Chapter 35: In the Quiet, I Found You
Rain fell gently against the window that morning, a soft and steady rhythm like fingers drumming on paper. The kind of rain that didn't rush or roar, but lingered—graceful and unhurried, like the unfolding of a flower at dawn. The city outside was muffled beneath the weight of clouds, and inside Oriana's apartment, time seemed to pause.
Anya stirred first.
Wrapped beneath the cotton sheets, her body nestled against Oriana's, she blinked slowly, letting the peace of waking moments wash over her. Her nose was pressed to Oriana's shoulder. Her arm curled possessively around her waist, and their legs were tangled as if even in sleep they refused to be parted.
There was no alarm clock, no urgency.
Only rain.
Only her.
Anya tilted her face slightly, brushing her lips against Oriana's bare shoulder, breathing in her scent—lavender and sleep and something she couldn't name except home.
Oriana shifted, groaning softly. "Morning already?"
Anya chuckled under her breath. "It's barely light. Rain's making everything sleepy."
"Mm," Oriana mumbled, burying her face into the pillow. "Let's not get up. Let's stay like this. Forever."
Anya didn't argue.
She pressed her forehead to Oriana's back and closed her eyes again. Not to sleep—but to savor. The weight of another body beside hers, the breath that warmed her skin, the steady heartbeat she could almost feel. She didn't need a world beyond this room, not when everything she loved was curled up beside her in the hush of the rain.
But love, as gentle as it can be, always asks to be spoken.
"Can I tell you something?" Anya whispered.
Oriana stirred and turned in her arms, blinking sleepily at her. "Anything."
"I think… I think I was waiting for you before I even knew your name."
Oriana's eyes softened. "Say it again."
"I was waiting for you. I think I always was."
Oriana reached up and touched Anya's face, fingers brushing her cheek like the petals of a lotus flower. "And I think I heard your voice in every poem I ever loved. Even when I didn't know why."
They stayed like that, forehead to forehead, lips brushing but not quite kissing. There was something sacred in the stillness—an offering, a vow without ceremony. Love that bloomed not with fireworks, but with morning rain and soft sheets.
Eventually, the hunger for something warm drew them from bed. Anya pulled on Oriana's oversized hoodie, laughing as the sleeves swallowed her hands, and Oriana smirked, pulling her hair into a messy bun.
They moved around the kitchen like dancers in a duet. Oriana boiled water for tea while Anya cracked eggs into a bowl. The radio played a slow Thai ballad, and the aroma of jasmine rice filled the air. Their touches were frequent—fingers brushing, a hand on the waist, a kiss dropped to the nape of the neck. Domesticity, made divine by love.
Oriana handed Anya a mug of tea. "Careful. Hot."
Anya blew on it gently, her eyes never leaving Oriana's. "So are you."
Oriana rolled her eyes and laughed, cheeks flushing. "You're impossible."
"But you love me."
"I do."
Three words, spoken as easily as breathing.
And Anya knew she would carry them like prayer beads around her heart.
After breakfast, Oriana tugged her toward the couch. The rain hadn't let up, and neither of them had plans beyond each other.
Wrapped in a shared blanket, Anya laid with her head in Oriana's lap. Her fingers idly traced the hem of Oriana's shirt as Oriana ran her hand through Anya's hair in slow, rhythmic strokes.
"I used to wonder if I was capable of loving someone like this," Oriana said suddenly, voice low, almost uncertain.
Anya looked up. "What do you mean?"
"I mean… I was always so guarded. I was afraid of being too much. Or not enough. I'd push people away before they could leave on their own. But with you…" She paused. "You make me want to be soft."
Anya sat up slowly, meeting her eyes. "You don't have to try to be soft, Ori. You already are. You're just wrapped in thorns to protect that softness. But I see it. Every time you hold my hand without saying a word. Every time you laugh and then glance at me like you want to make sure I heard it."
Oriana looked away, eyes suddenly glossy.
Anya cupped her face. "You don't have to be afraid anymore. Not with me."
"I'm not," Oriana whispered. "That's what scares me."
They kissed again, not out of passion, but out of reassurance. Their lips moved slowly, as if they were trying to learn the shape of each other's hearts.
It wasn't long before the rain stopped, leaving behind the kind of fresh, silver-washed air that made the city feel reborn.
Oriana stood, stretched, and reached for Anya's hand. "Come with me."
"Where?"
"Somewhere you've never seen me before."
They took a bus. Anya didn't ask questions. She liked the way Oriana's eyes sparkled with secrets, the way she leaned her head against Anya's shoulder during the ride.
The bus climbed steadily up a hill on the edge of the city, the buildings thinning out into trees and old temple walls. At last, Oriana tugged the bell, and they stepped off into a quiet neighborhood filled with flowering vines and hummingbirds.
"This way."
They walked for a few minutes until they came to a small, hidden garden tucked behind an old wall. A wooden archway stood crooked over the entrance, half-covered in blooming orchids. The gate creaked as Oriana pushed it open.
"My grandfather used to bring me here," she said. "It was his secret place. I used to call it the heart garden."
The garden was wild with color—peach blossoms, hibiscus, long strings of morning glory vines. A tiny pond shimmered in the middle, and the air buzzed with the hush of wind and birdsong.
Oriana led her to a stone bench. "I haven't brought anyone here in years."
"Why now?" Anya asked.
"Because you're the only one I want to share it with."
Anya smiled. "It's beautiful."
"So are you."
They sat in silence, watching a dragonfly skim the surface of the water.
Anya turned to her. "If this was a painting, I'd keep it in my heart forever."
"It already is," Oriana whispered. "Everything we've lived, I've painted on the inside of my ribs. So even if we're apart someday, I'll carry it with me."
"I don't want to be apart."
"Then don't be."
Oriana reached into her bag and pulled out something small—a thin chain, delicate and silver. A pendant shaped like a tiny moon rested at the center.
"It was my mother's," she said. "She gave it to me when I turned sixteen. Said to only give it to someone when I'm sure."
Anya stared at her. "Sure of what?"
Oriana's eyes didn't waver. "That I've found my person."
Tears filled Anya's eyes before she could stop them. "Oriana…"
"I want you to have it."
Anya took the chain with trembling fingers. She let Oriana fasten it around her neck, the pendant warm against her skin like a heartbeat. Like a vow.
"I love you," Oriana said softly, as if she'd been waiting years to say it.
"I love you too," Anya whispered, her voice catching.
They kissed there, under the blooming orchids, in a garden only they knew.
And the world, just for a moment, was exactly as it should be.