They collapsed together, spent and sticky, the vibrator forgotten on the sheets. Miller grabbed it later, cleaning it with a tissue from the nightstand, a lazy smile on her as Astoria watched.
Afterward, they lay in the dim light, their bare legs intertwined, Miller’s head on Astoria’s chest. She could hear Astoria’s heartbeat, a steady and slow rhythm, and she let herself drift in the comfort of it.
Her fingers traced idle paths across Astoria’s skin—over the jut of her collarbone, the slope of her shoulder, the curve of her arm. She paused when she felt it: a small raised line just below Astoria’s shoulder blade, barely noticeable unless you were looking. A scar, old and faded, it seemed.
Miller’s thumb brushed gently over it. She wanted to ask,how did you get this, what happened, who hurt you? But something held her back. The question felt too big for this quiet moment, too heavy for the fragile peace they’d built.
Instead, she pressed a kiss to Astoria’s shoulder, just above the scar, and felt Astoria’s arm tighten around her.
“Stay a little longer,” Astoria said.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
They lay there until the clock on the nightstand blinked past eleven-thirty. Eventually, reluctantly, they untangled themselves and began the familiar ritual of returning to the outside world. Clothes were retrieved from where they’d been haphazardly scattered, and hair was finger-combed into something almost presentable.
At the door, they kissed goodbye—longer than they should have, softer than Miller expected. When she finally pulled away, Astoria's hand lingered on her wrist.
“Saturday was good,” Astoria said quietly. “The talking part, I mean. Not just…”
“I know what you mean.” Miller smiled. “It was good for me too.”
She made herself leave before she could change her mind about leaving at all. The drive home was quiet. Miller left the radio off and the window cracked, the night air cool against her face. Her mind kept circling back to the hotel room—not the sex, though that had been intense in a different way tonight. The conversation. The wine. The way Astoria had asked “tell me something”like she actually wanted to know. The scar Miller hadn’t asked about, but the story she suddenly, desperately wanted to hear.
Something had shifted tonight, something in how it felt. She wanted to stay and talk. She wanted to hear about Astoria’s day, her week, her life. She wanted to know the story behind that scar and why she tensed whenever her phone buzzed.
That wasn’t casual. Miller knew that, had known it since maybe the second or third time they’d met and she’d caught herself counting down the hours until she could see Astoria again.
This was supposed to be light and casual, desire, self-exploration, the release of months of tension finally allowed. It was supposed to be physical, intense, and temporary.
But it didn’t feel temporary.
Miller pulled into her parking spot and sat in the dark. The professional risks hadn’t changed. Rachel could find out, the firm could question her judgment, Valerie was already suspicious, everything she’d worked for could unravel.
She should end it, but she knew she wasn’t going to.
Because somewhere in the last week, between the stolen hotel rooms and the cautious scheduling and the intensity that hadn't faded, Miller had started feeling something more than desire. It was more than physical, more than just attraction,and Miller couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the start of something real. Probably reckless, definitely worth it.
16
Chapter 16: Astoria
Two weeks, and Miller’s body had become familiar. Astoria knew the weight of her now—how she fit against Astoria’s side in the aftermath, one leg hooked over her thigh, fingers tracing absent patterns on bare skin. She knew the specific catch in Miller's breath when Astoria's mouth found the spot just below her ear. She knew which hotels had the best water pressure, which ones had mattresses that didn't squeak, which lobbies were empty enough at 8 p.m. that two women could slip past the front desk without drawing attention.
It’d been two weeks of this. Different rooms, same hunger. It should have felt routine by now or at least manageable, something she could compartmentalize the way she compartmentalized everything else.
But it didn’t.
Tonight, they’d barely made it past the door before Miller’s hands were in her hair, and now Astoria lay in the wreckage of expensive sheets, sweat cooling on her skin, watching the citylights flicker beyond the window. Miller was curled against her, her breath evening out toward sleep.
Astoria should’ve been doing the same. Instead, she was thinking about the way Miller had looked at her earlier. Not during—that she could handle, the wanting, the heat—after, when they'd untangled and Miller had reached for her face with something soft in her expression, something that looked dangerously like tenderness.
Don’t,Astoria had thought.Don’t look at me like that.
Miller’s fingers moved against her shoulder blade, tracing a line Astoria knew by heart even though she couldn’t see it.
“Can I ask you something?”
Astoria’s stomach tightened. “That depends on what it is.”
