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1.
Serena doesn’t want to open her eyes. If she opens her eyes she might be sick - her throat feels dry, her tongue too thick for her mouth and her stomach is rolling.
It makes it worse to remember that this feeling is entirely self inflicted. The shiraz was free flowing, and she was probably the one to foolishly suggest sambuca or tequila shots.
What were those shots? Serena’s mind baffles, eyes still not open, back still protesting. Tequila rings a bell, she remembers vaguely wanting to lick salt off Bernie’s hand - Bernie.
Serena remembers now, remembers slamming through the front door with an exaggerated hushing noise, only to drink more and laugh more than she ever has recently.
She shifts slightly and tries to figure out why her usually comfortable bed is making her entire body ache. Cracking open an eye, she spies the ceiling of her living room.
Well, that explains the pain.
Serena peers over the side of the sofa and spots Bernie laying, flat on her back, on the floor.
“You sleep there?” Serena croaks, then coughs against the sandpaper sensation inside her mouth. She tries to swallow and nothing happens, tries again.
“Hmm, no,” Bernie murmurs, not moving an inch. “Slept in the chair and woke up to my entire body screaming at me.”
“Sounds fun,” Serena says.
“Thought I’d stretch out down here,” Bernie says. “But I honestly don’t think I can move again. I’m too old to drink like that.”
“God,” Serena says. “You’re preaching to the choir on that one.”
Bernie huffs out a laugh, and then a whine. “Ow, don’t make me laugh.”
“My entire body has pins and needles,” Serena says, wiggling her fingers.
Bernie hums again and Serena watches her for a moment. Enjoys the ease she feels at this completely bizarre situation of having Bernie Wolfe laying across her floor, hungover.
“It’s raining,” Bernie whispers after a while.
Serena jerks, feels as though she might have drifted off, but knows she’s just lain there, watching the woman on her carpet. Her tone is reverent and it makes Serena almost yearn to reach out, to touch the softness of her words and to melt into whatever sentiment Bernie feels right now, she looks so peaceful.
“Is it?” Serena asks, even though she can hear the rain falling outside.
They lay there, next to each other, one on the sofa and one on the ground- both wanting to reach out and touch the other.
“Fancy a cup of tea?” Serena asks.
And the moment passes.
*
2.
The biggest perk of the on call room is widely considered to be it’s thick walls and lack of windows.
Few sounds make it through and no windows lead it to be perpetually dark and slightly warm. It’s a perfect combination for falling asleep quickly; a fact that Serena is relying on while laying on an uncomfortable mattress, curled up and facing the wall.
She hears the door open and close and thinks nothing of it; there is another unoccupied bed remaining in the room.
She thinks nothing of it, at least, until she hears a muttered curse that sounds a lot like-
“Bernie?”
There’s a thump and another curse before Bernie whispers into the room.
“Sorry- didn’t mean to wake you.”
Something in the knowledge that it is Bernie that’s stepped into the room, not an unknown nurse or F1 seeking out some much needed respite, makes Serena’s skin prick.
“S’fine,” Serena says. “Wasn’t asleep yet.”
“Everything ok?”
“Yeah,” She breathes out. “Long day.”
“Long week,” Bernie counters. “Long month.”
Serena smiles in the dark.
“Long year,” She adds, playing along. “Long decade.”
“Oof, Campbell,” Bernie says. “Can’t top that one.”
Serena smiles again and feels the need to face Bernie, so shifts in bed. She can see Bernie’s face illuminated in the room by the light of her phone and without prompting, Bernie offers up the information she’s looking at.
“Oh, it’s raining.”
“Is it?” Serena asks.
“What the weather app tells me,” Bernie says.
They lay in silence for a little and Serena can swear that through the thick walls and beyond the bustle of AAU, through the beeping of machines and the murmur of conversation out on the ward- she can hear the static of heavy rainfall. She can’t possibly, but the thought alone is an impossibly pleasant one.
“Well,” She says gently. “Lucky we’re in here then, rather than driving home through that.”
Serena closes her eyes to concentrate on the idea of rain falling outside all the walls around her and hears a whispered goodnight that comforts her just as much.
*
3.
Serena’s bed is a thing of luxury. It’s a warm and lush place with a high thread count on the sheets and a mattress that cost an indecent amount of money. It’s a cocoon of safety and comfort.
Serena loves her bed, even if lately it feels like there is something missing from it, something that could be added to make it all the more enticing.
