CHAPTER 3 - COLLISION
The Calridge Group meeting room was sharp. It was all glass and reflection. A long table, like a runway for ideas, was surrounded by silent chairs that looked like they had opinions. The New York skyline glimmered behind it all, the sun just beginning to tip into afternoon.
Mira sat alone at the head of the table. Her posture was relaxed, but her presence filled the room. Slate-gray silk draped perfectly over her frame. Her braid was tight today, and her earrings were thin arcs of gold that caught the light each time she turned a page in the slim report in front of her. She wasn’t reading it, exactly. She already knew the content. Rather, she was waiting, though she would never say that aloud.
The glass door opened with a soft mechanical hush. Camille brought them in, with Jules entering first: steady, sharp-eyed, polite in a navy blazer. Behind her, Harper entered mid-sentence and laughing.
“And I swear the elevator music was trying to gaslight me. I think it actually looped Chopin into Coldplay—”
She looked up, saw Mira, and froze.
The air shifted, like the whole room took a breath and held it. Mira lifted her eyes, calm and composed, but with a flicker of something at the corner of her mouth. Their eyes met, and for one suspended second, neither of them was anywhere else.
Harper blinked. “Oh, Hi. It’s… you.”
Mira’s tone was even, professional. “Ms. Quinn, thank you for coming.”
The rest of the room caught up. Jules glanced sideways, curious. Camille, already standing against the back wall, didn’t move, but observed everything. Harper scrambled to sit, trying not to trip over the leg of the chair. Her hands fumbled at her bag, looking for her glasses. No, not there. Right. She’d forgotten them.
“Sorry, I… forgot my face again,” she muttered, then winced. “I mean my glasses. Not my face. That’s still here, I think.”
A beat of silence. Then Jules slid her coffee over without comment, and Harper whispered, “You’re the best,” under her breath.
The meeting began.
The slides were simple. Harper’s pacing was not. She gestured more than necessary, scribbled notes upside down, and talked over herself once or twice. But beneath the nerves, her brilliance glinted through like firelight.
“Behavior only makes sense in context,” she said at one point. “Nudge Engine doesn’t predict what people want. It studies why they almost do something and then don’t. That gap—that’s where the truth lives.”
Mira listened, not just politely, but intently. She leaned forward and asked sharp questions that sliced through fluff like wire.
“Why this structure for your data model?”
“What assumptions are you consciously avoiding?”
Harper answered clumsily at first, then with increasing steadiness. She talked with her whole body. Her brow furrowed when she explained. Her hands sketched in the air like they were trying to hold her ideas in place.
And Mira watched her and listened. Not just the words, but how she spoke, how her mind moved, how alive she became when she was doing something that mattered.
That pull—that strange gravity—was louder now, and confusing. Harper caught Mira’s gaze once, lost her sentence, and tried to laugh it off. They both felt it, but neither said a word.
=====
In the end, chairs pushed back and pages were gathered. Jules and Camille exchanged pleasantries, and there was the polite friction of bodies and paper—the rustle of controlled motion. Mira stood with the quiet grace of someone who never rushed. She gathered her tablet, her pen, and one small folder. The air still smelled faintly of eucalyptus and glass. Harper lingered by the door, half turned, uncertain.
“So…” she said, voice lower now, “you’re Mira Laurent, and this is what you do.”
Mira paused, one hand on the folder. She liked how her name sounded coming from Harper’s lips.
“Among other things.” A longer pause, before adding with gentler precision, “You built something remarkable, Harper.”
She said her name deliberately. Harper heard it. Felt it. It bloomed in her chest and made her forget how to stand. They both felt it: that quiet, unfolding thrill of a name once unfamiliar, now spoken aloud, reshaped by the mouth that claimed it.
“Thanks,” she said, flushed.
She opened her mouth, about to ask something. Maybe about a coffee. Maybe something stupider. She didn’t know yet. But Jules tapped her elbow, and Camille arrived, and the moment slipped away. Harper nodded. “I guess we’ll be in touch?”
Mira’s gaze didn’t waver, but it was warm, inviting. Then the door whispered shut behind them. Mira stood still, feeling that the reflection in the glass held Harper’s shape for just a second longer than it should have.
Camille raised a brow. “So. You knew her. That might’ve been helpful to be aware of before the meeting.”
Mira didn’t turn, but replied in Arabic, “Ma kāna muhimmān.” It wasn’t important.
Camille gave her a long, measured look before replying in French, “Non. Bien sûr que non.” No. Of course not.
A pause. Then, in English, Mira asked softly, “What did you think of the presentation?”
