Morning Light
Amanda woke up to the soft whir of a ceiling fan and the distant sound of someone moving around in the kitchen.
For a moment, she didn’t remember where she was.
The room was unfamiliar — soft gray walls, a crooked stack of books on the nightstand, a window cracked open to let in the cool morning air.
Then she heard it — the low grumble of Spork yawning somewhere near the foot of the bed — and it all came back.
Angela.
Last night.
Filing for divorce.
Falling apart in Angela’s office.
And Angela — steady, unfazed — catching her without hesitation.
Amanda pressed her face into the pillow and breathed out slowly.
She wasn’t okay. Not yet.
But for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t alone in it.
She sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her muscles ached, but not in the frantic, overstimulated way she'd felt for months. It was the ache of exhaustion, plain and honest.
She padded out into the hallway, following the smell of coffee.
Angela was in the kitchen, her hair a wild, messy halo around her head, wearing an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, barefoot, humming softly to herself as she poured two mugs.
She looked up when Amanda entered, and the smile that broke across her face was easy, unguarded.
"Morning," Angela said, sliding a mug across the counter toward her.
Amanda caught it with both hands, letting the warmth sink into her fingers.
"Morning," she croaked back.
They stood there for a beat, drinking in the comfortable silence.
Angela leaned a hip against the counter, studying her. "You okay?" she asked quietly.
Amanda nodded — then shrugged — then nodded again, a little helpless.
"Better," she said finally. "Because of you."
Angela’s eyes softened, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
They ended up sitting on the couch, Spork climbing into Amanda’s lap without asking permission.
Angela tucked her feet under her, cradling her coffee like a lifeline.
They didn’t turn on the TV.
They didn’t rush.
They just sat there, two women and a dog, in the thin, forgiving light of morning.
At one point, Amanda caught herself staring at Angela — at the curve of her smile, the little crease between her brows as she focused on peeling the label off her coffee mug — and something in her chest twisted painfully.
She looked away quickly, heart thudding, heat crawling up her neck.
Angela didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, but she didn’t push.
She just bumped Amanda’s knee lightly with hers and said, "You can crash here whenever you want, you know."
Amanda blinked at her, startled.
Angela smiled, soft but certain.
"No expiration date. No need to ask. Just... show up."
Amanda swallowed against the lump rising in her throat.
"Thanks," she whispered.
Angela shrugged, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t the biggest, safest thing anyone had offered her in years.
Amanda tightened her grip on her coffee mug, grounding herself in the weight of it.
She didn’t know what this was between them.
Not yet.
But she knew it was something she couldn’t afford to lose.
Not again.
Not ever.