Chapter 7: The First Morning
The first thing Lydia registered was warmth. A solid, breathing warmth pressed against her side, one arm draped across her stomach, fingers loosely curled into the fabric of the sheet. The second thing was the weight of a head on her chest, dark hair tickling her chin, soft breath ghosting across her collarbone.
She blinked awake slowly, the golden light of morning filtering through her blinds and painting stripes across the ceiling. For a disoriented moment, she didn't know where she was. Then the memories came flooding back—the restaurant, the supply closet, the desperate tangle of limbs and whispered confessions—and a smile spread across her face before she could stop it.
Ellie was still asleep, her features softened in rest, lips slightly parted. She looked younger like this, less like the woman who commanded rooms and more like a girl who might giggle at something stupid. The fairy lights above them had burned out sometime in the night, their bulbs dark and cold, but the morning sun more than made up for it.
Lydia didn't dare move. She lay there, memorizing the weight of Ellie against her, cataloging every detail: the faint freckle dusted across Ellie's nose, the small scar on her eyebrow, the way her lashes fanned against her cheeks. She was so beautiful it made Lydia's chest ache.
Then Ellie stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they found Lydia's. A slow smile spread across her face, sleepy and genuine.
"Morning," Ellie murmured, her voice rough with sleep.
"Morning."
Ellie shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at Lydia properly. Her hair was a wild mess, tangled and sticking up in odd directions. She looked obscene and wonderful and entirely unselfconscious.
"Did you sleep at all?" Ellie asked, her thumb tracing lazy circles on Lydia's stomach.
"Some." Lydia's voice came out croaky. "You snore, by the way."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do. It's adorable. Like a tiny, very aggressive kitten."
Ellie's face contorted into an expression of mock offense. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to Lydia's sternum—a deliberate, teasing gesture—before pulling back with a grin.
"You're lucky you're cute," Ellie said.
"I'm very cute."
"You're insufferable, is what you are."
But she was smiling as she said it, and when she leaned down again, this time to capture Lydia's lips, the kiss was soft and tender. It tasted like morning breath and something sweeter beneath it—a promise, maybe, or the beginning of one. Lydia's hand came up to cup Ellie's jaw, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss until they were both breathless.
When they finally broke apart, Ellie's gaze wandered lazily around the room. The chaos of last night was still evident: her bra dangling from the desk lamp, Lydia's dress pooled on the floor, the empty coffee cup sitting next to a half-eaten bag of chips that had somehow survived the carnage. Ellie's eyes traced the fairy lights strung across the ceiling, the haphazard pile of textbooks on the desk, the collection of empty water bottles lined up on the windowsill like soldiers.
Then her gaze landed on the wall above Lydia's desk. The crucifix hung there, small and silver, catching the morning light. And next to it, tucked into the frame of the mirror, was a photograph—Lydia in a racing suit, helmet tucked under her arm, grinning at the camera with a confidence she rarely showed in daily life.
Ellie's eyebrows lifted. She reached out and plucked the photo from the mirror frame, bringing it closer for inspection.
"Is this you?" she asked, a note of surprise in her voice.
Lydia felt a flush creep up her neck. "Yeah. That was from a few years ago. Regional rally championship."
"Rally driving?" Ellie's eyes were wide. "Like, fast cars and dirt roads and terrifying hairpin turns?"
"The terrifying hairpin turns are the best part."
Ellie stared at her for a long moment, then looked back at the photo. "Lydia, this is—I mean, this is not what I would have pictured. At all."
"What did you picture?" Lydia asked, a defensive edge creeping into her voice despite herself. "Me knitting sweaters and reading poetry?"
"Honestly? Yes. Maybe with a side of aggressively organizing your bookshelf by color."
Lydia snorted. "I do organize my bookshelf by color." She paused. "But I also know how to change a tire in under four minutes."
"Jesus." Ellie shook her head, a slow grin spreading across her face. "You're full of surprises, you know that?"
"So are you."
Ellie gestured at the crucifix. "I'm guessing that's not just decorative."
Lydia's smile faded slightly. She looked at the crucifix, then back at Lydia, her expression shifting to something more thoughtful.
"Raised Catholic," Lydia said, her voice careful. "The whole thing—Sunday mass, youth group, the works. My mom still sends me letters reminding me to pray for my soul."
"And do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Pray."
Lydia was quiet for a moment. The crucifix seemed to watch her, silent and judgmental. She thought about her mom's letters, tucked away in a shoebox under her bed. About the way she'd stopped going to mass sometime in her second year, when the weight of pretending had become too heavy to bear. About the guilt that still surfaced sometimes, unbidden and unwelcome.
"I don't know," she admitted finally. "I think I want to believe. I think I want there to be something bigger than all of this." She gestured vaguely at the room, at herself, at the tangled mess of her life. "But I don't know if I can. Not anymore."
Ellie was quiet, still holding the photo. She looked at it for a long moment, then set it gently back on the desk. When she turned back to Lydia, her face was open. No judgment lurking there.
"I get it," Ellie said quietly. "I'm not religious myself, but I get the pull. The wanting to believe."
"You do?"