Camille didn’t answer right away. She walked back to the table, picked up the folder, and flipped it closed with a practiced flick. “She’s sharp, quirky, unpolished, but sincere. You like her.”
Mira’s gaze didn’t move. “Professionally.”
Camille’s silence stretched before she repeated, even more dryly, “Of course.”
Mira finally turned, her composure returning, almost. But something simmered behind her eyes now—something low and glowing. Her cheeks were flushed, lips slightly parted, breath just a fraction too shallow. She needed a moment, a cool cloth, and a closed door. Her body was awake, and it was Harper’s fault.
=====
Meanwhile, Harper and Jules were back in an Uber, crawling south through Midtown, inching their way toward Dumbo. Outside, the city blurred past: honking cabs, scaffolding, late lunchers clutching iced coffees. The driver had something mellow playing—saxophone over soft static, like an old jazz station half-lost in the signal. Harper sat sideways in the backseat, one foot tucked beneath her, sleeves of her button-down casually rolled up.
Jules sipped her smoothie. “That went better than expected.”
“Did it?” Harper tugged at her seatbelt. “Because I definitely forgot my glasses, called a data model flirtatious, and overshared about cereal.”
“Yeah,” Jules said. “It was charming. And strategic.”
Harper made a face, then laughed. “I’m just saying, I could’ve sounded more like a professional and less like an overeager TEDx speaker on espresso.”
“You’re fine.” Jules looked over. “We’re fine. And, you were great.” Then, “You’re not usually like this coming out of a meeting.” She offered the comment with a too-innocent face.
Harper’s fingers played with her sleeve for a moment before asking quietly, “What did you think of Mira Laurent?”
Jules didn’t answer right away, just raised an eyebrow.
Harper added, too fast, “I mean, she’s intense, right? Like, so polished. You could probably bounce a coin off her schedule.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I just… I’ve run into her before. Twice, actually.”
“That so?”
Harper gave her the full story—the bar, the art gallery, the flirting that wasn’t flirting, or maybe was, or maybe wasn’t.
The bathroom, the laugh, her voice: “It’s deeper than you expect it to be, right?”
As she talked, her own voice changed, slowed and softened. Her blue eyes turned inward.
“I never told her my name. Each time I wanted to, but…” Harper murmured, more to herself than to Jules. “She’s just… God, she looked so good today.” She swallowed. “The way she talks, it’s like everything’s measured but never dull. And the way she looks at you, like she sees right through you, but not in a bad way. In a… don’t-look-away way.”
Jules side-eyed her. “You’re blushing.”
Harper made a noise. “No, I’m not—”
“You are.”
“I’m not. Okay maybe I am. But that doesn’t mean—”
Jules waited and took another sip.
And Harper, staring out the window now, let out a long breath. “I kept having to cross my legs. Which is not ideal during a professional strategy meeting.”
Jules let out a startled laugh.
Harper groaned and flopped backward onto the seat, covering her face with both hands. “What is wrong with me? I need to freshen up when we get back.”
Jules didn’t answer her friend. She didn’t know how to.
“I’m straight,” Harper said, voice muffled by her hand at her mouth. “I mean, I’m historically straight. Mostly. I mean, if you ever wanted to… I’m joking. Tom wouldn’t like that.”
Harper took a breath. “But then she shows up, and my brain just—short circuits. Every time, I walk away like some confused Victorian ghost, completely unable to process the fact that my entire internal compass is, like… glitching.”
Jules raised an eyebrow. “Glitching?”
Harper peeked over at her. “Rebooting, recalculating, folding in on itself like a dying star. Jules, I don’t know how to handle this.”
Jules didn’t respond right away. She just sat there, with the kind of maddening calm only best friends and therapists ever master.
Then, “You realize she didn’t offer her name either, right?”
Harper blinked. “What?”
Jules shrugged. “You’re spiraling about how you just walked away the last times you met. But she let you—no name, no number, not even a hey-let’s-connect-on-LinkedIn.”
She paused. “Maybe she’s glitching, too.”
Harper stared, completely thrown. Then shook her head. “Women like that don’t glitch,” she said.
Jules just smiled. “Sure they do.”
Harper lowered her hands. Her face was pink, and her eyes were thoughtful. “She smelled like something expensive and dangerous. Her voice was… I don’t even know. And that smile. Why do I think that was mine?”
Jules nodded, slowly. “Ok. So, you’re not gay but… you liked her.”
“I liked her so much,” Harper whispered. Then caught herself and slumped down in her seat, groaning again. “I want to see her again. Just to… figure out if this is a weird brain thing or a weird everything thing.”
Jules said, “I’m not sure there’s a non-weird version of wanting someone that badly.”
