Painted

Chapter 11

The sun streamed through the gauzy curtains, casting a soft golden glow across the room. Sarocha stirred first, the unfamiliar weight of another body tangled with hers grounding her. For a moment, she stayed still, savoring the warmth of Rebecca pressed against her side, her breath a soft rhythm against Sarocha’s shoulder.

The peacefulness of the moment was almost surreal. Sarocha couldn’t remember the last time she had woken up like this, utterly at ease, as though she belonged exactly where she was. Rebecca shifted, her arm tightening around Sarocha’s waist.

“You’re awake,” Rebecca murmured, her voice husky with sleep.

“Barely,” Sarocha replied, her lips curving into a faint smile. “You?”

Rebecca tilted her head to meet Sarocha’s gaze, her dark eyes soft and still half-lidded. “I could stay like this all day.”

“Tempting,” Sarocha said, a playful lilt in her tone, “but I’m pretty sure we’d get hungry eventually.”

Rebecca chuckled, low and throaty, and the sound sent a warm ripple through Sarocha’s chest. With a languid stretch, Rebecca untangled herself and rolled out of bed, still clad only in an oversized t-shirt that barely skimmed her thighs.

“I’ll make us coffee,” Rebecca offered, brushing a hand through her tousled hair as she padded toward the kitchen.

Sarocha watched her go, her gaze lingering for just a beat too long before she sighed and pulled herself up. Wrapping the discarded blanket around her shoulders, she followed Rebecca into the open-plan lounge, where the morning light spilled across the space.

Rebecca handed her a steaming mug, their fingers brushing briefly. They settled on the couch, legs instinctively tangling together as they sat close.

Sarocha took a sip of her coffee, sighing contentedly. “You make a mean cup of coffee, Armstrong.”

Rebecca smirked, her dimple making a brief appearance. “My talents don't stop at cooking.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Sarocha’s smile turned teasing. “Good thing coffee doesn’t count as cooking.”

Rebecca nudged her with a bare foot, laughing. “Careful. I might take this mug back.”

“Then I’ll have to fight you for it.”

Their banter was easy, the kind of effortless rhythm that came naturally despite how complicated everything else seemed. Rebecca leaned her head back against the couch, her eyes lingering on Sarocha, who caught the look and arched an eyebrow.

“What?”

Rebecca shook her head, her voice soft. “Nothing. You just—look good like this. Relaxed.”

Sarocha glanced away, suddenly feeling exposed under Rebecca’s gaze. “Don’t get used to it.”

Rebecca chuckled, her fingers brushing lightly over Sarocha’s wrist. “Too late.”

The air between them shifted, turning quiet again, but it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, as if they’d been doing this for years instead of just weeks. Sarocha stretched her arm across the back of the couch, her fingertips grazing Rebecca’s shoulder. Rebecca leaned into the touch without hesitation, resting her head against Sarocha’s shoulder.

For a moment, they sat in silence, the sound of the city muffled by the walls of the condo. The intimacy of the moment struck them both, the unspoken realization settling in: this wasn’t casual anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

Before either of them could say it—or decide whether or not to say it—the sharp sound of the doorbell shattered the quiet.

Rebecca straightened, her brows furrowing. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”