Chapter Text
The air inside MacLaren's had the scent of fried appetizers and the kind of low-grade humidity that only happens when twenty people in wool coats crowd into a small neighborhood pub. It was a Saturday night in autumn, and the bar was humming with its usual rhythm. A jukebox in the corner was churning through a playlist of mid-tempo rock, while men in loosened ties complained about their week over pitchers of lager. It was the kind of place where the wooden booths were worn smooth by decades of elbows and the flyers for local bands on the walls were curling at the edges.
Sophie fidgeted the hem of her top and gave her friend a reassuring smile. She was the one who had timed their arrival to avoid the early rush, and spent the last twenty minutes acting as a mirror and a cheerleader for her friend Erin. Sophie didn't particularly want to be here. Her mind was already halfway through a Monday morning press release for a client who didn't understand the concept of a deadline, but she was happy to be the engine that drove Erin’s evening.
"He's totally looking this way," Erin whispered, her eyes locked on a guy by the pool table.
Sophie immediately shifted gears. She leaned in, her voice becoming a bubbly, encouraging melody. "He totally is. And he looks like he's wondering why the prettiest girl in the bar is standing so far away." She gave Erin a little push, her expression radiating a bright, artificial energy that made everyone around them feel a little more upbeat.
From the dim sanctuary of a corner booth, Margo watched the blonde operate. She didn't know her name. She leaned back, her eyes tracking the way the woman shifted her posture, her laughter becoming a strategic beacon that drew the eyes of the room toward her friend. It was a performance of kindness. A subtle, graceful choreography.
The performance peaked when the guy from the pool table approached. For the next hour, Sophie was the perfect supporting actress, weaving in and out of the conversation with precise, charming interventions that made Erin seem effortless and the man seem brilliant. She was the invisible hand ensuring their chemistry didn't fizzle. Margo watched as Sophie’s smile never once wavered, even as the blonde's eyes occasionally flickered toward the door, as if counting down the minutes until she could return to the silence of her own company.
Then, the shift happened. The guy leaned in, whispered something that made Erin beam, and offered her his hand. As they walked out of the pub and into the cool October night, the door shutting behind them, the light in Sophie vanished. It wasn't a sudden crash, but a slow draining of color, like a lamp being unplugged. She turned back toward the bar and her shoulders slumped, her brightness collapsing into a heavy, exhausted stillness.
Sophie leaned against the mahogany. She pulled a silver flip phone from her purse, the small screen casting a pale, clinical glow on her face. She clicked through a few texts—work, deadlines, problems that needed her specific brand of fixing—and then she let out a long, shuddering sigh. Her head dropped, resting heavily on the cool wood of the bar, blonde hair spilling across the surface like spilled ink.
Margo didn’t move for a long time, simply observing the way Sophie seemed to shrink into the space she had spent the last two hours filling for everyone else. Her gaze stayed steady and curious, watching Sophie’s rhythm change.
The feeling of being watched was a physical thing, a prickle of electricity that crawled up the nape of Sophie's neck. She felt it shift from a vague sensation to a concentrated weight. Lifting her head slowly, her eyes blinking away the haze of fatigue, she scanned the room. Her eyes drifted, over the pool table, past the jukebox, and finally landed on a corner booth. There, framed by the shadows of mahogany paneling, was a woman watching her.
The woman was striking not just in the symmetry of her features, but in the way she occupied the space around her, leaning back with a confidence that felt effortless and grounded. She had a stare that felt like it was reading the fine print of Sophie's soul. For the first time in years, Sophie felt a jarring spike of panic, a frantic, humming energy in her chest that had nothing to do with social anxiety and everything to do with the overwhelming sensation of looking at someone who made her heart skip a beat.
Margo smiled at her, slow and knowing, before standing up to navigate the small crowd, stopping just a few inches too close for a stranger. "Your friend seemed very happy with her choice of date," Margo said, her voice a low, rich hum.
Sophie blinked, her voice coming out a bit breathier than she intended. "Oh. Yeah. I was just... winging for her. Making sure it all went smoothly."
"Winging," Margo repeated softly, her eyes crinkling. She didn't step back, remaining in that space that felt intimate but not intrusive. "You’ve been doing that all night. The little nudges, the conversational bridges, the way you shifted your energy to match whatever they needed until you closed the deal. It was a very disciplined performance."