Harper didn’t answer. She just looked out the window and smiled.
=====
Later that day, Harper sat cross-legged at her desk. Nudge Engine’s office lived on the third floor of a converted paper factory. The building was all iron beams, enormous windows, and graffiti that had somehow become permanent branding. Their sign was a barely-legible vinyl decal Jules had designed in a fugue state: Nudge Engine — Behavioral Insight Meets Chaotic Good.
Inside, the office smelled like cinnamon Pop-Tarts and whiteboard markers. Plants threatened to die dramatically. Someone had written “Nudge responsibly” over a flowchart titled Manipulation, but Make It Ethical.
Her glasses sat low on her nose. She couldn’t remember where they found her, but they were back… or she was back… whatever. Her fingers were poised over the keyboard. She was staring at the blinking cursor like it had personally offended her. The email was simple—or it should’ve been.
Subject: Thank you
Hi Mira/Miss Laurent,
Thanks again for the meeting earlier this week. You were, well, honestly, you were wildly impressive. I’ve never seen a room so polished. I think even the chairs respected you. Also, this is random, but your conference room? Immaculate. I feel like it whispered “don’t fidget” when I sat down. I really appreciated the questions you asked. They made me think, the good kind, not the panicked kind.
Best,
Harper
She hovered her mouse over Send. Then moved it away. Then back. Then leaned forward, typed a line, deleted it, typed another, and backspaced again. Finally, muttering, “Oh my God just send it,” she hit the button and threw herself back into her chair like she’d just launched a missile.
=====
Mira didn’t need to be working this late. She was reading through international briefings, listening softly to Agnes Obel, when the notification appeared—subtle, clean, no fanfare. A new message from Harper Quinn.
She paused, breathed, and opened it. By the end of the second sentence, her lips were curved into something perilously close to fondness. She could’ve let it sit. A polite note deserved a polite silence. But her fingers were already moving.
Subject: RE: Thank you
Hello Harper,
I’m pleased you found the conversation useful. You and your team brought clarity to a system I’d expected to find… deliberately opaque. As for the chairs, I’ll inform the upholstery they’ve made a lasting impression.
— Mira Laurent
Crisp, perfect, and still, somehow… a flicker.
=====
There were a sequence of vignettes that followed. Time passed in the quiet space between replies—subject lines that shift, signatures that soften. A thread unspools, slow and unassuming, until it’s no longer just correspondence but connection: a rhythm of thought, a pulse between two minds learning the shape of each other.
Mira’s email:
Subject: UX Query
Can you elaborate on how you track pre-decision hesitation in your user journey framework? The timestamp logic was elegant, but the behavioral tagging seemed unfinished.
— Mira
⸻
Harper’s reply:
Subject: RE: UX Query
Absolutely. Sorry in advance for the wall of text. I tried to explain it cleanly, but my brain rolls downhill in about twelve directions at once.
(Also attached a sketch. I try hard.)
PS: We call the pre-decision state “the pause before the click.” Which sounds like a spy novel, but it works.
— Harper
⸻
Mira’s reply, a day later:
Subject: RE: UX Query
Efficient, in its own chaotic way.
PS: Your spy novel instinct isn’t wrong. I’d read it.
— M
=====
The messages continued. Mira’s tone softened, and she stopped signing with her full name. M. became the standard. Her questions began to stray gently off-topic. “Your sketchbook looked like it’s seen war—is that normal?” She mentioned a drafting ritual involving red pens and menus. Harper’s reply was longer than it needed to be.
They began adding little things: a shared frustration with calendar software; a comment about the ethics of autoplay.
Harper mentioned she had a plant she couldn’t keep alive but couldn’t throw out. Mira confessed she owned four red pens but only used one. Harper replied, “There’s something deeply romantic about that.”
Amidst all of this, Jules walked in one day to find Harper hovering over her keyboard, whispering to herself, “Too weird? Not weird enough? Just weird enough to be charming?”
Jules set a coffee down. “Do I want to know?”
Harper squeaked and slammed the lid of her laptop.
Jules: “Uh huh.”
Harper: “It’s a professional email.”
Jules: “Sure.”
⸻
Back at Calridge, Camille entered Mira’s office without knocking, as usual, catching her mid-keystroke. Her eyes flicked to the screen. Mira didn’t flinch. She never did with Camille.
“Do I need to draft an ethics clause?” Camille asked dryly.
“No,” Mira said. After a pause, she added, “But you can clear my calendar for twenty minutes.”
Camille said nothing, but her silence was lined with something that felt suspiciously like a smirk.
