Simones Week

Simone is 36. Evy is 22. Arden is old enough to know better.

Monday

Simone shifts in her seat. Crosses her legs the other way, like that's gonna help. The guy from Brand is still talking. He's saying "synergy." Again.

She glances down, careful, subtle--thumb just brushing the edge of her phone screen.

Evy [2:11 PM]

Q: Why did the landlord break up with the tenant?

A: There was no lease on life.

Simone bites her lip. Hard. It's bad. Like, genuinely terrible. And she feels the laugh bubbling up anyway. She coughs instead. Covers it with a throat clear.

The SVP gives her a look. She lifts her chin. Daring him to say something. Back to the phone.

Evy [2:12 PM]

Ok wait

I have more. You asked for this.

Simone [2:13 PM]

I categorically did not ask for this.

But go on.

Buzz.

Evy [2:14 PM]

Q: Why don't real estate agents ever play hide and seek?

A: Because good luck hiding when they've got your location, location, location.

Simone pinches the bridge of her nose. Exhales through her teeth. Tries not to smile. She can feel it curling at the corner of her mouth.

Across the table, someone asks a question about brand tone. She misses it. She's back in her messages.

Simone [2:15 PM]

That one deserves jail. Not even bail.

Just straight to prison.

Evy [2:15 PM]

You love it.

I see that smirk, don't lie.

She tucks the phone deeper into her lap. Feels heat rise under her collar. Because fuck--yes. Evy sees her. Even from blocks away.

Evy [2:16 PM]

Also

When you get out of that meeting

I want to kiss you.

Just that.

No punchline.

And that one lands.

Hard.

Simone's breath catches. For a second, the buzz and babble of the room fades out--slides off her skin like water. Just her and that message. That girl. That woman who makes awful jokes just to make her laugh, then sucker-punches her with sincerity in the same thread.

She straightens in her seat.

Uncrosses her legs.

And texts back:

"Soon."

The key turns. Deadbolt clicks. Simone steps into her apartment and exhales like the door itself pulled the tension out of her ribs.

Shoes off, blazer draped over the back of a chair. The air smells faintly like jasmine and burnt rice. Evy's cooking.

She's in the kitchen in an oversized T-shirt and nothing else, hips bare and easy, one foot tapping to a rhythm only she hears. The light above the stove halos her in gold. She doesn't turn around.

"You're late," Evy calls, her Norwegian accent soft but unmistakable. "I was about to eat without you and then dramatically text you about it."

Simone drops her bag with a soft thud and wanders into the kitchen like she's being pulled on a string.

"You already did text me dramatically," she says, slipping her arms around Evy's waist from behind. "You committed war crimes in the name of puns."

Evy grins, leans her head back against Simone's shoulder. Her skin is warm. Smells like cardamom and cheap lotion.

"And yet," she murmurs, "here you are. Hungry for justice. Or maybe dumplings."

Simone hums. "Jury's out."

Evy turns in her arms. Kisses her once--soft and slow, lips parted just enough to promise but not deliver. Not yet. Her hand rests against Simone's cheek like she's remembering something old and important.

"Sit," she says. "Let me feed you."

Evy hums as she stirs dumplings, barefoot and light, no armor on.

Simone watches her and thinks, God, it must be nice--to move through the world without needing to prove softness isn't weakness.

Simone wants to argue. Wants to pull her in, press her back against the counter, taste her mouth until the dumplings burn. But she doesn't. Not tonight. Tonight is for stillness. For being wanted gently.

She sits.

Evy plates dinner. Dumplings and rice, something green, a bit of sauce she made from scratch because she "felt like fussing." They eat on the couch, cross-legged, no music, no TV. Just the sound of chopsticks clicking and the occasional sigh of a long day being put to bed.

At one point, Evy rests her head on Simone's thigh and scrolls through her phone, still trying to come up with worse jokes. Simone strokes her shaved head absentmindedly, her thumb tracing small circles at the nape of her neck.

There's a window open. A breeze. Distant sirens. But in here?

It's calm.

Evy falls asleep half on her. Mouth parted slightly. One hand still curled around her phone.

And Simone?

Simone watches her.

She doesn't check her email. Doesn't move. Just sits there, grounded under this woman's weight, wondering when tenderness started to feel this fucking wild.

Tuesday

The bathroom fills with steam before the water even turns hot.

Evy is already inside, back to the spray, eyes half-lidded. Her body shines--long legs, full hips, skin turned slick and golden in the morning light. She doesn't call Simone in. She doesn't have to. Simone follows the heat like a moth.

