The Sunday morning light was cruel, cutting through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains of Room 412. Maya woke up with a dull ache in her hips and a heart that felt dangerously full. Beside her, Zoe was a tangle of golden limbs and messy hair, snoring softly against Maya’s shoulder.
Maya didn't move. She just breathed in the scent of Zoe—sweat, hotel soap, and something uniquely *her*. For five years, this woman had been the anchor in Maya’s life, the one person she could tell anything to. Now, the silence between them felt different. It wasn't just comfortable; it was charged.
Zoe stirred, letting out a low, sleepy moan—*Mmmmmm*—and tightened her grip on Maya’s waist.
"Stop thinking," Zoe whispered, her voice a gravelly, morning rasp. "I can practically hear your brain whirling from
