/
The dim light from the floor lamp pooled softly around them, the only sound the occasional hiss of wind brushing against the windows. The tea had gone cold on the counter. The city beyond the glass kept moving, but here, wrapped in a blanket, in Mikha's living room, time had slowed to a tender crawl.
Aiah lay with her head on Mikha's shoulder, her legs tucked under her, fingers still tracing idle shapes against Mikha's thigh. Her touch was light, barely there, but grounding. Warm.
Mikha hadn't moved much since they sat down, mostly out of fear that the moment might break if she shifted wrong.
That if she pushed too much, Aiah might leave.
But the weight of the thought was starting to dig into her.
She cleared her throat. "Uhm... I have a spare new toothbrush here. In the bathroom."
Aiah blinked, still resting against her. "Okay?"
Mikha's eyes darted down to her fingers, suddenly fidgeting with the corner of the blanket. "I mean... just in case you want to stay. Not saying you have to. You're probably busy tomorrow. And it's probably dumb. But I thought—"
"Mikha."
She froze.
Aiah slowly sat up, just enough to look at her. "Did you leave your calm and collected bravado in another city?"
Mikha gave her a sheepish glance, shoulders tensing. "Maybe."
Aiah leaned in closer, head tilted. "Just ask me the question properly, Mikhs."
Mikha inhaled, then exhaled like the words had weight.
"Do you want to stay the night?"
Aiah didn't answer immediately. She studied Mikha's face, noting the way her brows were pinched slightly, the flush in her cheeks that wasn't from wine or warmth but from the vulnerability of wanting.
Not just physically.
Not just tonight.
Wanting her to stay.
Aiah reached up and gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind Mikha's ear. "Yeah," she said, voice soft. "I do."
Mikha blinked once. Twice. "Yeah?"
Aiah smiled, slow and a little smug. "Yes, but only if I get the cute toothbrush. Not the ugly, backup, sad guest one."
Mikha groaned, burying her face into the blanket. "They're literally both white. You won't know the difference."
"I'll know," Aiah teased, pulling her in gently until their noses brushed.
"Okay," Mikha whispered, lips curving. "Cute toothbrush it is."
Their kiss was quieter this time—less heat, more hum. It lingered. Not the kind that led to anything more, but the kind that meant something.
And when they pulled apart, Mikha stood, offering her hand.
"Come on. Let me show you where the fancy toothpaste is."
Aiah took it, laughing under her breath, and let herself be led.
Because somehow, this—this nervous, rambling, softened version of Mikha—was exactly where she wanted to be.
/
The toothbrush was, in fact, not cute. It was plain white, sealed in its plastic packaging, resting quietly in a drawer Mikha rarely opened. She handed it to Aiah like it was an offering, eyes half-hopeful, half-embarrassed.
"This is the 'premium guest' model," Mikha said, leaning against the doorframe as Aiah unwrapped it. "Normally reserved for high-tier visitors and... you."
