Chapter Text
The alarm hadn’t gone off yet, but Lisa Connor-Swain was already awake. She lay on her side, watching the grey Manchester light filter through the curtains, a dull, insistent reminder of the day ahead. But mostly, she was watching her wife.
Carla was fast asleep, her dark hair fanned out over the white pillowcase, looking softer and younger than she ever did during the daylight hours when she was armored in silk and sarcasm. One of her arms was thrown out, instinctively seeking contact even in sleep, resting heavily over Lisa’s waist. But her other arm was occupied.
Curled into the curve of Carla’s stomach, looking for all the world like a blonder, smaller miniature of her mother, was Betsy.
Lisa watched them breathe in sync - the fierce, formidable factory owner and the chaotic three-year-old - and felt a sudden, sharp tightness in her throat. It was a terrifying amount of happiness to have lying on one mattress. It was a perfect, silent tableau of the family she hadn’t thought she’d ever have, and the thought of disturbing it felt like a crime.
Then, reality intruded.
Lisa sighed, checking the time on her phone. She carefully extracted herself from Carla’s grip, trying to slide a pillow into the empty space to maintain the warmth, and moved toward the suitcase standing like a sentry in the corner.
The sound of the zipper tearing through the quiet of the bedroom was, in Carla Connor-Swain’s professional opinion, the most offensive noise in the world.
She didn't move. She didn't even breathe loudly. She simply tightened her grip, burying her face further into the warmth of the expensive Egyptian cotton and the much softer, sweeter warmth of the toddler curled against her chest.
"Carla," Lisa’s voice came from somewhere near the wardrobe. It was gentle, patient, and utterly annoying. "The taxi is going to be here in forty minutes."
Carla squeezed her eyes shut. "No."
"You have to get up."
"I don't," Carla mumbled, the words vibrating against the top of Betsy’s head. "I live here now. Under the duvet. Tell the Italians the factory exploded. Tell them I’ve joined a convent."
The mattress dipped as Lisa sat on the edge of the bed. Carla felt a hand - warm, familiar, slightly rough from the cold morning air - slide under the covers to find her shoulder, thumb rubbing a soothing circle into the silk of her pyjamas.
"If you join a convent, I don’t think they let you take your wife and toddler with you," Lisa teased softly.
"Then I’ll start my own convent. The Order of Our Lady of Staying In Bed."
Betsy, sensing the shift in tone and the vibration of Carla's voice, stirred. She stretched her legs out, kicking Carla in the shin, and blinked her eyes open.
"Who's talking?" Betsy demanded, her voice sleep-rough but distinct. She patted Carla’s cheek with a heavy hand. "Mama? Are you awake?"
"Shh, baby bear," Carla whispered, pressing a kiss to the riot of soft curls that smelled like strawberry shampoo and sleep - a scent Carla wanted to bottle and take to Milan with her. "We’re hiding. Don’t let Mummy find us."
Betsy gasped, fully buying into the drama immediately. She wiggled around, burying her face in Carla’s neck. "We're hiding!" she whispered loudly. "Go away, Mummy! We are invisible!"
Lisa huffed a laugh and reached for the duvet. "I can hear you being invisible, Betsy. Come on, you two. Coffee is on the bedside table. Ten minutes, or-"
She made the mistake of leaning in too close to drop a kiss on Carla’s exposed forehead.
Carla’s eyes snapped open, a glint of mischief cutting through her tiredness. Before Lisa could react, Carla’s hand shot out from the warmth of the cocoon, snagging the belt loop of Lisa’s jeans.
With a surprisingly strong yank, she pulled.
"Woah!" Lisa yelped, losing her balance and toppling sideways onto the mattress. She landed half-on, half-off the duvet, legs kicking in the air. "Carla!"
"Get her, Betsy!" Carla commanded, throwing the duvet off just enough to reveal the target. "Get Mummy! Don't let her escape!"
Betsy didn't need telling twice. She squealed, a high-pitched sound of pure toddler joy, and scrambled over Carla’s stomach to launch herself at Lisa.
"I got her!" Betsy shouted, throwing herself onto Lisa’s chest. "I got the baddie!"
"I'm not the baddie, I'm the police!" Lisa laughed, breathless, trying to fend off Betsy’s tiny, seeking fingers while Carla pinned her legs down, grinning wickedly. "This is a criminal offence! I’m being assaulted in my own home!"
"It’s a mutiny," Carla declared, diving in to tickle Lisa’s side, right in that spot she knew made her wife melt.
For a minute, the room was just noise - Betsy’s uncontrollable giggles, Lisa’s gasping laughter, the rustle of sheets. But eventually, reality had to win. Lisa managed to catch Betsy mid-attack, blowing a giant raspberry on the toddler’s tummy that made her shriek, before she rolled out of Carla’s grip, breathless and flushed.
"Okay, okay, you win," Lisa laughed, sitting up and smoothing her hair, her eyes bright with affection. "But seriously. The taxi."
Carla groaned, retreating immediately back into her cocoon. "I take it back. I don't win. If I won, I wouldn't be leaving."
