Chapter 2: Morning After
Vanessa woke to the unfamiliar weight of a limb across her ribs and the crisp, lemony scent of a shampoo that wasn’t hers. Morning light, harsh and candid, cut through the gaps in the blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled landscape of her bed.
She didn’t move. She just breathed, cataloging.
The arm slung over her was lean, defined even in relaxation. A fine tracing of pale blue veins mapped the inside of a forearm. Further down, resting on the sheet near Vanessa’s hip, was a hand with elegant fingers, short, clean nails. A dancer’s hand.
Memory reassembled itself, not in a flood, but in precise, vivid frames. The alley’s greasy shadows. The shocking blue of Jessica’s eyes in the neon gloom. The feel of book spines under their fingers. The heat.
She turned her head, careful not to disturb the arm.
Jessica lay on her stomach, face turned toward Vanessa, buried partly in the pillow. Her blonde hair was a glorious, tangled web across the cotton. The sheet was pooled at the dip of her waist, revealing the smooth expanse of her back, the defined shoulders, the ripple of muscle along her spine. The light caught on a new detail: a tattoo. Not the small dragon-and-nebula on her hip she’d seen last night, but a larger, more intricate piece on her lower ribs, mostly hidden by the sheet’s edge. It looked like the wing of a great bird, or maybe a serpent, etched in black and deep green. A recent addition, the skin around it still slightly raised.
Vanessa’s gaze traveled back to Jessica’s face. In sleep, the confident, wicked mask was gone. She looked younger. Softer. A faint line of mascara was smudged under one eye. Vanessa felt a surge of something protective, startling in its intensity.
She must have made a sound, a shift in breath. Jessica’s eyelids fluttered open. Those blue eyes, clouded with sleep, found Vanessa’s. They focused, cleared. A slow, drowsy smile spread, not the purring smirk from the bar, but something private, genuine.
“Morning,” Jessica rasped, her voice sleep-ravaged and lovely.
“Hi.” Vanessa’s own voice was rough.
Jessica’s hand, the one near Vanessa’s hip, stirred. Her fingers walked a slow path up Vanessa’s side, over the ridge of her hipbone, coming to rest just below her ribcage. The touch was proprietary, questioning. “Still real.”
“Feels real.” Vanessa covered Jessica’s hand with her own, pinning it to her skin. “You snore. Just a little.”
“Liar.” Jessica’s smile widened. She stretched, a long, cat-like unraveling that made every muscle in her back and shoulders play beneath her skin. The sheet slipped another inch. “God, what time is it?”
“Saturday. That’s all I’ve got.”
“A day of reckoning.” Jessica rolled onto her side, facing Vanessa fully, propping her head on her hand. The sheet fell away, and she made no move to pull it back up. The morning light was unforgiving, illuminating every curve, every shadow, the new tattoo in full—a stunning, coiled dragon whose tail disappeared around the curve of her rib cage. Jessica watched Vanessa look, her expression unselfconscious. “Like it? It’s fresh. Still itches like a bastard.”
“It’s beautiful.” Vanessa reached out, her fingers hovering an inch above the colored ink. “Can I?”
“Please.”
Her touch was feather-light, tracing the outline of the dragon’s wing. The skin was warm, slightly textured. Jessica shivered, a full-body tremor that was clearly not from the cold. Her eyes slipped shut for a second. “Okay, that’s a very effective way to wake a person up.”
Vanessa pulled her hand back, smiling. “Noted.” She gestured vaguely at the room. “I should… coffee. Or water. Something that isn’t last night’s vodka.”
“Coffee sounds like a religious experience.” Jessica sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her back was to Vanessa, a landscape of muscle and ink and pale skin. She stood, utterly comfortable in her nakedness, and padded toward the en-suite bathroom. “I’m gonna raid your shower. Try not to psychoanalyze my bathroom habits.”
The door clicked shut. The room felt abruptly, profoundly empty.
Vanessa lay there, listening to the distant rush of water. The metallic scent she’d noticed earlier—old pennies—was stronger now. She sat up, pushing her hair from her face. Her gaze fell on the floor beside Jessica’s side of the bed.
There, neatly folded on top of her discarded jeans, was a small black wallet. Next to it, a phone, and a switchblade with a mother-of-pearl handle.
