Chapter 86

The penthouse was quiet when Abigail finally stirred, the light outside a soft gold that filled the bedroom with warmth. She blinked, groggy but content, and rolled over to find the other side of the bed empty. The faint scent of Emma’s shampoo still lingered on the pillow. A soft smile tugged at her lips.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her temples—last night’s drinks still lingering like a haze behind her eyes. But before she could fully gather her thoughts, she noticed a small, handwritten note stuck to the fridge across the room.

“Get dressed. Comfortable shoes. Empty stomach. We’re going on a date. Just us. — E 🖤”

Abigail padded toward the kitchen on bare feet, her oversized T-shirt skimming her thighs. There was already a mug of coffee waiting for her, just how she liked it—oat milk, a dash of honey, and cinnamon dusted on top. Emma stood nearby in a cute, flowy skirt, sneakers laced, and her curls pinned back in a soft updo. She looked like sunshine in human form.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Emma said, reaching out to smooth a wrinkle on Abigail’s shirt. “You okay?”

Abigail took a sip of coffee and sighed happily. “Hangover? Yes. Regrets? Absolutely not. And this? This is adorable.”

Emma leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Then go get ready. I’ve got a whole day planned. I want us to just… breathe together today.”

—

Their first stop was a tucked-away café in SoHo that Emma had read about months ago and saved in her notes. It had ivy-draped windows and little tables with mismatched chairs. They ordered croissant French toast topped with lemon curd and fresh berries, plus lavender lattes in pale blue mugs.

“I feel like we’re on a date in a movie,” Abigail murmured, cutting a bite and sliding it into Emma’s mouth.

Emma giggled, covering her lips. “You mean, like, one of those dreamy slow-mo montages with indie music playing?”

“Exactly,” Abigail said, raising her mug in a toast. “To being the main characters.”

—

After breakfast, they wandered through the artsy corners of the city, stopping at bookstores and vintage shops. Abigail bought Emma a sunflower pin from a thrifted accessory rack, and Emma tucked it into her hair immediately.

By late morning, they found themselves in Washington Square Park. Street performers played smooth jazz near the fountain, and chalk art bloomed across the sidewalk in bursts of color. A portrait artist sat beneath a shaded umbrella, sketching couples on a small easel.

“Let’s get one,” Abigail whispered, tugging Emma toward him.

They sat close, Abigail’s arm draped protectively around Emma’s shoulder. The artist worked quietly, occasionally glancing up at them with a soft smile. When he finally turned the drawing around, both women were stunned—he’d captured not just their faces, but something about the way they looked at each other. The warmth. The knowing.

“We’re hanging this in the nursery,” Emma whispered.

—

Lunch was an impromptu food crawl: bao buns from a Chinatown vendor, crispy artichoke pizza in the East Village, and mango smoothies with boba that Emma insisted on even though Abigail claimed she didn’t like mango. She slurped it happily anyway.

They took their drinks to Central Park, finding a shady spot under a big oak tree. Emma lay with her head in Abigail’s lap, one hand resting on her bump as she watched clouds roll by.

“Do you think we’ll be good at this?” she asked quietly.

Abigail ran her fingers through Emma’s curls. “Parenthood? I think we’ll be tired and overwhelmed and ridiculously in love. And yeah, I think we’ll be really good.”

—

As the afternoon wore on, they visited a pop-up rooftop market Emma had bookmarked—strung with fairy lights, filled with booths offering handmade candles, custom sneakers, and tarot readings. They bought matching rings from a vendor selling crystal jewelry and split a Korean tofu slider that made Emma moan with joy.

When they finally got home—sore feet, full bellies, and sleepy eyes—they collapsed on the couch in a puddle of limbs and laughter.

Emma curled into Abigail’s side, her voice soft. “Thank you for today. I needed this more than I knew.”

Abigail kissed the top of her head. “Same, baby. Same.”

