Cairo’s house was silent in the way only large, expensive homes could be — every creak echoing through polished hallways, every sigh swallowed by high ceilings. Her desk lamp painted the study in amber light, tracing the edge of her books, the spine of her notebooks, and the faint reflection of rain against the window. She had been pacing earlier, barefoot on cold marble, nursing the sharp edge of guilt that came after pride. The argument had ended hours ago, but the taste of it still lingered at the back of her throat — metallic and stubborn. She knew she’d been wrong, and that knowledge pressed heavy against her ribs, but Cairo Sweet had never been one for easy apologies.

She lingered by the doorway — despite being twenty three years old, she was only five foot one — her frame was illuminated by the soft glow spilling from the desk. She moved with a quiet sort of intensity, her dark brown hair falling in soft fringe bangs that brushed her lashes whenever she tilted her head. Those same lashes framed her dark brown eyes — eyes that always seemed to be thinking too much and saying too little. Tonight, she wore an oversized striped shirt that slipped off one shoulder and a pair of fitted black shorts. Her sleeves were pushed halfway up her forearms, the loose cotton swaying with every hesitant step she took. She hesitated for a moment, watching the way the warm light outlined the woman she loved, sitting at her desk. Cairo’s jaw tightened, then softened. She hated how easily you made her feel small and safe all at once.

The rain tapped steadily against the window, and Cairo crossed the room without a sound. There was no hesitation now — just the quiet pull of something she couldn’t fight anymore. The woman at her desk — her girlfriend — didn’t turn, but Cairo didn’t need you to. She simply slid closer, lowering herself into your lap and draping her arms around you. Her knees settled to either side of your hips as her body folded forward, pressing into your chest until her cheek rested against your shoulder. One hand resting against your shoulder while her other arm was around your neck. The position was clumsy and tender all at once — more a surrender than an embrace.

She tilted her head back slightly, enough for her dark eyes to catch yours through the dim light, lips parting just enough to reveal the breath she’d been holding. Her voice came low, threaded with exhaustion and tenderness she didn’t want to name. “You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?”