She stretches her bare legs out, hums in pleasure as they touch the coolness of a corner she hasn’t warmed up yet and reaches out to her bedside table to grab her mobile from where it has been charging.
She shoots off a message to Bernie who she hasn’t seen in two days. Bernie who has been away at a conference in the east of England in an attempt to win some new bursary. It’s a dull event, Serena knows from attending in previous years and, despite Bernie’s argument that her experience surely qualified Serena to attend again, she had offered to go with admirable grace.
I hope today has been vastly educational :)
That doesn’t stop Serena from being a little smug, however.
Haha. Comes the reply moments later. Free bar though, your loss x
Oh damn. She types. Maybe next time I’ll join you.
A few minutes pass and when there is no reply, Serena assumes Bernie is busy and smiles to herself. She hopes Bernie is enjoying the bar and the change of scenery. She wonders if Bernie will find someone interesting to talk about trauma surgery with, hopes the conversation will be good, and knows Bernie will inspire others with new ideas and new techniques.
She closes her eyes and feels herself drift off to the image of Bernie’s eyes lighting up as she talks about something she is passionate about, only to jerk awake moments later when the phone that is still in her hand starts to buzz non stop.
“‘ello?” She says, unsure if she’s been asleep for two minutes or twenty.
“Hi.” Comes the soft voice down the other end. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“No no,” Serena says, shifting in bed, blinking in an exaggerated manner to try and wake up. “It’s fine. Hi, hello. You ok?”
“I’m fine.” Bernie says. “Just wanted to, um, can you hear that?”
Serena frowns when the line goes dead. It takes a second, then two, to realise the line hasn’t dropped, that there is a slight fuzziness, a quiet pitter-patter.
“It’s raining here,” Bernie says.
“Is it?” Serena says, closing her eyes and sighing. She doesn’t know exactly why Bernie decided to call her but doesn’t find herself caring because suddenly her bed doesn’t feel so empty.
“I should probably-”
“No! Could you, uh, sorry, um,” Serena stutters. “Can you stay on the line?”
“Sure,” Bernie says. “I’m just going to pop you on speaker phone.”
Serena can hear her potter around the hotel room and she sinks deeper into her mattress, closes her eyes and pictures it. As the quiet sounds of Bernie getting ready for bed filter through the phone, she finds no heat rising to her cheeks at the thought of Bernie undressing, only the warmth coming from the idea that her friend wanted to call her, wanted to share a moment with her.
“You ok?” Comes the quiet question and Serena’s not sure if she’s fallen asleep again. Wants to imagine that the voice in her ear is coming from a body next to hers, not one on the other side of the country. If she keeps her eyes shut it feels almost real.
“Yeah.” She breathes out. Inhales fear, exhales strength. “I just miss you.”
*
4.
Serena is sitting in Pulses , and she is soaked . Her trousers are sticking to her legs uncomfortably and her socks are wet to the point of squelching with every step.
She’s angry. Fuming. Furious. Embarrassed that her car has managed to cause more issues, that the engine had stuttered and died leaving her here, stranded, at the end of her shift. Humiliated at trying to stand in the rain and peer under the bonnet like it would possibly help.
Cactus , as Bernie would say.
She’d sent a text off to Bernie to say as much, complaining about the sods law of her car breaking down in the worst thunderstorm in 10 years and within minutes Bernie had promised to drive in and pick her up despite it being her day off.
So, here she is, sat in Pulses , waiting for Bernie to arrive while trying not to wince at the unpleasant sensation of her damp blouse sticking to her back.
-
The rain doesn’t ease in the 20 minutes it takes to drive to Bernie’s flat.
Serena isn’t sure why Bernie drives her there, thinks it must be instinctive muscle memory of driving away from Holby City Hospital, but doesn’t want to ask about it, partially because she doesn’t want to seem ungrateful or rude, but also because there's a comfort in knowing she’s not heading back to an empty house tonight after the day she has had.
So she stays quiet and lets Bernie guide them both home.
Bernie parks in her designated spot outside the block of flats, and looks apologetic.
“I didn’t think to bring an umbrella so we’re going to have to make a break for the door.”
Serena raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t think I’ve made a ‘break’ for anything since my mid-thirties. Besides, I don’t think I can actually get any wetter than I am, currently.”
Bernie opens her mouth to say something, then closes it and clears her throat lightly.
“Right,” she says. “I’ll see you in there.”
