Your mouth?—
Deleted with the speed and horror of someone defusing a bomb.
She dropped the phone on her stomach. Stared at Moriarty’s vine creeping across the window.
You kissed him. You kissed the Villain King of dark publishing in his studio and pulled his hair and made a sound you will never admit to making, and then you walked away because the last time you let a collaborator close, he stole your work and your trust. Good morning. This is fine. Everything is fine.
She rolled off the couch. Showered. Made coffee. Drank it standing over the sink the way her father used to—the Stone genetic approach to beverages. Got dressed. Looked at her phone.
Still the six words. Still no reply from her.
She called Mika.
Mika’s apartmentin Bed-Stuy was the opposite of a crisis. Music posters and bright textiles and the smell of coffee that deserved the name, not the survival-grade sludge Lumi brewed at home. Rogue, the fat orange cat, occupied the center of the kitchen table like a furry traffic island, unbothered by the emotional catastrophe unfolding around him.
Mika opened the door, took one look at her face, and stepped aside.
“You kissed him.”
Lumi dropped onto the couch. “How?—”
“You’re wearing concealer. You never wear concealer unless you haven’t slept and you’re trying to hide it from someone. Since you called me instead of showing up at the studio—” Mika sat cross-legged in the chair opposite. Rogue jumped from the table to her lap with the grace of a bowling ball. “Spill.”
Lumi spilled.
The late-night session. The villain’s face—too honest, too close to her own exhaustion. His hand on her wrist. Don’t. That’s the best thing either of us has made. The kiss that shattered three weeks of tension in thirty seconds. His growl against her mouth. Her hands in his hair. The cleaning crew. The retreat.
Mika listened. Scratched Rogue behind the ears. Let the silence hold after Lumi ran out of words.
“What did he do? After you said you couldn’t.”
“He stepped back. Said ‘I understand.’ Two words. Then he let me go.”
“He didn’t argue.”
“No.”
“Didn’t chase you. Didn’t push.”
“No.”
Mika tilted her head. “And that’s worse, isn’t it? If he’d pushed, you could be angry. He gave you exactly what you asked for and now you’re sitting on my couch looking like you haven’t slept because a man respected your boundaries and you hate it.”
“I hate that you’re right.”
“It’s my curse. Being right.” Rogue purred. Mika let another beat pass. “Lu.”
“What.”
“Is this about him? Or is this about Harlan?”
The question punched through her.
“Because if every man you work with is contaminated by what Harlan did, he wins forever.” Mika’s voice was steady. No humor. No deflection. The real Mika beneath the punchlines—the woman who had held Lumi’s hand through the worst year of her life and earned the right to ask the hard questions. “You let him take Nightbloom’s origin story. You let him take your trust in collaboration. Are you going to let him take this too?”
Lumi pressed her palms over her eyes. Rogue stared at her from Mika’s lap with the blank judgment only cats achieve.
“I don’t know.”