Lisa sighed, stood up, and ruthlessly peeled the duvet back.
The grey morning light hit them, and Carla hissed like a vampire, instinctively curling her body around Betsy to shield her. It was a perfect spoon - Carla, the protective Mumma Bear, wrapped entirely around her cub, legs tangled together, arm draped over Betsy’s small frame to keep her safe and close.
"Look at you two," Lisa said, her voice dropping, losing all its practical ‘detective mode’ edge. She sounded wrecked. "You’re making this really hard, you know."
Carla finally looked up. Her hair was a mess, one strap of her silk nightgown had fallen off her shoulder, and her eyes were glassy, rimmed with the threat of tears she refused to shed yet.
"Then tell me not to go," Carla said, her voice cracking just a fraction. She pulled Betsy closer, nuzzling her nose against the toddler's soft cheek. Betsy tolerated the affection, busy trying to put her own toes in her mouth. "Look at her, Lisa. She’s three. She barely knows her alphabet. She needs me."
"I need you," Lisa corrected, reaching out to brush a strand of hair out of Carla’s eyes. Her thumb lingered on Carla’s cheekbone, tracing the line of it lovingly. "But if you don't go, Underworld loses the contract, and you’ll be miserable about it in a week."
"I won't. I'll be thrilled. I'll be poor and thrilled."
Betsy stopped playing with her toes. She rolled over, sitting up to look between them, sensing the sudden drop in atmospheric pressure. She reached out, poking Carla’s cheek.
"Why is your face wet, Mama?" she asked, her tone accusatory. "Sad?"
"I'm not sad, darling," Carla lied, catching Betsy’s hand and kissing the palm. "Mama just.. Mama really loves her baby bear. And she doesn't want to leave the cave."
"Big bear," Betsy corrected firmly, patting Carla’s chest, then pointing to herself. "Little bear. And Mummy is... the Wolf."
"That's right," Carla whispered, her throat tight. She looked up at Lisa, her defenses crumbling. "I hate this. I actually hate this."
"I know," Lisa murmured. She leaned down, pressing a long, firm kiss to Carla’s forehead, then a quick, noisy raspberry to Betsy’s cheek, making the toddler giggle. "Ten minutes. Or I’m coming in there to drag you out, and I promise, I’m stronger than I look."
Lisa stood up and walked back to the suitcase, but Carla saw the way she wiped her eye quickly with the back of her hand before she turned away.
Carla let out a long, shaky exhale, pulling the duvet back up over their heads, plunging them back into the dark, warm safety.
"Five more minutes," she whispered into the dark, pulling Betsy in tight enough to memorize the feeling of her small, solid weight. "Just five more minutes."
The drive to the airport was supposed to be quiet. In Carla’s head, it was going to be a cinematic, silent journey where she stared out the window at the grey Manchester drizzle while Lisa held her hand, unspoken words heavy in the air.
In reality, they made it to the end of the street before the interrogation began.
"Mummy," Betsy’s voice piped up from the car seat in the back. "Where are we going?"
"The airport, baby," Lisa said, keeping her eyes on the road and steering with her right hand. Her left fingers were tightly laced with Carla’s over the center console, and when the engine whined, she didn't let go. Instead, she awkwardly shifted gears with the same hand, maneuvering their joined fists to the stick to crunch it into fourth because breaking contact for even a second wasn't an option.
"Why?"
"Because Mama has to go on a plane," Lisa explained patiently.
"Why?"
"For work."
"Why?"
Carla let out a soft snort, squeezing Lisa’s hand. "She’s got you there. Why do I work? It seems like a terrible lifestyle choice right now."
"Is the plane big?" Betsy asked, ignoring Carla’s existential crisis.
"Very big," Lisa confirmed.
"Bigger than a house?"
"Yes."
"Bigger than a...dog?"
"Much bigger than a dog."
"Bigger than...my shoes?"
"Betsy," Carla turned in her seat to look back at the toddler, who was kicking her legs rhythmically against the passenger seat. "The plane is huge. It's the size of a dinosaur."
Betsy’s eyes went wide. "A dinosaur!" she gasped. She processed this information for exactly three seconds before launching into a loud, enthusiastic, and entirely tuneless rendition of The Wheels on the Bus, except she replaced every noun with 'dinosaur'.
"The dinosaurs on the bus go roar, roar, roar!" Betsy sang at the top of her lungs.
Carla looked at Lisa. Lisa looked at the road, but a small, dimpled smile had appeared on her face.
"I’m going to miss this noise," Carla realized aloud, her voice quiet enough that Betsy couldn't hear over her own singing. "I’m going to be sitting in that silent hotel room tonight, and I’m going to wish there was someone shouting about dinosaurs."
"I’ll record her for you," Lisa promised, lifting Carla’s hand to press a kiss to the back of her knuckles. "I’ll send you a voice note."
The airport coffee shop was bright, loud, and smelled faintly of burnt milk and sanitizer. It was the least romantic place on earth, which felt appropriate, because neither Carla nor Lisa felt particularly romantic. They felt like they were at a wake.