=====
Thursday Night: The bathwater had gone from luxuriously hot to just warm, but Harper hadn’t moved. One knee breached the surface, slick and glowing in the amber light. Her laptop balanced precariously on the closed toilet lid. Her email was open, and a new draft blinked up at her—half-written, uncertain, a mess of backspaces and sentences she couldn’t quite finish.
“Hey Mira, just a quick note about the onboarding framework, I was thinking we could—”
Nope.
“Sorry, I meant to say I had a thought re: the user drop-off at week two, and how maybe…” She bit her lip.
“Sorry, I meant to say I had a thought re: the user drop-off at week two, and how maybe…” She bit her lip.
Water rippled as Harper shifted, her fingers grazing her stomach, her ribs, slow and aimless. Her breath became shallow. Mira was probably still at her office. Or maybe at home—some immaculate apartment with brass fixtures, soft linen, and silence she wore like perfume. She’d be in a silk robe. Barefoot, and reading something in French.
Harper exhaled shakily. She probably undresses like she’s negotiating with the air. Her hand dipped lower. She pictured the slope of Mira’s neck. That sun-kissed skin, and the crisp line of her collar, open just enough to make Harper ache. A quiet gasp escaped her.
Then came the image: Mira standing in front of tall windows, backlit by the city lights. Her blouse falling open, slow and deliberate, revealing skin Harper swore she could feel just by imagining it. And Harper was there too—on her knees. Bare and waiting. Gazing up as Mira looked down at her with that calm, commanding stillness, and her bright green eyes—like she already knew Harper would worship her. Like it would be the most natural thing in the world.
Harper’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers slipped beneath the water—tentative at first, brushing lightly over her own heat. Wet from more than just the bath. Her thighs trembled, parted wider beneath the surface. She imagined Mira reaching down. One hand in her hair, the other cupping her cheek. That voice, dark velvet, low with praise, saying her name like it was hers to own and shape.
Harper moaned, quiet and wrecked. Her hips lifted, and her fingers circled. She was still thinking of Mira’s mouth, the curve of her smile, and the promise of it, when she pressed her hand deeper and her body rose to meet the rhythm. The water around her trembled in wide, soft ripples.
And she didn’t stop.
=====
At that same moment, Mira really was in her apartment—a minimalist high-rise sanctuary nestled in the Upper West Side, just blocks from Lincoln Center. It wasn’t far from what Harper had imagined, all glass, brushed brass, and whispered luxury. The space glowed with its usual restraint: warm, layered lighting; low cello music playing from hidden speakers; and the hush of a life curated with deliberate elegance.
Mira stood at the foot of her bed, hands resting on the back of her neck. Her body was humming, quiet and electric. Her mind wandered, too. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers gently to her temples. The thought of Harper filled her. Harper, curled on a couch somewhere in a button down, crooked and open across her collarbone, glasses slightly crooked, typing at full speed. The image was absurd. It shouldn’t stir her.
But it did.
She eased out of her blouse, folding it carefully. The silk whispered as it slid from her shoulders, revealing skin sun-warmed and glowing. Her arms were long and lean, the soft flex of muscle beneath a dancer’s restraint. Her stomach was the kind that invited touch—flat, yes, but not rigid. There was give at the edges, a subtle curve that softened into the lines of her hips.
Her balconette bra was lace, pale, delicate, and nearly translucent. It cradled her breasts—full and natural, proportioned like the rest of her.
She wasn’t fair.
Mira moved to the drawer beside the bed and slid it open. Inside was the familiar velvet pouch, which she collected with a practiced, unhurried hand. And inside was the sculpted ivory toy she kept—curved just so, with its twin arms and that silent, rhythmic power Mira preferred—silent, elegantly powerful. It felt cool against her palm, weighted just enough to remind her of control.
She reclined into the cool linen, deliberate in every motion. One hand drifted down her stomach, tracing that subtle line from navel to waistband with slow, reverent pressure. The other curled around the smooth body of the device.
Her mind didn’t wander. It arrived. Harpe—hair wild and slipping from its clip, glasses slightly askew. That mouth, parted in breathless wonder, too honest to be anything but hers.
In her mind, Mira had just whispered something low against her ear, and Harper had gasped, nodding. So eager, so easily undone by a single, well-placed hand. Mira could feel the moment she’d leaned in to silence her, not out of impatience, but hunger.
Harper had said something wicked and offhand, voice feather-soft. A line so ridiculous it made Mira ache. She smiled to herself, and pushed the lace of her panties aside and switched the device on. Then she exhaled, slow and low, like letting a secret slip into the night.
Two women, two rooms, one ache.