The knife wasn’t alarming in a theoretical way. It was a specific, concrete object. It spoke of a world where alleys weren’t just for dramatic slumping, where a woman might need more than a witty comeback. Vanessa stared at it, the afterglow in her veins cooling by a degree.
She got up, pulling on a rumpled t-shirt and a pair of panties from the floor. She busied herself in the small kitchenette downstairs, grinding beans, the routine calming her. The knife was a fact. Jessica was a fact. A complex, layered, potentially dangerous fact.
The shower stopped. A few minutes later, Jessica came downstairs. She was wearing her tank top and jeans again, her hair damp and darkened to honey-gold, slicked back from her face. She’d washed the mascara away. She looked fresh, vivid, and slightly out of place among Vanessa’s mismatched mugs and the half-unpacked box of lesson plans by the fridge.
“You have good water pressure,” Jessica announced, leaning against the doorframe.
“It’s the building’s one luxury.” Vanessa handed her a steaming mug. “Black, right?”
“You’re a witch.” Jessica took it, sipped, her eyes closing in appreciation. “Bless you.”
They stood in the quiet kitchen, drinking. The silence wasn’t awkward, but it was thick with everything unsaid. Jessica’s eyes scanned the room, landing on the boxes. “You just moved in?”
“A few months ago. Still feels temporary. I’m good at the living part, bad at the nesting part.”
“I know the feeling.” Jessica’s gaze was distant for a moment. “My place is… minimalist. Everything fits in two suitcases, minus the books. Books get a trunk.”
“Why?” The question was out before Vanessa could filter it.
Jessica looked at her, a measured look. She shrugged one shoulder. “Flexibility. My job isn’t always in the same place. And sometimes…” She paused, choosing her words. “Sometimes you need to be able to leave. Without a trace.”
The knife upstairs seemed to pulse in Vanessa’s consciousness. “Is that what you usually do? Leave without a trace?”
Jessica put her mug down on the counter. She stepped closer, into Vanessa’s space. She didn’t touch her. “Is that what you’re worried about? That I’m going to vanish?”
“I don’t know what to be worried about,” Vanessa admitted. “You’re a stripper with a switchblade and a first edition of T.H. White. You quote Fermi and have a dragon tattooed on your ribs that’s barely healed. You’re… a lot.”
A genuine laugh burst from Jessica, bright and surprised. “I’m a lot. Yeah. That’s fair.” She did touch her then, a single finger tapping the end of Vanessa’s nose. “You’re a kindergarten architect who gets hammered and debates galactic politics with strangers in bars. You’re not exactly a simple open book.”
“Third grade. And it was basic quantum theory, not politics.”
“See?” Jessica’s smile faded into something more serious. She let her hand drop to Vanessa’s arm, her thumb stroking the skin. “The knife is just a tool. Like your… what do you call that keychain thing with the pointy ends?”
“A cat ear self-defense keychain.”
“Right. That. Only mine is sharper and doesn’t have a cute name.” She sighed, her confidence seeming to waver for the first time. “The world isn’t always kind to women who walk home alone at 2 a.m., Vanessa. Even confident ones. I don’t look for trouble. But I’m not helpless when it finds me.” Her eyes searched Vanessa’s. “Does that scare you?”
Vanessa thought about it. The fear was there, but it was twined with something else—a fierce, dawning respect. “It doesn’t scare me. It contextualizes you.”
“Big teacher word.”
“Accurate teacher word.” Vanessa took a step forward, closing the last of the distance. She placed her hands on Jessica’s waist, feeling the solid warmth through the thin cotton of her tank top. “I like my facts. Even complicated ones.”
Jessica’s hands came up to rest on Vanessa’s shoulders. “Good.” She leaned in, her forehead touching Vanessa’s. They stood like that, breathing the same coffee-scented air. “I’m not vanishing today. Unless you want me to.”
“I don’t.”
“Then I’m here.” Jessica pulled back just enough to look at her. “What does a Saturday look like for Vanessa, the non-slumping version?”
“Grocery store. Laundry. Maybe grading spelling tests if I’m feeling particularly wild.”
“Thrilling.” Jessica’s eyes glinted. “Can I come?”
“To the grocery store?”