"Yeah." Ellie's gaze was steady. "I think everyone wants to believe there's a reason for things. A plan. Something that makes the chaos make sense."
"And you don't think there is?"
"I think we make our own meaning." Ellie shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I think we find people who make the chaos feel worth it, and that's enough."
Lydia felt something shift in her chest. It wasn't a grand revelation, nothing seismic, but it was something. A loosening of the knot she'd been carrying for so long. She reached out and took Ellie's hand, intertwining their fingers.
"That's a nice way to think about it," she said softly.
"I'm full of nice ways to think about things." Ellie squeezed her hand. "You'll learn that about me."
The word "learn" hung in the air between them. It implied a future, a continuation. It implied that this wasn't just a one-night thing, that there would be more mornings like this, more conversations, more discoveries.
Lydia's heart fluttered with a mixture of joy and terror.
"Speaking of which," Ellie said, her tone shifting to something lighter, "I should probably get dressed. I have a class at ten, and I need to stop by my apartment first to grab some notes I left on the kitchen table."
She pushed herself up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The sheets fell away, revealing the long line of her back, the curve of her hips, the thigh-high socks she was still wearing, now slightly wrinkled and askew.
Lydia watched her, transfixed.
Then, without warning, Ellie turned around. She looked down at Lydia with a grin that was positively wicked. And then she stood up, stretching her arms above her head in a deliberate, theatrical motion that showed off every inch of her bare body.
"I can feel you staring," Ellie said, her voice singsong.
"I'm not staring. I'm appreciating."
"Is that what we're calling it now?"
Lydia laughed, the sound bright and genuine. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, not bothering to hide her gaze as Ellie padded across the room to where her clothes lay scattered on the floor. She watched as Ellie bent over to pick up her bra, watched as she slid it on with practiced ease, watched as she stepped into her thong and pulled it up over her hips.
Ellie caught her looking and winked.
"Enjoying the show?"
"Immensely."
Ellie's laugh was low and warm. She pulled her top over her head, then stepped into her skirt, zipping it up with quick, efficient movements. She looked almost as put-together as she had last night, save for her hair, which was still adorably disheveled.
She turned to face Lydia, a small smile playing at her lips. "You're going to get dressed too, right? We're still on for breakfast?"
"Of course." Lydia sat up, letting the sheet fall to her waist. "Wouldn't miss it."
"Good." Ellie walked over to the bed, leaning down to press a kiss to Lydia's forehead. "Because I have a feeling this is going to be the start of something. Something good."
Lydia's heart swelled. She reached up and cupped Ellie's face, pulling her down for one more kiss. It was soft and sweet and tasted like possibility.
When they pulled apart, Ellie's eyes were bright. "I'll meet you at The Corner Café in an hour? I know a guy who does amazing pancakes."
"Sounds perfect."
Ellie grabbed her bag from where it had fallen next to the door. She paused at the threshold, looking back at Lydia one last time. The morning light caught her features, turning her into something ethereal.
"Hey, Lyddy?" Her voice was softer now, hesitant in a way it hadn't been all night.
"Yeah?"
"I meant what I said last night." Ellie's eyes were earnest. "About not going anywhere. I know this is"—she gestured vaguely between them—"new and complicated and probably terrifying. But I'm not scared. Are you?"
Lydia thought about her mom's letters, about the crucifix on the wall, about the friends she'd never come out to, about the carefully constructed facade she'd spent years building. She thought about Daisy, the taste of tequila and secrets, the shame she'd felt the morning after. She thought about all the reasons she should be scared, all the ways this could go wrong.
Then she looked at Ellie, standing in her doorway with the morning light in her hair, and she made a choice.
"Terrified," Lydia admitted. "But I'm not running."
Ellie's smile was like the sun coming out from behind clouds. "Good. That's all I needed to hear."
She slipped out the door, and Lydia listened to her footsteps retreat down the hallway, followed by the distant sound of the stairwell door swinging shut. The room was quiet again, but it didn't feel empty. It felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for what came next.
Lydia sat there for a long moment, the sheet pooled around her waist. Then she looked at the photo on her desk—her younger self, grinning under a helmet, unburdened and free. She looked at the crucifix, silver and silent, watching over a girl who wasn't sure she believed anymore.
She got out of bed and started to get dressed.
She chose her outfit carefully: dark jeans that hugged her curves, a fitted sweater the color of autumn leaves. She didn't have time to do much with her hair, so she pulled it into a loose ponytail, letting a few strands frame her face. A touch of mascara. A swipe of lip gloss.
She looked in the mirror and barely recognized herself. Not because she looked different—she'd worn these clothes before, done her hair this way before—but because she felt different. Lighter. Like a weight she hadn't known she was carrying had been lifted off her shoulders.
She grabbed her keys and her wallet, pausing at the door. She caught a glimpse of herself one more time in the full-length mirror, a small smile playing at her lips. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out. A text from Ellie:
Forgot to ask—do you like blueberry or chocolate chip pancakes?
Lydia's smile widened. She typed back:
Yes.
The reply came almost instantly. Bold choice. I respect it.