Sophie let out a small, reflexive laugh, the sound slightly brittle. She instinctively tried to pull the mask back on, straightening her spine and brightening her expression. "I don't know what you mean. I just like seeing people happy."
Margo didn't smile this time. She simply watched, her gaze traveling from the forced lift of the blonde's cheeks down to the way her fingers were white-knuckled, gripping the edge of the mahogany bar. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but heavy, the kind of silence that forced a person to stop talking and start listening to their own heartbeat.
"You do that a lot, don't you?" Margo asked.
"Do what?"
"Close the deal. But you don't celebrate. You give away pieces of yourself," Margo elaborated. "You leave everything on the table for everyone else and then you walk away with nothing left for yourself."
Sophie tried to brush it off, her hand instinctively moving to her hair to smooth a stray strand. "It's fine, really. I don't mind. I like making sure everybody else is... having a good time."
Margo didn’t look away, her expression remaining soft but searching. "It’s okay. I’m not judging you. That’s a very important job, making people feel seen. But when do you think about yourself?"
The question landed like a stone in a still pond, the ripples disturbing a peace Sophie had spent years carefully constructing. "I don't. Not much," Sophie admitted, her voice dropping slightly quieter, "I can't think about myself often because my world is totally stressful right now."
Margo tilted her head as she listened, a sympathetic smile playing on her lips. "Oh? Too many term papers stacking up?"
Sophie genuinely laughed, the sound lacking the polished chime of her wingwoman persona. "Term papers? God, no. I’m out of college. I’m twenty-five."
Margo shifted, sliding onto the stool beside Sophie. The distance between them vanished, and for the first time that evening, Sophie didn't feel the need to fill the space with a strategic comment or a supportive nod. She just felt the warmth radiating off the other woman.
"Twenty-five? Alright," Margo spoke in a soft, intimate register. "Can I buy you a drink?"
Sophie blinked, glancing at the woman. Usually, when a stranger approached her in a bar, Sophie’s mind immediately began calculating the most efficient way to keep the mood of the interaction light and the exit open. But Margo didn’t feel like a variable to be managed. There was something calming about her presence. "Um, sure," Sophie replied, her voice regaining some steadiness. "Thanks."
Margo caught the bartender's eye with a sharp, confident flick of her wrist. "Two Lignite No. 7s," Margo called out, her confident voice cutting through the ambient noise of the pub. "On the coals for the pretty lady."
Sophie paused, her hand hovering over the mahogany. First of all, Lignite was her favorite whiskey. It had the kind of rich, smoky profile that felt like a sanctuary in a glass. She was surprised to find someone else who knew it. But second, she frowned, processing the confusing order. "On the coals? You mean... on the rocks?"
Margo let out a soft, melodic laugh, the sound vibrating in the small space between them. "No, silly. Coals." She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Lignite is a type of coal."
Sophie blinked, her brain whirling. "Hm. Well, that’s kind of nerdy. But kind of impressive, too. Where’d you learn that?"
"Back home," Margo replied simply.
"Home? Where is home?"
"Texas," Margo answered, the word rolling off her tongue with a slow, honeyed drawl that hadn't quite left her, despite the years she'd spent in Boston. "Alba. It's a small place, but we're very proud of our dirt. Lignite coal was discovered exactly there." The brunette's eyes shimmered with a quiet pride. She didn't elaborate further, instead turning to the two glasses the bartender slid toward them. The drinks were a deep, amber hue, glasses catching the dim light of the pub.
Sophie took a sip, the peat-heavy flavor hitting her tongue exactly the way she liked. She let out a contented sigh, leaning back against the bar. "I never had an idea what this whiskey was named for. I just thought it sounded... sophisticated."
"Sophisticated?" Margo asked, her voice tilting upward with a playful, feline quality.
Sophie felt a flush creep up her neck, the kind of warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol. "Well," she admitted, glancing at Margo’s poised silhouette, "a little pretentious, maybe. But very, very smooth."
Margo hummed softly in approval, her gaze flicking to Sophie’s lips before drifting back up to her eyes. "Listen," Margo said, her tone shifting into something tender and disarmingly honest. "I’m sorry if I’ve been too forward, baby—ordering your drink and all. I didn't even ask if you like women."
