Archive of Our Own

Gorya knew every curve of Shasha's face better than her own reflection.

She convinced herself that it was due to the nature of her work—she was a stylist, and Shasha was her client.

Her sculpture.

It was a given that she had to know how Shasha's lashes curled at the ends, how her mole had to be enunciated, the slope of her nose where loose powder settled. Of course, she had to memorize the grooves of her lips for touch-ups, the very lips that always curved whenever Gorya had to tip-toe to fix her hair.

She had to. It was what was expected of her.

Or at least that was what Gorya chanted to herself every day like a mantra.

It wasn't entirely false. A stylist memorized features the way a poet memorized words, repetition until familiarity becomes instinct. Until intimacy felt like muscle memory.

She told herself that was all to it. The shape of Shasha's cheekbone, the slope of her nose, the mole on her left cheek were all merely elements of a canvas she painted on every day.

However, somewhere along the way, Gorya's precision shifted into something she refused to name.

It was far from obsession, please, Gorya would never entertain such dramatics.

She chalked it off as her emotions spiraling after witnessing Prim and Bambi rekindle their relationship. She assured herself that it was the truth because she'd rather blind herself than name what she felt. Why?

Because it was Shasha.

Shasha was Shasha; the industry's golden girl and a certified player who had scattered a trail of broken hearts all the way to New York from Bangkok.

Shasha flirted as naturally as she posed, seducing with a sly smile, walking away with a knowing wink. Dancers, actresses, and fellow models alike succumbed too easily to her charm. And Gorya, having witnessed and experienced it first-hand, convinced herself she despised it.

Gorya wasn't a stranger to being flirted with. Plenty of directors (except the one she had actually wanted), models, and colleagues had tried their chance with her before yet why did it feel so peculiar when Shasha had asked her for a date? She, who took pride in her composed demeanor, found herself falling out of sync every time Shasha existed near her.

Gorya convinced herself she loathed it. Loathed her. Abhorred how Shasha threw affection around like loose change while women scrambled to gather it.

Why?

Because if Gorya didn't despise Shasha… she feared she'd be just another addition to Shasha's roster.

Gorya was irritated.

She had already crashed out in private prior to the meeting once she saw Shasha's name appear yet another time on her schedule. If anyone had taken a single glimpse at her schedule, they'd think she was Shasha's personal stylist by how only her name had filled the entirety of Gorya's planner.

She wasn't oblivious, she could feel all the envious gazes falling on her frame the moment Prim announced her name for the project.

Gorya felt irked. It wasn't her that requested Prim to assign her to that specific project. Lord, if Gorya had a choice, she'd choose any other project even if it paid less. It wasn't her fault Shasha had requested her as her stylist again.

It wasn't her fault for noticing the precise angle of Shasha's eyeliner or knowing how to adjust when the model's gaze softened with fatigue.

It wasn't her fault that it was easy for her to tell the difference between Shasha's genuine smile and the faux one she flashed paparazzi. It also wasn't her fault that she could sense when the model was milliseconds away from snapping at a poor assistant.

It wasn't her fault she had memorized the exact placement of Shasha's beauty marks, the way they resembled the many constellations Gorya admired in the night sky.

She was purely just excelling at her job. Genuine competence.

Maybe Shasha would request for them if they actually did their job as described, Gorya huffed as she splashed cold water onto her wrists in an attempt to cool her anger down. Was it truly a sin for one to be exceptionally good at their job?

and god, Gorya had made her annoyance clear to Shasha the moment the model waltzed into the studio fashionably late—her hair still damp, shirt tucked halfheartedly, looking like the living definition of temptation.

People flocked to her like moths to a flame, Shasha absorbing all the compliments thrown to her with a smirk.

That infuriating smirk, and those irritating eyes of hers that sought Gorya out first.

Gorya huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, pretending not to notice as Shasha made her way towards the vanity.

"How's my favorite red head doing?" Shasha smiled, her tall figure shadowing Gorya's smaller frame, as she slid over to Gorya's side.

Gorya's jaw clenched at her audacity to act as if she hadn't delayed the shoot by half an hour. She ignored Shasha, walking over to the racks of outfits and taking an outfit off before shoving it into Shasha's hands with more force than needed, and motioned for the model to head into the dressing room.

Shasha merely grinned at her actions, blowing the stylist a kiss before stepping into the dressing room, chuckling at Gorya's rattled reaction.

The stylist cursed the way her pulse had foolishly fluttered at that kiss the model blew her. Gorya would rather go back to being a junior stylist than admit the fact that her heart had skipped every single time Shasha looked at her like she was the only person in the studio.

She busied herself by wiping down the vanity, rearranging palettes that were already in perfect order, taking deep breaths in an attempt to regulate her breathing. Gorya disliked how she could still feel the model's stare lingering even after the dressing room door had closed, like heat scorching under her skin.

Absurd.

"Is everything alright, Gorya? You've been staring at the mirror like it rejected your portfolio," Prim asked as she passed by and Gorya nearly snapped her brush in half. She really didn't need to hear it from Prim out of all people on set, especially not when anyone and everyone could see splotches of purple peeking out from under Prim's collar.

"Everything's alright, P'Prim," The stylist muttered a halfhearted reassurance before turning to face the director with a fake smile.

"Actually, would you like some help with covering those marks peeking out?" Gorya smiled harder when Prim tugged her collar higher at the stylist's words, the director speed walking off to take her embarrassment out on a poor lighting assistant.

Gorya redirected her attention back to the vanity. She wasn't staring at the mirror—she was preventing herself from gazing at the dressing room door. She knew that the moment Shasha stepped out wearing that fitted black suit, she'd have to act like she wasn't affected, to pretend like she didn't care.

And just as Gorya predicted, her breath hitched the moment Shasha had stepped out. Shasha looked unfair, like sin engraved into a mortal, like the universe's favored art piece. Her hands in her pockets, gaze seeking Gorya out like it was instinct, a smile carving its way onto her face once she found her.

Not the smirk she flashed at reporters. Not the flirty grin she tossed around at a club. No, it was something smaller, something reserved, something softer.

Gorya despised how it made her throat tighten.

"You didn't even look. Do I not get your approval today?" Shasha teased as she sauntered her way over to the vanity.

"Approval is the last thing you deserve when you're late," Gorya snapped, stepping forward to adjust the collar of the suit, her fingers moved deftly, smoothening the minor creases that only the stylist seemed to spot.

The model tilted her head down and let the stylist fuss with her clothing, letting her touch linger longer than necessary when Gorya's fingers had moved to adjust the tie.

"You always take such good care of me, even when you pretend to be mad," Shasha murmured.

Gorya's hand staggered, barely, but enough for Shasha to notice.

