The house is quiet now. The little girl is fast asleep, curled up under a sea of stuffed animals, her tiara resting on the nightstand like a crown passed down for the night.

You walk softly down the hallway, heart still warm from the way she’d whispered, “I love you like a real mommy.”

But you stop in your tracks when you see her.

The mom (also your ex gf.).

Mikha is standing barefoot in the kitchen, the fridge light painting her in soft yellow. She’s in one of those oversized hoodies that fall halfway down her thighs, a mug in hand, hair loose.

When she sees you, she grins like she knows something you don’t. “That tiara really suits you,” she says.

You roll your eyes, flustered. “She made me wear it. Said I was the sparkle queen.”

“Mm,” she hums, stepping closer, eyes trailing slowly over you. “You’ve always had that royalty vibe.”

You blink. “Always?”

She doesn’t answer. Just sets her mug down. Walks the rest of the way to you, slow and deliberate.

When her hand brushes your waist, your breath catches. It lingers. Then tightens—pulling you in.

“I like seeing you here,” she murmurs, close to your cheek. “You in my kitchen. In my daughter’s drawings. On my couch with cookie crumbs everywhere.”

You whisper, “I didn’t mean to take up space—”

She cuts you off with a look. “No. I like it.”

Then she kisses you. No hesitation. No warning. Soft at first, but deepening by the second, like she’s been waiting weeks for this moment.

Her hand finds your waist. Your mug is somewhere on the floor. And when she lifts you up onto the kitchen counter like it’s nothing— you gasp into her mouth.

She doesn’t stop kissing you, not even as her hands roam up under your shirt, warm and grounding.

“You really don’t know what you do to me, do you?” she breathes against your lips.

You’re not sure what to say. But you’re gripping her hoodie and pulling her in like you’ve wanted this since the moment you read her first post-it note.

This time, there’s no pretending. You want her. And god, she wants you back