The question hit Sophie like a physical jolt. She froze, her muscles locking as the air seemed to vanish from the room. For a few seconds, she simply stared at Margo, her mouth going dry and her mind spinning in a frantic circle. She had spent so long operating in the periphery of other people's lives that she had forgotten how to be the protagonist of her own. The silence stretched a moment too long before she remembered she actually had to answer.
"No, no. I do," Sophie blurted out, her voice a pitch higher than usual. "I definitely do."
"Well good, honey," Margo smiled, her warm hand reaching over to pat Sophie's denim-covered knee. "It's the best way, isn't it?" Margo’s eyes danced with a playful glint.
Sophie felt a frantic need to be honest, though honesty always felt clumsy in her mouth. "Yeah. Oh, definitely," she stuttered. "But, uh... I'm a little rusty. It's been... a while."
Margo tilted her head inquisitively before taking a sip of her own drink. "How long? If you don't mind me asking."
Sophie shifted on the stool, her fingers tracing the condensation on her glass. The memory of her last real date felt like it belonged to a different version of herself, someone who had time to breathe. Someone who hadn't turned her entire personality into a series of helpful adjustments for other people. "Jeez... maybe... '01?"
Margo’s eyebrows shot up. "2001? Wait a minute—high school?"
Sophie laughed, the sound genuine and almost breathless. "Yeah," she admitted. "I guess since then, work has really consumed my life. It's been a lot of deadlines and not a lot of dates."
"And what exactly does this life-consuming work entail?" Margo asked, shifting to slide an inch closer. The scent of something warm and woody, not like the whiskey, but something more personal, like cedar and vanilla, clouded Sophie’s senses. The proximity was becoming warmer. Warmer and softer and slower. Sophie felt the air in her lungs thicken, her heart pounding more intently. She tried to maintain her composure, but the words began to tangle in her throat.
"Well, I... I work in PR," Sophie managed jaggedly. "Our firm... we do a lot of... local political campaigns here in Boston." She stopped, her voice cracking on the word 'Boston'. She felt an overwhelming heat radiating from where their thighs nearly touched, and suddenly, the ability to form a coherent sentence vanished. She was staring at the curve of Margo’s jaw, the way her lips curved in a small, encouraging smile for her to go on, instead feeling herself slipping under a weighted blanket of intense attraction.
"Sorry," Sophie stammered, her face flushing a deep crimson. "Um, I'm talking too much. I'm just... totally rambling. Please," she tried, "tell me something else about you."
Margo's chuckle seemed to vibrate in the space between them, her eyes softening further as she watched Sophie scramble for composure. She didn’t push the conversation back toward the professional or the stressful, instead leaning back to give the blonde a moment to breathe. "Well, first of all, my name's Margo. Yours, baby?"
"Oh, um... it's S-Sophie," she managed.
"Well, hi Sophie," Margo replied, her voice like velvet. She took a slow sip of her whiskey before clicking her tongue at its sharpness. "As for me... well, I'm a bit of a wanderer, you could say. I spend a lot of my time buried in archives, doing historical research. I like discovering the things people forgot to record."
Sophie found herself leaning in again, the tension in her shoulders beginning to dissolve beneath Margo's voice. "Historical research? That sounds peaceful. And a lot less frantic than my Monday mornings."
"Peaceful isn't exactly the word I'd use," Margo admitted, a mischievous glint in her eye. "It’s a different kind of frantic. It's the kind where you spend three weeks in a basement in the rain just to find one love letter from a woman who lived in 1840."
Sophie laughed, feeling a strange, fluttering lightness in her chest, as if she were waking up from a very long nap. For the first time in years, she wasn't thinking about the press release on her nightstand or the precise emotional needs of the people around her. She was just a girl on a barstool, feeling the magnetic pull of a woman who saw right through her.
"You're very observant," Sophie said. "The way you noticed me earlier. Most people just see the... the version of me that's helping everyone else."
"I've always had a knack for spotting the gaps, Sophie. It's a useful skill in the archives, and it's a very useful skill in a pub." Her eyes scanned Sophie’s face with a lingering curiosity. "What do you like? When you're not being a professional bridge for other people?"
Sophie felt that familiar heat bloom across her cheeks again. The question was so simple, yet it felt like she was being asked to solve a 1000 piece puzzle. "Um... I don't know. I like... quiet. I like this whiskey." She stopped, feeling the awkwardness settle in. "W-what else do you like, Margo?"