She laughed out loud, the sound filling the empty room. Then she shoved her phone back in her pocket and walked out the door, into a morning that felt full of promise.
The hallway was quiet, most students still asleep or already in class. She made her way down the stairs and out into the crisp autumn air. The sun was higher now, golden and warm, and the campus was coming alive around her—students hurrying to class, the distant sound of construction, the smell of coffee drifting from the café.
She rounded the corner toward The Corner Café and saw Ellie already waiting outside, two cups of coffee in her hands. She'd changed into a pair of worn-in jeans and a flannel shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy bun that somehow looked effortlessly perfect. She looked up as Lydia approached, and her face lit up with a smile that made Lydia's heart stutter.
"You made it," Ellie called out.
"Did you doubt me?"
"Never." Ellie handed her one of the coffees. "Blueberry or chocolate chip?"
Lydia took a sip, savoring the warmth. "Surprise me."
Ellie's grin was pure mischief. "I was hoping you'd say that. I ordered both."
She turned and pushed open the café door, holding it for Lydia. Inside, the smell of fresh pastries and roasting coffee wrapped around them like a blanket. The place was cozy, all warm wood and exposed brick, with a chalkboard menu hanging above the counter.
Lydia followed Ellie to a corner booth, sliding in across from her. They sat there in comfortable silence for a moment, sipping their coffee, stealing glances at each other. The morning light streamed through the window, catching the dust motes floating in the air.
"So," Ellie said, setting down her cup. "I have a question for you."
"Only one?"
"For now." Ellie leaned forward, her elbows on the table. "What's your favorite thing about rally driving? Like, the actual moment when you feel most alive?"
The unexpectedness of the question caught Lydia off guard. She paused, thinking about it.
"It's not the speed," she said slowly. "It's the focus. When you're on a course, everything else falls away. Your brain goes quiet. There's only the road and the car and you." She looked at her hands, wrapped around the warm coffee cup. "It's the only time I feel like I'm not performing. Like I'm just... me."
Ellie took her time responding. "I want to see that someday," she said softly. "I want to see you in your element."
"You'd be bored. It's just cars and dirt and a lot of engine noise."
"I doubt it." Ellie's eyes were warm. "I think seeing you passionate about something is about the furthest thing from boring I can imagine."
Lydia felt her cheeks flush. She ducked her head, hiding her smile behind her coffee cup. "You're going to make me blush at this rate."
"Good." Ellie's grin was unrepentant. "You're cute when you blush."
They spent the next hour talking. About nothing, and everything. About Ellie's course in environmental science, and how her professor'd tried to roast her for using the phrase "climate justice" in an essay. About Lydia's final-year thesis on the economic impacts of rally tourism on rural communities. About the shared language of being the kind of person who thinks too much and feels even more.
"Wait," Ellie said, nearly choking on a bite of blueberry pancake. "So you're the one who wrote that anonymous letter to the student paper about the university's investment portfolio?"
"There are only like three people who know I wrote that," Lydia said, her eyes wide.
"I'm one of those three now."
Lydia shook her head, but she was smiling. "You're impossible."
"That's probably true."
By the time they finished their pancakes, the café had filled up around them. Lydia checked her phone—she had a seminar at one, and Ellie had already confessed to skipping a class to spend more time with her.
"Worth it," Ellie had said with a shrug.
They walked out of the café together; their hands were still separate, but closer now, their fingers brushing occasionally as they walked. Neither acknowledged the contact. But both of them softened.
"Can I walk you to your building?" Ellie asked.
Lydia hesitated. Her seminar was on the other side of campus, and walking together meant being seen together. Being seen meant questions. Questions meant explanations she wasn't ready to give.
But then she looked at Ellie, walking beside her in the morning light and wearing a hopeful expression, and she realized she didn't want to let go.
"Yeah," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "That'd be nice."
They strolled across campus, past the old library and the student union, past clusters of students and professors hurrying to their afternoon classes. Lydia was acutely aware of the distance between them—the careful gap she was maintaining, the way she kept glancing around to see if anyone was watching.
Ellie noticed. She didn't say anything at first, but there was a shift in her posture. A subtle withdrawal.
"Hey," Lydia said, stopping in the middle of the path. "It's not—this isn't about you. It's about—"
"You don't have to explain," Ellie said softly. "I get it. This is new. And I know your situation isn't simple. I'm not asking you to shout it from the rooftops."
Lydia looked down at her shoes, ashamed of the relief that flooded through her. "I'm sorry. You deserve better than someone who makes you walk three steps behind just in case someone sees us."
Ellie stepped closer, close enough that Lydia could smell her scent—something floral and clean, mixed with the lingering warmth of the café. She reached out, her fingers finding a small space between them.
"Look at me," Ellie said.
Lydia raised her eyes. There was no judgment in Ellie's gaze. Only understanding.
"I'm not going to pressure you," Ellie said. "But I'm also not going to hide. I've spent too many years pretending to be something I'm not." She tilted her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "Make of that what you will."
She dropped her hand and took a step back. The space between them felt like an ocean.
"See you soon, Lyddy."
And then she was walking away, leaving Lydia standing on the path, her heart pounding in her chest.