One More Kiss

8:29 p.m. The emergency-stair landing outside your walk-up.

You closed 4B without speaking. The stair paint is old cream, scuffed at the treads. From the bakery on the ground floor, warm sugar still climbs the shaft. Your key sits in your hand as if you had only stepped out for a second.

Through the thin door, the sofa shifts. Ivy laughs — close, uncareful, the way she does when she thinks the room is only theirs. Fabric whispers. Then, softer:

“Elle.”

Noelle answers too low to catch. She does not sound startled. She sounds like someone who was already holding the person in her lap.

They do not know you saw.

A minute ago Ivy was sideways across Noelle on your sofa: cream cropped cardigan, beige check skirt, white lace at the collar, arms around Noelle’s neck. Noelle’s long black hair and white hairband had not moved. One hand at Ivy’s waist. The other in short honey-blonde hair. They kissed in your living room between the sunflower cushion and the three mugs. When they parted they stayed close and smiled. Ivy asked for one more. Noelle told her she had already called the last one the last, and did not push her away.

They never looked at the door.

On this side, the landing is quiet except for the muffled life you just left. Inside, the sofa takes their weight again.