Margo didn't miss a beat, not lingering on Sophie's blush. "I like the things that last," Margo said, her voice dropping into an even cozier register. "Books with spines that crack when you open them, records that hiss between the songs. Old films. The kind where the lighting is all shadows and longing, and the dialogue actually takes its time." Her fingers brushed Sophie's arm, eyes gluing to the goosebumps there before snapping back up to the blonde's face. "My favorite is Gilda. The way she walks into a room is a masterclass in taking up space."
Sophie's face heated further. She felt a tug of desire to understand the world Margo inhabited, a world that sounded slow and intentional. "Gilda," Sophie repeated, the name foreign on her tongue. "Is that... from the forties?"
"Nineteen forty-six," Margo confirmed with a small, knowing smile.
Sophie leaned her chin on her hand, elbow resting on the bar now. "Do you only watch old movies? Like, strictly black and white?"
Margo let out a hearty laugh, the sound rich and genuine. "No, honey, I watch new ones. I’m not that old. Just thirty-two." She shifted her weight, her elbow brushing against Sophie’s as she pointed toward a colorful movie poster tacked to the wall near the jukebox. It was a bright, glossy advertisement for 'Burn After Reading', which had hit theaters just a few weeks prior in September. "Seen that one yet? Everyone's talking about it."
"I don't see movies at all," Sophie admitted, her voice trailing off sheepishly. "Not anymore. I'm too busy with work. If I have a free hour, I usually spend it catching up on the emails I missed while I was working."
Margo’s expression was the kind that suggested Sophie was a puzzle she was very interested in solving. "Sweetheart," Margo said, her voice a low, comforting thrum, "we'll have to fix that. Life is too good to only live in the margins of your inbox."
They kept drinking, not enough to be drunk but enough for the conversation to flow with a surprising ease that Sophie hadn't experienced before. As the night wore on, Sophie's performance she put on for the world completely evaporated, replaced by a relaxed, genuine warmth. She found herself laughing, not the strategic, supportive laughter she used for others, but a real sound that made her eyes crinkle. Margo watched her with a quiet intensity, noticing the way Sophie’s shoulders finally dropped away from her ears, the way her voice lost its jagged edge and smoothed out into something melty and vulnerable.
Beneath the bar, their legs brushed. It started as a casual contact, a subconscious lean, but neither of them moved away. The touch was electric, a steady point of heat that anchored Sophie to the present moment. She felt Margo’s gaze on her, tracking the way she bit her lip or the way her pupils dilated under the dim light. When she caught her looking, she expected Margo to look away or tease. Instead, Margo just smiled, her eyes steady and open, acknowledging the attraction without any move to bend its will.
Sophie's own eyes traced the line of Margo’s throat and the confident slope of her shoulders. Margo was magnetic, radiating a sense of stability that Sophie worried she would rest her entire weight against. The sudden surge of intimacy of that feeling, that comfort, felt like a wave crashing over Sophie. Sophie, who began to feel overwhelmed by the sheer weight of being seen.
"Um, I'm gonna catch a cab," Sophie stuttered, her own realization making her jumpy. "It's getting late. But it was nice meeting you, Margo. Really nice."
She stood up too quickly, the sudden shift in altitude sending a rush of blood away from her head. The world tilted, the amber lights of the pub blurring into streaks of gold, and she swayed on her heels. Before she could stumble, Margo was there. Her gentle hand caught Sophie’s waist, a firm anchor that steadied her instantly.
"Whoa there," Margo murmured, amused, her voice a low vibration that seemed to settle the spinning in Sophie's mind. "Let me wait with you."
They grabbed their coats, the heavy wool fabrics brushing against each other as they moved through the exit. Outside, the night was crisp, Boston's cool air tasting of salt and exhaust. They walked up the stone steps of MacLaren’s Pub and stood on the sidewalk, the city humming around them in a blur of neon signs and distant sirens. A few minutes passed. They watched the street, the headlights of passing cars reflecting in the damp asphalt, but no yellow cabs slowed down.
"Listen," Margo offered. "I drove that buggy right there. I'd be happy to give you a ride home, honey."
"Oh. Are you sure?" Sophie hesitated, her fingers curling into the wool of her coat. "I live kinda far out. Jamaica Plain."
Margo didn't even blink, her expression remaining steady as a heartbeat. "It's no thing, baby."
Sophie looked at her, skeptical. "That’s not exactly around the corner."