"Don't flatter yourself," The stylist hissed, yanking the tie sharply. The model grinning even as the shorter had tightened it even more. "I do this for every model. Not just you."

Shasha hummed, a hum that radiated disbelief.

"You don't," She said quietly, her eyes staring into Gorya's.

Gorya swallowed the denial that instinctively rose to her tongue. It was a losing game with Shasha anyway.

"I don't have time for your theatrics," Gorya simply said.

She removed her hold on Shasha's tie and moved to turn around when the model suddenly leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Gorya's ear, "Is it truly theatrics if it's solely for you?"

Gorya's breath hitched.

The stylist shoved Shasha back into the chair so abruptly that a delighted and reckless laugh escaped from the model's lips.

"Sit down and behave," Gorya snapped for the nth time and the shoot hadn't even started yet.

"Behave, you say? How should I behave, hm?" Shasha blinked innocently, leaning back into the chair as if she was inviting the stylist to make her way onto her lap.

"Try not being insufferable for once," Gorya said as she grabbed a brush, ignoring the burning sensation on her cheeks.

"But I'm still your favorite, though," Shasha smirked.

"If you don't shut up, I'm shaving your eyebrows off," Gorya hissed, ignoring how her pulse thudded at Shasha's smirk, and fought the urge to grab the model by the hair when Shasha threw her head back in laughter.

Gorya wanted to hate her. She really, really did.

But when Shasha's eyes closed under the strokes of Gorya's brush, placing her trust entirely into the stylist, softening in a way she never did for the cameras—Gorya felt that betraying feeling aching in her chest again.

The feeling that if she didn't pretend to detest Shasha's existence, she would fall right into the arms of the one she was certain would cause her to shatter.

She tried to focus on the brush in her hand. On the soft bristles sweeping across the model's cheekbone, the delicate line she drew along the corner of her eye, the iridescent shimmer she dabbed onto Shasha's cupid bow.

But of course, Shasha made it impossible.

"I can feel you staring at me," Gorya snapped, making Shasha's lips curve into a smirk.

"You sure it's not the other way around? You are the one touching me," Shasha teased and Gorya had to fight the urge to jab her in the eye with the brush.

"Face forward, tilt your chin," She barked. She was so so irritated.

"Higher– no, lower. Just, actually– Why is your face built like this?" Gorya's voice rose in annoyance making the model laugh yet again.

"Genetics?" Shasha provided an answer but Gorya hadn't even wanted one.

The stylist pinched the bridge of her nose while muttering curses under her breath. Anyone in a five meter radius around her could probably tell she was seconds away from combusting on the spot.

Yet when she stepped closer, she hadn't pushed Shasha's chin upwards with the harshness she intended. Her touch softened, thumb brushing against Shasha's jaw, tender in a manner Gorya chose to ignore.

The model held her gaze and Gorya thought she recognized something raw flickering behind her eyes.

"You're really adorable when you're mad," She whispered and Gorya had not wasted a single moment in shoving Shasha's face to the side, "Shut up." She hissed, her hand slightly trembling as her heart traitorously soared at the warmth of those words as if it had been deprived.

Shasha only chuckled, low and indulgent (and painfully fond), as she felt the tremble of Gorya's fingers on her face.

The stylist just snatched her brushes and finished with her usual mechanical precision, cursing at the way her hands continued to tremble when they neared the model's lips.

Those infuriatingly gorgeous lips (Look, Gorya wasn't blind. She knew when to appreciate beauty).

"Fix your own lipstick next time," Gorya huffed under her breath, lying to herself more than she was to Shasha. Not like it mattered since the model's smirk told her she didn't believe a single word.

Gorya spun around, rummaging for the setting spray with a kind of frustration only Shasha managed to ignite. It didn't matter how many models she had worked with before, how many egos she navigated daily. Nobody managed to get under her skin like this maddening, perfectly symmetrical menace.

Not wanting to delay the shoot more than the model already had, Gorya motioned for Shasha to make her way over to the set, and followed behind her.

The set was already buzzing when they arrived. Lights flared, assistants jogged around with clipboards in their arms, and Prim was snapping at the photographer for adjustments when the camera hadn't even been raised yet.

Shasha waltzed into it like she was stepping onto a throne she rightfully owned, Gorya following behind her with a sharp glare.

"She's here! Positions!" Someone called out.

The model rolled her shoulders back as she effortlessly slipped into the aura that had brands fighting each other to book her. Under the heat of the studio lights, she looked untouchable. Chic. Divine. Impossibly composed.

And all of it irritated Gorya more because that was the same woman that had pouted like a spoiled child when she refused to give her extra lip balm.

The audacity of this woman.

"Wardrobe, adjust the drape on her right shoulder!"

Gorya moved automatically, years of training tugging her forward even when every nerve of hers lit up with irritation. She stepped onto set, adjusting the drape of satin on Shasha's skin, fingers lingering on the warm shoulder for a fraction of a second too long. And of course, Shasha noticed. She always did.

She didn't move. Didn't blink. She just gazed at Gorya's focused expression with a fondness contrasting her seductive pose. Gorya pretended she didn't notice (and absolutely failed).

She walked off the set and to Prim who was standing near the photographer, ignoring the weight of Shasha's stare on her fleeting frame.

"Ah, Gorya. I was just about to ask for you," Prim's voice noticeably softened once she registered Gorya's presence, a complete 180 from when she was snapping at the photographer.

"Yes, P'Prim?" Gorya leaned in closer to take a look at the tablet in Prim's arms, not knowing a certain model was staring daggers in their direction.

"For the next look, the client expressed their wishes for the makeup to be more intense," Gorya nodded, making a mental note, and continued listening to Prim until she heard her name being mentioned.

"Shasha, eyes towards Gorya!" The photographer shouted. Gorya froze. She looked up at Prim then the photographer with a confused look in her eyes, a finger pointing at herself.

"Stand there, don't move. You're closest to the direction I want her to gaze at."

Gorya stood stiffly beside Prim who had a hard time holding her laugh at the stylist's awkward posture. Shasha turned towards her, not towards the camera, towards her.

The model's eyes didn't soften, they sharpened. Shasha looked at her with the look she usually wore right before teasing someone into submission. A look she used way too often when she was mere seconds away from saying something flirty just to get under Gorya's skin.

Her entire demeanor shifted, transforming from elegant professionalism to a state that made Gorya's breath hitch. A deliberate, unyielding focus that resembled a grip tightening around her spine.

Shasha's lips parted ever so slightly, her gaze lingering on the stylist like she had all the time in the world to relish, to provoke, to corner.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The shutter snapped away, breaking Gorya's little bubble. The stylist refused to look flustered because if she did, it would give Shasha the satisfaction. And she refused to give the model the satisfaction.

Gorya subtly shifted her weight onto her other leg, chin lifting slightly, as she looked back at Shasha with sheer defiance in her eyes.

