A Day in the life of Amy

Amy woke the next morning with Fiona still on her mind. The gallery event replayed in flashes—the way Fiona’s laugh had wrapped around her like music, the warmth of her hand brushing against hers, the spark in her eyes that seemed to see right through her.

She tried to distract herself with errands, but even as she pushed a cart down the grocery aisle, her phone buzzed.

Fiona: “Last night was fun. You looked amazing. Dinner at my place this weekend?”

Amy’s pulse quickened. Dinner. Not coffee. Not a gallery. Dinner.

Before she could overthink it, another text came in.

Mark: “I got reservations at Press for Saturday night. Been dying to take you there.”

Amy froze in the middle of the aisle, caught between two invitations that couldn’t be more different. Mark represented stability, sophistication, and a future she could picture so easily. Fiona represented mystery, fire, and the chance to explore the parts of herself she had tucked away.

Max’s face popped into her mind again—his tilted head, his knowing look—and she almost laughed. “You’d probably tell me to just pick one already, huh?” she whispered.

Saturday came faster than she expected. Amy paced her condo in her silk robe, her phone in her hand. Two texts sat unanswered.

Mark: “See you at 8? I’ll pick you up.”

Fiona: “Come hungry. 7 sharp. I’ll cook.”

Amy took a deep breath. Her heart already knew where she was going. She slipped into a fitted black dress, sprayed her Chanel perfume, and grabbed a bottle of wine.

When she knocked on Fiona’s door, her stomach flipped.

Fiona opened it wearing a soft off-the-shoulder sweater and jeans, barefoot, her curls loose around her shoulders. “Wow,” she breathed, giving Amy a slow look. “You clean up nice.”

Amy laughed, handing her the wine. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

The evening unfolded easily—candles lit, music low, Fiona’s cooking filling the kitchen with rich aromas. They ate, they talked, they laughed. And yet underneath every word, every glance, there was tension building, something neither of them could ignore much longer.

When they moved to the couch with their glasses of wine, Fiona leaned closer, her voice softer now. “Amy… I don’t usually say this so soon, but there’s something about you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Amy’s breath caught. “I feel the same,” she admitted, her heart pounding. “It’s like… I don’t even know you that well yet, but I can’t get you out of my head.”

Fiona’s hand brushed Amy’s, lingering. “Then stop fighting it.”

Amy turned, meeting her gaze, and the room seemed to hold its breath. Before she could think, before doubt could creep in, she leaned forward. Their lips met—soft at first, tentative, then deeper, hungrier, as if both had been waiting for this moment.

The kiss was electric, everything Amy didn’t know she was missing until now.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Fiona smiled. “So… modeling session, dinner… and maybe a little more?”

Amy laughed, cheeks warm, her heart racing. “Definitely a little more.”

For the first time in a long time, Amy felt like she wasn’t just living—she was falling.