. Her heart stuttered.
Jayce didn’t stop to breathe. The words came tumbling out, fast and uneven, like a dam had broken behind them.
“He’s huge. Cait, I’m not even joking—4.3 kilos. Almost nine and a half pounds. Mel’s arms were shaking just holding him. He’s got these—these fists, little fists, like he’s already ready to fight the world.”
Caitlyn pressed a hand over her mouth, listening, her eyes wet and wide.
“He looks like her. He really does. Same nose. Same jaw. But when he opened his eyes?” Jayce laughed again, softer this time. “He looked right at me, Cait. I swear to God. And they’re mine. My eyes. I know it.”
Caitlyn closed her eyes.
“And his hair—he’s got hair already. Dark and messy and stubborn, like it knows what it wants. He was kicking before they even swaddled him. Screamed until they gave him to Mel. And then? Just… stopped. Just melted into her chest like he knew.”
His voice wavered.
“And the way he smells—Caitlyn, I can’t explain it. He smells like—like new paper and warmth and life. Just life. I didn’t know you could smell love until tonight.”
Caitlyn smiled behind her hand, a silent tear slipping down the edge of her jaw.
Jayce sniffed hard on the other end. “I don’t know how to be this happy. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this much of anything.”
Caitlyn took a breath, thick with the weight of it all, and lowered her hand from her mouth. Her voice, when it came, was soft—shaken, but full.
“Jayce… that’s such good news,” she said, each word landing gently, deliberately. “Truly. I can’t wait to meet him. I—God, I can’t wait to meet little Niko.”
Jayce let out a sound—half laugh, half exhale. “He’s gonna love you, Cait. You’ll be his weird science aunt. I already told Mel you’d try to teach him about mitochondria before he’s out of diapers.”
Caitlyn chuckled, quietly. “I’d never start with mitochondria. That’s chapter three.”
Jayce’s breath crackled on the line—still unsteady, but lighter now.
“And Mel?” Caitlyn asked, her voice dipping back into something tender. “How is she?”
“She’s…” His voice slowed, softened. “Tired. Quiet. But in that way that says she’s trying to memorize every second. You know how she gets—focused. She won’t let anyone else hold him yet. Keeps saying it’s too early. I think she just doesn’t want to let go.”
He paused, then added more quietly, “She was brave. So brave.”
Caitlyn felt her throat tighten again. “Of course she was.”
“Yeah.” Jayce’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “She’s everything.”
The line went still for a moment. Just the soft hum of breath. Of distance, and closeness somehow wrapped into it.
And then Caitlyn said, just above the hush, “Tell her I’m thinking of her. Of both of you. And baby Niko”
“I will,” Jayce said. “She’ll want to hear your voice soon too.”
Caitlyn nodded, even if he couldn’t see it. “I’m here.”
“I know.”
Caitlyn sat back into the chair, the receiver tucked tighter to her ear, her fingers curled around the cord like it anchored her to the moment.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For calling me.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then Jayce’s voice, gentler now. “I wanted you to know first.”
Caitlyn’s breath caught. Her eyes blinked once, slow. She opened her mouth to respond—but then, through the line, a sharp little wail cut through the static.
A baby’s cry—high, bright, and immediate.
Caitlyn froze, her chest pulling with something instinctive. It wasn’t a sound she had ever heard in her life, not like this—not directed at her—but it reached her all the same.
Jayce laughed softly through the static, his voice laced with wonder and exhaustion all at once.
“You hear that?” he breathed. “That’s him. He’s got lungs, huh?”
Caitlyn said nothing for a moment—just listened. The tiny cry was muffled now, shifting in pitch, as though someone had gathered him close.
“Daddy duty calls,” Jayce said, still smiling. “Wish me luck.”
Caitlyn’s voice was quiet, but steady.“You don’t need it.”
“I do,” he said. “But thanks for pretending.”
Jayce chuckled again—low, soft, already distracted by the distant rustling of movement on his end.
“Goodnight, Cait.”
“Goodnight, Jayce. Congratulations again.”
“Thanks sprout.”
The line clicked gently, a hum of finality before the dial tone returned. Caitlyn let the receiver linger at her ear for a moment longer, then lowered it and placed it back into its cradle with quiet care. Her fingers rested there for a beat, suspended in the hush of the apartment.
Then a voice—low, still sleep-warmed—drifted from behind her.
“What was that about?”
She turned.
Sofia stood in the doorway, her frame caught in the dim light from the kitchen—barefoot, bare-legged, the robe she’d barely bothered to shrug on hanging loose around her arms. One hand rested against the doorframe, the other lazily combing through her hair. She didn’t look cold. Or surprised. Just curious, her eyes half-lidded and fixed on Caitlyn.
Caitlyn’s gaze lingered on her for a second—drawn, distracted—then she cleared her throat and spoke.
“Jayce called,” she said quietly. “Baby Niko is here.”
Sofia blinked, the faintest change in her expression. “Already?”
Caitlyn nodded once. “Yeah. Healthy. Loud, apparently.”