The model's eyes sparkled annoying satisfied, like Gorya was playing right into her hands, a smirk taunting to appear on her face.

Gorya found Shasha infuriating.

It was infuriating how easily Shasha managed to slip beneath her skin, how much Gorya felt without desiring to, how the model could turn a simple instruction into something that resembled a confession Gorya didn't want to hear.

Gorya hated how Shasha kept looking at her like she was the only thing worth caring for in the studio. She swore she truly did.

The shoot wrapped with applause, claps echoing around the studio as the photographer buzzed around, gushing about Shasha's charm like she had reinvented the entire concept of modeling. Staff paced around, rolling up equipment, coiling cables, switching off lighting.

Gorya was one of them, packing her brushes and zipping her kit, pretending to not notice Shasha's glances in her direction. Was it two times? Five? Maybe seven. It was nine. But really, Gorya didn't keep count at all, she absolutely didn't.

By the time the entire had filtered into the client's reserved lounge for the after-work dinner, Gorya had convinced herself she didn't care. Not even a tiny bit.

The venue was dimly lit, expensive, and buzzing with laughter that sounded too loud and the smell of overpriced food. Gorya perched on a bar stool alone, nursing a cocktail she barely tasted. Usually Prim would accompany her, maybe even indulge her with a few alcohol-induced kisses, but now Prim had Bambi. She was off-limits (Look, Gorya may have made many questionable decisions before but she'd never willingly choose to be a homewrecker).

Gorya's eyes loosened as the alcohol had started to affect her system, tracing the rim of the glass with her finger as she watched the room with disinterest.

She wasn't searching for Shasha. She wasn't, which was why she immediately spotted her.

The model stood near the high tables, surrounded by assistants, lighting directors, and three other models who were giggling like Shasha had whispered something scandalous into their ears. She casually leaned against a pillar, her shirt unbuttoned at the top, laughing at something one of the assistants said. She didn't even need to try, people gravitated towards her like moths to a flame, like planets to the sun.

Watching her flirt casually and effortlessly shouldn't have bothered Gorya as much as it did but it did anyway.

It always did.

Gorya felt something tighten low in her stomach when she saw Shasha's hand graze someone. Something too sharp, too recognizable.

She downed the rest of her drink in one quick gulp and slammed it onto the counter with more force than necessary. The woman beside her—long legs, sharp jawline, effortlessly curled hair—raised an intrigued brow.

"You alright there?" she asked, a grin playing at her lips.

Gorya turned towards her. The woman who had been eyeing her ever since she walked in. She'd been trying to get Gorya's attention for the last ten minutes but the stylist had been too occupied with her own thoughts.

"Work was long, this is the first time I've sat down today," She gave a faint, polite smile once she noticed the woman had bought her a drink.

"Then you definitely deserve to relax," The woman's fingers brushed lightly over Gorya's arm; confident, intentional.

"Let me help with that?" The suggestion in her eyes was blatant and Gorya didn't mind it. Not at all. The woman was charming, gorgeous, her type. But most importantly?

She wasn't Shasha.

Her last had been a drunken mishap with Prim weeks ago and honestly speaking, she could definitely use the stress relief.

"Sounds—" Gorya's sentence broke as she felt a familiar presence, Shasha, behind her before she even turned. There was a ripple in the air and the stylist noticed the shift in the focus of the room.

The woman (Gorya still didn't know her name) noticed too, seeing as how her smile remained flirtatious yet her posture had straightened, like prey sensing a predator.

Shasha hadn't said anything at first. She simply chose to slide in close to Gorya, her shoulder brushing Gorya's back as if to silently assert a claim she wasn't entitled to. That signature grin of hers formed on her lips, yet it was more restrained, her brows faintly knitted together in a subtle tension that most would miss.

Gorya didn't. Gorya never missed anything about Shasha.

"Well," Shasha drawled, voice casual in a way that was anything but, "this seems fun."

The woman tried to salvage the mood, lifting her chin to meet Gorya's eyes. "I was just asking Gorya if she wanted somewhere quieter,"

"Mm," The model hummed thoughtfully. "And? Did she say yes?"

Gorya felt the woman's hand glide along her forearm once more, bolder, more deliberate. "She was about to."

Gorya had only parted her lips when Shasha moved first. Her hand slipped around Gorya's waist, with her thumb gently pressing on her hip. Shasha's grip wasn't rough, it was steady, possessive in a way she'd never once earned the right to be.

Gorya stiffened at the contact, her irritation flaring on instinct. "What are you doing?" she muttered through gritted teeth just for Shasha, even as she didn't step away.

The model's thumb pressed once—subtle, grounding—before she spoke, her tone light enough to pass as teasing. "Saving you from making a bad decision."

The woman laughed softly, unfazed, eyes still on Gorya. "Hm, I don't know. She seems perfectly capable of deciding for herself."

The stylist exhaled through her nose, almost scoffing. "I am."

Shasha's jaw tightened. The grin stayed, polished and practiced, but something sharp flickered beneath it. "Funny," she said, glancing at the woman at last, "because she looks bored."

"I'm not—"

Shasha cut in smoothly, already steering. "We need her. Client stuff." The lie slipped off of her tongue too easily. It always did.

Before Gorya could protest, Shasha guided her away, palm firmly resting on her waist, weaving them through the crowd with a familiarity that drew no questions. People parted. They always did. Shasha possessed that gravity—bright, irresistible, and resolute.

They stopped near a quiet corridor, the noise waning behind them. Shasha's hand dropped at once, like she had burned herself.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Gorya folded her arms over her chest. "You don't get to do that,"

Shasha looked at her, really looked—eyes dark, indecipherable, a flicker of perplexity crossing her features. "She was touching you,"

"So?" Gorya snapped, "That's kind of the theme tonight, in case you hadn't noticed,"

Shasha's mouth opened, then closed. Whatever she'd been about to say never made it past her lips. Instead, she straightened, retreating back into herself, back into the role everyone knew. A halfhearted smirk played itself onto her lips.

"Yeah," she said lightly, "Guess you're right."

She took a step back, already turning away, "Have fun,"

And just like that, she was gone—swallowed by the neon lights and music, by buzzing laughter and familiar arms. Gorya watched from the corner of the room as Shasha slipped an arm around another model's shoulders, leaning in close, smile effortless again, like nothing had ever cracked beneath it.

Gorya stood where she was, a glass in her hand now warm and untouched, the night stretching vast and empty before her.

At the end of the day, only one of them went back alone that night.

Gorya noticed the marks before she meant to.

It was instinctive, automatic—the same way she always registered Shasha's face without thinking. The slope of her collarbone, the line of her throat, the area where fabric dipped and skin began.

Except this time, there were bruises.

