Her life! GxG! Intersex! (Book 1)

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The penthouse was quiet when Abigail finally stirred, the light outside a soft gold that filled the bedroom with warmth. She blinked, groggy but content, and rolled over to find the other side of the bed empty. The faint scent of Emma's shampoo still lingered on the pillow. A soft smile tugged at her lips.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her temples—last night's drinks still lingering like a haze behind her eyes. But before she could fully gather her thoughts, she noticed a small, handwritten note stuck to the fridge across the room.

"Get dressed. Comfortable shoes. Empty stomach. We're going on a date. Just us. — E 🖤"

Abigail padded toward the kitchen on bare feet, her oversized T-shirt skimming her thighs. There was already a mug of coffee waiting for her, just how she liked it—oat milk, a dash of honey, and cinnamon dusted on top. Emma stood nearby in a cute, flowy skirt, sneakers laced, and her curls pinned back in a soft updo. She looked like sunshine in human form.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Emma said, reaching out to smooth a wrinkle on Abigail's shirt. "You okay?"

Abigail took a sip of coffee and sighed happily. "Hangover? Yes. Regrets? Absolutely not. And this? This is adorable."

Emma leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Then go get ready. I've got a whole day planned. I want us to just... breathe together today."

—

Their first stop was a tucked-away café in SoHo that Emma had read about months ago and saved in her notes. It had ivy-draped windows and little tables with mismatched chairs. They ordered croissant French toast topped with lemon curd and fresh berries, plus lavender lattes in pale blue mugs.

"I feel like we're on a date in a movie," Abigail murmured, cutting a bite and sliding it into Emma's mouth.

Emma giggled, covering her lips. "You mean, like, one of those dreamy slow-mo montages with indie music playing?"

"Exactly," Abigail said, raising her mug in a toast. "To being the main characters."

—

After breakfast, they wandered through the artsy corners of the city, stopping at bookstores and vintage shops. Abigail bought Emma a sunflower pin from a thrifted accessory rack, and Emma tucked it into her hair immediately.

By late morning, they found themselves in Washington Square Park. Street performers played smooth jazz near the fountain, and chalk art bloomed across the sidewalk in bursts of color. A portrait artist sat beneath a shaded umbrella, sketching couples on a small easel.

"Let's get one," Abigail whispered, tugging Emma toward him.

They sat close, Abigail's arm draped protectively around Emma's shoulder. The artist worked quietly, occasionally glancing up at them with a soft smile. When he finally turned the drawing around, both women were stunned—he'd captured not just their faces, but something about the way they looked at each other. The warmth. The knowing.

"We're hanging this in the nursery," Emma whispered.

—

Lunch was an impromptu food crawl: bao buns from a Chinatown vendor, crispy artichoke pizza in the East Village, and mango smoothies with boba that Emma insisted on even though Abigail claimed she didn't like mango. She slurped it happily anyway.

They took their drinks to Central Park, finding a shady spot under a big oak tree. Emma lay with her head in Abigail's lap, one hand resting on her bump as she watched clouds roll by.

"Do you think we'll be good at this?" she asked quietly.

Abigail ran her fingers through Emma's curls. "Parenthood? I think we'll be tired and overwhelmed and ridiculously in love. And yeah, I think we'll be really good."