“To all of it. I’ll be your cart-pushing, laundry-folding assistant. Consider it a cultural exchange. You show me the riveting world of responsible adulthood, I’ll…” She grinned. “I’ll provide witty commentary.”
Vanessa laughed, the last of the morning’s tension dissolving. “It’s a deal. But you have to help me unpack a box. One box. That’s the price of admission.”
“Exploitation.” Jessica stole another sip of her coffee. “But I accept.”
They finished their coffee in easy silence. As Jessica took the mugs to the sink, Vanessa glanced at her phone. A text from Maya: So?? Details, woman! Is he alive? Did you bury him in the alley?
Vanessa typed back, her fingers flying. Not a ‘he’. And no details yet. Still gathering data.
The three dots bounced immediately. A SHE? DETAILS ARE MANDATORY, NOT OPTIONAL.
Later, Vanessa promised. She put the phone down, a secret smile on her lips. She felt Jessica come up behind her, wrapping her arms around Vanessa’s waist, resting her chin on her shoulder.
“Admirers?” Jessica murmured, her lips against Vanessa’s neck.
“My friend Maya. She’s demanding a full report.”
Jessica’s arms tightened. “Tell her the preliminary findings are… promising. But the long-term study is still underway.”
Vanessa turned in her arms. She kissed her, a soft, morning kiss that tasted of coffee and possibility. “I’ll tell her that.”
Upstairs, while Vanessa dug out clean clothes, Jessica wandered to the neglected box by the window. It was marked “Misc – Living Room” in faded marker. She slit the tape with a key from her pocket and peered inside. She pulled out a framed photo: a younger Vanessa, beaming, arms around two older people who shared her ginger hair and bright eyes.
The photo was all sun-squints and grinning familiarity, a fossil from a life that felt planets away. Jessica studied it, her thumb stroking the glass over the older woman’s smile. The simplicity of it pinched something behind her ribs.
She heard Vanessa rustling in the closet down the hall.
Her gaze dropped back into the box. Beneath a stack of old magazines was a small, fabric-covered journal, its spine cracked. It wasn’t locked. It practically hummed with intimacy. Jessica knew she should push the box flaps closed, walk away, pour more coffee.
She didn’t.
She lifted the journal. It fell open in her hands to a random, well-thumbed page. The handwriting was a vigorous, looping script, peppered with underlined words and exuberant exclamation points.
October 12 – Theory: Mr. Henderson is actually a retired space pirate. Evidence: his knowledge of tidal forces, the mysterious scar over his left eye, and the way he always mispronounces “asteroid” as “aster-roid.” Must present this to the class during our unit on the solar system. They’ll either applaud my genius or recommend a psych eval.
Jessica’s lips twitched. She turned a page.
November 3 – Bad date. So bad. He asked if teaching was just “glorified babysitting.” I may have accidentally spilled his craft beer. (Not accidentally). Why is it so hard to find someone who gets it? Who wants to talk about the socio-political structures in Le Guin’s The Dispossessed and also maybe kiss until we’re stupid? Is that a weird ask? It feels like a reasonable ask.
A floorboard creaked in the hall.
Jessica’s head snapped up, but the sound didn’t come closer. She swallowed, a lick of guilt sour in her throat. This was a violation. She knew it. Her eyes dropped back to the page, compelled.
December 18 – Dreamt of a woman with dragon tattoos and hands that knew exactly where to—
“Find anything interesting?”
Vanessa’s voice was quiet, flat. It came from the bedroom doorway.
Jessica froze, the journal open in her hands. She hadn’t heard her approach. Slowly, she turned.
Vanessa leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her old t-shirt. Her expression was unreadable, a careful blankness over her green eyes. She wasn’t smiling. She just watched, waiting.
“I was…” Jessica’s voice faltered. The smooth confidence she wore like armor cracked. She looked from the journal to Vanessa’s face, then slowly closed the book, placing it back in the box with a definitive softness. “I’m sorry. I was nosey.”
“You were.” Vanessa didn’t move. “That’s my private journal.”
“I know.” Jessica stood up, wiping her palms on her jeans. The gesture was uncharacteristically nervous. “The box was open. I saw the photo. Then I saw the book. It was just sitting there.”
“It was in a sealed box,” Vanessa corrected, her tone still even. “You opened the flaps. You took it out.”