Faint at first glance, poorly hidden beneath concealer that had been carelessly applied. A blooming violet shadow just below Shasha's jaw. They bloomed along the crook of Shasha's neck like careless brushstrokes—a constellation of evidence she hadn't bothered to hide. A constellation Gorya loathed.

Gorya's fingers froze mid-adjustment.

Her throat closed. Her hands stalled, fabric slipping slightly between her fingers as something sharp lodged itself in her throat.

She swallowed multiple times yet the taste hadn't gone away.

Shasha noticed immediately, she always did.

"Careful," Shasha drawled, amused, eyes gleaming when they flicked down to where Gorya had stopped, "You're staring."

The stylist snapped back into herself, irritation flaring preposterously sharp and fast—a defense, reliable and familiar. Safe. Her hand dropped as she stepped back, arms crossing over her chest.

"Maybe if you didn't come in looking like that," she hissed under her breath, "people wouldn't stare."

"Like what?"

"Like you forgot you had a shoot today," Gorya shot back. "You do realize that this collection exposes more skin than usual, right? Shoulders, neck, collarbone." Her eyes flicked piercingly to the marks before she could stop herself. "Or do you just not care anymore?"

The model's grin widened unabashedly.

"Oh," she said lightly, "those?"

Gorya's jaw tightened.

"Yes. Those."

Shasha leaned back against the vanity, entirely too relaxed for someone being reprimanded, eyes half-lidded as she regarded the stylist with open amusement.

"What? Jealous?"

Gorya scoffed. "Please, I'm professional. I care because I'm paid to. It's my job."

"Mm." Shasha hummed, clearly unconvinced. "Funny, because you look like you're about to gouge my eye with a makeup brush."

"Don't tempt me,"

Shasha laughed, the sound curling under Gorya's skin in a way she hated.

"Relax, I'll cover them better next time."

"Next time," Gorya snapped, "try thinking ahead. Try not to make my job harder than it already is."

Shasha studied her for a long time, something indecipherable passing through her gaze, before she leaned back again, stretching like a cat. "You're cute when you get jealous,"

"I'm not jealous."

"Sure," Shasha said easily, "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

The shoot went smoothly. Of course it did.

It always did.

Gorya was nothing if not meticulous. She adjusted collars and dabbed concealer over bruises with clinical precision. Her hands never trembled, never lingered too long, even when she had to brush her knuckles along Shasha's bare skin.

Shasha simply watched Gorya from behind half-lidded eyes, a contemplative look settling over her features—one that never emerged when cameras were pointed at her.

When the shoot wrapped up, applause, compliments and satisfied murmurs filled the set. Gorya packed up her kit silently.

Shasha leaned against the vanity, arms crossed, eyes following her every movement. "You're grumpier than usual."

"Busy," Gorya replied flatly.

Shasha only hummed. "I'm flying out tonight."

That made Gorya pause.

"For fashion week," Shasha added. "Paris, Milan, maybe even New York if they keep me long enough."

"Oh," Gorya said, hating how small she sounded.

Shasha observed her carefully, "You'll miss me."

Gorya snapped her case shut. "Don't be ridiculous."

But that night, long after Shasha had boarded her flight, Gorya lay awake staring at the ceiling, her chest aching in ways she refused to name.

With Shasha overseas for fashion week, Gorya's days returned to something resembling normal. Or at least that's what it seemed like on the surface.

She still woke at the same hour, dressed in the same muted tones, prepared her kit with the same meticulous diligence. She went to the studio, greeted colleagues, listened more than she spoke. She did her job well—always had. If anyone was watching closely, they might've noticed how little had actually changed.

But Gorya felt the absence everywhere.

It didn't announce itself. It crept in quietly, slipping into the spaces where Shasha used to be—between fittings, in the moments before a shoot when the room held its breath, in the way schedules no longer revolved around a single name written in bold.

For the first few days, Gorya told herself it was relief.

Relief from being constantly gravitated into Shasha's orbit. Relief from the way Shasha monopolized her time without ever asking, from the way her presence bent Gorya's focus until everything else blurred. This was good. Necessary.

She clung to that belief like it was something solid. But silence had a way of making room for thoughts Gorya had been carefully stepping around for years.

Without Shasha there, she'd trained herself not to. How her hands didn't tense automatically when she reached for fabric. How her shoulders stayed relaxed during fittings instead of bracing for Shasha's vicinity. How she didn't have to consciously remind herself to keep her expression neutral.

She also noticed what didn't ease.

Her eyes still flicked to her phone between appointments, checking schedules she already knew by heart. She caught herself thinking about what city Shasha was in now, whether she'd eaten, whether the stylists assigned to her were doing a satisfactory job. She imagined her under the harsh lights of runways, luminous and untouchable, and felt that familiar tightening in her chest.

It irritated her.

She had spent years convincing herself that what she felt was professional attachment. Like how a sculptor feels attached to her sculpture. Habit. Familiarity. The result of working too closely with one person for too long. Reasonable explanations that fit neatly into her worldview, explanations that didn't demand anything of her.

Yet habit didn't ache like this.

Habit didn't leave her staring into space during lunch breaks, replaying conversations that hadn't meant anything at the time and now felt dangerously loaded in hindsight like a broken record inside of her head. Habit didn't make her chest feel hollow when she realized no one had interrupted her morning to ask for her specifically.

One could only gaslight oneself for so long.

The realization settled slowly, heavy and undeniable, like humidity before a storm.

She liked Shasha.

No, that was still too small.

She wanted Shasha.

That frightened her more than anything else she'd allowed herself to feel in a long time.

Wanting implied reaching. Reaching implied risk. And Gorya had built her entire life around minimizing risk—around staying useful, staying unremarkable, staying just important enough to be kept and just invisible enough to never be hurt for it.

Shasha, her masterpiece, her sculpture, was the opposite of all of that.

Shasha was attention incarnate. Desired, adored, wanted loudly and without shame. People reached for her constantly, hands and eyes alike. And Shasha—reckless, magnetic Shasha—let them.

Gorya had witnessed it happen for years, had told herself she despised it, that it irritated her to no end, that she hated how easily Shasha gave affection away. But standing alone now, with that pitiful excuse stripped bare, she was forced to face the uglier truth beneath it.

It hadn't been irritation. Far from it. It had been jealousy.

The realization made her feel small.

She'd never once believed she belonged in the same category as the people who openly desired Shasha. Models, actresses, people whose beauty was obvious and plastered onto billboards all over the country. Gorya had always placed herself firmly outside that circle, tucked into the background where she felt safest.

But liking Shasha, wanting her, meant acknowledging that she'd been participating in her own erasure. That she'd dismissed herself so thoroughly she hadn't even noticed when Shasha treated her differently.

Because there had been differences.