She steps into the shower behind her, kisses her shoulder, and lets her hands roam.

No words yet.

They don't need them.

Evy shifts, her back pressing against Simone's chest. She reaches behind her, takes Simone's wrist, and guides her down, down, until Simone's hand cups her between the legs. Warm. Slippery. Familiar.

Simone kisses the curve of Evy's neck, right beneath her ear, and whispers, "You're already soaked."

"You're already late," Evy murmurs, voice lazy and amused.

Simone grins against her skin. "My schedule can fuck itself."

Their rhythm is slow. Evy rocks against Simone's hand in short, breathy rolls, water pounding on the tiles like rain. She grips the edge of the shelf for balance when Simone sinks lower, kissing the base of her spine, tongue dragging downward like she's memorizing taste as much as shape.

And just as Simone spreads her open with both hands, mouth hovering over heat--

The phone buzzes on the counter. Once.

Twice.

But no one hears it.

Evy lets out a sound--half sigh, half gasp--and pushes her hips back. Simone closes her mouth over her, lips plush and greedy. She's not teasing today. She's taking. Her tongue works in slow, firm strokes, hands keeping Evy open, grounded. Evy whimpers, fingers white-knuckled on the shelf.

Another buzz. Then silence.

Water runs. Bodies move.

Evy comes like a wave cresting--quiet but unstoppable, shaking and gasping as Simone holds her through it.

And afterward, they stay under the water. Simone presses her forehead to Evy's back, arms wrapped tight around her middle. Neither says a thing for a long time.

Outside the bathroom, the phone sits face-up.

The message reads:

Arden [7:52 AM]

Can we talk? I'm downstairs.

They're in the kitchen, towels slung low on hips, hair damp, bodies still humming from the shower. Evy's making coffee, moving with that slow grace that Simone loves--bare feet, sleepy eyes, the curve of her back catching sunlight like a promise.

Simone's at the counter, scrolling absently, phone screen lighting her face.

Then she freezes.

Just a breath.

Just one name.

Arden.

Can we talk? I'm downstairs.

Simone locks the screen without thinking.

Puts the phone face down.

Evy sets a mug beside her. "Who's Arden?"

The words land soft. No accusation. No heat. Just... curiosity. Earnest. Quiet.

Simone swallows. Doesn't look at her yet.

"An ex," she says finally.

Evy raises an eyebrow. "The kind that sends 'we need to talk' texts at 8 a.m.?"

Simone laughs, but it's empty. She picks at a tear in the countertop laminate. "The kind that doesn't know when to stay gone."

Evy leans against the counter. Takes a sip of her coffee, watching her.

"You didn't tell me about her."

"There wasn't anything to tell." Simone's voice is steady, but her shoulders are tight. "She was chaos. It ended."

"Clearly," Evy says, with a tilt of her head toward the phone. "So what's she doing on your doorstep?"

Simone finally meets her eyes. "I don't know."

"You gonna find out?"

There it is.

Simone hesitates. Then: "Not right now."

That answer hangs there. It's honest. Not easy. Not smooth.

Evy nods slowly. Sets her mug down. Leans in and presses a kiss to Simone's cheek--just the edge of it, like a punctuation mark.

Then she walks back to the bedroom without saying another word.

Simone stays standing at the counter. Phone face-down. A body full of afterglow and regret.

And somewhere downstairs, Arden's waiting.

Simone pulls on sweatpants and a hoodie. No bra. No earrings.

The hallway smells like old carpet and weed from the neighbor across the way. And then--she opens the front door.

There Arden is.

Same skinny limbs and tangled red hair, same cracked leather jacket she probably hasn't taken off in a year. Pale, wired, smirking like a dare.

Simone doesn't say anything at first.

Arden breaks the silence. "You look good."

Simone leans on the doorframe. "You look like you borrowed a hangover."

"Still funny." Arden tilts her head. "Still mad?"

"I'm not mad."

"No?" Arden's eyes narrow. "Then why'd you ghost me like I set fire to your dog?"

"You set fire to me," Simone says, low. "Repeatedly."

Arden shrugs. "Yeah, well. You lit the match, babe."

There it is. That familiar burn. That old ache that used to make Simone ache in all the wrong places.

"You don't get to knock on my door like it's still 2020," Simone says.

Arden steps closer. One foot in Simone's space. "I was gonna text first. But then I did. And then you didn't answer."

Simone's jaw tightens. "You think I owe you something?"

"No. I think you want something." Arden's eyes flick down her body. "I can tell."

Simone barks a laugh--sharp, cruel, a little too loud. "You always did think my pussy was a truth serum."

