Leah dreamed of kitchens after that.
Not specific ones—just spaces filled with soft light and quiet movement. The sound of someone humming without realizing it. The clink of a mug against a table. Familiarity without explanation.
She woke unsettled, the feeling clinging to her longer than sleep ever did.
She stopped pretending after that.
Not out loud. Not in any way that mattered. But inside, something shifted—an internal honesty she couldn't undo. She noticed how her body responded now, how her attention pulled instinctively toward Alyssa's presence whenever she stepped into the room.
It wasn't desire.
Not yet.
It was awareness.
Jonas grew increasingly peripheral. Not absent—just dim. His texts felt obligatory. Their conversations circled the same shallow ground. Leah found herself watching him speak, wondering how she'd mistaken proximity for closeness.
One evening, she sat on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, staring at a message she hadn't answered.
Jonas: You coming over tomorrow?
She hesitated.
Then typed:
Leah: Yeah.
She didn't add anything else.
The next day, Alyssa was in the backyard when they arrived, sleeves rolled up, hands in the soil of the small garden behind the house. She looked up, startled, then smiled.
"There you are," she said, like Leah had been expected.
Leah felt something loosen in her chest.
Jonas went inside. Leah stayed.
"You're good with plants?" Leah asked.
Alyssa laughed softly. "I'm stubborn. That counts for something."
Leah crouched beside her without thinking, close enough to notice the faint scent of soap and earth. Alyssa handed her a pair of gloves. Their fingers brushed again—longer this time.
Neither of them spoke.
They worked side by side in quiet, the kind that felt shared rather than empty. Leah's thoughts slowed, her body settling into the moment in a way it rarely did anymore.
"This helps," Alyssa said eventually. "Being outside. Slowing down."
Leah nodded. "You seem like someone who doesn't let herself slow down much."
Alyssa glanced at her, surprised. Then smiled, small and thoughtful. "Maybe."
Leah realized she wanted to know everything about her. Not in a consuming way. In a careful one. Like she was approaching something fragile.
That night, back in her apartment, Leah stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself properly for the first time in weeks.
"You're in trouble," she murmured.
The words didn't frighten her.
They felt like truth.