The kiss nded soft on her forehead, like a blessing. Imani’s lips lingered there just a moment longer than they had to, her breath warm, the shape of her mouth etched into Jasmine’s skin like a memory finally made real.

  “I’ll put on the kettle,” Imani said quietly, her voice honey-slow, sweet with the hush of evening. She stroked Jasmine’s cheek with the backs of her fingers before stepping away, heading toward the little galley kitchen, barefoot and loose-limbed. Her hoodie slid a little off one shoulder as she moved, exposing smooth skin, and the hem of her shorts swayed around her thighs like something out of a dream.

  Jasmine stood still for a beat, the ghost of that kiss clinging to her skin. Her fingers touched her forehead absently, dazed. Her heart was still fluttering like a moth trapped behind her ribs, bumping against her chest, unsure if it was fear or something sweeter.

  Then—

  “You can go freshen up, baby,” Imani called softly over the gentle rattle of a drawer opening. “There’s still clothes in the dresser. Top drawer, right side.”

  Jasmine nodded instinctively, forgetting Imani couldn’t see her from the kitchen. “Okay,” she mumbled, then caught herself, voice barely audible over the first few bars of Fresh Prince reruns filtering through the TV’s old speakers. “Thank you.”

  The bedroom felt the same. The air smelled faintly of lemon and clean sheets. The walls had new art, maybe—a few pressed flower frames, a photograph of some ke—but the bed was still low and wide and dressed in the same soft gray comforter she remembered lying under with her head in Imani’s p. Reading comics. Crying. Kissing.

  The dresser creaked gently when she opened it. The top drawer was full of softness. Cotton and fleece and that faint Imani-scent, like sun and undry soap and skin. Jasmine pulled out a pale vender sleep shirt that said NEVER TOO TIRED FOR TEA across the chest in faded gold lettering. It was probably from a farmer’s market or some niche online shop. It was oversized, worn-in, and perfect. Beneath it, loose shorts—navy blue with tiny stars. She slipped them on with trembling fingers.

  In the bathroom, she washed her face with cool water. Brushed her hair. Took a breath. Then two. The mirror reflected someone new. Not different, not really. Just… softer. Eyes less tight. Shoulders less heavy.

  By the time she padded back to the living room, her bare feet whispering across the floor, the tea was steeping and the smell of chamomile and honey hung in the air like a bnket. Imani was curled up in the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, a mug in each hand.

  Her face lit up when she saw Jasmine. That smile. Not wide. Not hungry. Just warm. Like a sunrise.

  “I saved you the big mug,” she said, holding out the one with a cartoon ghost that read BOO!tiful in puffy letters. “You always said tea tastes better in big mugs.”

  Jasmine took it, fingers brushing Imani’s. Her heart leapt. “You remembered that?”

  “Baby, I remember everything.”

  Jasmine’s breath caught. Her fingers curled around the warmth of the mug. She sat beside her, cross-legged, careful not to jostle anything. The tea smelled like safety. Like sleepovers and gentle hands on her back and whispered promises under moonlight.

  On the screen, Will Smith was dancing in a school hallway. Laugh tracks bubbled like carbonated water.

  Imani turned the volume down just enough so it pyed like a lulby. Then she looked at Jasmine again. Really looked. And Jasmine felt it. That gaze. Like she wasn’t just seen—she was held by it.

  “I missed you so bad,” Jasmine whispered.

  “I know, baby.” Imani reached over, her fingers brushing a stray curl from Jasmine’s cheek. “I missed you too. Every day.”

  Jasmine blinked fast, sipping her tea so she didn’t cry. It was too sweet. Too warm. Exactly right.

  They didn’t talk for a while after that. They didn’t need to. Jasmine leaned gently against Imani’s shoulder, careful not to spill her tea. Imani tilted her head so it rested lightly against hers. Their bodies touched at the hip. That was all. No pressure. No rush. Just two old hearts syncing up again.

  Outside, the city hummed low and far away. Inside, everything was quiet except for ughter from the TV and the soft clink of ceramic mugs. Jasmine’s legs stretched a little more, curling toward Imani. Imani’s arm slipped around her shoulders without a word.

  And in that soft hum of warmth and sitcom reruns, Jasmine breathed deeper. Slower. Safe.

  Tomorrow could be anything. But tonight? Tonight was hers.