Before Serena can protest, Bernie opens the door and jogs around the back of the car to the entrance. Serena gets out of her side and immediately realises just how much she misjudged the rain. In the time it takes to shut the door and hot-foot it to where Bernie is standing in the shelter, she’s newly soaked.
“I think it might be raining a little bit.” Bernie says with laughter in her eyes.
“Is it?” Serena retorts, running her hand through wet hair so her fringe stops dripping into her eyes. “Really, I hadn’t noticed.”
-
Bernie’s usually quiet flat fills with noise from the commotion they make as they get through the door, shucking off sodden shoes and Serena’s loud bemoaning as she peels off her wet blouse leaving her in her equally damp undershirt.
Serena sighs in relief, then chuckles.
“If a thirty second dash did that to your hair I hate to know what a fright mine looks.”
Bernie smiles, a small and warm thing.
“I’d be lying if you didn’t look like a drowned rat, but you’re pulling the look off with admirable grace and style.”
They look at each other, not leaving the hallway for a long moment, until Bernie clears her throat and looks away.
“Why don’t you get some dry clothes on? There’ll be some in my room,” she suggests. “I could order some food if you fancy it? Chinese?”
And just like that Serena knows that she’s staying in Bernie's flat, in Bernie’s clothes, overnight. No discussion needed, just a certainty that she won’t need to leave again and it’s not an uncomfortable assumption, so much so that she doesn’t even offer up a token protest.
“Okay,” she says shyly, grinning at her feet. “Chow mein?”
“Extra dumplings. Split a rice. Two fortune cookies and those crackers if they have them,” Bernie smiles and makes to move past her. “I know. You go warm up.”
Serena walks into Bernie’s room, pulls the door halfway behind her and blessedly strips out of her cold, heavy and damp clothes as she hears Bernie’s voice carry from the kitchen ordering food to be delivered. Padding around in her underwear, she fights the urge to touch Bernie’s items; a hair tie with blonde strands caught up on it sitting on the windowsill, a photo frame with a picture of her parents in it, her lip balm.
She is brought back to the moment by a gentle knock on the door.
“There should be a pair of fleece jogging bottoms in the third drawer down, t-shirt too if you need it. You can borrow some socks too,” comes the voice through the gap and Serena’s brain catches up to the fact that she is stood half naked in Bernie Wolfe’s bedroom and there's not even a closed door between herself and the woman.
She finds the aforementioned trousers and changes, flushes a little at how the clothes she puts on hug a little tighter than she is comfortable with, but she’s warm and finally dry and as she steps through into the living room, Bernie doesn’t mention the fit of the clothes, only offers another tight and happy expression and continues to move magazines off the table so there's space to eat.
-
Time passes in a sort of blur that confuses Serena. The sound of persistent rain creates an intimate feeling and between the heavy clouds and the season changing, the light dimmed at some point that could be late afternoon or early evening and Bernie clicks on two lamps that cast the room in a warm glow.
Serena feels safe. Feels like all that went wrong today is not an insurmountable disaster. Feels the tension loosen, all thanks to a take away and some trashy television.
Only , she thinks, it’s not quite that simple .
She probably would have had the exact same evening alone at home, alone, had she caught a taxi home. It stands to reason, quite logically, that Bernie is the cause of why she feels safe, feels rejuvenated.
Feels loved.
She casts her eyes over to where Bernie is slouched, head tilted back against the back of the sofa. Her eyes are closed, her breathing even with her hands sitting empty on her lap, palms facing up and Serena wants nothing more than to slide her own hand into that waiting space.
Feeling loved in this moment is a tangible thing- it fills her chest to breaking point, till her breath is shaky and her hands clench, till she feel like she might cry because she feels it so much.
She closes her eyes and concentrates on breathing, on being present. Concentrates on loving in return.
-
Serena jolts awake to the sound of thunder. The television is still playing the same Miss Marple episode they had settled down to watch and she reasons that they can’t have been asleep that long. She’s warm still, but now almost uncomfortably so. Her legs are leaning against Bernie and the woman is practically leaking heat.
She wakes her by jiggling her foot.
“Come on,” she says softly. Nudges her again. “Remember falling asleep in my chair? Your back will thank you for a bed.”
They stand up from the sofa with a symphony of cracking joints and groans and as Bernie stumbles slightly, Serena reaches out to hold her hand in order to steady her. As they cross the hall, both sleepy, blinking hard and not thinking, neither woman thinks lets go.
