Chapter 8: The Faucet and a Fitting
The drip was silenced. Y/n gave the faucet handle one final, testing turn. Nothing. Just the smooth, solid silence of a problem solved. She wiped her hands on the thighs of her jeans, the gesture automatic, and looked at her work. A simple fix. It felt good.
She cleaned up, returning the wrench and washers to the toolbox, snapping the latches shut with a final click. The sound echoed in the quiet apartment. Now what? Margot had said stay. Raid the fridge. Be here. The permission was thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. She wasn’t a secret, but she was still alone in a museum of someone else’s life.
She wandered from the kitchen, her boots silent on the rug. Her eyes scanned the living room with new curiosity. Before, it had been a backdrop. Now, it was a map of Margot. A bookshelf held a mix of well-thumbed paperbacks and glossy script binders. Her fingers trailed over the spines: a dog-eared copy of The Secret History, a biography of some obscure filmmaker, a thriller with a Post-it note sticking out.
On a low shelf, a framed photograph. Margot, younger, squinting into the sun on a rocky beach, her arm slung around the shoulders of a laughing older woman who shared her eyes. No glamour, just joy. Y/n touched the edge of the frame, a quiet ache blooming in her chest.
From down the hallway, a muffled sound. A zipper, then a soft, frustrated curse.
Y/n moved toward the half-open bedroom door. She could see a slice of the room—a rumpled bed, sunlight on a grey upholstered bench.
“Everything okay?” she called, her voice tentative.
A beat of silence. “The universe is conspiring against this dress,” Margot’s voice floated back, threaded with amused irritation. “Can you… come in?”
Y/n pushed the door open. Margot stood with her back to the door, facing a full-length mirror. She was in a dress of deep cobalt blue, the fabric hugging her ribs and waist before falling straight. The zipper was stuck halfway up, the pale line of her spine exposed.
“It’s caught on the lining,” Margot said, twisting to look over her shoulder. Her hair was now sleek, her makeup subtle but perfect. The transformation from the woman in the silk robe was staggering. Yet the look in her eyes was the same: open, asking.
Y/n stepped into the room. It smelled like her perfume and clean cotton. “Let me see.”
She moved close. Her work-roughened fingers, so out of place against the delicate fabric, gently pinched the tangled lining, freeing it from the zipper’s teeth. The slide of the metal was loud in the quiet room. She drew the zipper up slowly, her knuckles brushing the warm skin of Margot’s back, feeling the faint bumps of her vertebrae.
Their eyes met in the mirror. Y/n’s hands came to rest on Margot’s shoulders. She saw herself then—tall, in a simple tee and jeans, her short curls tousled, standing in the heart of Margot Robbie’s world. The contrast should have been absurd. It felt inevitable.
She leaned down, her lips near Margot’s ear, her voice a low murmur. “You look… powerful.”
Not just beautiful. Powerful. Margot’s breath hitched. She turned within the circle of Y/n’s arms.
The kiss wasn’t hungry. It was a confirmation. A slow, deep press that tasted of mint and lipstick and the coffee they’d shared. Y/n’s hands slid from her shoulders to cradle her jaw, thumbs stroking her cheekbones. She could feel the frantic beat of Margot’s pulse under her fingertips.
When they parted, Margot’s lipstick was slightly smudged. Y/n didn’t wipe it away.
“I have to go,” Margot whispered, her forehead resting against Y/n’s collarbone. “It’s a two-hour thing. A table read. Then I’m done.”
“Okay.”
“Will you be here?”
Y/n kissed her forehead. “I said I would.”
Margot nodded, drawing a steadying breath. She glanced at the smudge, then at Y/n’s mouth, and a slow, wicked grin spread across her face. “Good.” She dabbed at the corner of Y/n’s mouth with her thumb. “You’re wearing me now.”
Y/n laughed, the sound rich and easy in the pristine room. “Looks good on me.”
“It does.” Margot grabbed a small leather bag from the bed, gave Y/n one more searing look, and slipped out the door.
A minute later, Y/n heard the faint sigh of the elevator doors.
The immense quiet of the penthouse settled back, but it was a different quiet. It was full. Y/n walked back into the living room. She didn’t raid the fridge. She just stood at the window, watching a sleek black car pull away from the curb far below and dissolve into the stream of traffic.
She returned to the sofa, the same one she’d woken up on. The throw blanket was still tangled. She picked it up, folded it neatly, and placed it over the arm. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
A text from her foreman: All good for the Bryant job Monday?
A text from her sister: Call me later, weirdo. Love you.
The normalcy of it was an anchor. She typed replies, her body sinking into the cushions. The sun moved across the floor. She must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew, the quality of light had changed, and a key was turning in the lock.
Y/n opened her eyes. Margot stood in the doorway, haloed by the hallway light. She’d changed back into jeans and a soft-looking sweater, the glamour shed like a skin. In her hands were two large paper bags, smelling sharply of garlic and grease.
“I bribed the driver to stop at Lucardo’s,” she said, kicking the door shut with her heel. “I figured if you’re going to be my live-in handyman, I should feed you.”
Y/n sat up, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Lucardo’s? The place on 10th with the six-month wait?”
“The wait is figurative if you’re me,” Margot said, dropping the bags on the coffee table with a rustle. She looked at Y/n, really looked, as if checking to see if she’d imagined her. “You’re still here.”
“I’m still here,” Y/n said, and it felt like the most important sentence she’d ever spoken.