Chapter 7: Breakfast and Boundaries
The first thing Y/n became aware of was the weight of sunlight on her closed eyelids, warm and persistent as a touch. Then came the smell—expensive linen, jasmine, sex, and beneath it all, the faint, clean scent of Margot’s skin. She was on her back, a cashmere throw tangled around her hips, utterly naked. The previous night unfolded in her mind not as a blur, but in vivid, shockingly clear panels: the rooftop, the toolbox on the rug, the feeling of Margot holding her as she came apart.
She opened her eyes. The vast living room was flooded with a sharp, mid-morning light that made the white marble floors glow. The city below was already in motion, a silent film behind glass.
A soft rustle came from the hallway. Margot appeared, padding barefoot across the floor. She wore a robe of deep emerald silk, loosely tied, her blonde hair a glorious, slept-in mess. Seeing Y/n awake, she paused, a slow, private smile spreading across her face. It wasn’t the polished movie-star smile. This was smaller, sleep-soft, and entirely for her.
“Hey,” Margot said, her voice husky with morning.
“Hey.” Y/n’s own voice was gravel. She pushed herself up on her elbows, the blanket pooling at her waist.
Margot’s eyes traveled over her, unabashed. “Coffee?”
“God, yes.”
While Margot moved into the kitchen, Y/n stretched, her spine giving a satisfying pop. She found her boxer-briefs and pulled them on, but left her shirt and pants in a pile on the floor. The domesticity of the scene felt surreal, like stepping into a painting she’d admired from a distance. She followed the sound of the grinder.
Margot’s kitchen was a symphony of steel and light. On the massive island, remnants of a late-night snack sat abandoned: a board with curled slices of salami, a few green olives, a knife stuck in a wedge of cheese dusted with rusty-red paprika. Next to it, a cocktail shaker stood guard over two empty glasses, their rims stained with lime and salt.
Y/n leaned against the cold stainless-steel fridge, watching as Margot focused on the elaborate espresso machine. Her motions were careful, practiced. The silence between them was no longer charged with unknown potential, but with the profound, quiet wonder of a bridge crossed.
Margot handed her a heavy ceramic mug. Their fingers brushed. Y/n took a sip. It was perfect—strong, bitter, no sugar.
“You know your way around a machine,” Y/n said.
“I know my way around a lot of things,” Margot replied, the corner of her mouth ticking up. She poured steamed milk into her own cup. “Construction isn’t one of them. Hence the toolbox fiasco.”
Y/n chuckled, the sound warm in the sun-drenched space. “I told you, I’d fix it.” She glanced toward the hallway. “The offer still stands. Consider it a house call.”
They stood hip-to-hip at the island, sipping coffee, looking out at the bleached sky. The world outside felt irrelevant, a painted backdrop. Here, the only facts were the taste of coffee, the cool stone under Y/n’s bare feet, the warmth of Margot’s arm beside hers.
Margot set her mug down with a decisive click. She turned, leaning back against the counter, and faced Y/n fully. The playful light had receded from her eyes, replaced by a gentle, unwavering seriousness.
“I have a question,” she said.
Y/n felt a familiar internal brace—the one she’d honed over six years of deflection. But she didn’t look away. She just nodded, setting her own mug aside.
“What are we?” Margot asked. The words were simple, bare. No frills, no Hollywood spin.
Y/n’s throat tightened. She looked down at her own hands, resting on the cold stone. They were scarred, capable, shaking just slightly. She exhaled, pushing the old fear aside. This was Margot. This was the woman who had cupped her face on a rooftop and seen her, all of her.
She closed the small distance between them. Her hands, still smelling of soap and old coffee, came up to frame Margot’s face. Her thumbs stroked the incredible softness of her cheeks. She didn’t speak. She just leaned in and kissed her.
It was a different kiss from any they’d shared. Not hungry, not desperate, not exploratory. It was slow, deep, and profoundly sure. A seal. A answer in itself. Y/n poured everything into it—the loneliness of those six years, the shock of the rooftop, the terrifying hope of this sunlit morning.
When she finally pulled back, their foreheads remained touching. Margot’s eyes were closed, her breath coming in soft puffs against Y/n’s lips.
“We’re whatever you want us to be,” Y/n murmured, her voice rough with emotion. “But for me? I’d like it to be something real. Something that happens in kitchens in the morning. Not just on rooftops at night.”
Margot’s eyes opened. They were bright, glistening. She didn’t cry. She just nodded, once, a quick, firm dip of her chin. Then her arms were around Y/n’s neck, pulling her into an embrace so tight it felt like a claim. Y/n buried her face in the silk at Margot’s shoulder, her own arms banding around the slender strength of her back. They held each other, swaying a little in the patch of sunlight.
The buzzer from the building’s intercom sliced through the silence, harsh and electronic.
They jumped apart. Margot let out a shaky laugh, wiping under her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Reality calls.”
“You expecting someone?” Y/n asked, her body instinctively shifting, ready to retreat, to become a secret again.
“Just a car. I have a… a thing. A fitting.” Margot looked at her, seeing the brief shadow pass over Y/n’s face. She reached out, took her hand. “Hey. No. This isn’t you hiding. This is me having a stupid, pre-scheduled obligation. Stay. Please. Fix my faucet. Raid my fridge. Be here when I get back.”
The buzzer sounded again, more impatient.
“Go,” Y/n said, squeezing her hand. “I’ll be here. The drip will be gone.”
Margot leaned in, kissed her quickly, a hard press of promise. Then she vanished down the hallway, her robe fluttering behind her.
Y/n stood alone in the quiet kitchen. She finished her coffee, listening to the muffled sound of Margot’s voice through the intercom, then the click of the bedroom door. The air shifted. She was alone in Margot Robbie’s penthouse. Not as a guest, not as a hookup. As something else.
She walked to the sink, turned on the tap. A persistent, metallic plink… plink… plink echoed from the faucet head. She smiled. A problem she could solve with her hands. She went to the living room, gathered her discarded shirt and pants, dressed quickly. Then she knelt by the toolbox, her fingers finding the wrench, the tape, the washers. The familiar, solid weight of the tools was a comfort.
As she worked, the sound of the city a distant hum, she realized the trembling in her hands was gone. The quiet of the apartment wasn’t empty. It was waiting. And for the first time in six years, so was she.