Margo just smiled, a slow, knowing curve of the lips that suggested the distance was merely a detail. "I know. Come on."
She stepped forward and opened the passenger door for Sophie. It was a small, instinctive gesture, the kind of effortless chivalry that didn't seek credit, but Sophie felt the impact of it in her chest. She slid into the seat, noting that the interior of the car was warm, smelling faintly of that same cedar and vanilla that had clung to Margo in the bar.
The drive was a slow drift through a city. Sophie leaned her head against the glass of the window, watching the autumn streets blur into a smear of orange streetlamps and skeletal trees. The neighborhoods shifted as they moved, the dense brick of the city giving way to the wider, quieter lanes of the residential districts. Beside her, Margo was a calm presence, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift.
The quiet didn't feel like a void Sophie needed to fill with a polite anecdote or a helpful suggestion. It just felt good. She glanced over at Margo, and as if sensing the movement, Margo turned her head. Their eyes met in the glow of the dashboard. Sophie looked away quickly, her heart hammering, but when she ventured a second glance, Margo was still looking.
Sophie’s breath caught. She became acutely aware of the scant few inches of space separating her from Margo, the warmth of the heater humming beneath their feet. The pull was dizzying, and it made the idea of her own apartment feel like a cold, empty destination.
Sophie swallowed. "Eyes on the road," she whispered, small and fragile.
Margo didn't look away immediately, she let the moment linger just a second longer before returning her focus to the windshield. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. "My eyes are exactly where they need to be, honey."
The turn signals clicked in a steady cadence as Margo continued through the deepening quiet. Sophie stared out the window, watching the familiar landmarks outside her neighborhood slide past, the 24-hour pharmacy, the crooked fence of the community garden, the corner bodega. Each storefront was a milestone bringing her closer to the reality of her life: the silent apartment, the humming laptop, and the invisible mountain of obligations waiting for her. Sophie could almost feel the ghost of her keyboard beneath her fingertips, the blue light of the screen reflecting in her tired eyes.
"Wait, stop," Sophie suddenly blurted, albeit quietly.
Margo reacted instantly, turning toward Sophie with a curious and soft expression.
"Stop looking at you, baby?" Margo asked, her voice a teasing warmth.
"N-no, the car," Sophie said, her voice barely a whisper. "Pull over. Please."
Margo glided the car to the curb, the tires crunching softly against a stray pile of leaves. She shifted into park and turned off the engine, the only sound the rhythmic tink of the cooling metal and the distant, muffled hum of the city. Margo simply sat there, her silhouette framed by the streetlamp outside, waiting with a patient, open presence.
Sophie sat with her head buried in her hands, her fingers digging into her scalp as if trying to hold her thoughts together. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded small, stripped of all the professional polish she had worn like armor all evening.
"I don't want to go home," she admitted.
Margo didn't ask why. She just leaned back, giving Sophie the space to exist without trying to fix it.
Sophie exhaled and continued, her voice trembling slightly. "If I go home, I'll work. On a Saturday night, I'll open my laptop, answer emails until 3a.m., and I'll solve other people's problems and... it's the weekend. I need to learn how to give myself a weekend."
"Okay, honey," Margo said. "That's okay. You don't have to go home."
Sophie let out a small, startled laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet cabin of the car. She looked at the digital clock on the dashboard, the red numbers glowing stubbornly. "Where else would I go at one in the morning?"
"How about mine? I'm just a few miles down." Margo didn't make it a heavy proposition, it was suggested with the same casual ease she'd ordered their drinks with.
The invitation hung in the air, a bridge between the life Sophie had meticulously managed and a sudden, unplanned detour. For a second, the internal PR manager in Sophie’s head started to draft a polite refusal, maybe something about the necessity of a structured sleep cycle. But then she looked at Margo again, and the internal voice simply went quiet. The prospect of her own apartment, with its sterile white walls and the blinking light of her router, felt suffocating, especially when the alternative was staying the night with someone who was letting her breathe.
Sophie nodded decidedly. "Okay. Okay, let's go to yours." She gave a small, tentative smile, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her face. Margo smiled back, reaching over to squeeze Sophie’s hand for a brief, grounding second, a gesture of quiet pride, as if she were rewarding Sophie for finally choosing herself, before shifting the car back into gear.