"You always liked how honest it made you."

That lands. Simone looks away, jaw clenched. She hated how Arden made her feel--out of control, small, cracked open in all the places she'd spent her life stitching shut.

And still, the memory is hot. Still, her knees remember.

"Evy's inside," Simone says, voice flat.

Arden smirks. "That bald nonprofit girl? I've seen her Insta. Real wholesome. Bet she makes you chamomile tea and shit."

"She makes me happy."

Arden's face doesn't move. But something shifts in her eyes.

Simone steps forward, closes the space. "You want to know why I never answered you? Because I know how this goes. You fall apart and I get bloody holding you together. You leave. I clean up. We fuck. You leave again. Repeat."

Arden's lips twitch. "Sounds hot."

"It was. Until it wasn't." Simone's voice cracks a little. "I don't want to bleed for you anymore."

A pause. Then Arden says, quieter: "So why'd you come down?"

Simone blinks.

"I don't know," she says, honestly. "Maybe I needed to hear myself say it out loud."

They stand there.

Simone's heart is hammering. Arden's chewing her lip. Somewhere upstairs, Evy is making breakfast and trusting her.

"I'm not coming up," Arden says.

"Good," Simone replies. "I wouldn't let you."

Another beat.

"You ever miss me?" Arden asks.

Simone looks her in the eye. "Every time I remember who I used to be with you."

She closes the door.

Just like that.

But her hands are shaking.

The lights are low. Just a single lamp in the corner and the flicker of a muted TV they're not watching. The remains of dinner--takeout this time, neither of them had the energy to cook--still sit on the coffee table. One half-finished soda. An empty soy sauce packet.

Simone lies on the couch in a camisole and soft shorts, legs stretched across Evy's lap.

Her skin--rich, brown, smooth--catches the light in warm gold patches.

Evy's hand rests gently on Simone's calf, thumb drawing absent little arcs.

Evy's in an old tank top and underwear, pale thighs on display, her Nordic skin almost translucent in the low light. Freckled, pink at the knees, a ghost against Simone's deeper tone. They look like a study in opposites. Like shadow and snow tangled together, soft in different ways.

For a long time, they say nothing.

Then:

"You're quiet," Evy murmurs.

Simone shifts slightly, just enough for her knee to press firmer into Evy's side.

"Just... chewing on things."

"Anything I should know about?"

A beat. Simone glances toward the ceiling.

"I keep thinking about how Arden used to talk to me. Like I was always a second away from vanishing. Like she had to pin me in place with chaos or I'd slip away."

Evy runs her fingers along Simone's shin, gentle and slow.

"You ever feel like you're slipping now?"

"Not with you." A pause. "But sometimes I don't know how to just be without having to brace for impact."

Evy smiles, but there's ache in it.

"We're not at war, Simone."

"I know." She sighs. "It's just... muscle memory."

Evy leans down and presses a kiss to Simone's ankle. Not erotic. Just grounding.

"Then let me be the place your body forgets how to flinch."

Simone goes still.

A moment passes. Two.

Then she shifts again, this time folding herself into Evy's lap, head on her thighs, face turned into the soft warmth of her skin. Evy's fingers thread into Simone's hair, slow and easy.

"Your skin's so pale it glows," Simone murmurs. "Like some sort of midnight fairy tale."

"And you," Evy says, voice low, "look like honey poured over firewood."

Simone huffs a laugh against her leg.

"That's extremely specific."

"I've been workshopping it."

They don't kiss. They don't fuck.

They just are. Breathing, touching, resting in the space they've made together.

The TV's still flickering, muted. Outside the window, the L train murmurs past, all steel and light.

Simone's half-asleep in Evy's lap, breath slow, hand curled under her chin.

Evy's fingers move gently through her hair, then pause.

She looks out the window--past the buildings, past the lights, past the fucking billboards for personal injury lawyers--and something in her goes quiet.

"Chicago is so loud," she says softly, half to herself. Her accent rounds the consonants, smooth and lilting.

Simone hums without opening her eyes.

"Louder than Florø?"

"Florø has... gulls. Wind. Fishermen yelling about their lunch." A small smile. "This place... it roars."

She doesn't say she misses home. Not outright.

But Simone hears it anyway.

She shifts, not sitting up, just enough to look up at her.

"You okay?"

Evy nods. Still looking out the window.

"I just... I used to think if I could make it here, then it would mean something. That it would feel like I'd arrived."

A pause.

"And now?"

Evy smiles again, more tired this time.

"Now I think arriving and belonging are not the same."

Simone is fully awake now. She sits up, stretches once, then leans against her, shoulder to shoulder.