The city lights glittered like a sea of stars just outside the windows, but inside the penthouse, everything had gone quiet. The kind of quiet that wraps around you like a blanket. Abigail had just finished lighting a few candles in the living room while Emma changed into one of her silk maternity slips — pale blush pink, soft as a whisper against her glowing skin.

When Emma padded out barefoot, the hem brushing just above her knees, Abigail turned around from the candles and froze for a second, her breath catching in her chest.

“Wow,” she murmured, eyes raking over Emma with something reverent. “You’re… breathtaking.”

Emma smiled, her voice teasing but full of affection. “You say that even when I’m in sweatpants and eating pickles.”

“Especially then,” Abigail said, walking toward her slowly. She reached out, gently brushing a curl from Emma’s cheek, letting her fingers trail down her jaw and neck, then to her shoulder, where her palm rested.

They stood like that for a moment—bodies close, breaths synced.

Emma tilted her head, her voice a whisper. “Kiss me?”

Abigail didn’t need to be asked twice.

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to Emma’s lips, slow and intentional. Familiar. A soft promise of love and something deeper. Emma melted into it, her fingers sliding up around Abigail’s neck, holding her there as she kissed back—eager, unhurried, yet full of heat.

The kisses kept coming—Abigail brushing her lips along Emma’s jaw, then trailing slow kisses down the curve of her neck. Emma sighed, tilting her head, giving her more space, more skin. Every kiss left her feeling lighter, grounded, adored.

Emma’s hands roamed gently—down Abigail’s arms, across her back, finding comfort in every inch. Abigail kissed her again, this time deeper, pressing Emma back gently toward the couch until they collapsed into it together in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

Abigail lay behind her, one hand cradling Emma’s belly while the other traced lazy patterns across her thigh. She kissed the top of her shoulder, then her temple. Then her cheek. Then her lips again.

“You always kiss like you’re trying to tell me something,” Emma whispered against her mouth.

“I am,” Abigail said softly. “I love you. I want you. You’re mine.”

Emma kissed her again in response—again and again, until they were both breathless.

Then Abigail smirked and murmured against her lips, “So… should we take this to the bedroom? Or is out here more exciting?”

Emma pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glinting with amusement. “That depends… do you want to risk knocking over every candle on the way to bed or just commit to the couch as our witness?”

Abigail laughed, pressing a kiss to her nose. “Couch it is. For now.”

Emma’s hands cradled Abigail’s face as she leaned in, their mouths meeting in a slow, hot kiss. There was no rush—just the quiet confidence of two people who knew every inch of each other and still wanted to rediscover it all.

Abigail’s hands settled on Emma’s hips, her thumbs brushing gentle circles just beneath the hem of her slip. “You feel so good,” she whispered against her lips.

Emma smiled, forehead resting against hers. “So do you. God, I’ve missed this.”

Abigail kissed her again—deeper now, tongue teasing against hers, tasting her sighs like wine. One hand slid up Emma’s back, curling into her curls, while the other skimmed lower, fingers tracing the edge of her panties beneath the slip.

Emma’s hips shifted instinctively, pressing against Abigail’s body, her breath hitching when Abigail trailed kisses down her neck—slow, deliberate, branding her with heat.

“You sure you’re comfortable out here?” Abigail murmured, her voice a low vibration against Emma’s collarbone.

Emma nodded, cheeks flushed, eyes hooded. “More than comfortable. I want to feel the breeze… while you make me feel everything else.”

That was all the permission Abigail needed.

She slipped her hand beneath the soft silk of Emma’s nightgown, fingertips brushing across the swell of her belly first—loving, grounding—before continuing their exploration upward, cupping one tender breast, her thumb flicking gently over a sensitive peak.

Emma moaned softly, her hands bracing against Abigail’s shoulders as she rocked her hips slowly, seeking more.

Abigail caught her mouth in another kiss, swallowing every sound as her other hand dipped lower, sliding between Emma’s thighs with practiced ease.

Emma gasped against her lips, nails digging into her shoulders. “Don’t stop… please.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Abigail whispered. “Just you. Just us.”