Chapter 117

The drive home was quick, the city still humming with the late-afternoon rush. Abigail carried her guitar and bag upstairs, the weight of the day lifting the moment she opened the apartment door. The faint vanilla scent of one of Emma’s candles drifted through the air, soft and grounding, like the apartment itself was welcoming her back.

“Baby? I’m home,” Abigail called, setting her things by the couch.

“In here!” Emma’s voice floated from the bedroom.

Abigail walked softly down the hall and pushed the door open. Emma was curled beneath the blanket, hair loose, cheeks still flushed from a nap. Abigail leaned down and brushed a tender kiss across her lips. “I’m going to get some homework done,” she whispered with a smile.

Emma’s hand caught her wrist lightly, her sleepy grin blooming. “Okay, love. Don’t work too hard.”

Abigail kissed her again, softer this time, before straightening. “I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

She left the bedroom and headed toward the small office space they’d set up. The room had quickly become hers—organized, simple, but personal. A desk with her laptop and notebooks stacked neatly, shelves lined with binders, a corkboard pinned with schedules, reminders, and even a few of Emma’s doodles she’d stuck up for her.

Abigail pulled out her assignments and laid them across the desk: Music Theory notes to review, a reading list for Contemporary Literature, the journal project from Composition, and her first song analysis for Music History. She opened her laptop and began typing, her fingers steady as she switched between pages.

The door creaked softly, and Emma appeared, wearing one of Abigail’s hoodies that hung oversized on her frame. She leaned against the doorframe for a moment, arms folded, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“You didn’t even stop to breathe, and i got lonely” Emma teased gently.

Abigail glanced up, grinning. “I’ve got to stay on top of this. Four classes, four assignments. If I don’t start now, I’ll fall behind.”

Emma walked over quietly, her bare feet soft against the floor, and without another word, she eased herself into Abigail’s lap. She curled sideways, head resting against Abigail’s shoulder, her hand resting lightly on her stomach.

Abigail shifted automatically, one arm wrapping snugly around her waist, the other continuing to type. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to Emma’s temple, lingering there just long enough to make Emma sigh in contentment.

“Don’t mind me,” Emma murmured. “Just wanted to be close.”

Abigail kissed her again, this time on the crown of her head. “You’re never a distraction. If anything, you make me focus more.”

Emma smiled faintly, nestling closer, her breath warm against Abigail’s neck. For the next hour, Abigail worked like that—reading, typing, jotting down notes—while holding her, the steady rhythm of the keyboard syncing with Emma’s slow breathing. Every so often, Abigail would pause to kiss her hair or rub her arm absentmindedly, as natural as breathing.

When she finally closed her laptop with a sigh of relief, Emma stirred. “Done?” she asked softly.

“Done,” Abigail said, brushing her fingers through Emma’s hair. “At least for today.”

Emma tilted her face up, smiling as Abigail bent down to kiss her lips. “See? You’re already ahead.”

“Thanks to my study buddy,” Abigail teased.

Emma chuckled, stretching as she slid off Abigail’s lap. “Well, your study buddy is starving.”

Abigail laughed and stood, looping her arms around Emma from behind as they walked toward the kitchen. “Then let’s fix that.”

The kitchen filled quickly with warmth—the sizzle of chicken in a skillet, the rhythmic chop of vegetables, the soft pop of rice in the cooker. Abigail moved with practiced ease, humming as she stirred, while Emma set the table and pulled out glasses for water. Every so often, Emma would sneak up behind her to steal a kiss on the cheek, making Abigail laugh and swat at her with the spatula.

By the time they sat down, the table held plates of chicken and rice with roasted vegetables, a small side salad, and bowls of fruit Emma insisted they add.

Dinner was slow, unhurried. Abigail told Emma about Professor Fletcher’s journal project, how she almost didn’t read her writing aloud but was glad she did. Emma, in turn, shared the little details of her day—how she’d craved peanut butter twice, how she’d reorganized the bookshelf while Abigail was gone, how the baby had made her a little more tired than usual.

They laughed, teased, and lingered, neither of them in a rush to clear the plates. When they finally did, Abigail carried the dishes to the sink while Emma dried them. It was teamwork without words, the kind of rhythm that made everything feel balanced.

Later, they curled up together on the couch, Emma tucked under Abigail’s arm with a blanket draped over both of them. The TV played quietly in the background, but Abigail barely noticed. Her focus was on Emma—the way she leaned into her, the warmth of her presence, the steady reminder that this was what mattered.

Homework finished, dinner shared, the day behind them. Love and responsibility moving in harmony.

_________________________

The alarm buzzed faintly on the nightstand, and Abigail reached out to silence it before it could wake Emma. Early light spilled through the curtains, soft and golden, washing the bedroom in calm.

She lay there for a moment, listening to Emma’s steady breathing beside her, one arm draped protectively across her growing belly. Abigail smiled to herself, pressing a light kiss to Emma’s cheek before slipping out of bed.

In the bathroom, she washed her face, pulled her hair back into a neat ponytail, and dressed in the outfit she’d set aside the night before: dark jeans, a fitted black tee, and her favorite flannel layered on top. She moved quietly, slipping her laptop and notebooks into her bag, making sure she had everything for the day’s classes.

By the time she padded into the kitchen, the apartment was still hushed. Abigail poured herself a quick cup of coffee and fixed a bowl of fruit, slicing a few extra pieces for Emma to have later when she woke up. She tucked a sticky note under the plate: For my girls 💕 — A.