When they arrived at Margo’s brownstone in Beacon Hill, the atmosphere shifted. The transition from the pub to the house felt like stepping out of a storm and into a sanctuary. The air was different here. It was warmer, somehow. Glowier, and smelled like old paper and beeswax. As Margo led her inside, the house felt woody and quiet, the silence of the street outside punctuated only by the chirp of crickets. It was nice, obviously expensive, but it wasn't extravagant. It was cozy in a way that felt like every object had been chosen for the peace it brought to the room.
Margo moved with a gentle efficiency, taking Sophie’s coat and hanging it up without a word. Sophie looked around. There were no expectant clients, no friends to cheerlead, no bridges to build. She took in the room, the face-down books on a walnut side table, the vintage record player casting a soft amber light, the deep brown of the armchairs. Margo stayed nearby, not crowding her, but acting as a steady orbit. Sophie felt an overwhelming sense of comfort, a physical unclenching that started in her chest and radiated to her fingertips.
She turned to her, her voice barely a whisper. "Margo?"
"Yeah, baby?"
Sophie tentatively leaned in, her heart thumping, and pressed her lips to Margo’s. It was a soft, questioning touch, a flicker of a kiss that barely grazed the surface. Margo made a small, surprised sound—a tiny, questioning 'oh?'—but she didn't pull away. Emboldened, Sophie kissed her again, harder this time, her eyes fluttering shut as she poured every ounce of her sudden, dizzying longing into the contact.
Margo didn't rush, meeting Sophie’s desperation with a steady, grounding heat. The kiss wasn't frantic, it was intense, a conversation, a slow exploration of texture and breath. Sophie felt her internal walls crumble, the noise of her mind fading into irrelevance. She felt seen, not as a tool for someone else's success, but as a woman who was wanted. Margo’s hand rose slowly, a careful movement that gave Sophie every possible second to recoil or rethink, but the blonde only leaned in further.
Sophie reached out and fisted the front of Margo’s shirt, pulling her closer until there was no air left between them. When their mouths met again, searingly, perfectly, Sophie’s head began to swim. Margo was so attentive, the way she hummed a low, vibrating note into the kiss that resonated in Sophie body.
When Sophie let out a soft, broken sound against her lips, Margo stilled instantly. The fact that Margo would stop the moment she felt Sophie’s thoughts get loud, the instinctive check for consent, made Sophie surge forward, kissing her more urgently.
They stumbled back until they hit the wall, a soft thud that broke the tension into a fit of half-breathless, whispery laughs. Sophie’s hands were everywhere, tracing the line of Margo’s jaw, tangling in her hair, while Margo's remained the steady center of the storm.
But Margo's hands weren't enough to slow science, and the room finally tilted sharply. The whiskey and the adrenaline collided, and Sophie broke the kiss first, her legs feeling like water.
"Fuck," she muttered, pressing her forehead against Margo’s shoulder, her voice thick. "I'm really drunk."
Margo’s hands slid to Sophie's waist, holding her upward with a supportive grip that didn't tighten or constrain. "Okay," Margo soothed, assuring. "We can stop."
"I should go home," Sophie tried, though she didn't move yet. "Sleep it off."
Margo stepped back, creating a sliver of space, devoid of any expectation. "Okay. You can."
The air already felt cooler against Sophie's flushed skin, the sudden absence of Margo’s heat leaving her feeling strangely adrift. She began to reach for her purse, but Margo’s hand shot out—not to trap her, but just to meet her eyes again.
"Or," Margo said gently, "you can stay. I have a perfectly good bed right here. I'll take the guest room if you're not comfortable."
Sophie stared at her, her mind whirling. She couldn't believe this woman, this creature who possessed a magnetic confidence that could likely draw in anyone she wanted, wasn't applying any pressure. There was no assumption of a hookup, no subtle push for more. Margo was simply offering her a sanctuary, perfectly content to give Sophie her bed, even without the requirement of her company.
For someone who spends her career managing the expectations of others, the lack of a hidden agenda was boggling. But it was real. Right here. And it felt like a warmth that Sophie couldn't bring herself to let go of just yet.
"I am comfortable," Sophie exhaled slowly, the words barely leaving her lips before they were swallowed by the quiet of the room.
Margo’s mouth softened into something warm and certain. "Good."