Bernie only breaks off to walk to the bathroom, letting go of Serena’s hand after a small squeeze, which leaves Serena standing alone in the bedroom again, facing the bed.
The bedsheets are crumpled from where Bernie must have pushed them back in the morning, slate grey in colour and probably a cheap cotton blend. Serena pictures her perfectly made bed with her high thread count, her soft throw that sits over the duvet to keep her warm on the colder nights, the pillows that fill the empty space around her.
It feels so inevitable that it would lead here, that they should share a bed after an evening spent together. In fact, Serena is surprised that it hasn’t happened already and she thinks back on all the moments that they could have, thinks about the morning they woke up in her living room, the night they shared in the on call room.
From seemingly nowhere, panic bubbles up hot in her chest and she feels terrified, scared absolutely shitless at the immediacy of this change, even if in her bones it seems like the most natural conclusion. Suddenly, all she is sure about is that she is about to ruin absolutely everything by wanting too much and so hard- when Bernie walks back into the room.
She smells minty and fresh from brushing her teeth and has taken off her trousers and bra, because of course she just sleeps in the same t-shirt and underwear she’s been wearing all day.
“Bathroom’s free,” Bernie says, brushing her hand down Serena’s bare arm before slipping into bed and closing her eyes.
Serena stands there for a moment, not managing to move, until Bernie sits up a little to squint at her.
“Second door on the right,” she murmurs, misunderstanding the tension Serena carries.
“Right. I’ll just...” Serena gestures lamely at the door and takes an exaggerated step towards it and then several smaller quicker steps until she escapes. She makes her way across the hallway and into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind her and pretends like she’s not utterly drowning in everything Berenice Wolfe.
-
She splashes some water on her face, let’s the tap run into her cupped palm to bring water to her mouth to swill away the lingering taste of Chinese food.
Looking up, she forces herself to look at the reflection staring back. Her eyes are tired with bags sitting heavily underneath them, but her cheeks are flush with colour.
She looks happy, if only her body could get the memo and stop panicking.
“Come on, Campbell,” she says, running her wrists under the cool water. “Breathe.”
She stands there for a few more moments, until it feels less like catching her breath and more like hiding, briefly entertains the idea of tiptoeing her way around the flat to pick up her items from where they’ve found homes and getting into her car and driving away-but then that dream dies as she remembers that her car is broken and still at the hospital and the entire reason she is in this position right now.
Making her way back to the bedroom, Serena looks quietly and hopefully for some pyjamas that Bernie might have left lying around for her to change into, until she realises that Bernie probably expects her to sleep in the t-shirt and pants she is currently wearing, same as her.
Battling down a wave of self consciousness at undressing while standing at the foot of Bernie’s bed, she slips her hands under her borrowed t-shirt and unclasps her bra, pulls the straps out of the sleeves and down her arms, reaches under and tugs it off, revelling in the immediate comfort removing a bra provides, and rolls her shoulders with the new freedom.
Next, she slips off the fleece jogging bottoms in a slow, awkward manoeuvre.
She throws both items of clothing to the office chair in the corner that’s already covered in clothes and mentally tries not to roll her eyes at the predictability of Bernie’s laundry habits.
Her legs prick at the coolness of the room and she is brought back to her situation. She can’t remember the last time she shaved her legs, thinks she probably should have trimmed the last time she was in the shower because dark wiry hairs are peeking out the sides of her underwear. The last time she applied any sort of perfume was the deodorant she hastily put on a few hours before the start of the shift and her breath probably still carries the taste of Shiraz and the smell of chow mein.
She feels simultaneously not enough, insufficient and overwhelmingly... too much .
She doesn’t care, normally. She has always considered herself to be comfortable in her body- proud of it even, hasn’t thought about anyone else's opinion for a while, but faced with the immediate reality of climbing into bed with one Berenice Wolfe, she feels inadequate.
“Can you stop thinking so loudly please.” Bernie mutters from the bed, and Serena starts.
Serena takes a breath, catches it and holds onto it. Tries to steady her erratic heartbeat. Reminds herself that Bernie is her best friend and not meeting self imposed expectations of smooth skin is not going to mean the woman will never speak to her again.
She makes her way haltingly over to the bed and slips inside, stays close to the edge and lays there stiff, until a hand reaches out and pulls her closer to the centre, where both the mattress and duvet are already warm from the presence of Bernie.
