A Day in the Life of Amy

The days began to weave themselves into a quiet rhythm Amy hadn’t realized she craved.

Mornings often started with coffee on her balcony, Max sprawled lazily at their feet while Fiona read emails and Amy flipped through glossy magazines she’d never cared about before but now scanned for photography spreads, looking for hints of Fiona’s style.

Afternoons slipped into errands, shared grocery runs where they bickered over which wine to grab, or long walks through Napa’s winding neighborhoods with Max trotting proudly ahead. Fiona always had her camera slung over her shoulder, ready to capture a crooked gate, a burst of wildflowers, or sometimes Amy herself—caught mid-laugh, unposed.

One evening, Amy was chopping vegetables in her kitchen while Fiona stirred a pot on the stove. It felt absurdly domestic, like something out of a life Amy hadn’t even imagined for herself weeks ago. She found herself pausing, knife hovering over the cutting board, just to watch Fiona move—confident, unhurried, completely at ease in her space.

“You’re staring,” Fiona teased without looking up.

Amy grinned. “Maybe I like the view.”

Fiona shot her a playful look over her shoulder, and Amy felt her chest ache in the best way.

Later, after dinner, they sprawled on the couch, tangled under the same blanket. Fiona rested her head against Amy’s shoulder, scrolling through the photos from their test shoot.

“You know,” Fiona murmured, swiping to another image, “I wasn’t kidding when I said you could really do this. Modeling. You’ve got something rare, Amy—something people can’t fake.”

Amy shook her head, still half in disbelief. “I’ve never thought of myself that way.”

“That’s because you’ve never been shown.” Fiona kissed the curve of her shoulder, soft and certain. “But you’ll see. I’ll make sure of it.”

The words sent a thrill through Amy—not just because of the promise of possibility, but because Fiona made her believe it might actually be true.

And when they finally drifted to sleep that night, Max curled protectively at their feet, Amy thought: maybe this was what she’d been waiting for all along—not the shopping, the brunches, not even the whirlwind dates with Mark.

But this. The slow, steady building of something real.