A pause settled between them, the kind that felt suspended in warm air and low light. Sofia didn’t move. She didn’t come closer. Just let the moment stretch, watching Caitlyn as if trying to read something behind her eyes.
Then, softer: “You okay?”
Caitlyn looked away—not down, not ashamed, just somewhere else for a breath. Her hand brushed the phone cord, fingers catching briefly before falling still.
“I think so,” she said. “Yeah.”
Caitlyn’s lips curved into a smile—quiet, but genuine. The kind that softened her whole face, that reached her eyes even through the last traces of sleep and distance. She stood slowly, letting her hand fall from the edge of the phone, and crossed the room to where Sofia still leaned against the doorway.
She didn’t say anything at first—just reached up and brushed a thumb lightly across Sofia’s cheekbone, then kissed her. Warm, slow, steady.
Sofia leaned into it without hesitation, her hands settling lightly at Caitlyn’s waist.
When Caitlyn pulled back, just a breath apart, she murmured, “Sorry I left you on the bed like that.”
Sofia’s lips curved. She reached for the knot of Caitlyn’s robe, fingers moving slowly, deliberately. “Well,” she said softly, the fabric loosening under her touch, “there isn’t a rule that says we can’t continue…”
Caitlyn raised a brow, amused.
Sofia tilted her head, her smile deepening. “None I’ve heard of, atleast.”
Caitlyn stepped closer. The robe slipped a little further down her shoulders as Sofia leaned in again, guiding them both gently back toward the bedroom, the soft hush of their steps disappearing into the dark.
───※ ·❆· ※───
The next morning unfolded in soft layers—cold light against fogged windows, the quiet clatter of dishes, and the muted hum of traffic crawling past outside. Berlin had thawed just enough to bring out the wet sheen of early winter: puddles at crosswalks, buses grumbling along the boulevards, the scent of coal smoke drifting faintly in the air.
Caitlyn and Sofia walked side by side through the open-air market, woven scarves tugged close, baskets in hand. Rows of crates held bruised apples, knotty potatoes, cracked walnuts still in their shells. Vendors called out half-heartedly, breath blooming visibly with each word, their hands red from the cold even beneath gloves.
Sofia chatted with the man selling eggs—he always gave her one extra, she said, as a reward for her manners—and Caitlyn smiled, but didn’t quite hear the joke that made them both laugh.
She reached for a bunch of leeks, ran her thumb over their dusty stalks, then set them back without a word.
Sofia noticed, barely. Just a flick of her gaze, a half-second linger too long before turning back to the cheese stall. Caitlyn trailed behind her now, not absent, just… quieter. Still there to take the bread, to nod when asked about fish, to smile when Sofia held up the beetroot and made a face. But something hung in her posture—shoulders held a bit too straight, eyes just past the people in front of her.
Not enough to mention. Not enough to cause a pause.
But enough to miss, if you’d ever seen her in color.
The market narrowed toward the far end, where the stalls thinned out and the wind bit a little harder between buildings. Caitlyn’s gaze drifted, not quite aimless, until a patch of color caught her attention—a small, neat stand tucked between the honey vendor and the battered record crates.
Children’s clothing.
Tiny coats in soft green and pinks. Wool caps with pom poms. Hand-knitted booties dangling from clothespins strung across the awning.
And there, folded at the edge of the table, a blue romper—soft cotton, slightly oversized buttons, a printed phrase across the chest in faded white letters:
‘Bitte gib mich an meine Tante weiter.’
Meaning:
Please pass me to my aunt.
Caitlyn reached for it almost without thinking, the fabric warming quickly in her hand. She stared at the text for a moment longer than necessary, then let out a quiet chuckle. It was corny. It was unnecessary. It was—
“Cute,” Sofia’s voice said from just behind her. “You should get it. For Niko.”
Caitlyn didn’t answer at first. Her thumb smoothed over the soft hem, tracing the little stitched edge as if it might change shape beneath her touch.
She swallowed and offered a small smile. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
Sofia stepped beside her, peering at the print. “That’s the point. Babies don’t need minimalism.”
Caitlyn let out a soft laugh through her nose. “Jayce would think it’s ridiculous.”
“And love it,” Sofia said, nudging her gently. “Come on. You’re halfway to soft already, may as well go full sentimental.”
Caitlyn gave her a look, but it didn’t hold. The corner of her mouth curled, and she handed the romper to the vendor with two quiet words: “Für den Jungen.”
The vendor smiled knowingly, wrapped it in waxed paper, and accepted the coins without question.
They moved on, deeper into the market, Sofia now chatting idly about the root vegetables they still needed and whether or not they had time for the bakery queue. Caitlyn walked alongside her, one hand in her coat pocket, the other curled tightly around the tiny blue package in her bag.
They walked on through the thinning crowd, the hush of the morning settling heavier between footsteps. The market was beginning to wind down—stalls packing up, voices quieter now, the last of the bread baskets covered in cloth to keep them warm against the late chill.
Sofia talked—about dinner, about her lesson plans next week, about whether they had enough thyme at home. Caitlyn answered when prompted. She nodded, smiled, offered quiet agreement. But her thoughts looped behind the conversation, circling something softer.
