Thursday Nights
It always starts the same way.
Aiah takes the order at Table 7 with the same practiced smile, apron crisp, voice warm. Mikha, flanked by cold relatives and colder wine, barely glances up—except when Aiah leans in to pour the glass near her right hand. Their fingers brush. By accident. Maybe.
"Still doing the Pinot tonight, Ma'am Lim?" Aiah murmurs, barely loud enough to be heard.
Mikha's eyes flick up, slow. "Only if you're serving."
Aiah smiles without showing her teeth. "What a coincidence. I'm always on the menu." She whispered low enough for only Mikha to hear.
Mikha's mouth twitches. It's not a smile—but it's not not one either.
Hours later, when the others have left and the floor is finally quiet, Mikha lingers near the bar, sipping water like it's whiskey.
Aiah walks past her on her way to the staff locker. She doesn't break stride.
"You waiting again?"
"I don't wait," Mikha says, following.
"Funny. You're still here."
⸻
Ten minutes later, they're pressed against the inside of Mikha's apartment door.
Aiah's leg wrapped around Mikha's hip, Mikha's mouth hot on her throat.
"God, you're obsessed with me against your furniture," Aiah gasps, pulling at Mikha's shirt.
"You're the one who started talking back in public."
"Oh, so this is discipline?" Aiah teases, biting Mikha's jaw.
"This is me not waiting 'til we reach the bed."
⸻
Mikha: Are you working tonight?
Aiah: Always. But I've got a thirty-minute break around 10.
Mikha: Come over after. I need a distraction.
Aiah: I'm not your fidget toy.
Mikha: No, you're worse.
Aiah: Dangerous.
Mikha: Addictive.
Aiah: I'm clocking out early. You better have food.
Mikha: Ordered shawarma. Extra garlic.
Aiah: My love language. See you in twenty.
When Aiah arrives, Mikha's already out of her blouse, hair tied back, wine poured.
But they never make it to the food.
/
They don't always talk after their escapades.
Sometimes they just lie there—Aiah with one leg draped over Mikha's thigh, tracing circles on her stomach while Mikha stares at the ceiling like the answers might fall from it.
One night, Aiah asks quietly, "You ever wonder if you're actually happy? Or if you just look like you should be?"
Mikha doesn't answer right away. Just threads their fingers together.
"I don't know if I've ever been allowed to ask that."
Aiah kisses the side of her hand. "You are now."
/
Another night, Aiah is standing at the counter in nothing but Mikha's hoodie, hair still wet from a shower, scooping ice cream out of the tub with a serving spoon.
Mikha watches her from the couch, arms crossed. "That's a crime."
"Sabi mo make myself at home," Aiah says, mouth full. "This is home behavior."
"You're not wearing pants."
"I'm not wearing your pants," Aiah corrects. "There's a difference."
Mikha gets up, crosses the room, and lifts Aiah onto the counter mid-bite.
