Work Text:
The text arrives at 2:47 AM, and Stephanie knows who it is before she even opens it.
Unknown Number: Villa Margherita. Positano. Room 12. Tomorrow night. Delete this after reading.
She stares at her phone screen in the darkness of her bedroom, heart hammering against her ribs. Boys' asleep down the hall. The manuscript for her second book sits finished on her laptop. Her life has settled into something resembling normal.
And now this.
Stephanie should delete the message. Should ignore it entirely. Should remember that Emily Nelson is a walking disaster wrapped in Dior, that getting involved with her again would be spectacularly stupid.
Instead, she books a flight to Naples.
The villa clings to the cliffside like a secret, all whitewashed walls and bougainvillea. Stephanie's cab drops her off as the sun bleeds orange into the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Room 12 is at the end of a quiet corridor. Stephanie knocks twice, her pulse doing something complicated and stupid.
The woman who opens the door is barefoot, wearing linen pants and a silk camisole. Her hair is shorter than it was in Capri—just past her shoulders now, darker at the roots. No makeup. She looks softer. Dangerous in an entirely different way.
"You came," Emily says.
"You texted."
Emily steps aside, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. The room is small but elegant—a four-poster bed draped in white linen, French doors open to a balcony overlooking the sea. There's a bottle of wine breathing on the dresser.
"I finished the book," Stephanie says. "About Capri."
"I know. Porcia keeps me updated." Emily pours two glasses. "She thinks it's hilarious that you made me sound almost heroic."
"You saved my life."
"After putting it in danger in the first place." Emily hands her a glass, their fingers brushing. "We're calling it even, right?"
"Are we?"
The question hangs between them, heavy with everything they haven't said.
Emily's watching her with those impossibly blue eyes. "How's Nicky?"
"He's good. He asks about you."
Something flickers across Emily's face. "What do you tell him?"
"That his mom loves him. That she's safe."
"Generous of you."
Stephanie sets down her wine glass. "I've had time to think. About Capri. About everything before that."
"And?"
"I think we've been dancing around something for a long time. Since that first day you offered me a martini at 2 PM."
Emily goes very still. "Stephanie—"
"I think you're a disaster. I think you lie and manipulate and being near you is like standing next to a gorgeous, perfectly dressed bomb." Stephanie steps closer. "I also think you're the most fascinating person I've ever met. That you make me feel alive in a way nothing else does. That when you saved me from Porcia—" She stops, swallowing hard. "I think maybe we've been fooling ourselves about what this is."
The silence stretches between them.
Emily sets down her own glass. "Do you know what Porcia's 'favor' was? The envelope she gave me?"
The subject change throws Stephanie. "What?"
"She called it 'a simple favor.'" Emily's smile is sharp and sad. "She wants me back in Italy. Under her thumb. But I'm not doing it. I'm running—but not away this time."
"Then why did you ask me here?"
"Because I wanted to see you. Because I've spent three months in hiding thinking about that moment in Porcia's basement. When I realized—" She stops, jaw tight. "That I'd burn down everything in my life if it meant keeping you safe."
Stephanie's breath catches. "Emily."
"I don't do this. Feelings. Vulnerability. All that messy human stuff you're so good at."
"You're doing fine," Stephanie whispers.
"I'm really not." Emily reaches up, fingers ghosting along Stephanie's jaw. "I asked you here because I wanted one night where we could pretend we were just two people. No fugitives, no dead husbands, no impossible situations. Just us."
"That's not selfish," Stephanie says. "That's—"
She doesn't get to finish because Emily kisses her.
It's fierce and desperate and tastes like wine and longing and all the things they've been avoiding for years. Stephanie makes a sound low in her throat and kisses back, her hands gripping Emily's waist, pulling her closer.
They break apart breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"I should've done that years ago," Emily murmurs.
"In your kitchen? While our kids were in the next room?"
"Especially then." Emily's smile is wicked. "Would've made that martini much more interesting."
Stephanie laughs despite herself. "You're terrible."
"You knew that already." Emily's hands slide into Stephanie's hair. "And yet here you are."
"Here I am," Stephanie agrees and kisses her again.
