The room was quiet,the kind of quiet only Vegas mornings allowed — air conditioner humming, faint traffic far below, the curtains letting slivers of dawn light bleed at the edges.
Gwen lay on her back, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Maggie was curled against her side, bare skin pressed warm along her own, one arm flung across her stomach like it had always belonged there.
It should have felt right. Itdidfeel right. And that was the problem.
Her chest ached, heavy with the certainty that she’d crossed a line. Maggie had been drunk — angry, jealous, reckless, all sharp edges and glassy eyes. Gwen should have gotten her into bed, pulled the blankets over her, let her sleep it off. She should have been the responsible one.
Instead, she’d kissed her. And then kept kissing her until neither of them had the sense to stop.
Maggie stirred, mumbling something unintelligible, burrowing closer, and Gwen’s throat went tight. The way shefit against her was so familiar it was unbearable. Years of muscle memory, sliding back into place like it had never left.
And yet it had.
Gwen let out a breath through her nose, careful not to wake her. She stared at the ceiling and waited.
Her hand twitched, wanting to smooth over Maggie’s hair again, but she forced it still against the sheets. She didn’t get to touch her like that. Not anymore.
Maggie let out a soft sigh in her sleep, her lips brushing Gwen’s shoulder. And Gwen — stoic, controlled, practical Gwen — closed her eyes against the guilty flood of want. Because no matter how much last night had felt like love, this morning it felt like betrayal.
Gwen stayed put. She told herself it was because moving might wake Maggie, that sliding out of bed would risk the inevitable confrontation too soon. But the truth was simpler, uglier: She didn’t want to let go.
Maggie shifted against her, breath warming the hollow of Gwen’s throat.
Any second now. She braced for it — the recoil, the angry what-the-hell-did-you-do, the look that would tell her Maggie had finally realized how wrong last night had been.
Instead, Maggie blinked up at her, eyes still heavy with sleep, hair wild after sleeping with it wet. For one suspended heartbeat, Maggie just looked at her. No anger, no judgment. Just raw, unguarded, too close.
Gwen’s pulse roared in her ears. She almost spoke, almost blurted outI’m sorry, you were drunk, I shouldn’t have touched you. But then Maggie’s hand moved, slow and deliberate, sliding across Gwen’s chest, splaying wide like she was testing if this was real.
“Morning,” Maggie whispered, her voice rough, blinking blearily up at her. Her smile was small, crooked, so intimate it made Gwen’s chest seize. “You’re still awake.”
“I never really slept.” Gwen’s voice was rough, too honest.
Maggie hummed, pressing her face back into Gwen’s shoulder. “You always were terrible at turning your brain off.”
Gwen let out a low breath, trying to steady herself. Because the guilt was there, just under her ribs, pressing hard. The memory of last night — how drunk Maggie had been, how reckless it all was — threatened to sour everything.
“You should hate me for last night,” Gwen murmured before she could stop herself.
Maggie shifted again, lifting her chin just enough to look at her. Her eyes were clear now, if tired. “Why would you think that?”
She reached out, brushed her thumb over Maggie’s cheekbone. “I don’t ever want you to feel like I took advantage of you.”
Maggie studied her, quiet for a long moment. Then she shook her head, hair tickling Gwen’s skin. “You didn’t.”
Gwen wanted to believe her. Needed to. The sunlight was creeping in, illuminating the room, and for just a second, she let herself pretend. Pretend this was morning-after, not some fragile truce in a city built on illusions.
Maggie sighed, settling back against her chest. “Stop thinking so loud,” she muttered.
Gwen’s throat worked. She nodded once, because words would’ve cracked her open.
And then Maggie kissed her. Soft, almost tentative at first — so wildly different from the frantic collision of last night that it shattered something in Gwen’s chest. Gwen kissed back before she could think better of it, the guilt still there but drowned under the pull, the impossible sweetness of Maggie choosing her even for one more moment.
It deepened gradually, like they’d both agreed not to rush this time. Maggie’s fingers curled into Gwen’s hair, tugging gently, and Gwen let her hand slip to Maggie’s waist, holding her steady, grounding them both.
This wasn’t fury, wasn’t jealousy. It was slower, surer. Like rediscovering something they’d once built together and thought they’d lost. It was familiarity in morning breath and bedhead and pillow lines on cheeks.
And when Maggie climbed over her, lips trailing lower, Gwen couldn’t stop the broken sound that escaped. She let herself believe, just for now, that this wasn’t a mistake — that maybe, impossibly, they were finding their way back.