There was no denying it. Jessica nodded, accepting the correction. She didn’t offer another excuse. The air between them, so warm minutes ago, was now cool and brittle.
Vanessa pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room. She didn’t go to Jessica. She went to the box, looking down at its contents—the spilled memories, the violated journal. “What did you read?”
“Enough.” Jessica’s voice was low. “Enough to know I shouldn’t have.”
“What did you read, Jessica?”
The use of her full name was a cold splash. Jessica took a breath. “The entry about the space pirate teacher. The one about the bad date and the spilled beer. And…” She met Vanessa’s gaze, forcing herself to hold it. “The start of the one from December. The dream.”
A faint pink flush climbed Vanessa’s neck. The blank expression fractured, revealing a flash of sheer vulnerability, then sharp hurt. “That was private.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t un-read it.” Vanessa finally looked at her, the hurt winning out. “You had a knife in your pocket. You said you could leave without a trace. And now you’re going through my things, reading my dreams about you before we even met. What is that?”
The question hung there, sharp as the blade upstairs.
Jessica felt cornered. Not by Vanessa, but by her own actions. She gestured helplessly at the box. “I was curious. About you. The real you, not the version from last night or this morning. This,” she pointed at the journal, “felt real. It’s clever and funny and lonely and I just… wanted it.”
“So you took it,” Vanessa said. “You didn’t ask.”
“No. I didn’t ask.” Jessica took a step forward, then stopped, seeing Vanessa tense. “Asking is hard. Asking gives someone the power to say no, to hide the good parts. Taking… taking feels like you might actually get to see them.”
“That’s a really fucked-up way to build trust.”
“I know.” Jessica ran a hand through her damp hair. “Trust isn’t… it’s not a muscle I exercise often. Observation is. Assessment. I observe, I assess, I decide if a place or a person is safe. Or worth the risk.”
“And?” Vanessa’s arms were wrapped tightly around herself now. “What’s the assessment now?”
Jessica looked at her—the defiant set of her jaw, the wounded eyes, the way she stood protectively over her box of secrets. She was a fortress, and Jessica had just blown a hole in her own newly built gate.
“The assessment,” Jessica said softly, “is that I really like the woman who writes in that journal. And I’m an idiot who might have just ruined my chance to get to know her properly.”
The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of the refrigerator downstairs. Vanessa looked away, out the window at the brick wall of the adjacent building. She seemed to be weighing the journal entry, the knife, the dragon tattoo, against the woman standing awkwardly in the middle of her half-unpacked room.
“Put it back,” Vanessa said finally, her voice tight. “All of it. Exactly how you found it.”
Jessica nodded, relief and shame mixing in her gut. She knelt quickly, carefully rearranging the journal, the photo, the magazines. She closed the flaps, smoothing the tape as if she could seal the moment away.
When she stood, Vanessa was still watching her. The anger had banked, replaced by a weary caution. “The grocery store is off,” Vanessa stated.
“Okay.”
“You should go.”
The words were a dismissal, but not a cruel one. They were a necessary reset. Jessica nodded again. “Yeah. I should.”
She collected her things from the bedside table—wallet, phone, the mother-of-pearl knife. She slipped the knife into her pocket, the weight of it familiar and suddenly heavy with new meaning. She walked to the bedroom door, pausing when she was level with Vanessa.
“For what it’s worth,” Jessica said, not touching her, “the dream was a good one. I’m… flattered to have been in it. Even as a metaphor.”
Vanessa didn’t respond. She just looked at the floor.
Jessica made her way downstairs alone. She let herself out, the click of the front door a dull, final sound in the quiet apartment. She stood on the top step, the morning sun warm on her face. She had her two suitcases and her trunk of books. She had her flexibility.
It felt like a hollow consolation.
Upstairs, Vanessa listened to the door close. She walked to the window, peering down just in time to see Jessica emerge onto the sidewalk. She watched her pause, tilt her face up to the sun for a second, then walk away without looking back, her blonde hair a bright flag in the morning light.
Vanessa’s hand went to the journal in the box. She didn’t take it out. She just pressed her palm against the fabric cover, as if she could absorb the truth of her own words back through her skin. The apartment was silent, vast, and unpacked.