"You belong here," she says quietly. "At least, you belong with me."

Evy turns toward her. Takes her hand.

"That's the only part that feels true."

Simone squeezes her fingers. "Still loud, though."

"Too loud."

They sit like that for a while--two women from faraway places, one raised in noise, one raised in salt air and still water, finding quiet in each other.

Evy's accent curls softly into the silence.

"We should go to Florø sometime. In summer. The sun doesn't set."

Simone raises an eyebrow.

"That sounds like a personal hell."

Evy grins. "Then I'll take you in winter. We can freeze together. Drink bad coffee. Complain about fish."

Simone laughs, low and warm.

"That actually sounds kinda perfect."

Outside, a siren wails in the distance. Inside, there's only this:

Contrast and comfort.

A Black woman who's learning stillness. A white woman who doesn't ask her to earn it.

Two bodies that look nothing alike but fit.

Not in some tragic metaphor. Not in erotica.

Just in the day-after part of love.

Wednesday

Simone steps into the station bathroom and catches her reflection.

Eyes tired. Edges curling.

She pulls a small tin of edge control from her bag and smooths them back with two fingers, checking the lines in the mirror.

Too sharp and they'll say angry. Too soft and they won't listen.

She finds the middle. Always the fucking middle.

Arden's leaning on the receptionist desk, too close, voice like silk and barbed wire. Simone's standing still, salad in one hand, restraint in the other.

"Then tell me to fuck off," Arden purrs, head cocked like a predator waiting to see if the prey still twitches.

Simone opens her mouth.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Evy.

Clear voice. Steady. Not loud--but it cuts.

Arden turns.

She wasn't expecting this.

And she was definitely not ready for what Evy looks like in daylight: shaved head, pale skin, cheekbones sharp, lips slicked with faint gloss, a fucking bag of dumplings in her hand like the goddamn domestic alt-goddess of your dreams. Calm. Confident. Dangerous in the way women are when they know exactly what they're worth.

Simone lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. It's not relief, not exactly. But it's something close.

"Hey," she says, quieter than she means to.

Evy smiles at her. Just for her. Then turns to Arden.

"You must be Arden."

Arden raises an eyebrow. "You've heard of me."

"In the same way people talk about hurricanes."

Arden's grin flickers. Evy doesn't blink.

"I brought lunch," she says, lifting the bag like a peace offering that doubles as a middle finger. "Figured you might be tired of sad office salads."

Simone clears her throat. "You have excellent timing."

"I know," Evy says, without looking at Arden again. "Are we eating outside?"

"Please." Simone doesn't even glance back at Arden.

Evy gestures toward the door with a little flourish. "After you."

As Simone walks past Arden, she doesn't say a word. Doesn't make eye contact. That silence is the loudest goodbye she's ever given.

Arden watches them go. Watches Simone lean into Evy as they step into the sun. Watches Evy hand her a dumpling and brush a crumb off her chin like she belongs there.

And Arden?

She's still standing in the lobby.

Jules reappears, leans in and whispers:

"Holy shit. Your ex's girlfriend is hot."

Arden laughs once.

Dry.

Then leaves.

The city hums around them--midday traffic, stroller wheels clacking over bricks, pigeons giving side-eye. The kind of spring day that almost feels warm, but still makes you second-guess if you need a jacket.

Evy sits with one leg tucked under her, dumpling bag between them, elbow resting casually on the back of the bench behind Simone. Casual. Effortless. But not relaxed.

Simone is chewing, slowly, like maybe she forgot how to swallow.

They've barely spoken since they left the station.

Evy breaks the silence.

"Did she get to you?"

Her tone isn't jealous. It's not even accusing.

It's clinical. Like she's checking for shrapnel.

Simone swallows. Looks at her dumpling like it might have answers.

"Not like that."

"But she got in."

A pause.

Simone nods. Just once. The kind of nod that's less confession and more surrender.

"She always could," Simone says. "Just... slides in under your ribs before you even notice she's there."

Evy doesn't speak for a beat. Just watches her. Then:

"That's not a gift, babe. That's trespassing."

Simone lets out a breath--half-laugh, half-wound.

"You're not mad?"

"Oh, I'm furious," Evy says, plucking a dumpling from the bag. "I'm just good at triage."

She dips it in sauce. Takes a bite.

Simone stares at her like she just performed surgery in the park.

"You always this calm when people from your girlfriend's trauma vault show up?"

"Depends," Evy says, mouth full. "Did you fuck her?"

Simone chokes. "Jesus--"

"What? It's a valid question."