Chapter 114

The laughter between them slowly faded into an easy quiet, the kind that only came when the weight of the day was behind them. Emma finished the last grape, wiping her fingers on a napkin before stretching with a little groan.

“Come on,” she said softly, brushing a hand against Abigail’s arm as she stood. “Let’s go lay down. You’ve had a long day.”

Abigail smiled, sliding off the stool to follow her. They walked side by side down the hall, Emma leaning against her just enough to make Abigail slow her pace. When they reached the bedroom, Abigail helped Emma settle under the covers, smoothing the blanket over her before leaning down to kiss her forehead.

“I’ll be right there,” Abigail whispered. “Just need to get my things ready for tomorrow.”

Emma’s eyes softened as she sank into the pillows. “Okay. Don’t be long.”

Abigail crossed to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer where her favorite jeans and tops were neatly folded. She held one shirt up, then another, tilting her head in thought. Tomorrow was Tuesday English Composition & Writing Workshop in the morning, Music History: 20th Century & Beyond in the afternoon. Both were classes she actually looked forward to, ones where she didn’t feel the weight of someone’s eyes on her the whole time.

She laid out a pair of light-wash jeans, a soft white tee, and her favorite denim jacket—comfortable, casual, and just enough style to feel like herself. On the chair by her desk, she set her notebook and laptop for Composition, then slipped her music journal into her bag for History.

Behind her, Emma’s breathing had already evened into that soft, steady rhythm that told Abigail she was drifting off again. Abigail glanced back, smiling at the sight, and whispered to herself, “Ready for tomorrow.”

She dimmed the bedside lamp, slid under the blanket, and curled against Emma, pressing a kiss to her shoulder before letting her own eyes close.

The soft chime of her phone alarm stirred Abigail from sleep. She blinked against the faint morning light slipping through the curtains, stretching slowly before rolling out of bed. Emma was still curled beneath the blanket, breathing steady, lost in dreams.

Abigail smiled at the sight for a moment, then moved quietly across the room, careful not to wake her. She slipped into the clothes she had laid out the night before—light-wash jeans, a soft white tee, and her denim jacket draped across the chair. Running a brush quickly through her hair, she tied it back in a loose ponytail.

By the time she padded into the kitchen, the apartment was quiet except for the hum of the fridge. She opened it and began pulling things out with practiced ease—eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, flour, sugar, and the waffle maker she kept tucked on the counter.

First, she cracked eggs into a skillet, the sizzle low and comforting. She scrambled a portion for herself with peppers and cheese, wrapping it into a warm tortilla for a quick breakfast burrito. As it cooled, she whisked together the waffle batter—eggs, milk, flour, and just a touch of vanilla—pouring it into the preheated waffle maker. The kitchen filled with the sweet, golden smell as the batter crisped into fluffy squares.

She plated them neatly, topping them with a pat of butter and a drizzle of syrup. On the side, she arranged crispy bacon strips, a small bowl of strawberries, blueberries, and melon, and a pile of scrambled eggs—soft and fluffy, just the way Emma liked them.

Within minutes, the counter was covered in small plates. Abigail arranged everything onto a tray, balancing the mix of sweet and savory. She added a glass of orange juice, wiped her hands on a towel, and carried it carefully back toward the bedroom.

Emma stirred as the door creaked open, her nose twitching at the smell before her eyes even fluttered. Abigail set the tray gently on the nightstand and leaned down to brush a kiss against her forehead.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she whispered with a smile. “I made you breakfast in bed.”

Emma blinked up at her, hair messy, voice groggy. “You cooked?”

“Mm-hm,” Abigail said proudly, sliding the tray across her lap. “Homemade waffles, bacon, eggs, and fruit. The works.”

Emma’s sleepy expression melted into something soft and touched. She ran her hand over the curve of her belly, then looked back at Abigail with misty eyes. “You’re spoiling us.”

Abigail’s heart swelled, and she leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Anything for my babies,” she whispered.

She sat on the edge of the bed, lifting her burrito from a napkin. “I’ve got to get ready to head out for class. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

Emma nodded, picking up her fork, her smile warm and a little teary. “I will. Go on, smarty. Don’t be late.”