She thinks back to the phone call months ago, thinks how her sleepy mind had wished for exactly this, and softens slightly.
“This ok?” Bernie asks against the skin of her shoulder, half her mouth on Serena’s borrowed t-shirt, half resting against the curve of skin.
“Yes,” she whispers back, even though her body is the most awake it’s been all night because Bernie is holding her like this. Her heart is pounding. “Yeah, s’fine.”
She flinches as Bernie shifts, brings her legs forward to tangle with hers. Bernie lets out a very soft, happy noise. “You’re warm,” she murmurs sleepily. “And soft.”
All Serena can do in response is hold on tighter to the arm wrapped over her waist, try and convey how she feels through that gesture alone. She feels emotion sitting at the back of her throat, thick, hot and heavy- and fears that if she opens her mouth, words oversaturated with feeling will come out. She can feel the stubble of Bernie’s own legs against her own and instead of thinking Bernie as any less perfect, she thinks the moment is more wonderful for it, feels more at ease in her own body.
She allows herself to melt completely, allows herself to make her own content little hum of joy, holds no happiness back.
The storm continues outside; the pavements glows and sparkles with the reflected streetlights, the air slowly cools and, in the morning, when they wake still curled up together- the world feels new.
*
5.
The first thing Bernie realises when she wakes is that it’s raining. It’s hard not to notice, pounding against her windows with a gusto that implies that deluge won’t be stopping anytime in the next few hours.
She can’t remember the last time she woke up in her bed to the sound of such heavy rain. It’s such a simple pleasure, one that is made better by the realisation that today is her day off.
Eyes on the ceiling, she begins to run through the list of chores she needs to do. The carpet in the living room most definitely need a hoover. The fridge needs emptying, then filling again and the bin desperately needs taking out.
But it’s raining and her arms practically ache with the missing weight of holding Serena.
As the seconds tick over to minutes and the sound of rain hitting her windows doesn’t ease, Bernie decides that if thinking about Serena isn’t going to bring the woman to her, she should think about taking herself to the woman.
She hits the alarm clock’s backlight to see that it’s just before six thirty and wonders how much Serena will hate her if she is woken up early her up on her day off too.
-
As Bernie turns her engine off, she pauses for a moment to look up at Serena’s house, a sight that is becoming increasingly familiar to her.
The morning is stubbornly holding onto the darkness of night, thanks to the clouds that are sitting heavily in the sky, and Bernie can see the light of Serena’s hallway spilling through a gap in her living room curtains.
“At least she’s awake,” Bernie mutters to herself, before grabbing her car keys and courage and jogging from her car to Serena’s front door.
She raises her hand and knocks hard three times, and a minute passes where Bernie tries her best to shelter under the tiny porch roof until the the front door swings open.
“Oh lord,” Serena says. “You’re soaked.”
“I know,” Bernie says. “Can I come in?”
Serena blinks, then side steps allowing Bernie to brush past her through the doorway and into the foyer where she shakes her head abruptly to stop the rain dripping down her neck from the tips of wet hair. It’s a move that makes Bernie feel remarkably like a wet dog.
“Fancy a cup of tea?” Bernie asks, beginning to regret her impulse decision to drive over, unsure of how to explain what compelled her to come. She drops a kiss onto Serena’s cheek as she kicks off her shoes without bending to undo the laces and walks on into the kitchen.
“You didn’t drive over at - Christ, Bernie it’s only just seven in the morning!”
“Can’t I want to see my favourite girl on my day off?” Bernie says defensively, filling up the kettle and popping it on, reaching up to the cupboard to pull down the mug she’s claimed for regular use.
When she chances a glance over, Serena is just appraising her with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms. Bernie knows that she could leave it at this, that Serena is trying to be patient with her- is learning to not push for information when it’s clear that Bernie isn’t sure how to share.
She worries her thumbnail against her bottom lip for a few moments. Adds a teabag and spoonful of sugar to her mug. Breathes.
“Did you ever picture how your future would look when you were younger?” Bernie asks, not looking up from the counter. “And I don’t just mean career goals. Did you ever imagine something- an ideal image, however ridiculous or unreachable, of how your life would work out?”
“I don’t remember.” Serena says.
“I did,” Bernie says. “I always held on to this image that I created in my head of what I thought love would look like.”
“And?” Serena asks.