And neither of them really understood it. Not yet. But something had shifted. The thread between them had gone taut.
=====
CHAPTER 4: THE BEGINNING
The late afternoon sun had started its descent across the wall of Harper’s office, brushing gold over the cluttered mess of sketches, coffee mugs, and tangled charging cables. She sat curled in her desk chair when Jules entered like a breeze with teeth—quick, dry, and armed with paperwork.
Jules waved a printed email like it was a summons.
“You’ve been invited to speak at the The Vergepoint Forum,” she said, already halfway to amused. “Panel title: The Future of Human Insight. It’s being held at the Glasshouses.”
Harper raised an eyebrow. “Do they know I named our backend script Goblin?”
“They want charm,” Jules replied. “You’re charm. Just wear something ironed.”
Harper groaned. “Tragic. There goes my week.” Then, “You’re coming right?”
Jules nodded as Harper reached for the email, scanning the lines with a smile that crept sideways across her mouth. Before she even thought it through, she was drafting a new message, short and impulsive.
To: Mira Laurent
Subject: Speaking at Vergepoint
Just got invited to speak at Vergepoint. “The Future of Human Insight,” which is either perfect or a trap. Thought I’d let you know, since it sounds like something you’d already know.
— H
She stared at the email for a moment. Her fingers hovered. Then, as she clicked send, she crossed her legs tightly beneath the desk. Lately, Mira had become the kind of woman she told things to.
=====
The city stretched beneath Mira. She sat at her desk, a thumbnail grazing the edge of a briefing folder when Camille stepped in with her usual poise.
“Vergepoint Forum is next week,” Camille said, voice neutral. “I flagged the invite.”
Mira didn’t look up. “Confirmed.”
Her tone was even. But her screen still glowed faintly with Harper’s name—the email had arrived not five minutes earlier. Mira had read it three times. Once with amusement, once with professional interest, and once with something dangerously close to anticipation.
She would’ve attended regardless, of course. It was already on their radar. It was arategically sound, professionally appropriate, and entirely deniable. And it had nothing, nothing, to do with a certain voice, a pair of wide blue eyes, or the way Harper Quinn wrote emails like open doors someone might step through barefoot.
After a beat, Camille said in French, “On suit déjà la moitié de leur liste d’intervenants.” We’re already tracking half their speaker list.
Mira, still facing the window, replied in Arabic, “Ṭabīʿī.” Naturally.
Camille didn’t press. She rarely needed to.
=====
The Glasshouses pulsed with a curated kind of intelligence—all floor-to-ceiling windows, poured concrete floors, and sky-high views that made even the most seasoned tech founders pause. The light was natural but controlled, softened by discreet linen drapes and reflected in brushed steel accents and matte glass dividers.
The Vergepoint Forum wasn’t designed to impress; it was designed to affirm. Everyone here already knew they belonged—or were desperate to prove they did.
The main space opened clean and bright, suspended above the city like a thought still forming. Polished figures moved across the expansive interior, their badges swinging like declarations. Between espresso carts and minimalist lounges, power moved in low, intentional tones, sharp shoes, quiet watches, sculptural eyewear, and billion-dollar ideas murmured between sips of fair-trade caffeine.
Mira Laurent entered without pause. She didn’t need to assess the room. The room recalibrated itself around her. She wore deep indigo, tailored to flow. The cut was precise through the shoulders and hips, but looser at the sleeves, like something made for heat. Gold traced the collar and cuffs in a delicate embroidered line, just enough to catch the light when she turned. A fine chain curved beneath her collarbone, holding a pale turquoise bead, small, round, like something weathered by time. Her heels were leather, bone-colored and clean, with a single strap that crossed the ankle. Her braid was long and low, dark and heavy, the end tied with a brushed gold clasp, shaped, if you looked closely, like a knot, quiet and held.
Flanking her were two Calridge colleagues. Camille trailed just behind her, tablet in hand. They crossed the wide foyer toward the glass-walled mezzanine—and then Mira paused.
No one else would have noticed. But Camille did. Mira’s gaze had drifted over the crowd, toward the stage. Because there she was.
Harper.
Standing beside a tall display screen, dress hem dancing just above her knees. Navy, simple, and fitted just enough to whisper about the shape of her.
Mira’s eyes travelled over her. Harper’s legs were long and toned, and she shifted from foot to foot like she couldn’t decide which one wanted to flee and which wanted to stay. Her curls were trying—a few strands had rebelled, as always, and curved around her cheek in soft parentheses. She looked brilliant, and terrified, and so entirely herself.