Gorya saw them now, painfully clear in retrospect. The way Shasha sought her out first in a room. The way her voice softened when she spoke to her, lost its edge. The way she lingered, not touching, but close enough that Gorya felt it anyway.

She had written all of it off.

Why?

Because accepting it meant accepting that something had been there all along, and that she had been too afraid to name it.

She couldn't keep pretending nothing was wrong. She couldn't keep orbiting Shasha with this ache lodged beneath her ribs, telling herself it was fine as long as she never reached for more.

She needed to do something.

The problem was, she had no idea what.

Confessing felt impossible. Absurd, even. Shasha existed in a world where affection was abundant and fleeting. What right did Gorya have to step into that space with something fragile and earnest and ask to be taken seriously?

And yet, doing nothing felt worse.

Each day of silence stretched her thinner, pulled her further out of alignment with herself. She found herself craving resolution—not necessarily a happy ending, but with clarity. Something solid enough to stand on, even if it hurt.

By the time Shasha's name reappeared on the schedule—her return date marked in bold—Gorya's chest was already tight with a dread she failed to name.

What happened next, she knew with absolute certainty—she couldn't go back to pretending, to silence, to shrinking herself until wanting felt like a sin.

Not after this.

Not after finally admitting to herself, that what she felt wasn't something she could keep burying without losing herself in the process. She wasn't ready. But if she kept waiting for herself to be ready, she feared she wouldn't be able to accept the outcome.

And that meant something had to change, even if it broke her open in the process.

For once, Gorya didn't feel irked seeing Shasha's face at six in the morning for an obscenely early photo shoot.

That alone should've been alarming.

Normally, this was the hour she hated most—the lights that were too bright, the half-awake crew, Shasha arriving with too much energy and not enough discipline, all limbs and charm and poorly concealed yawns. Gorya was usually sharp-edged at this hour, all clipped movements and quiet irritation, clicking her tongue when Shasha shifted too much or refused to stand still.

But today, something in her was calm.

Shasha noticed it immediately.

She noticed the way Gorya moved closer without bracing herself first, the way her hands were steady as she worked, unhurried despite the schedule breathing down their necks. The stylist's red hair was pulled back neatly, wisps escaping around her temples, her freckles more visible in the early light. There was a softness to her expression Shasha had never quite seen before.

"Woah," Shasha murmured, gaze dropping as Gorya worked the front of her top. "Someone's glowing today."

Gorya didn't pause. Her slim fingers moved deftly over the ridiculous number of decorative buttons lining Shasha's chest, fastening each one with practiced ease.

"And? What's it to you?" she asked, raising her brow without looking up.

Shasha grinned, leaning just a fraction closer than necessary. "Did you sleep with someone last night?"

The nudge came swift and precise, right into Shasha's waist.

"Ow," Shasha groaned dramatically and pouted, bending a little at the impact even though it hadn't hurt. "Violence. At this hour."

Gorya finally looked up at her then, unimpressed. "Focus."

But there was no real bite in it.

Shasha felt it immediately. The way Gorya hadn't snapped, bristled, or retreated. Relief bloomed in her chest before she could stop it, warm and instinctive and embarrassingly strong.

Good.

She didn't like the idea of anyone else being close to Gorya. The thought had lodged itself somewhere unpleasant during fashion week, growing sharper the longer she'd been away. Too many hands in that world already, too many people who didn't know how to touch without taking.

Shasha watched Gorya's face as she worked, memorizing the way her lashes cast shadows against her cheeks, the faint crease between her brows when she focused. There was something faintly different there—less tension, more presence, like Gorya was finally inhabiting her own body instead of hovering just outside of it.

"You're in a good mood," Shasha said, quieter now.

Gorya's fingers stilled for half a second. She hadn't planned on this part.

She had spent the past couple days sitting with the truth she'd finally allowed herself to name, letting it ache and settle and rearrange her insides. She had promised herself she wouldn't let it change anything, not yet. That she'd act as usual. Professional and controlled.

But standing this close to Shasha again, with her familiar warmth and stupidly perceptive eyes, it was harder than she had expected.

"Maybe I'm just less tired," Gorya said finally. It wasn't a lie, it just wasn't the whole truth.

Shasha hummed, unconvinced. "You're never less tired."

"People change," Gorya quipped, fastening the last button with a soft tug.

Their proximity lingered for a moment longer than necessary.

Shasha didn't step back right away. Neither did Gorya.

The air between them felt loaded. Dense, like something important was hovering just beneath the surface, waiting for one wrong move to crack it open.

Shasha searched Gorya's face, trying to place the shift she felt. Something about her felt more steady now. Like she had stopped folding inward. Like she had made a decision Shasha hadn't been privy to.

"Miss me?" Shasha asked lightly, but her indulgent gaze didn't match the teasing tone.

Gorya's breath caught, just slightly. She looked away first.

"Stand straight," she said instead, taking a step back and smoothing the fabric with brisk, careful motions. "You're slouching."

The model straightened obediently, watching her with an intensity she didn't bother concealing.

There it was again—that instinctive pull. That need to be seen by her, approved by her, grounded by the quiet certainty of her hands. Fashion week had been loud and glittering and exhausting, full of people who wanted pieces of her without ever really looking.

Coming back to Gorya felt like stepping into still water.

"Hey," Shasha said softly, before Gorya could retreat fully into her work. "You know you can tell me things, right?"

Gorya's hands stilled at Shasha's collar. Just for a heartbeat. Then she withdrew them entirely, turning away to grab her kit, her expression carefully composed.

"Get ready," she said. "They're calling you in five."

Shasha watched her go, something tight and hopeful winding through her chest.

She didn't know what had changed but she could feel it. And whatever it was, she had no intention of letting it slip past her unnoticed.

The shoot wrapped with the usual controlled chaos—assistants calling out confirmations, someone laughing too loudly, equipment being wheeled away as the sun dipped lower and cast the lot in gold. Gorya packed her kit with care, fingers moving from muscle memory rather than thought. She told herself she was tired. That it was why her chest felt tight, why her thoughts kept drifting back to the morning, to Shasha's gaze lingering a second too long.

She stepped outside, already pulling her phone from her bag to call a cab when the low purr of an engine cut through the air.

A sleek sports car rolled to a smooth stop in front of her, absurdly out of place among the vans and staff cars. The window slid down, revealing Shasha behind the wheel, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, smile easy and unapologetic.

"Mind if I drop you off, gorgeous?" Shasha asked, tone teasing, casual like she hadn't spent the entire day finding excuses to be within arm's reach.

She was already bracing herself for rejection. For the polite decline, the practiced distance.

Instead, Gorya hesitated only long enough to register her own surprise, then walked over and opened the passenger door.

Shasha blinked.

Gorya slid into the seat smoothly, the door clicking shut behind her. "Thank you," she said, almost too soft to hear, as she leaned over to type her address into the GPS.