  And Jasmine didn’t want to move. Not at first. Not with Imani’s arm around her, their bodies fitting like a secret meant only for them. But eventually her fingers twitched, just a little. She set her mug down on the coffee table, quiet as a whisper, and shifted to face Imani more fully.

  Imani tilted her head. “You okay?”

  Jasmine nodded, biting her lip. “I just… I wanna be closer.”

  A pause. Not of hesitation. Just reverence.

  “C’mere,” Imani murmured.

  Jasmine scooted in slow. Her knees tucked beside Imani’s thigh. One hand resting light on her chest, over the steady beat of her heart. Their faces were inches apart now. Jasmine’s breath was shaking just a little, her shes low, lips parted but unsure.

  Imani’s fingers came up—barely brushing her jaw. “You don’t have to be scared.”

  “I’m not,” Jasmine whispered. “I’m just… shy. You know th.”

  Imani smiled then. Soft and slow. “That’s okay. I like you shy.”

  Their mouths met like rain meeting open ground. Not a crash. A soak. Warm and slow and deep. Jasmine whimpered into it, her hand curling in the fabric of Imani’s shirt. Imani kissed her like she was something precious, like she could fall apart and be gathered back up in those arms and nothing would break.

  And when Jasmine climbed into her p, straddling her thighs with quiet, uncertain movements, Imani just held her steady. Hands gentle on her waist, thumbs stroking comfort into skin.

  “I missed touching you,” Jasmine breathed against her mouth. “Not even just sex. Just… this. Being allowed to.”

  “You’ve always been allowed.” Imani kissed her again, deeper now. One hand slid down, cupping the back of Jasmine’s thigh, warm palm curling just beneath the hem of her shorts. “You can have whatever you need.”

  Jasmine shivered, her hips pressing forward—tentative. Her cock was already hard, trapped against her soft shorts, a quiet pressure between their bodies. Imani felt it. She didn’t move fast. Didn’t grind. Just breathed. Imani kissed her shoulder. Then her colrbone. Then the little notch at her throat. “Lie back for me. Right here.”

  The couch was too narrow to lie ft, but Imani made space. She pulled Jasmine down slow, guiding her to stretch out with a pillow beneath her head. Jasmine’s eyes fluttered. Her cheeks burned. Her legs parted without thinking.

  Imani settled between them, pressing kisses to the insides of her thighs, over soft cotton, over skin that trembled with every touch.

  “You’re so beautiful like this,” she whispered.

  Jasmine moaned—quiet, high-pitched, like she was afraid to be loud. Imani kissed the shape of her cock through her shorts, slow and sweet. Then peeled them down, inch by inch, revealing her. Hard and flushed and already leaking. Jasmine covered her face with one arm, breath coming faster now.

  Imani caught her wrist. Gently. “No hiding. I wanna see you.” Jasmine looked at her, eyes wide and glossy, lips parted in that tender way that made Imani ache. She leaned down again. Pressed the softest kiss to the tip. Then another. Then opened her mouth, slow and warm, taking her in like worship. Jasmine gasped. Her hips arched. Her hand gripped the edge of the couch.

  “Imani…”

  That name sounded like prayer. Imani sucked slow. Hollowing her cheeks, sliding her tongue in smooth, loving circles. No rush. No teasing. Just care. Every moan Jasmine made was answered by a hum, low in Imani’s throat, like she was singing just for her. Jasmine’s thighs trembled. Her hands found Imani’s hair, holding on. Not pulling. Just grounding.

  “I’m close,” she whispered, desperate. “I—God, I don’t wanna come too fast—”

  Imani pulled off just long enough to murmur, “You can come as fast as you want. You’ve waited long enough.”

  Then she wrapped her lips around her again, deeper now, and Jasmine cried out. Her body tensed, then shook, pleasure breaking over her in waves she didn’t try to hold back. She came with Imani’s name on her lips, back arching, hips twitching. Imani took every drop, slow and sweet, licking her clean like nothing had ever tasted better.

  And when it was over, when Jasmine colpsed back into the cushions with tears in her eyes and her whole body buzzing like she was made of light, Imani crawled up beside her. Kissed her lips. Her temple. Her cheek. Whispered comforting things in her ear. They y there after, tangled up under a bnket pulled from the back of the couch, Fresh Prince still pying somewhere in the background.

  Jasmine was glowing. And Imani? Imani just held her. Like she was home.