Jules stood beside her, whispering something too fast. Harper nodded, then fumbled her program. Bent to retrieve it. Straightened again, and tugged at her strap. She laughed at something Jules said and then immediately looked like she regretted laughing.
Mira’s lips curved into a barely-there smile. Chaotic. Radiant. The awareness hit her low—just beneath her ribs, where it always did when something struck her without permission. Her body knew it before her mind consented: the tension in her thighs, the flare in her chest, the way her breath dropped an octave.
She didn’t approach—not because she didn’t want to. But because the thought of interfering, of walking up and saying something banal like “good luck,” felt sacrilegious.
Harper was about to step into the light. She deserved to do it untethered. So Mira drifted, like a satellite falling into orbit, and stopped near the edges of the auditorium lobby, where the stacks of programs sat untouched and ignored.
She picked one up and flipped through it with absent grace—keynotes, sponsors, panel titles. And then, on Page 8. Harper Quinn.
The photograph was, frankly, terrible. The angle was too sharp, the lighting awkward. Harper looked like she’d been caught mid-sentence, mouth partway open, eyes slightly squinting as if she was trying to puzzle something out while smiling at the same time.
Mira stared at it. It wasn’t the kind of photo that made her look important. It was the kind that made her unforgettable.
The caption listed her degrees, her company, her accolades. But it didn’t capture what mattered: the way she moved when she was figuring something out, the way her laugh fell sideways, how her lips parted when she was about to say something brilliant and completely unfiltered.
Mira’s thumb hovered just above the image. Then it touched the page, tracing the outline of the words. It wasn’t pride exactly. It was something warmer, more dangerous. Mira took the program, keeping it for later. And turned slightly, letting herself linger in the shadow of the tall sponsor banner. Her eyes drifted back to the stage.
=====
When Harper came out, the lights caught in her curls like they knew her. She adjusted the lapel mic with shaky fingers, cleared her throat, and squinted into the crowd. Her dress, the one she’d debated over, caught the soft light and made her look like every inch of her was warm. Glowing.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Harper. And I’m about to tell you a story involving brain chemistry, goat memes, and—possibly a rogue AI that wanted to be a pastry chef. So, buckle up.”
A ripple of laughter. And just like that—she found herself. She talked too fast. She rambled and forgot which slide came next. She compared early UX failures to “a dating app built by Kafka,” and then tripped over her own shoe as she pivoted from the lectern.
She laughed at herself, and the audience adored her. They laughed, leaned in, took notes. Even the stiffest men in expensive shirts started nodding, smiling, easing into the moment she was creating.
At the back of the room, Mira sat motionless. Her legs crossed tightly, her hands steepled in her lap. Her expression gave nothing away to anyone else. But her eyes? Her eyes tracked every shift of Harper’s body, every crooked grin, every metaphor that shouldn’t have worked but absolutely did.
Harper went off-script midway through—something about how data only mattered when it made people feel seen. And Mira felt it. Like a pinprick to the sternum. Her heart fluttered. She laughed once, quietly. Camille, seated beside her, turned fractionally.
And Mira? Mira didn’t care. For the first time in a long time, she was utterly, dangerously captivated.
=====
Harper finished to the hum of low applause trailing into ambient chatter. Crystal glasses clink, lanyards twist under blazer collars, and a soft glow fell over curated panels of thought—leaders, name tags, and expensive shoes. The scent of espresso and ambition floated in the air.
Standing just off-stage, Harper was suddenly trying to politely navigate a small circle of tech types eager to dissect her metaphors and clutching a half-full coffee someone handed her.
Jules hovered nearby like a highly caffeinated security detail, intercepting the more fervent admirers with a well-practiced smile and a firm, “She’s just catching her breath.”
And then, Harper turned. She didn’t know why she turned, just that some magnetic current shifted in her spine, tugging her gaze through the crowd.
And there she was. Mira.
She cut through the room like silk slicing water—calm, assured, utterly stunning. Her presence folded the air around her into something denser. Slower. Everyone around her seemed louder, clumsier by comparison.
Her eyes were on Harper, and they didn’t waver.
And, as in her fantasy, Harper suddenly had an urge to kneel, right there in the middle of the crowd. She managed to stop herself, though, and instead inhaled too loudly. “Hey. You came.”
Mira’s lips lift at one corner, a smile that barely touched her mouth but softened her whole face. “Of course. I said I would.”
The current between them tightened. A wire, a pulse. And then Mira turned toward Jules—extending a genuine hand. “Hello, again, Jules. It’s good to see you.”
Jules blinked, momentarily thrown. Experiencing, perhaps, just a little of what had driven Harper mad. Then, she recovered with practiced charm. “Likewise. Welcome to the madhouse.”