The word landed heavier than it should have.

Shasha pulled back onto the road without comment, but her grip on the wheel tightened just a fraction. The city moved past the in a blur of evening light and traffic, the car filled with a silence that wasn't awkward so much as careful.

Gorya sat with her hands folded in her lap, gaze fixed out the window, watching familiar streets roll by. This close, she could feel the warmth radiating from Shasha, could smell her perfume—clean, faintly woody, unmistakably her.

Shasha stole glances when she thought Gorya wouldn't notice. Of course, Gorya noticed. She noticed everything about her.

They arrived sooner than Gorya expected. The car came to a stop in front of her apartment building, unassuming and quiet, the windows upstairs already glowing with warm light. Gorya unbuckled, fingers lingering on the belt longer than necessary, then opened the door.

"Thanks again," she said, stepping out.

Shasha stayed put, engine idling, watching through the windshield as Gorya walked toward the entrance. She waited, until she saw the door open, until she was sure Gorya was safe inside.

She was just about to pull away when movement caught her eye.

Gorya turned back. She crossed the distance slowly, like she was reconsidering every step, then stopped beside the car. Shasha rolled the window down again, heart thudding a little harder than she'd like to admit.

Gorya's fingers curled into the hem of her jacket. She took a breath, steadying herself then looked up—really looked up—with those wide, earnest eyes that had undone her more times than Shasha cared to count.

"Would you like to have a cup of tea before you go?" Gorya asked, voice hesitant.

For a second, Shasha forgot how to breathe.

The city noise faded into background hum. All she could see was Gorya—softly lit by the streetlamp, freckles standing out against her skin, uncertainty and courage warring openly on her face.

How was she supposed to say no to that?

Shasha's smile slowed, softened, losing its usual sharp edge.

"Tea?" she echoed, like she needed to hear it again.

Gorya nodded, almost unnoticeably. "If you're not busy."

Shasha laughed under her breath, shaking her head as she cut the engine. "I'd cancel anything for you."

She stepped out of the car, closing the door behind her, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. Too close. Or maybe not close enough.

"Lead the way," Shasha said gently.

Gorya turned, relief and something like resolve flickering across her features, and headed for the entrance. Shasha followed, heart racing, with the strange certain feeling that whatever waited behind that door was going to change something.

Shasha had always imagined what Gorya's place might look like. She pictured something stark and restrained, all neutral colors and clean lines, mirroring the way Gorya carried herself at work. Or maybe the opposite—chaos barely held together, fabric scraps draped over chairs, notebooks stacked unevenly, evidence of a mind that never truly rested.

The reality was neither.

The apartment was neat, yes, but not sterile. Soft, lived-in, warm. There were little accents everywhere that made Shasha doubt her eyes—pink cushions tucked into the corners of the couch, a small shelf full of cute figurines she definitely hadn't expected, stickers half-hidden on the side of a cabinet like private jokes.

Gorya hovered near the kitchen counter, suddenly shy in a way Shasha had never seen her before. She reached up into a cupboard and pulled down two mismatched mugs, hesitating only a second before holding them up.

"Um," she said, glancing between them, "I hope you don't mind these."

Hello Kitty and Kuromi.

Shasha's lips twitched, something warm unfurling in her chest.

"What kind of tea do you want?" Gorya asked, holding up a few jars of loose tea leaves. "I have black tea, green tea and chamomile."

"I'll have whatever you're having," Shasha replied easily, as if her heart hadn't just skipped. She took a seat on the couch only after Gorya waved her away from the kitchen area with a flustered little shooing motion.

If anyone had told Shasha that she'd one day be sitting on Gorya's couch—shoes neatly placed by the door, hands folded awkwardly in her lap—while Gorya prepared tea for the both of them, she would've laughed outright. She had lived her life being invited in for drinks that were never really about drinking, conversations that always tilted in one direction.

This felt different.

When Gorya returned, carefully balancing the two mugs, Shasha straightened instinctively, ready to accept one and watch her retreat to the opposite chair.

But Gorya didn't. She sat down right beside her.

Close enough that Shasha could feel the warmth of her through the thin space between them, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. Gorya handed her the mug without looking, fingers lingering a second too long before pulling away.

The silence that followed was odd.

Not uncomfortable exactly, but unfamiliar. Shasha wasn't used to not filling space with allure, with teasing words, with practiced ease. She wasn't used to sitting with someone who wasn't already leaning towards her, waiting for her next move. And Gorya had never done this either. Not with anyone, not even with Prim. Inviting someone into her space like this felt intimate in a way that had nothing to do with touch.

Shasha took a sip of tea, mostly to give her hands something to do. The porcelain was warm and grounding. "It's nice," she said softly, eyes flicking around again, slower this time. "Your place."

Gorya nodded, cradling her mug between both palms as if it were something fragile. "It's small, but it's mine."

Shasha glanced at her again, really looked this time—not the stylist who moved with clipped efficiency, not the woman who frowned and clicked her tongue at late arrivals, but Gorya like this. In socks, her own space, guard down in ways she didn't even seem aware of.

"It suits you," Shasha said.

Gorya let out a breath, a soft huff, the familiar edge returning like armor sliding back into place. "You don't know me well enough to say that."

Shasha turned towards her fully then, one knee angling in her direction, expression uncharacteristically open.

"I think," she said gently, "I know you more than you think."

The words directly impacted Gorya's frazzled mind.

Gorya went very still. Her eyes trained on the surface of her tea, watching the faint steam curl upward, but her shoulders tightened as if she'd been braced by an invisible hand. That soft glow Shasha had noticed all morning didn't disappear. It faltered, dimming just enough to reveal what lay beneath it. Something fragile. Something wary. The kind of vulnerability that didn't stem from weakness but from having learned how easily things could be taken away.

Silence stretched.

The city hummed beyond the window, distant traffic bleeding into the night like white noise. Shasha became acutely aware of everything—the closeness of Gorya's thigh to hers, the faint rose scent of her shampoo, the careful rhythm of her breathing. The space between them felt thinner now, as if it were being pulled inward by gravity neither of them acknowledged.

"This isn't what you're used to, is it?" Gorya said at last, voice low and measured.

Shasha smiled, small and genuine, nothing like the grin she wore for cameras. "No," she admitted. "It's not."

She set her mug down on the table, deliberate, as if she didn't trust her hands otherwise. "But I don't mind."

Gorya's fingers tightened around her own mug until her knuckles paled. She laughed quietly, the sound brittle, more exhale than humor.

"Figures."

Shasha tilted her head. "Figures what?"

"That I'd invite you in for tea instead of—" Gorya stopped herself, heat creeping up her neck, the words dying before they could fully form. She shook her head, "Never mind."