Sophie didn’t fully register falling asleep after that. Only a few the fragmented, hazy sensations. The feeling of being guided down a narrow hallway where the floorboards groaned softly under their weight, the feeling of Margo’s arm sliding around her waist to keep her steady, and the blissful weight of pressing her face into the cotton of the woman’s shirt. She'd inhaled there, finding a scent that smelled of oak and smoke and clean skin, a fragrance that felt like a promise of safety.
When she finally woke the next morning, the world was a soft, diffused gold. The light was filtering through heavy linen curtains, casting long, lazy shadows across a bedroom. For a few seconds, Sophie lay perfectly still, her mind blank, stripped of her usual mental checklist. She felt the cool touch of high-thread-count sheets against her skin.
But the coolness off the sheets contrasted with the weight that Sophie registered next, the steady, grounding pressure across her waist that anchored her to the mattress. Then came the warmth, the radiating heat blooming against her back, and the rhythmic, soft puff of breath against the curve of her neck. She lay frozen, her mind a static-filled radio trying to tune into the previous night. Fragments flickered by. The humid roar of the pub, her friend Erin’s hopeful face, the smoky bite of whiskey, and then that woman. Her.
Oh, god. Her.
Sophie shifted her head carefully, squinting through the pale morning light to find Margo. The sight of her hit like a physical blow. Margo was devastating in the stillness of sleep, her dark hair a chaotic silk spilled across the pillow, her expression softened into a peace so profound it felt like an intrusion to witness. A ghost of a smile played on Margo’s lips, as if whatever she were dreaming about pleased her very much.
Sophie’s gaze wandered, peaking where Margo’s shirt had ridden up to reveal a glimpse of a tanned, toned, beautiful stomach...
Did I have sex with a stranger last night?
She scrambled through her memories, finding only kissing, definitely kissing, a wall, maybe. Yes. Her own fingers tangled in dark hair against a wall. They were still clothed, mostly, though a few buttons had been loosened in a way that felt suggestive. Sophie stared at Margo’s mouth, then looked lower, then shut her eyes tight.
No way. There is no way a woman this flawless could happen to me and leave me with no memory of it.
As Sophie tried to shift away further, Margo tightened her hold instinctively, pulling her back into the heat. "Mmm," Margo murmured, her voice thick. "Stay." She pressed her nose against Sophie’s shoulder, inhaling deeply, as if memorizing her. "It’s Sunday," she mumbled, still mostly asleep. "Let’s get waffles, baby. Don’t you like waffles?" The sheer, domestic casualness of the invitation knocked the air from Sophie’s lungs.
Cuddling? Waffles? Since when did strangers discuss brunch options in the liminal space of a Sunday morning? What the hell kind of one night stand is this?
Sophie eased Margo’s arm off her inch by inch, enduring a soft, needy whimper of a protest from the sleeping woman. Once free, Sophie scrambled away, gathering coat and her purse. But as she paused at the door to put on her shoes, her eyes snagged on a framed certificate above the record table. She hadn't noticed that last night in the dark. Now it read clear as day:
~Boston Spirits Competition 2007. Gold Medal Winner.
Lignite Distilleries
Owner: Margo Burkett.~
Sophie blinked at the gold foil seal on the certificate, her brain stuttering as the pieces finally clicked. The whiskey. The coals. The flavor that had hit her tongue exactly the way she liked it wasn't just a lucky recommendation. Margo hadn't just known the brand, she was the brand. Yet she hadn't mentioned it once, hadn't used her status as a hook, hadn't needed to. Sophie’s chest tightened with a mixture of awe and exposure. Margo owned the damn thing.
And the image of Margo, composed and mysterious, smelling of cedar, standing over copper stills in some dusty distillery, making bourbon… It was a level of competence and passion that felt like a completely tangible extension of the steady, grounded energy Margo had radiated all night.
She stepped back, her heart drumming frantically. Just as she turned, the silence of the brownstone was broken by the slight rustle of linen and the groan of a mattress. Then came the voice, the thick, sleepy, vibrating voice.
"Sophie?" Margo called out, the sound drifting from the bedroom, sounding more like a question asked of a dream than a person. "You still here, little darling?"
Sophie didn't answer. She couldn't. If she spoke, she would probably confess everything. How her chest felt like it was inflating with a warmth she hadn't felt in a decade, or how she wanted to crawl back into that bed and stay there until the world stopped demanding things from her. Instead, she pivoted on her heels, reaching for the doorknob and sliding out of the very beautiful trap, the one that she desperately wanted to walk back into the moment she left.