She subtly pivoted, using her presence like a shield to redirect the crowd around them, giving Harper and Mira a small island of privacy in the sea of buzz and brilliance.
=====
Mira stepped closer, not enough to touch, but near enough that Harper instinctively lifted her chin to meet her gaze. Her presence was commanding, but her voice, when it came, was gentler than Harper expected, low, steady, and sincere.
“You were exceptional,” Mira said. “The way you hold a room without trying to. You let people lean in, instead of pushing them back.” A pause, and then softly: “It’s rare, and rare things deserve to be seen.”
Her eyes lingered, not to scrutinize, but to take in. A quiet, deliberate observation that felt more reverent than invasive. She blinked, her breath catching. For a full second, she couldn’t speak.
Her brain, unhelpfully, shouted at her: “Yep. Cool. For her, I’m a full-blown lesbian.”
Out loud, she stammered, “You—I—wow. Um. Thank you. That’s, that’s kind of the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
It came out breathier than she meant it to, but not nervous, just real. Mira’s gaze flickered to Harper’s lips for the briefest moment, not predatory, just curious. Something flickered there. A smile that didn’t mock, but understood. Like she knew, and was flattered to be the cause.
From her clutch, Mira drew out a simple card, matte, cream-colored, no logo, no flourish. Just her name. Mira Laurent. And beneath it, in deliberate red ink: a handwritten number. She offered it between two fingers, not like a power play, but an offering.
“If you’d ever like to continue the conversation,” she said, voice silk and warmth, “off record. Just the two of us. I’d like that.”
Harper took the card carefully, almost reverently, like it was fragile, like it meant more than it should, and nodded helplessly.
Mira’s stillness was full of intent, but not loaded. She watchesd Harper like someone who saw her—not to conquer, but to remember. Then she tilted her head, her scent finding Harper again, cinnamon, oud, memory. The same perfume from the gallery. From the bar. From the place in her mind where Mira has already taken up space.
Mira stepped back then, slow and elegant. Then before she turned to go, paused.
“No pressure,” she said gently. “Just, possibility.”
And then she was gone—her presence still echoing behind her. But Harper was rooted to the spot. Her fingers tightened around the card. Her whole body felt tuned to some frequency she didn’t know existed until just now. She watched Mira disappear, in that dress, and couldn’t help the thought that bloomed, wild and stunned and a little bit hungry:
I want to follow her.
Jules sidles back up. “You really are ruined,” she said.
Harper didn’t blink.
And then, with her eyes on the card. “What did she give you?”
Harper, still watching the place Mira disappeared: “Her number.”
“Well. Shit.” Jules breathed, flatly.
=====
CHAPTER 5: THE CALL
Harper’s loft was quiet when she returned home after the event, the city humming faintly beyond her tall windows. She didn’t bother with the lights. The amber spill from a single mismatched lamp was enough, casting warm shadows across the cluttered desk, the crooked floor lamp, the unruly pile of shoes by the door. She stood there for a long beat, heels dangling from her fingers, the air still humming with adrenaline and something deeper, something more electric than applause.
She let out a breath, and the dress came off with a sigh, pooling like soft punctuation on the floor. She unpinned her hair with one hand and tossed her clutch onto the kitchen counter with the other.
Mira’s card was still in it.
She didn’t even mean to touch it, but her fingers found it like they’d been waiting. The cream cardstock was matte and soft, the red ink like a whispered dare.
Mira Laurent.
And a number. Just that. No logo, no company, no armor. Harper turned it over once, and then again.
“No pressure.” Mira had said, “Just, possibility.”
Harper could still hear her voice, low and deliberate, threaded with something molten.
Her thumb traced the curves of the M and L. She set it down, then picked it back up, and then aet it down again.
Her phone lit up.
Jules: You going ok?
Harper stared, then typed. I have no idea.
A pause, then Jules again: I get that. You’ve never been into women before. Let alone a goddess.
Harper didn’t reply. What was there to say? She looked at the card once more. Then disappeared into the bathroom for a long bath. Warm water lapped just under her collarbones, fogging the air with lavender and something that tried to be calm but couldn’t quite mute the electricity under her skin.
Harper leaned her head back, curls heavy with steam, the lush beats of Glass Animals murmuring from the Bluetooth speaker in the corner. One foot found the faucet absently, toes flexing. On the edge of the tub, balanced too precariously, Mira’s card sat like a quiet dare. Harper stared at it, and let the water swirl warm and wet between her thighs.
She reached for her phone.
Don’t.
She reached again.
Definitely don’t.
She picked it up.