Shasha didn't push, she just watched her.

Watched the way Gorya swallowed, throat bobbing. The way her lashes lowered and lifted again like she was gathering courage she wasn't sure she deserved to spend. Shasha had been looked at her whole life—admired, desired, consumed—but this was completely different. This was watching someone stand at the edge of something terrifying and deciding whether to step forward or retreat.

"Gorya," Shasha said quietly.

Gorya finally looked up, and whatever resolve she'd been stubbornly clinging to faltered instantly.

Because Shasha wasn't smirking. Wasn't teasing. Her eyes were warm, soft with a kind of fond patience that felt dangerously close to indulgence—as if she were already cherishing something Gorya hadn't yet offered. As if she had been waiting longer than she let on.

Gorya felt her chest tighten painfully.

She opened her mouth, closed it.

The words were there, crowding her throat, pressing insistently, but suddenly they felt too bare, too exposed to be laid out under that gaze. Saying them now felt like stepping forward without armor, without certainty that she wouldn't be reduced to something temporary.

An option. A passing affection Shasha might smile at and move on from.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve.

"I—" Her voice caught. She cleared her throat, trying again. "I thought I should say something, but…"

She trailed off, frustration flickering across her face—not at Shasha, but at herself.

Shasha didn't rush her.

She just smiled as if she understood more than Gorya realized.

"It's okay," Shasha said tenderly. "If you can't say what you planned to say right now."

Her gaze didn't waver, didn't leave.

"I just hope I get to hear it one day." she continued, voice low and sincere.

A pause.

"Before it's too late."

The words settled between them, tender and terrifying all at once.

Gorya's breath shuddered.

Shasha was still looking at her like that—soft, patient, almost indulgent, as if this moment itself was something precious she was content to sit in forever. Like she wasn't in a rush. Like whatever Gorya might say or not say would be received gently either way.

And that was what shattered her.

Gorya's chest felt too tight, breath caught halfway in. This was the part where she usually retreated. Where she swallowed things down, filed them away, told herself she was misreading signals again, that she was being dramatic, unprofessional, foolish. She had done it for weeks now. Months, maybe. One could only gaslight themselves for so long before the truth started clawing at the inside of their ribs.

Her fingers trembled around the mug.

If she didn't say it now, she knew she never would.

Gorya set the cup down abruptly, the soft clink louder than it should've been. Before she could think herself out of it, before the fear could reorganize itself into something paralyzing, she leaned forward and reached out.

Her hands closed around Shasha's. Shasha startled, just a little, but didn't pull away. Her palms were warm, the contact sending a jolt straight through Gorya's spine, grounding and daunting all at once.

"No," Gorya said quickly, breath uneven, words spilling before doubt could catch up. "I'll say it now. You deserve to hear it."

Shasha's expression shifted immediately, the teasing ease draining away into something attentive. She didn't speak, didn't interrupt. She just let Gorya hold her hands like that, thumbs brushing unconsciously over Shasha's knuckles as if anchoring herself.

Gorya swallowed hard.

"You know, I thought I'd do this differently," she admitted, voice wavering despite her effort to stabilize it. "I thought it'd be planned. Proper. Something that made sense." A soft, breathless chuckle escaped her. "But I keep realizing that with you, nothing ever goes the way I rehearse it in my head."

Her gaze flickered between Shasha's eyes and their intertwined hands, nerves buzzing under her skin. "I told myself it was admiration. Or annoyance. Or just proximity. That it was nothing."

Her grip tightened, just slightly.

"But it isn't nothing," she said, more resolutely now.

"It's you."

She finally looked up properly then, meeting Shasha's eyes, and it felt like stepping off a ledge.

"I like you," Gorya said, the words simple but heavy with everything she hadn't allowed herself to say before. "Not casually or conveniently. I like you in a way that's been ruining my concentration, my sleep and my ability to be normal around you."

Encouraged—or maybe just too far gone to stop—Gorya pressed on, cheeks warm, heart pounding so loudly she was sure Shasha could hear it.

"I think about you when you're not there," she confessed. "And when you are, I pretend I don't. I notice things I shouldn't. I care more than I mean to. And I—" Her voice caught, frustration flashing across her face. "Fuck, sorry. I'm really bad with words—"

"I want you. I want to be close to you. I want whatever this is to stop being just something I keep locked in my head."

The silence that followed felt unbearable to Gorya.

She braced herself for it—for the careful letdown, the professional distance snapping back into place, the moment where she'd realize she'd misread everything after all. Her fingers loosened around Shasha's hands, already preparing to retreat.

Then Shasha inhaled sharply.

It was a breath that hitched halfway in, like something inside her had finally given way.

"Oh," Shasha murmured.

Gorya looked up just in time to see it—the way Shasha's eyes glassed over, lashes fluttering as she blinked rapidly, jaw tightening as if she were holding something back. Relief, raw and unguarded, washed across her face, and it made Gorya's chest ache.

"I thought I was going crazy," Shasha admitted softly, voice unsteady in a way Gorya had never heard before. "I kept telling myself you were just like that. That you didn't mean anything by it. That I shouldn't want more."

A breathy laugh escaped her, almost incredulous. "But I've wanted you for months, Gorya."

Gorya's heart stuttered.

"Really?" she whispered.

Shasha nodded, squeezing her hands again as if afraid Gorya might vanish into thin air. "Since the very beginning," she said honestly. "Since you started scolding me like you didn't care who I was. Since you looked at me like I was just… Shasha."

Her gaze dropped, briefly, to Gorya's lips. Those pouty lips she'd pretended not to notice. The ones she'd caught herself staring at during fittings, during early mornings, during moments she shouldn't have let herself linger in.

When Shasha looked back up, her eyes were shining.

"Can I—" she started, then stopped, swallowing. "Can I kiss you?"

Gorya's breath came out in a shaky exhale, relief and disbelief crashing into something giddy. She nodded quickly, not trusting her own voice.

That was all Shasha needed.

She leaned in slowly, like she was afraid the moment would shatter if she moved too fast. Her hand trembled where it cupped Gorya's cheek, thumb grazing softly as if she might vanish if she pressed too hard.

Not a single word was exchanged as Shasha pulled Gorya flush to her chest and closed the distance between their lips. Her hand stayed gentle on Gorya's cheek, thumb warm against freckled skin, and the kiss she gave her was soft—almost reverent.

Gorya let out the softest gasp when Shasha bit lightly at her lower lip, tongue teasing over it, and God, Shasha was helplessly obsessed with the way she sounded. Gorya hadn't expected how overwhelming something so gentle could feel. Her eyes fluttered shut, fingers tightening reflexively in Shasha's sleeve, heart thudding so loudly she was sure Shasha could feel it.

