Archie’s POV
I wake up to sunlight streaming through my apartment windows, the kind of golden morning light that makes everything look softer, more forgiving.
Maya is in my arms, her head resting on my chest, her breathing soft and even against my skin. For a moment, I just lie there, not moving, not wanting to disturb the peace of this perfect moment.
For the first time in months, I feel genuinely happy. Last night was different.
We didn't just have sex—though we did that too, and it was incredible like it always is with her. But afterward, instead of falling asleep or turning on the TV or retreating into our separate thoughts, we talked: about futures and dreams and the lives we want to build.
Maya mentioned traveling. Her voice was soft in the darkness, almost shy, like she wasn't sure she was allowed to want things.
"I've never really traveled. When my parents were alive, we never had the money."
Maya’s fingers tracing patterns on my chest.
"And after, with Lora raising me, there was never time. We were always just surviving, you know? Getting through the next week, the next month. The idea of going somewhere just for the pleasure of it felt impossible."
I'd pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Where would you want to go? If you could go anywhere."
She was quiet for a long moment, considering. "I don't know. Everywhere? Nowhere specific. I just want to see places I've only read about. Experience things that aren't part of my small, careful life."
The vulnerability in her admission made my chest ache. Maya, who's always so composed, so in control, revealing this piece of herself that's still the girl who lost her parents too young and never got to dream big.
"Italy," I'd suggested, my mind already spinning with possibilities. "We could start there. Rome, Florence, the Amalfi Coast. You'd love the architecture, the history. And the food—God, Maya, the food alone is worth the trip."
"You've been?"
"Years ago—a college graduation trip with some friends. But I'd love to go back, show you everything."
I'd shifted so I could see her face in the dim light filtering through the curtains.
"Or France. Paris is cliché, but it's cliché for a reason. The museums, the cafes, walking along the Seine at night. Or we could skip the tourist spots entirely, rent a car and drive through the countryside. Stay in small villages where no one speaks English and we have to stumble through conversations with terrible accents."
She'd laughed at that, the sound bright and genuine. "You're making plans."
"I am." I'd cupped her face, stroking her cheek with my thumb. "Is that okay? Am I moving too fast?"
She'd leaned into my touch, her eyes closing. "Keep going."
So I had. Spinning out visions of trips we could take, places we could explore together. Greece, with its white buildings and blue water. Japan during cherry blossom season.
A road trip through the American Southwest, just the two of us and wide open roads. Anywhere she wanted to go, anywhere she'd dreamed of seeing.
She'd fallen asleep eventually, her head on my chest, while I was mid-sentence about a restaurant in Barcelona I'd read about. I'd finished the thought anyway, whispering it to her sleeping form, promising her all these futures we could build together.
Now, in the morning light, I watch Maya breathe and let myself believe those futures are real. That we'll actually take those trips, make those plans, build the life we talked about in the darkness.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, pulling me out of my contentment. I reach for it carefully, trying not to wake Maya. Three missed calls from the estate, two texts from Margaret.
Right. The real world calls. The happiness dims slightly, replaced by guilt that sits heavy in my stomach.
I slide out of bed, tucking the blanket around Maya before padding to the kitchen to make coffee. While it brews, I pull up Daphne’s contact and hit call. It rings four times before going to voicemail.
"Hey, it's me," I say after the beep. "Just checking in. Haven't heard from you in a few days. Give me a call when you get this."
I hang up and stare at the phone, debating whether to try again. Daphne’s been avoiding calls lately—not just from me, from everyone except Margaret and Robert when it's about the twins.
I pour two cups of coffee and carry them back to the bedroom. Maya's awake now, propped up against the pillows, her hair a mess and her face soft with sleep. She looks beautiful and vulnerable and nothing like the composed assistant I first met months ago.
"Morning," she says, accepting the coffee with a small smile. "What time is it?"
"Almost nine. I let you sleep."
"Nine?" She sits up straighter, suddenly alert. "I should get back to the estate. Margaret might need help with the twins, and Daphne…"
"They'll be fine for a few hours." I sit beside her, my free hand finding hers. "Stay. Please. Just a little longer."
She looks at me, something complicated flickering across her face. For a moment, I think she's going to insist on leaving anyway. But then she relaxes, settling back against the pillows.
"Okay. A little longer."
We drink our coffee in comfortable silence, her shoulder pressed against mine. The sunlight continues streaming through the windows, making everything feel warm and golden and somehow separate from the rest of the world.
"Thank you," Maya says quietly.
"For what?"
"Last night. The plans. Making me feel like I'm allowed to want things." She sets down her coffee cup, turning to face me more fully. "I've spent so long surviving I forgot what it felt like to actually look forward to something."
The admission makes my chest tight. "You deserve to want things, Maya. You deserve to have them too. All of them. Every dream you've kept locked away because it seemed impossible or selfish or too much to ask for."
She kisses me then, soft and sweet, tasting like coffee and morning and possibility. When she pulls away, her eyes are wet.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." She shakes her head, wiping at her eyes. "I'm just happy. Is that allowed? To be this happy when everyone around us is falling apart?"
The question hits too close to my own guilt. I think about Daphne, about the phone call that went to voicemail, about the household that feels like it's held together with string and prayer.
I know my friend is suffering. Know that every day the distance between her and Xander stretches wider. Know that the twins are confused and scared and looking for stability in a house where everything feels uncertain.
And here I am, drinking coffee in bed with the woman I love, making plans for Italy and France and futures that feel almost too good to be real.
"I don't know," I admit. "Part of me feels guilty, like I shouldn't be this happy when Daphne is…" I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
"When she’s losing everything?"
"Yeah."
Maya is quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing patterns on my palm. "Your happiness doesn't diminish her pain. And her pain doesn't mean you're not allowed to be happy."
The words settle something in me that's been restless since I woke up. She's right. Xander's and Daphne’s crisis doesn't negate my happiness. Doesn't mean I have to sacrifice what I have with Maya or feel guilty for building something good.
I pull her against me, feeling her head settle on my chest again, her breathing evening out as we sink back into the comfort of this moment.
My phone buzzes again—probably Margaret, probably estate business, probably something that needs my attention.
I ignore it.
Right now, in this moment, with sunlight streaming through the windows and Maya's head on my chest and her breathing soft and even, I allow myself to believe my own happiness isn't selfish.