Her cheeks were already flushed. She hovered over the number she just entered—like her body knew what her brain was still trying to rationalize. It’s too soon. It’s ridiculous. It’s obvious.
She hit Call anyway.
The phone rang twice. And then, “Harper.”
Mira’s voice—low, certain, and as aarm as candlelight. There was no question. No hello. It was as though she already knew it would be her. Harper’s breath caught. Mira didn’t have her number.
=====
Mira was reclining on the low-slung linen couch that anchored her balcony, one long leg draped over the other, the hem of her robe slipping higher than she usually allowed. The robe was pale—a champagne silk that clung to the dampness still warming her skin from the shower. Her hair was wrapped in a towel, but a few dark strands had fallen free, curling near her collarbone.
Manhattan moved beneath her in soft murmurs and glinting motion. She didn’t move—not even to sip the wine beside her—red and untouched. Around her, the vines she’d trained along the railing stirred faintly in the breeze—jasmine, mint, a little thyme near the corner. She’d trimmed them earlier, barefoot in a black slip, the scent of crushed green and blossom clinging faintly to her skin. Harper will one day say the balcony smells like he, and Mira won’t correct her. The air now was thick with cardamom and night jasmine, and for the first time in days, she felt still.
Then the phone buzzed.
She didn’t startle. She just turned her head.
Unknown number.
Her lips curved, slow and certain. Mira had hoped she wouldn’t be the type to hold back at this point. She answered just after the second ring, voice velvet-smooth, with the warm edge of her accent.
“Harper.”
=====
“Hi!” Harper blurted. And then instantly regretted everything about how she’d done this. “God, I’m sorry, it’s late, I know, I wasn’t gonna call. I had no plan. I just—did. Clearly.”
On the other end of the line, there was the softest breath of amusement. And then, “You don’t have to explain,” Mira said. “I’m glad you did.”
The words slid over Harper’s skin like heat rising from the bathwater. She sank deeper, chin dipping beneath the surface, heart galloping.
They talked, at first about the panel, the crowd, and the chaos of the Q&A. Harper started gesturing, even though Mira couldn’t see her. And Mira didn’t interrupt. She just listened, deeply, like there was nothing else in the world worth attending to.
And then, Harper’s voice shifted. Just slightly. A little airier. A little too honest.
“So—I’m in the bath, by the way,” she said. “If I sound weird. Not, like, weird-weird. Just, submerged-weird.”
A pause. On Mira’s end. Then: “I like that image.”
Harper groaned. “Okay. I swear I’m not trying to be seductive. I mean, I am naked, but only by routine.”
Mira’s laugh was soft, low, and thoroughly delighted. The kind of laugh Harper would now kill to hear again. It made her stomach tighten in the best possible way.
Then, “Do you always ramble when you’re nervous?”
Harper laughed, but it caught in her throat. Her hand had moved, down along the slope of her ribs, trailing lower, drawing soft ripples in the water. “Maybe. Sometimes. I don’t know. You’re making it worse.”
“Worse?” Mira asked.
“Better,” Harper admitted. Her voice broke gently on the word.
On the balcony, Mira closed her eyes.
Harper: “You’re distracting.”
Mira, with a slow inhale: “You’re intoxicating.”
And just like that—it was there.
The confusion again. And that soft, impossible question hanging unspoken between them: Aren’t we straight? Is this just curiosity? Banter? Why does everything suddenly feel so real?
Neither touched the word wanting. But it was everywhere. In the breath, and the silence. In the way they stayed on the line just a little longer.
=====
Across the city, Mira leaned her back against the cool slate of the balcony wall, robe slipping open at the collar, one leg bent, her body still singing with unshed energy. The skyline glittered before her, but her focus was nowhere near it.
“Harper, I’d like to take you to dinner. If you’re interested.”
Harper’s eyes fluttered open. She blinked once, and then twice, as if the moment needed to land before she could believe it.
“Like, a date?” she asked, almost whispering.
There was a pause. Mira smiled. Something unreadable, tender, dangerous, calm. “That depends on what you want it to be.”
Harper swallowed. Her heart thudded loud enough she thought Mira might hear it through the line.
“A date with you?” She laughed, a little breathless. “I’m free.”
Another beat. A silence held too long to be casual. Neither of them saying what they were both feeling—that somewhere, something was quietly shifting under their skin. Something they hadn’t planned for. Hadn’t named. But felt anyway.
Mira’s voice returned, lower than before: “Good. I’ll call you tomorrow about plans. Good night, Harper. Aḥlām Saʿīda.”
A pause. And the call ended. But the signal between them did not. It glowed.
=====
