Chapter 139

Ayleen’s POV

The bathroom door closed behind Clara, the sound of running water settling into a steady rhythm that filled the apartment. I stayed where I was, stretched across her bed, one arm tucked under my head, the other resting on the sheet where her warmth still lingered. Morning light slipped in through the curtains, soft and forgiving, touching the edges of the room like it wasn’t ready to demand anything from us yet.

I let myself breathe.

Last night still hummed beneath my skin. Not just the concert, not just the way the crowd had roared when she appeared on the screens, but the way she’d looked at me afterward. Raw. Overwhelmed. Real. The way she’d held onto me like she was afraid that if she let go, the world might take me back.

I turned my head toward the tray on the nightstand. The breakfast I’d made sat there, slightly disheveled now—coffee cooling, toast unevenly buttered, the plate nudged from where she’d teased me about my lack of patience in the kitchen. She’d laughed, leaning over to steal a bite, and for a few minutes we’d existed in a bubble where nothing else mattered.

My phone buzzed beside me.

I didn’t reach for it right away.

I already knew what waited there. I could feel it in the air, that subtle shift that always followed visibility. Love, when it stopped hiding, made people bold. Curious. Cruel.

Eventually, I picked it up.

The screen lit up with notifications stacked so high they blurred together. Tags. Mentions. Messages. I opened one article, then another, letting my eyes skim instead of sink. The praise was there, loud and overwhelming, fans dissecting lyrics, replaying moments, celebrating what they’d seen.

Then came the undercurrent.

Questions framed like concern. Criticism wrapped in careful language. Clara’s name pulled apart and examined by people who’d never met her, never sat across from her at a kitchen table, never seen her steady hands when everything else was falling apart.

I didn’t feel surprised.

I felt tired.

Not of them—but of the expectation that I should respond the way I always had before. With explanations. With silence. With strategic distance meant to protect everyone but myself.

I locked the screen.

I wasn’t doing that today.

I opened my camera roll instead.

The photo stared back at me instantly. Breakfast on a tray. Sunlight spilling across white sheets. Her mug, the one she always claimed tasted better than mine. The corner of her hand visible near the edge of the frame, fingers relaxed, unguarded.

There was nothing dramatic about it.

That was the point.

I opened Instagram.

For a second, my thumb hovered over the screen. Not because I was afraid—but because I was choosing. This wasn’t impulse. This was intention.

I posted the photo.

No filter. No performance.

Then I typed the caption.

Morning. ❤️

That was all.

I didn’t check the comments. I didn’t wait for the reaction. I set the phone face-down on the bed and leaned back against the headboard, feeling something settle in my chest. Not defiance. Not rebellion.

Peace.

The shower shut off.

I glanced toward the bathroom door just as it opened, steam drifting out first, then Clara. Her hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends the way it always did when she didn’t bother to tame it. She was wrapped in a towel, one hand adjusting it absently as she crossed the room.

Her eyes flicked to me.

“You’re quiet,” she said, not accusatory. Just observant.

“Enjoying the calm before the storm,” I replied lightly.

She huffed a soft laugh and climbed onto the bed beside me, settling back against the pillows with a sigh that sounded like relief. She reached for the coffee without looking, took a sip, and grimaced.

She smiled then, really smiled, and something in my chest eased. She leaned over, resting her head on my shoulder, her damp hair brushing my neck. I wrapped an arm around her automatically, thumb tracing idle circles against her arm.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

The world could wait.

“I saw the news,” she said eventually, her voice steady but careful.

I nodded. “I figured.”

She shifted slightly, angling herself so she could look up at me. “You okay?”

I considered the question. The real answer. The easy one.

“I’m okay,” I said finally. “I’m… choosing to be.”

Her lips curved faintly. “That sounds like you.”

She glanced toward the nightstand where my phone lay face-down, then back at me. “Did you post anything?”

I smiled. “Just breakfast.”

Her breath caught, barely noticeable, but I felt it. “Of course you did.”

I shrugged. “Seemed important.”

She studied my face for a long moment, like she was reading something between the lines. Then she nodded, once. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not hiding,” she said quietly.

I leaned down, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I’m done doing that.”

She exhaled against me, her body softening, and we stayed like that for a while—talking about nothing important. About how she still couldn’t believe I liked my eggs that way. About how the piano downstairs needed tuning. About whether we should leave the house at all today or declare it an illegal activity.

“I vote illegal,” I said.

She laughed. “You would.”

Her fingers traced lazy patterns on my wrist, familiar and grounding. “You know this won’t stop,” she said eventually. Not accusing. Just honest.

“I know,” I replied. “But neither will we.”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she shifted closer, her forehead resting against my jaw, her breath warm against my skin.

“Then stay,” she said softly.

I tightened my arm around her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Outside, the world was already loud again. But inside that room, in the quiet space we’d carved out together, it didn’t matter.

Not yet.