What Comes After
1288 Words
Sunday morning arrived with a thick, muted stillness.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains in soft lines, casting golden beams across tangled sheets and bare skin. Carrie stirred first, her body warm and heavy from sleep. For a moment, she smiled into the pillow, wrapped in that post-dream haze where everything felt weightless and right.
But the moment she opened her eyes, it wasn’t a dream. Not even close.
Beside her, the outline of Lyra’s body curved beneath the shared blanket, her back exposed where the sheets had slipped away. Carrie froze. Her smile faded slowly as realization sank in.
They were both completely naked.
Carrie’s heart started to race. She dared not move. She didn’t even know what to say. Did Lyra regret it? Was this going to be the moment that shattered everything?
But before panic could take hold, Lyra’s lashes fluttered, and her eyes opened slowly—soft and calm. Their gazes met.
Neither spoke.
The silence wasn’t cold, but electric. Fragile. Waiting.
Carrie wanted to say something. Anything. But fear bound her tongue.
Then Lyra shifted.
Without a word, she turned and scooted closer, closing the small distance between them. Her arms wrapped gently around Carrie’s waist. She buried her face in Carrie’s shoulder, her breath warm against her skin.
The embrace said what words couldn’t.
Carrie exhaled, slowly, as if releasing all the tension that had coiled in her chest. If this was still a dream, she never wanted to wake up.
Lyra lifted her head and kissed her—soft at first, then deeper, more assured. Carrie closed her eyes, melting into the moment.
When they pulled apart, Lyra whispered, “I don’t know what this is… or if it’s even right. But I liked what happened last night.”
Her voice trembled at the edges. “I liked being held. Being seen. And maybe it’s selfish, but I want to feel that way again. Even if it’s just for now.”
Carrie cupped Lyra’s cheek. “Then let’s not overthink it. We’ll just… be. However this is. Just us.”
Lyra nodded, and they rested their foreheads together for a long, quiet moment.
Carrie promised herself something in that instant—if this was temporary, she would savor every second. And if there was a chance it could be more… she would never push. Just wait. Hope.
The rest of the day passed like a dream they both consciously refused to wake from.
They stayed in bed, curled up in the sheets like it was their own little world. Netflix played lazily in the background, a few shows neither of them truly paid attention to. Between sips of coffee and shared silence, their hands found each other again and again—fingers brushing, lips touching, warmth blooming in subtle waves.
By the time evening rolled around, Lyra had cooked something simple—pasta with butter, garlic, and herbs—and they ate it cross-legged on the couch, hair still messy, wearing nothing more than oversized T-shirts and quiet grins.
It felt like safety. It felt like possibility.
Then Lyra’s phone rang.
She blinked at the screen, and her expression changed immediately.
Carrie watched her closely. “Who is it?”
Lyra swallowed. “Arthur.”
Carrie’s heart sank, just a little. “At this hour?”
Lyra didn’t answer. She stood and stepped into the kitchen to take the call, her voice low and hard to hear. Carrie stared at the bowl in her lap, appetite dissolving.
When Lyra returned, her face was subdued.
“What happened?” Carrie asked gently.
“He wants me to come with him to the long-week strategy conference in Verona,” Lyra said, sitting back down slowly. “It’s last minute. He says it’s important.”
Carrie blinked. “Verona? That’s out of town.”
“Out of the country,” Lyra corrected, biting her lip. “I’d be gone for eight days. He thinks it’ll be good for exposure, for my portfolio… for experience.”
Carrie nodded, trying not to let disappointment show. “It’s work. You should go.”
Lyra looked at her. “Are you sure?”
“I mean, yeah,” Carrie said with a small smile. “You’ve wanted opportunities like this for a long time.”
Lyra looked unconvinced. “But after last night… today…”
Carrie reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m not going anywhere, Ly.”
Lyra nodded, her eyes downcast.
And just like that, the spell of the day began to thin.
The rest of the day passed like a dream they both consciously refused to wake from.
They stayed in bed, curled up in the sheets like it was their own little world. Netflix played lazily in the background, a few shows neither of them truly paid attention to. Between sips of coffee and shared silence, their hands found each other again and again—fingers brushing, lips touching, warmth blooming in subtle waves.
By the time evening rolled around, Lyra had cooked something simple—pasta with butter, garlic, and herbs—and they ate it cross-legged on the couch, hair still messy, wearing nothing more than oversized T-shirts and quiet grins.
It felt like safety. It felt like possibility.
Then Lyra’s phone rang.
She blinked at the screen, and her expression changed immediately.
Carrie watched her closely. “Who is it?”
Lyra swallowed. “Arthur.”
Carrie’s heart sank, just a little. “At this hour?”
Lyra didn’t answer. She stood and stepped into the kitchen to take the call, her voice low and hard to hear. Carrie stared at the bowl in her lap, appetite dissolving.
When Lyra returned, her face was subdued.
“What happened?” Carrie asked gently.
“He wants me to come with him to the long-week strategy conference in Verona,” Lyra said, sitting back down slowly. “It’s last minute. He says it’s important.”
Carrie blinked. “Verona? That’s out of town.”
“Out of the country,” Lyra corrected, biting her lip. “I’d be gone for eight days. He thinks it’ll be good for exposure, for my portfolio… for experience.”
Carrie nodded, trying not to let disappointment show. “It’s work. You should go.”
Lyra looked at her. “Are you sure?”
“I mean, yeah,” Carrie said with a small smile. “You’ve wanted opportunities like this for a long time.”
Lyra looked unconvinced. “But after last night… today…”
Carrie reached out and squeezed her hand. “I’m not going anywhere, Ly.”
Lyra nodded, her eyes downcast.
And just like that, the spell of the day began to thin.
Later that night, after the dishes had been cleared and the house had returned to quiet, Lyra packed a small suitcase with essentials. Carrie helped fold the blouses, the sketches, the portfolio she had just printed.
Carrie tried to keep things light, but her chest ached in that hollow way when you know something sweet is about to end.
When Lyra finally zipped up her bag and turned around, she looked at Carrie with soft, searching eyes.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
“Of what?” Carrie asked.
“That when I come back… something will change.”
Carrie stepped forward. “Then let’s promise it won’t.”
Lyra smiled faintly. “We can’t promise that.”
“No,” Carrie said. “But we can try.”
They kissed again that night—slower, more tender, as if bookmarking something too sacred to forget. They didn’t undress. They didn’t fall back into the bed.
They just held each other until the early morning hours arrived to take Lyra away.
- Writer