They passed the flower stall—what was left of it. A few pale ranunculus stems, some wilting eucalyptus, and one small bundle of violets. Caitlyn’s step slowed almost imperceptibly, eyes catching on the color.
Sofia noticed. “Want them?”
Caitlyn blinked. “Hmm?”
Sofia followed her gaze, then smiled faintly. “They’d look good in the kitchen window.”
Caitlyn gave a nod that wasn’t quite an answer. “Maybe next time.”
They continued on, boots crunching softly over old gravel and wet leaves, the market behind them now. The grocery bag bounced lightly against Caitlyn’s side with each step. The package inside was small—barely anything at all. But she felt it there. Like a tiny heartbeat wrapped in cotton.
As they turned the final corner toward their street, the late morning sun hung low, casting long, angled shadows across the sidewalk. The building loomed familiar ahead—quiet brick and frost-nipped ivy clinging to its frame.
Sofia nudged Caitlyn gently with her elbow. “You have anything planned for tonight?”
Caitlyn adjusted her grip on the grocery bag. “I was going to work a little,” she said, her voice soft, eyes forward. “On the project.”
Sofia raised an eyebrow. “Science project, or… the other kind?”
Caitlyn didn’t answer immediately. They reached the front steps, and she dug the key from her coat pocket. The metal clicked in the lock.
“The other,” Caitlyn said as the door swung open.
Sofia nodded, stepping inside. The warm air welcomed them with the faint scent of cedar and something floral. She leaned over and kissed Caitlyn lightly on the cheek. “Alright.”
Without another word, she took the heavier bags from Caitlyn’s hand, fingers brushing hers. “You go do that,” Sofia said gently, already moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll unpack these and make sure dinner doesn’t burn.”
Caitlyn hesitated in the hallway. “Are you sure?”
Sofia looked over her shoulder and smiled. “I am. Go before you start fussing.”
Caitlyn let a small smile pass across her lips, then turned toward the study without another word. The door clicked quietly shut behind her as Sofia moved between the pantry and the counter, humming softly under her breath. Groceries were sorted, the kitchen beginning to fill with the familiar rhythm of her care.
The scientist's fingers moved without needing to think—she flicked on the lamp, unbuttoned her sleeves, rolled them to the elbow. She moved the chair back with a soft scrape and sat.
The folders came first. Neatly labeled, bound with elastic. She placed them in a fan around her, then pulled her leather-bound notebook closer. A pen followed—black, weighted, worn smooth where her thumb always settled.
The glasses came next, slid from the desk drawer, then perched on the bridge of her nose. A small sigh left her lips as she tied her hair back, fingers quick, automatic, the routine as ingrained as breath.
And then—silence. Save for the faint scratch of pen to paper, the rustle of turning pages. Sentences. Quotes. Notes, marked and underlined. She moved quickly, efficiently—once pausing to reread something, then crossing it out and beginning again.
An hour passed. Then two. The light shifted with the deepening day, the sky outside paling from white to blue-grey to the barest suggestion of dusk.
A soft knock broke the stillness—gentle, careful not to startle.
Caitlyn blinked.
Her pen stilled mid-sentence, her gaze frozen on the half-finished sentence. For a moment, she just listened—to the faint hum of the heater, to the quiet that followed.
Then Sofia’s voice, muffled but warm through the wood: “Can I come in?”
The study didn’t answer. But Caitlyn did.
“Yeah,” she said after a pause, setting her pen down gently beside the open notebook. “Of course dear.”
The door creaked open, and Sofia stepped in, the soft yellow light from the hallway casting a frame around her. She wore an apron now, a faint smudge of flour at the hem, and carried the faint scent of roasted herbs and something sweet—maybe citrus.
She didn’t speak right away, just smiled. Familiar. Patient.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said, voice low. “You coming?”
Caitlyn looked at her for a beat too long. Then she nodded once and reached forward to close the notebook in front of her, careful fingers folding it shut like sealing something unfinished. She stood slowly, slid the drawer open, and locked the book away with a small, metallic click.
Her glasses came off next—set gently beside the pen—and her hand smoothed the front of her blouse in a habitual, absent motion.
“I’m coming,” she said, and followed Sofia out of the study into the soft light of evening.
As they walked down the hall, their footsteps quiet against the wood, Caitlyn glanced sideways at Sofia, her voice soft. “What did you make?”
Sofia smiled without turning. “Something comforting,” she said. “Roast chicken. Carrots, potatoes, a little rosemary. And a pear tart, if it survived me nearly dropping it.”
Caitlyn’s brow lifted, just faintly. “That’s ambitious.”
“I was feeling generous,” Sofia said, pausing at the edge of the dining room. She looked back at Caitlyn, eyes light. “And I thought maybe you’d eaten enough sea bass for one lifetime.”
Caitlyn huffed a laugh—barely a breath—but the sound lingered between them. “I’m not arguing.”
“Good,” Sofia replied. “Then sit. Eat. And maybe don’t think about anything else for an hour.”
Caitlyn pulled out a chair and did just that.