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who says this ever has to end

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“Look, I know that you’re off finding yourself or whatever, but I need to come see you.”

 

Sophie rolls her eyes and glances at the clock beside her bed. Two o’clock in the morning. “We need to have a talk about paying attention to the difference in time zones.”

 

“Where are you?” Tara huffs out.

 

“London.”

 

“How exactly is being there supposed to help with your self-discovery?”

 

“What do you want, Tara?” Sophie asks as she burrows back into her bed.

 

“I told you. I need to come see you,” Tara says, and Sophie can hear the smile in her voice.

 

Sophie sighs. “Let me guess. You’re standing outside my door right now.”

 

“I hate that I’m apparently so predictable, but yes. Do you want to let us in or not?”

 

Grabbing her robe from the foot of the bed, Sophie pulls it on as she walks to her door. “Us?”

 

Sophie listens to Tara’s reply as she opens the door. “Well, I might have brought along a friend.”

 

“Maggie,” Sophie says softly as she takes in the two women standing outside her apartment. “I heard about what happened.”

 

Tara smirks. “I knew you had to be the one who tipped off Hardison and Eliot about the card. And I don’t think anybody told you about the bomb?”

 

Sophie grips the doorframe, her heart hammering against her ribcage as she stares at Maggie. “There was a bomb?”

 

“Maybe we can come inside and tell you what happened?” Maggie suggests, nudging Tara with an elbow.

 

Sophie nods and steps back, turning towards her small kitchen area. “I’ll just put on some tea.”

 

“Grab a couple of bottles of wine instead,” Tara says, grinning at her.

 

 

*****

 

 

As she sips on her wine, Tara glances over at Sophie, smiles when Sophie rolls her eyes at her. There’s something darker in Sophie’s eyes as she listens to Maggie talk about the elevator and the bomb, but it could just be the dim light and the hour. She watches Maggie brush a careless hand across Sophie’s shoulder and there’s a twinge in her stomach. Not jealousy, but—she always forgets how easily Sophie pulls people in. She shouldn’t, though, not when she has done the same thing.

 

“You broke up with him?” Sophie asks, and Maggie laughs, her cheeks flushed.

 

“It was just…convenient, I guess would be the right word,” Maggie says with a shrug. “I’m not looking for anything long-term right now. It was just nice to…to have someone.”

 

Tara reaches over to grab the nearly empty wine bottle. “Well, there are better people out there to just have.”

 

She catches Maggie’s eye and winks because it’s too easy, too much fun, because she certainly hasn’t forgotten pressing Maggie against the wall of the bar’s back room, a hand between her thighs and yesyesyes and moans and delicate fingers and ohmygodpleasedon’tstopplease.

 

She knows that Sophie sees it, too, and then Sophie is pushing past Maggie to lean over and kiss Tara, slow slow slow, her hands gentle against Tara’s cheeks.

 

Tara breaks the kiss to look at Maggie, murmuring, “If you want them, anyway.”

 

Maggie stares at her, open-mouthed, eyes bright, and she can’t stop herself, she pulls Maggie into her arms and kisses her and kisses her. Somewhere behind them, she hears Sophie putting their wine glasses to the side before moving in closer and twining her fingers through Tara’s over Maggie’s hip.

 

Tara smiles, and Maggie laughs against her lips, her head falling back as Sophie nips at her neck.

 

 

*****

 

 

How did I get here?

 

It’s not the first time Maggie’s asked herself the question. Staring at a tiny coffin, holding divorce papers in her hands—but never like this. Sophie thrusts three fingers up into her, and Maggie cries out, arches her back and closes her eyes, grinding down. Never like this. Safe and…happy.

 

It’s too much to even open her eyes and look, though she wants to, wants to see Sophie’s smiling dark eyes and Tara’s golden hair, wants to feel and see and hear everything. Fingers cup her chin and then Tara kisses her, open-mouthed, her other hand sliding down Maggie’s stomach to press against her clit.

 

“Oh, fuck.” Maggie breathes and whimpers.

 

She feels that heavy fullness spreading through her as her hips start to jerk against Sophie, as she pants against Tara’s lips, as she grips the sheets in one hand and digs her nails into Sophie’s thigh. Tara smirks and flicks her fingers and then she comes and they don’t let her go, they don’t stop, and ohmygodohmygod and she screams as she comes again, shaking, falling until there are arms wrapped around her.

 

Hands stroke through her hair, and Sophie presses a kiss to her collarbone (she knows because that is the exact place Sophie marked her when they had slept together; the first time, the last time, the only time and Maggie dreamed about it for weeks after). She turns her head and pulls Tara into a kiss, pulls her close until she can slip a thigh between Tara’s legs. As Tara grinds down, slick and wet, gasping, Maggie reaches out for Sophie. Sophie smiles down at her and kisses her, groaning when Maggie’s fingers slip between her legs.

 

No, it’s never been like this. But, maybe, maybe it can be.