They migrate toward the bed without discussing it, Emily pulling Stephanie down onto the white linen sheets. The French doors are still open, letting in the sound of the sea and the warm evening air.
Emily's hands work at the buttons of Stephanie's blouse, lips trailing down her neck. "Tell me about Nicky," she murmurs against Stephanie's collarbone. "Tell me everything."
Stephanie gasps as Emily's mouth finds the hollow of her throat, fingers sliding the blouse off her shoulders. "He's doing really well in school—"
"Keep talking." Emily's hands map the curve of Stephanie's waist. She unhooks the bra with one hand and tosses it aside.
It's hard to form coherent thoughts when Emily's looking at her like that—pupils blown wide, lips parted, an expression of such raw hunger that it makes heat pool between her thighs.
Stephanie talks about Nicky's soccer games, how he wants to be a chef now. Her voice catches when Emily's hands cup her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they harden, until she arches into the touch with a whimper.
"Keep going," Emily whispers, lowering her head. Her tongue is hot and wet as it circles one nipple, then the other, teeth grazing just enough to make Stephanie gasp.
Stephanie's fingers tangle in Emily's hair. "He asks philosophical questions about death and—oh fuck—" She loses the thread completely when Emily's hand slides beneath the waistband of her jeans, cupping her through her underwear. Even through the fabric, Emily can feel how wet she is.
"You're soaked," Emily murmurs, rubbing slow circles that make Stephanie's hips buck. "Is this all for me?"
"Yes," Stephanie gasps. "God, yes—"
Emily works Stephanie's jeans and underwear down her hips in one smooth motion, tossing them aside. Emily sits back on her heels, just looking, and Stephanie fights the urge to cover herself.
Emily catches her wrists gently. "Don't. Let me look at you."
"You're so fucking beautiful," Emily says, and there's no performance in it. Just raw honesty. "I don't tell you that enough."
"You've never told me that," Stephanie points out, breathless.
"Well." Emily strips off her own camisole in one fluid motion. "I'm telling you now."
She lowers herself over Stephanie, skin to skin, and the sensation is electric—soft breasts pressing together, Emily's thigh sliding between Stephanie's legs. Stephanie can't help the moan that escapes her. Emily captures it with a kiss, deep and possessive, one hand sliding between Stephanie's thighs.
Emily's fingers part her folds, exploring. "God, you're dripping."
"Please," Stephanie whimpers.
"Please what?" Emily's fingers circle her clit—light, teasing touches.
"Touch me. Fuck me. Just—please—"
Emily slides two fingers inside her in one smooth thrust and Stephanie cries out, back arching off the bed. Emily starts a steady rhythm that has Stephanie gasping and writhing beneath her.
"Like this?" Emily's voice is rough. Her thumb finds Stephanie's clit while her fingers curl inside, hitting that spot that makes Stephanie see stars.
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
Emily watches her face with those impossible blue eyes. Her fingers pump steadily, relentlessly, her thumb circling Stephanie's clit with just the right pressure.
"You're so tight," Emily breathes. "So perfect. I've imagined this so many times."
"Emily—I'm close—"
"I know." Emily's free hand cups Stephanie's jaw, forcing her to maintain eye contact. "I want to watch you come. Want to see your face when you fall apart for me."
Stephanie comes with a cry that's half Emily's name, her body clenching rhythmically around Emily's fingers. The orgasm seems to last forever, wave after wave of pleasure that leaves her shaking.
Emily works her through it, finally withdrawing her fingers. She brings them to her mouth, maintains eye contact as she licks them clean.
"You taste incredible," Emily murmurs.
When Stephanie can breathe again, she pulls Emily down into a desperate kiss, tasting herself on Emily's tongue.
"Tell me more about Nicky," Emily says quietly after a moment.
So Stephanie does. She tells Emily about how he laughs at her terrible jokes, how he asks if his dad is proud of him from wherever he is.
Emily listens, her expression soft. "You're good with him. Better than I ever was."
"That's not true—"
"It is." Emily traces patterns on Stephanie's bare shoulder. "I love him more than anything, but I was never natural at it. The way you are."
"Nothing about this is easy," Stephanie says.
"No," Emily agrees. "But you do it anyway. That's what I love about you."