The kettle clicks off and for a moment Bernie watches the steam come out and disapparate into nothing and thinks to herself that trying to choose the right words feels the same. That as soon as they appear in her head, they disappear before she can fully grasp them.
“It looked like wanting to stay in bed because it was raining outside, and why would you want to be anywhere else when you have the world in your arms.”
“Oh,” Serena says, hand raising to rest against her neck. “Well.”
“So I drove here.”
“You drove here,” she repeats.
“So I drove here at seven o’clock in the morning so I can finally, finally, give myself the one thing I’ve always wanted.”
“Okay,” Serena says, lips pressed together like she’s trying not to grin too much, like she’s just won the biggest prize. “You’ll have to take your pyjama top off I’m afraid if we’re getting back into bed, it’s damp.”
“That can be arranged,” Bernie says, posture relaxing, grinning shyly.
“And you’re towelling your hair first too, I don’t want my pillows getting wet.”
“I can do that too.”
“Well then,” Serena says, slightly dumbfounded. “Good morning to you too.”
Bernie steps forward, kisses her lightly on the lips, before making her way up to a bed that still holds the slightest warmth of Serena’s presence.
Shaking her head, Serena walks across to Bernie’s abandoned mug, pulls down another cup and sets about pouring the water to make two brews.
-
By the time Serena makes it up the stairs with two cups of tea, Bernie is sat topless in her bed. There’s a hand towel on the floor of her en suite judging by the sheepish look and already curling blonde hair, Bernie has followed her instructions to dry off slightly.
“Oh I see,” Serena says, stepping into the room. “Your place is messy enough so you decide to come and mess up my life instead.”
“You wouldn’t have it any other way,” Bernie says. “Besides...I give you something to do.”
“You certainly do,” Serena says with a warm low tone and a fond look as she passes a cup across for Bernie to take.
It hurts Bernie’s cold fingers to hold the hot ceramic, but she relishes the sting as she wraps her hands around it, feels with warmth begin to sink in.
“I love you,” Bernie says, earnestly. It feels bizarre to say like this, topless and still a little cold from the rain, sitting in Serena’s bed as Serena stands above her looking bemused, but Bernie needs there to be no doubt about what she has tried to communicate.
“Yes,” Serena says. “I rather got that from the romantic speech you gave me in my kitchen, Bernie.”
She kicks off her slippers and pops down her own cup down on a coaster sitting on her bedside table. Unceremoniously she strips out of her own pyjamas and joins Bernie in bed, humming in part to the luxury of getting back into bed having left it, and in meeting a warm body- a glorious and luminous Bernie, in the middle.
They lay there for a few moments, Serena burrowing closer and closer into Bernie, sighing happily.
Bernie let’s her eyes drift close and takes a conscious effort to try and remember everything about this moment. The way Serena feels pressed against her, how, if she shifts her foot a little, she’ll meet a patch of duvet that is still cool, the sound of the rain soothingly pattering up against the window.
There is no competition to be had, between fantasy and reality, but Bernie lets herself compare how the moment is when played out against the vision in her head. It feels so much richer than she ever expected it to- and she remembers how lucky she is to have fallen in love with the best friend shes ever had. There’s a level of safety and intimacy that she could never have even conjured up in her mind in her early twenties, and reminds herself to not take it for granted.
She opens her eyes and takes in Serena laying next to her and as her heart fills, something amusing occurs to her.
“You know, when I pictured it- I always thought they’d be a blonde.” She says to the room. “Although I guess grey is close enough.”
It’s a little terrifying how Serena can lift an eyebrow and not change any other expression on her face.
“Careful,” she says without opening her eyes.
“You know I love your hair,” Bernie says, moulding herself against Serena, leaving no space between them. “Very regal.”
“Regal best not be a synonym for old, you git,” Serena mumbles.
Bernie lets out a gentle chuckle. “As if I’d risk it,” she says. “You tired?”
“Hmm.” Serena hums.
And it doesn’t matter that their tea will go cold and Bernie will be the one forced out of bed later to make new cups, nothing matters other than the love that she feels so encompassed with.
“Sleep then,” Bernie whispers to her and, a moment later, because it’s important, whispers again. “Listen, it’s still raining.”
She wiggles her fingertips where they are sandwiched under Serena’s naked waist and slowly going numb, relishing in the sting of pins and needles that begin to race up her arm. There is no where in the world she would rather be than exactly where she is.
“Is it.” Serena grumbles, face still happily pressed into her pillow. “Good for the rain.”