Abigail grinned, brushing her fingers gently over Emma’s hair before grabbing her bag. “I love you.”

Emma’s voice followed her softly as she walked toward the door. “Love you too.”

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The morning air was cool as Abigail stepped out of the building, her bag slung over her shoulder and her keys in hand. She slid into the driver’s seat, started the car, and let out a slow breath. The city was already alive—horns in the distance, students hurrying along sidewalks, the hum of a day just beginning.

As she pulled onto the road, she reached for her phone at a red light and typed quickly:

Abigail → Emma: Made it to campus. I’ll text you after class. Love you ❤️

She hit send, set the phone back down, and focused on the road ahead.

The drive was short, and soon she was easing into the student parking lot, weaving between rows until she found a spot. Shouldering her bag, she stepped out, the buzz of campus life swirling around her—clusters of students talking over coffee, others rushing with earbuds in, bikes zipping past.

Abigail walked across the quad toward the humanities building where her first class of the day was held: English Composition & Writing Workshop with Professor Fletcher. She liked the feel of Tuesdays—two classes, both subjects that let her breathe a little easier.

The classroom was bright and airy, sunlight spilling across rows of desks. A few students were already seated, laptops open, the clatter of keys mixing with low chatter. Abigail slid into a seat near the middle, pulling out her notebook and pen.

Professor Fletcher, a woman with kind eyes and a stack of papers tucked under her arm, moved to the front of the room. “Good morning, everyone,” she said, her voice smooth and welcoming. “I hope you’re ready to write, because that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

She set her things down and looked around the room. “Before we dive in, let’s warm up. I want you to write for ten minutes on this prompt: Describe a place that feels like home to you—but don’t use the word home. Think about sensory details. What does it smell like, sound like, feel like? Who’s there? What makes it yours?”

Chairs squeaked as students shifted, pulling out notebooks and opening laptops. Abigail tapped her pen against the page, her thoughts immediately drifting to the penthouse. The smell of Emma’s shampoo lingering on pillows. The sound of her guitar leaning against the wall. The way the light fell through the tall windows in the evening. She began to write, words flowing quicker than she expected.

When ten minutes passed, Professor Fletcher clapped her hands lightly. “Alright, let’s hear a few. Volunteers?”

A boy in the back read about a diner his family had gone to every Sunday. A girl near the window described her grandmother’s garden, all lavender and earth. Then Fletcher’s gaze landed on Abigail.

“Abigail? Want to share?”

Abigail hesitated, then gave a small nod. She read her piece aloud, her voice steady but soft:

“It smells like coffee brewing too late at night and the faint trace of paint drying on a canvas. It sounds like laughter muffled under blankets, like the creak of a floorboard you can’t sneak past. It feels like warmth pressed against my back, steady breathing reminding me I’m not alone. It’s not a building. It’s a heartbeat. And it’s where I want to stay.”

The room was quiet for a beat, then Professor Fletcher smiled, her expression gentle. “That’s exactly the kind of detail I’m talking about—concrete, specific, and alive. Notice how she never used the word ‘home,’ but you all felt it.”

A few students nodded, jotting notes. Abigail lowered her eyes, her cheeks warming, but a small smile tugged at her lips.

The rest of the class moved into a discussion about how details create emotion—how “show, don’t tell” transforms flat descriptions into something people can feel. Fletcher wrote examples on the board, pulling bits from each student’s work.

As the clock ticked down, Professor Fletcher stacked her papers and gave one last note. “Before you go—your semester-long project. I want each of you to buy a notebook. This will be your daily journal. You’ll write in it every single day—no exceptions. At the end of the semester, it will count for thirty percent of your grade.”

A low ripple moved through the room, some students groaning. Fletcher only smiled. “If you miss a day, make it up with two entries the next. Treat it like exercise—you’ll only get stronger the more you do it. These won’t be graded on grammar or polish, only on consistency and effort. You’ll be surprised how much your voice sharpens when you write every day.”

Chairs began to scrape back as students gathered their things. Abigail tucked her notebook into her bag, a flicker of excitement warming her chest. She already journaled on her own—now it was part of her coursework.