Shasha kissed Gorya like she was her only salvation, like it was worship. And even when their lips parted and they had stayed silent catching their breath, foreheads brushing, her eyes held devotion in them. A wordless confession that held layers of depth.

Shasha exhaled a shaky laugh. "Sorry," she murmured, though there was nothing apologetic in her eyes.

Something in her snapped, craving in a way that had clearly been held back for far too long. Shasha leaned in again, this time without a single speck of hesitation, her lips finding Gorya's with a quiet urgency that stole the air from her lungs.

The kiss deepened. Gorya made a soft, surprised sound before she could stop herself, and that was all the encouragement Shasha needed. One arm slid around her waist, firm and secure, pulling her impossibly closer until there was no space left between them.

"Is this okay?" Shasha breathed against her lips, pausing just long enough for Gorya to nod.

"Yes," Gorya whispered. "Please."

Shasha didn't waste another second.

She shifted, guiding Gorya easily onto her lap, hands steady and confident as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Gorya let out a small squeak at the sudden closeness, knees bracketing Shasha's hips, pulse racing as she realized just how exposed she felt—and how much she wanted this.

Shasha's hands were everywhere and nowhere all at once. One stayed cupping Gorya's face, thumb brushing her cheekbone with tenderness even as the kiss turned heady and warm. The other slid around her back, slipping beneath the hem of Gorya's top, palm resting against bare skin.

The contrast made Gorya dizzy.

Shasha kissed her like she'd been waiting for permission for months—unhurried but intent, like she wanted Gorya to feel every second of it. When they finally broke apart for air, Shasha's forehead fell against Gorya's shoulder, breath uneven.

"I've wanted you," she confessed quietly, voice low and thick with emotion, "for so long it hurt."

Gorya inhaled, hands clutching at Shasha's shoulders, grounding herself in the reality of it. Her heart was racing so fast it made her lightheaded, but she didn't pull away.

"Then don't stop," she said, voice soft but certain. Honest in a way she had never allowed herself to be before.

Shasha stilled. Just for a second.

Her breath hitched, relief and want crashing together so sharply it almost hurt. She pulled back just enough to look at Gorya, eyes dark and searching, like she needed to be sure this wasn't just something she had imagined.

"Which room," Shasha asked quietly, deliberately, "is your bedroom?"

Gorya barely had time to register the question before she pointed, heat rushing to her face.

Shasha stood with effortless strength, one arm secure around Gorya's waist as she lifted her like she weighed nothing at all. Gorya gasped, instinct taking over as she locked her legs around Shasha's waist, fingers digging into her shoulders in pure surprise.

Shasha laughed softly under her breath—low, wrecked, and unmistakably pleased—and pressed a kiss to the corner of Gorya's mouth as she carried her down the short hallway (could it even be considered a hallway if it was like 7 steps in total?).

"So unfair," Shasha murmured, lips brushing her skin, "to make me wait this long."

Gorya's chest felt too tight, too full. She had thought she understood longing—thought she'd been the one suffering quietly all these months—but as Shasha nudged the bedroom door open with her foot, it dawned on her just how wrong she'd been.

That night, Gorya learned what it meant to be wanted without restraint. And how deep Shasha's hunger had grown after months of holding herself back. (And she definitely learned how jealous and possessive the model could be)

When Gorya woke up, the first thing she registered was warmth—not just the lingering heat beneath the sheets, but the unmistakable presence beside her. She exhaled slowly, relief sinking into her bones when she remembered it was her off day, because there was absolutely no way she'd be functional with Shasha like this.

Hovering. That was the only word for it.

Shasha wasn't crowding her, not exactly, but she might as well have been. An arm draped possessively over Gorya's waist, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns against bare skin as if committing her to memory. When Gorya shifted, Shasha stirred immediately, eyes fluttering open like she'd been waiting for the smallest excuse to wake.

Every time Gorya sat up, Shasha followed, leaning in under the guise of stretching. Every time Gorya stood, Shasha's hands found her hips, her waist, her back—anchoring her there, as if afraid that if she let go for even a second, Gorya might vanish. It was sweet. It was overwhelming. It made Gorya's chest ache in a way she wasn't prepared for.

She had never been looked at like this before.

Not like something precious. Not like something wanted.

And as Shasha hovered near her all morning, eyes soft, movements gentle yet unmistakably possessive, Gorya realized with a dizzying cocktail of awe and disbelief that Shasha wasn't just craving closeness. She was aching for her.

It showed in the way Shasha followed her into the kitchen, bare feet padding quietly behind her, arms slipped around Gorya's waist the moment she reached for the kettle. Her chin rested on Gorya's shoulder, breath warm against her neck, fingers lacing together just below her ribs as if to anchor herself there.

Breakfast was slow. Toast forgotten in the toaster, eggs cooling in the pan, tea reheated twice because Shasha kept finding reasons to linger far too close. A kiss brushed into Gorya's hair, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth whenever she turned even slightly, each one stealing her focus bit by bit.

"Shasha," Gorya murmured, trying to sound firm, though her voice betrayed her. "If you keep doing that, breakfast is never getting finished."

Shasha hummed thoughtfully behind her, arms slipping around her waist, chin resting against her shoulder. "I think I'm okay with that."

Before Gorya could retort, Shasha pressed a slow kiss to the side of her neck, then another, lingering just enough to make Gorya's breath hitch. Hands firm but careful turned her around, lifting her effortlessly until Gorya found herself seated on the kitchen counter, heart pounding, fingers clutching instinctively at Shasha's shoulders.

"Shasha—" Gorya started, but the sound dissolved when Shasha leaned in, lips tracing the line of her collarbone, reverent and hungry all at once.

"Can I have my dessert first, darling?" Shasha whispered, voice low, playful, eyes dark with want as she looked up at her.

Gorya gulped. Every clever retort, every ounce of practiced restraint deserted her completely. She brought her hands up, cupping Shasha's face, thumbs brushing over her mole.

"…Just this once," she muttered, helplessly fond.

Shasha smiled, soft and victorious, and pressed her forehead against Gorya's, laughter breathed out between them. The kiss that followed was unhurried, deepening not out of urgency but faith, as if neither of them feared what came next anymore.

They stayed there for a while, tangled in warmth, breakfast long abandoned, the morning stretching gently around them.

By the time the sun rose higher, Gorya stopped pretending she needed space.

She leaned into the back hugs, let Shasha trail after her from room to room, let herself be kissed into softness again and again, until the day felt less like something happening to her and more like something she was choosing.

Shasha didn't ask where she needed to be next, didn't glance at her phone. She stayed, warm and unapologetically close, as if this—this quiet, domestic closeness—was exactly where she wanted to be.

And for the first time, Gorya didn't question it.

She let the moment last, unafraid of how good it felt to be held, to be wanted, to be chosen—not loudly, but like this. Like home.