It was almost midnight by the time they got in.
Char's flat was exactly what Mia had imagined it would be — warm, chaotic, a little bit magical in that lived-in, blankets-draped-on-everything, mismatched-mugs, fairy-lights-left-on kind of way. There was a plant hanging from the ceiling that looked both proud and near-death. Books stacked everywhere, soft indie music still humming faintly from a speaker someone had forgotten to turn off.
Char kicked off her boots and immediately flopped face-first into the sofa.
Mia closed the door behind them, slid the bolt, and just... paused. Let herself take it in.
She was here.
Not on borrowed time, not for just a quick visit.
Char had opened her door, her space, her entire soft existence, and said: Stay.
She toed off her own boots, shrugged off the leather jacket, and hung it neatly on the back of a chair — a gesture that felt strangely intimate in a room full of Char's scent.
On the sofa, Char turned her face just enough to speak.
"I wasn't sure if I should offer you the bed or just launch myself into the sea."
"I vote for the bed," Mia said. "I've got a thing against hypothermia."
Char peeked up. Her cheeks were a little flushed, her hair a bit wild from the wind, and she looked so painfully end-of-day beautiful that Mia had to tuck her hands into her sleeves to stop from touching her too soon.
"You're really staying," Char said quietly, like she was testing the words.
Mia stepped over, crouched in front of the sofa. "I really am."
There was a pause.
"Okay," Char whispered.
Mia smiled, leaned in, and kissed her cheek. "Lead the way, glitter socks."
—
Char's bedroom was small and soft and a little bit chaotic, like the rest of her. The duvet was halfway off the bed already. There was a stuffed penguin on the windowsill, and a tiny bottle of lavender spray on the nightstand.
Mia stood awkwardly for a second until Char wordlessly tossed her an old hoodie.
It was pale blue and far too soft. Smelled like sleep and apple shampoo.
"You can have the left side," Char murmured, climbing into bed like it wasn't the most terrifying and wonderful thing they'd ever done.
Mia pulled on the hoodie and slid beneath the covers, quiet.
For a long moment, they just lay there. The only sound was the wind brushing at the windows, the occasional creak of old pipes.
Then, out of nowhere, Char whispered, "Do you sleep like a starfish or a cryptid?"
"I... what?"
"I need to know what I'm in for."
Mia turned her head slowly, eyes amused. "I don't think I've ever been asked that."
"Well?"
"I sleep like a decent human being. You?"
"Like a stressed-out Victorian child."
Mia laughed. She turned onto her side, propped her head on her hand. "Do you always get nervous before bed?"
Char blinked at her. "Only when the girl I've been secretly obsessed with for months is lying next to me wearing my hoodie and smelling like temptation."
"Ah," Mia said. "A relatable problem."
Char smiled, but it faded quickly — not sad, just... quiet.
"I'm scared," she said suddenly. "Not of you. Just of how much this already matters."
Mia reached over, brushed her fingers gently across her wrist. "You don't have to be ready for everything. Just for this moment."
Char looked at her. Really looked. "You make it hard not to fall."
"I'm not going anywhere," Mia said. "So fall."
Char exhaled. Then rolled closer, carefully, until her head fit under Mia's chin and their legs tangled. It felt less like a decision and more like gravity.
Mia wrapped her arms around her without thinking.
"I've never felt like this," Char said quietly.
"Me either."
"I keep waiting for the part where it gets scary."
Mia's lips brushed the top of her head. "Maybe it doesn't."
They didn't kiss again. Not that night.
There was something more precious in the not — the stillness, the safety.
Fingers curling around each other beneath the duvet. Breaths syncing.
And eventually, sleep.
Mia stayed.
Not just physically — not just in the bed —
but fully, wholly.
Like she'd found something she didn't want to run from.
And Char, finally, let her.
