The Shape of Her Name
Copyright© 2025 by BeneathHerBraid
Chapter 5: The Call
Harper’s loft was quiet when she returned home after the event, the city humming faintly beyond her tall windows. She didn’t bother with the lights. The amber spill from a single mismatched lamp was enough - casting warm shadows across the cluttered desk, the crooked floor lamp, the unruly pile of shoes by the door. She stood there for a long beat, heels dangling from her fingers, the air still humming with adrenaline and something deeper - something more electric than applause.
She let out a breath. Then another. The dress came off with a sigh, pooled like soft punctuation on the floor. She unpinned her hair with one hand and tossed her clutch onto the kitchen counter with the other.
Mira’s card was still in it.
She didn’t even mean to touch it - but her fingers found it like they’d been waiting. The cream cardstock was matte and soft, the red ink like a whispered dare.
Mira Laurent.
And a number. Just that. No logo. No company. No armor. Harper turned it over once. Then again.
“No pressure,” Mira had said, “Just ... possibility.”
Harper could still hear her voice - low and deliberate, threaded with something molten.
Her thumb traced the curve of the M. Then the L.
She set it down. Picked it back up. Set it down again.
Her phone lit up.
Jules: “You going ok?”
Harper stared. Then typed. “I have no idea.”
A pause. Then Jules again: “I get that. You’ve never been into women before. Let alone a goddess.”
Harper didn’t reply. What was there to say? She looked at the card once more. Then disappeared into the bathroom for a long bath. Warm water lapped just under her collarbones, fogging the air with lavender and something that tried to be calm but couldn’t quite mute the electricity under her skin.
Harper leaned her head back, curls heavy with steam, the lush beats of Glass Animals murmuring from the Bluetooth speaker in the corner. One foot found the faucet absently, toes flexing. On the edge of the tub - balanced too precariously - Mira’s card sat like a quiet dare. Harper stared at it. Let the water swirl warm and wet between her thighs.
She reached for her phone.
Don’t.
She reached again.
Definitely don’t.
She picked it up.
Her cheeks were already flushed. Not from the water. Not just from the water. She hovered over the number she just entered - like her body knew what her brain was still trying to rationalize. It’s too soon. It’s ridiculous. It’s obvious.
She hit Call anyway.
The phone rang once. Twice.And then - “Harper.”
Mira’s voice. Low. Certain. Warm as candlelight. No question. No hello. Like she already knew it would be her. Harper’s breath caught. Mira didn’t have her number. She does now.
Mira was reclining on the low-slung linen couch that anchored her balcony, one long leg draped over the other, the hem of her robe slipping higher than she usually allowed. The robe was pale - a champagne silk that clung to the dampness still warming her skin from the shower. Her hair was wrapped in a towel, but a few dark strands had fallen free, curling near her collarbone.
Manhattan moved beneath her in soft murmurs and glinting motion. She didn’t move. Not even to sip the wine beside her - red and untouched. Around her, the vines she’d trained along the railing stirred faintly in the breeze - jasmine, mint, a little thyme near the corner. She’d trimmed them earlier, barefoot in a black slip, the scent of crushed green and blossom clinging faintly to her skin. Harper will one day say the balcony smells like her. Mira won’t corrected her. The air now was thick with cardamom and night jasmine, and for the first time in days, she felt still.
Then the phone buzzed.
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