With her bag slung over her shoulder and her guitar case in hand, she paused at the bedroom doorway once more. Emma stirred slightly but didn’t wake, and Abigail’s chest warmed as she whispered softly, “I’ll see you tonight, baby.”

The drive to campus was smooth, the city slowly stretching into the morning. Abigail parked in her usual spot, sent Emma a quick text—Made it safe. Love you—and crossed the quad, her bag bouncing lightly at her side.

Today was full: Music Theory I with Ms. Shields at 9:00, then Contemporary Literature with Professor Cross at 1:00. A long day, but one she felt ready for.

As she reached the music building, Abigail adjusted her guitar case and drew a steady breath. Whatever strange tension lingered with Ms. Shields, she told herself she’d keep it professional.

The classroom door stood open, the sound of students shuffling in filling the hallway. Abigail stepped inside, choosing a seat near the middle. She set her notebook on the desk, uncapped her pen, and tried to center herself as the hum of chatter grew.

And then, right on time, Ms. Shields entered—her presence composed, her stride purposeful, her eyes briefly scanning the room before settling on the desk at the front.

“Good morning, everyone,” Ms. Shields said as she stepped to the front of the room, her folder tucked under her arm. She set it on the desk, already flipping to the notes she’d prepared. “Last class we covered the basics—notation, intervals, scales. Today, we’re going to dig deeper into how those intervals work together.”

The scrape of chairs and shuffle of notebooks filled the room as students settled in. Abigail flipped open her notebook, turning to the fresh page she’d left ready the night before. Her pen hovered, already waiting.

Ms. Shields uncapped a marker and wrote two words on the board in bold strokes: Consonance / Dissonance.

“Intervals don’t exist in isolation,” she said, underlining both terms. “They create relationships. Some of those relationships feel stable, restful. That’s consonance. Others feel tense, unresolved. That’s dissonance. And the truth is—you need both.”

She crossed the room to the piano in the corner and pressed a pure, open interval that rang clean and steady. Then she shifted to a sharp, grating cluster of notes that drew a ripple of winces and soft laughter from the class.

“That discomfort?” Shields said, glancing up with a faint smirk. “That’s the point. Music without tension has nowhere to go. Harmony is about balance—movement between stability and instability.”

Abigail’s pen scratched quickly across the page, the concept making sense in a way that felt almost personal. Tension / release = story of every song, she wrote in the margin.

“Why do you think dissonance resolves into consonance?” Shields asked, her gaze sweeping the room. “What does that mirror in life?”

Hands lifted. “Conflict into peace?” one student suggested.

“Uncertainty to stability,” another added.

“Exactly.” Shields nodded, pacing slowly. “Harmony is an echo of human experience. That’s why it moves us. It isn’t just math—it’s meaning.”

Her eyes skimmed the room, catching on Abigail for just a heartbeat too long before shifting away. Abigail felt the glance, quick but unmistakable, like the faint pull of dissonance waiting to resolve.

She kept writing, her pen steady though her chest felt warmer than it should have.

“Your assignment,” Shields said, recapping the marker with a snap, “is to compose four measures using both consonance and dissonance. Don’t avoid the harsh intervals. Use them. They’ll make your resolutions more satisfying. Due next class.”

Groans and laughter rippled across the rows, but Shields’ expression held steady. “You’ll thank me later.”

The groans and laughter from the assignment still lingered as students began packing up. Abigail closed her notebook, slid it into her bag, and swung her guitar case over her shoulder. She filed out with the rest of the class, the low hum of voices carrying down the hall.

Outside, the campus buzzed with midday life. Sunlight stretched across the quad, warming clusters of students sprawled on the grass with laptops and iced coffees. Others hurried across the paths, earbuds in, conversations spilling behind them. The air was alive, but Abigail drifted through it quietly, the guitar on her back feeling like an anchor.

She found a shaded bench beneath an oak tree, the kind of spot that felt tucked away while still catching a breeze. Setting her bag down beside her, she pulled out the small black notebook Professor Fletcher had asked them to use for their daily journals. Its cover was smooth beneath her fingertips, pages still mostly blank—waiting to be filled with pieces of her.

She flipped to a fresh page and dated the top: Day Two.

For a moment, she just sat there, tapping the pen against the margin. Then, slowly, the words began to take shape:

Music Theory today: consonance and dissonance. Stability and instability. The push and pull that makes music matter. Shields said it mirrors life, and I think she’s right.

She paused, chewing lightly on the cap of her pen. The word stability echoed in her head. Her mind wandered—not to the lecture, but to Emma, curled under the blanket that morning, hand resting protectively over her belly.

Her pen moved again.

Emma and the baby are my consonance. My peace. No matter what the tension looks like on the outside—classes, homework, long days—it always resolves back to them. That’s where I breathe again. That’s where the music makes sense.

She stopped, pressing the tip of the pen to the page before underlining the word them twice, her handwriting a little heavier than usual.

Sometimes I’m scared about how much is changing. About being good enough for what’s coming. But then Emma smiles at me, or I feel her tuck her head against my shoulder, and I know—this is what I was made for. To love them. To protect them. To make sure our lives stay in harmony.

The words filled the page more quickly than she expected. Abigail exhaled, her chest loosening as she closed the notebook and held it in her hands for a moment, the leather warm from the sun.

Sliding it back into her bag, she stood and slung her guitar case over her shoulder. The afternoon stretched ahead, the voices of other students fading into background noise.

It was nearly time to head across campus to her next class—Contemporary Literature with Professor Cross.