The morning light spilled into Olivia’s apartment like something gentle and undemanding. Emma stirred first, stretched slowly beneath the thin throw they’d pulled off the couch sometime after midnight. Olivia was still asleep, her face relaxed, one hand curled loosely in the space between them. The weight she’d carried the night before seemed less present now—not gone, but lighter somehow. Like maybe it didn’t own her anymore.
Emma let her sleep.
She rose quietly and padded into the kitchen to make coffee. The floors creaked, but Olivia didn’t stir.
When Olivia finally woke, the apartment had settled into that hushed lull that only came in early morning when half the city was still asleep and the other half was not quite ready to be awake.
Emma was at the counter, barefoot, scrolling through her phone with a mug in hand. She looked up, offered a soft smile.
“Coffee?”
Olivia nodded, eyes still heavy, hair mussed at the crown. She looked younger like this, like someone slowly stitching herself back together.
Emma handed her a cup, and just as Olivia turned to sit on the couch, she noticed it.
A slip of paper on the floor by the front door.
She blinked, then crossed the room, crouched, picked it up.Folded twice, slightly crooked. It was a handwritten note written in unsteady cursive, like someone had paused between lines. Olivia’s name was on the front.
She gave it to Olivia, who unfolded it.
You gave me permission to be more.
I hope you’ll give that to yourself too.
– Lillian
There was a moment, brief, breathless, where Olivia just stood there, holding the note like it might dissolve if she breathed too hard.
Her fingers trembled.
She pressed the page to her chest, her eyes closed.
Emma didn’t say a word.
She just watched Olivia hold it like a lifeline.
Because it was.
The apartment was louder than Emma expected.
Roz and Sam’s place wasn’t tidy. The furniture didn’t match. There were empty wine bottles lined up like trophies along the top of the bookcase and a burn mark on the windowsill that Roz claimed was from "an unfortunate flambé incident."
But it was home.
Emma had barely stepped through the door before Roz pulled her into a one-armed hug and barked over her shoulder, “She’s here! The shrink is in the building. Hide your feelings and your tequila!”
Sam rolled her eyes from the kitchen. “Ignore her. Welcome to the madness.”
The place smelled like cinnamon and roasted garlic, like too many things happening at once and no one caring if it all worked out. There were voices in the living room: Catherine’s low and elegant, Sloane’s laughter unmistakable. Emma followed the sound like a compass.
Catherine stood near the window, wrapped in a silk dress the color of plum wine, looking unfairly composed for someone holding a paper plate of jalapeño poppers. When she saw Emma, her expression softened.
.
She crossed the room and pulled her into a hug. “It’s good you’re here,” Catherine said, like it was something that needed to be said out loud. “Olivia smiles differently when you are.”
Emma was still processing that when Lillian appeared with a plate held out like an offering.