The words hang in the air between them, too big and too real.
"Say it again," Stephanie whispers.
"I love you," Emily says, and this time her voice doesn't shake. "I'm a disaster and I'm running from the law and I'll probably ruin your life, but I love you. I think I have for a long time."
Stephanie's eyes burn. "You're not going to ruin my life."
"I absolutely am." Emily's smile is sad. "But maybe you'll let me try not to?"
Instead of answering, Stephanie kisses her and rolls them over so Emily's beneath her.
"Your turn," Stephanie murmurs.
She strips off Emily's linen pants and underwear. Emily's completely naked now, and Stephanie takes a moment just to look—long legs, the curve of her hips, already glistening with arousal.
"You're staring," Emily says, breathless.
"Can you blame me?" Stephanie kisses her way down Emily's body—neck, collarbone, pausing at her breasts. When Stephanie takes a nipple into her mouth, Emily's back arches off the bed with a gasp.
Stephanie takes her time, using her tongue and teeth until Emily's writhing, one hand fisted in Stephanie's hair.
"Stephanie, please—"
Stephanie settles between Emily's legs. "Tell me what you want."
"Your mouth," Emily gasps. "I need your mouth on my pussy. Please."
Stephanie doesn't make her wait. She licks a slow stripe up Emily's slit and Emily cries out, thighs trembling. She tastes incredible—salt and musk and pure want.
Stephanie explores with her tongue, learning what makes Emily gasp. She finds Emily's clit, swollen and sensitive, and circles it with the tip of her tongue before sucking it into her mouth.
"Fuck!" Emily's hips buck and her fingers tighten in Stephanie's hair. "Don't stop—"
Stephanie works Emily's clit with her tongue while sliding two fingers inside her. Emily's so wet that they enter easily.
"God, yes," Emily moans. "Fuck me—please—"
Stephanie sets a steady rhythm. Emily's usually so controlled, so perfectly composed, and there's something intoxicating about reducing her to this—desperate and begging and completely undone.
Emily's thighs start to shake. "I'm—Stephanie, I'm going to—"
Stephanie doubles her efforts, curling her fingers while sucking hard on Emily's clit. Emily comes with a scream that she barely muffles, her whole body going rigid before shaking apart.
Stephanie gentles her through it, soft kisses to her inner thighs. When she crawls back up the bed, Emily pulls her into a kiss that tastes like both of them.
"I love you," Emily gasps. "God, I love you so fucking much."
"I love you too," Stephanie whispers back.
They make love again, slower this time, memorizing each other. When they finally fall asleep, it's tangled together, their hands clasped between them like a promise.
When Stephanie wakes up, the sun is streaming through the French doors and Emily is gone.
She sits up, her heart lurching—but then she sees it. An envelope on the pillow, her name written in Emily's elegant script.
Inside is a note and a burner phone.
Stephanie,
I'm not good at goodbyes—you know this by now.
The phone has one number. It's secure. Use it.
I have a plan. Greece, maybe. Somewhere we can all be together—you, me, Miles, Nicky. Give me a few months to set things up.
I love you. I'm not running away anymore. I'm running toward you.
Say yes.
Yours,
E.
Stephanie reads the note twice, tears streaming down her face—but she's smiling.
She doesn't throw the phone in the ocean.
That night, after boys' asleep, she pulls it out and types:
Stephanie: Yes.
The response comes immediately.
Emily: I was counting on that.
Stephanie: Where are you?
Emily: Somewhere with good wine and bad cell service. You'd hate it.
Stephanie: Try me.
There's a longer pause this time. Then:
Emily: Someday. When it's safe. I'll send for you.
Stephanie: I'll be ready.
Emily: I know you will. That's what terrifies me.
Stephanie smiles at her phone, something warm and bright unfurling in her chest. It's insane. It's impossible. It's everything they shouldn't want.
But when has that ever stopped them?
She sets the phone on her nightstand and falls asleep thinking about white linen sheets and the sound of waves, about Emily's hands in her hair and the promise in her kiss.
Somewhere in Italy, Emily Nelson is running. But she's not running alone anymore.
And somehow, that makes all the difference.