The invitation came in the form of a nervous, almost too-casual text.
Aiah:
so...
I have the premiere for my new series next week.
red carpet, full glam, flashbulbs and awkward interviews.
will you come with me?
Followed by a second, quickly after:
Aiah:
not just as my friend.
I want you next to me. For real.
Mikha read the messages three times, unmoving in her office chair.
The logical part of her brain spun with what this meant—what it could mean. Headlines. Cameras. Uninvited scrutiny. People looking at her not for her work, but for who she was with. The sudden exposure she had so carefully built her life around avoiding.
But then—
She thought of Aiah.
And the look in her eyes the night she said I love you.
The way her hand fit perfectly in hers.
The way she always reached back, no matter how far Mikha drifted.
So she typed, slowly, deliberately:
Mikha:
Send me the call time.
I'll be there.
⸻
They got ready in Aiah's hotel suite downtown—an expansive space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline and a soft, orange glow spilling through the curtains.
Mikha arrived early to account for any unforeseen to probabilities.
Aiah answered the door in a robe, hair in curlers, a glass of sparkling water in hand. "You're early," she said, stepping aside to let Mikha in.
"You told me the team arrives at four."
"It's three twenty."
"I like buffers."
Aiah smirked. "How... very you."
Mikha set her bag down, glanced around. Her black suit hung on the rack by the closet. Pressed. Precise. Next to it: Aiah's gown—silk, emerald green, and delicate as a dream.
"You're nervous," Aiah observed, watching her from the mirror.
"I'm calculating contingency plans for awkward questions."
"You're definitely nervous," Aiah said, walking over. "Come here."
Mikha turned—and before she could say a word, Aiah pulled her in, wrapping her arms around her waist, pressing their bodies together.
"We have thirty minutes," Aiah whispered.
"That's not long."
"It's enough."
She leaned in—kissed her slow, lips brushing with practiced ease, breath warm against her cheek. Mikha's hands found her hips, pulled her closer, the tension in her shoulders melting instantly under Aiah's touch.
The kiss deepened.
Then deepened more.
And soon Aiah was backing her toward the edge of the bed, fingers tugging at the hem of Mikha's shirt.
"You'll wrinkle me," Mikha murmured as Aiah slid her robe open slightly, revealing smooth skin beneath.
"Worth it," Aiah whispered, climbing into her lap. "This is the only part of the night where you're mine without cameras."
Mikha responded with her mouth—kissing down her throat, her collarbone, hands roaming slowly over bare skin. Her movements were deliberate, patient, even here.