They found a small, wobbly table in the corner. Lisa parked the suitcase against the wall like a barricade and immediately reached across the table. Carla met her halfway, their fingers lacing together instantly again, a desperate, white-knuckled grip.
"This is sludge," Carla stated flatly, staring down at her cardboard cup with her free hand. "I’m paying five pounds for sludge, Lisa."
"Drink it," Lisa said softly, her thumb rubbing rhythmic, soothing circles over Carla’s knuckles. "You’ll need the caffeine when you land."
"I don't want caffeine. I want to go home and watch Bluey."
Under the table, Lisa bumped her knee against Carla’s and kept it there. The contact was grounding. A reminder: I’m here. We’re still here.
Betsy, entirely oblivious to the sombre mood, shrieked at the mention of her favourite show. She had been busy trying to dismantle a sugar packet, but now she abandoned it, scrambling up from her own chair to demand access to the prime real estate that was Carla’s lap.
"Up! I want up, Mama!"
Carla didn't even hesitate. She abandoned her coffee and hoisted Betsy up with her free arm, settling the toddler against her chest. Betsy immediately made herself comfortable, legs kicking rhythmically against Carla’s shins, her attention zeroing in on the gold chain around Carla’s neck.
"Is this gold?" Betsy asked, wrapping the expensive metal around her sticky fingers.
"It is," Carla murmured, pressing her nose into Betsy’s hair.
"Can I eat it?"
Carla let out a startled laugh. "No, you absolutely cannot eat it. It’s metal, darling."
"It looks tasty," Betsy argued, giving the chain a firm yank. "Like chocolate coins."
"You are a menace," Carla whispered, letting Betsy pull on the necklace - something she would have scolded anyone else for. Today, Betsy could have dismantled the necklace link by link and Carla probably would have thanked her.
Lisa watched them, her eyes brimming with a fierce, quiet adoration. She lifted Carla’s hand to her lips, kissing the knuckles again, then the palm, breathing in the scent of her perfume.
"You’ve got twenty minutes until the gate closes," Lisa whispered against Carla’s skin.
Carla sighed, a sound that seemed to come from her toes. "Don't remind me."
"You better go."
"I know."
Neither of them moved. Lisa kept kissing Carla’s hand; Carla kept her knee pressed against Lisa’s. Betsy hummed her dinosaur song again, twisting the gold chain.
Finally, Carla stood up. The physical separation of their hands felt like a physical tearing. She shifted Betsy to her hip. "Right. Let's get this over with."
Lisa immediately grabbed the suitcase handle again, leading the way to security. She walked close enough that their arms brushed with every step, a constant current of reassurance.
When they reached the barriers - the point of no return - Carla stopped.
Lisa abandoned the suitcase. She stepped into Carla’s space, crowding her, needing to be as close as humanly possible. She reached out, fixing the collar of Carla’s coat, smoothing down the lapels, her hands lingering on Carla’s shoulders, then her neck.
"Call me as soon as you get to the hotel," Lisa said, her voice tight. Her thumbs stroked Carla’s jawline. "Don't speak to any strange Italians."
"Lisa," Carla’s voice wobbled. She leaned into the touch, closing her eyes for a second.
That was it. The dam broke.
Lisa stepped forward, wrapping her arms around both of them, burying her face in the crook of Carla’s neck. Carla let out a shaky breath and squeezed back, sandwiching Betsy between them. It was a desperate hug, a clinging, don't-let-go hug. Lisa’s hands were fisted in the back of Carla’s coat, holding on for dear life.
"I’m going to miss you so much," Lisa whispered, her voice thick with tears.
"It's two days," Carla choked out, though she was crying too now, hot tears spilling onto Lisa’s jacket. "It's nothing. I'm being ridiculous."
"You're not."
Betsy was squished. She wiggled in the tight embrace until she could lean back and see their faces. She looked at Lisa, whose eyes were wet, and then at Carla, who was sniffing unglamorously.
Betsy’s bottom lip stuck out. She reached out, placing her tiny hands on Carla’s wet cheeks, squishing her face slightly.
"Mama, you're leaking," Betsy observed, her voice high and worried. She looked at Lisa with wide, serious eyes. "Mummy, Mama is leaking water. Does she need a plaster?"
"No, baby," Carla sniffed, laughing wetly through the tears. She quickly caught Betsy’s little hands and kissed the palms. "No plasters. Mama’s just...being a bit silly."
"You are a bit silly," Betsy agreed sagely. "You should have a lolly. Lollies stop the crying."
"I’ll have a lolly on the plane," Carla promised, her heart aching at the sweetness. She needed to leave, right now, or she never would. She took a deep breath, forcing a bright smile onto her face for Betsy’s sake. "I’m going to go on the big dinosaur plane now, okay? Zoom!"
"Zoom!" Betsy shouted, distracted by the callback.
Carla set Betsy down on the floor, keeping one hand on her head. She looked at Lisa, and the air crackled between them. Lisa reached out, gripping Carla’s hand one last time, squeezing tight.
Carla leaned in, bypassing Lisa’s lips to press a firm, lingering kiss to her temple, right at the hairline. She stayed there for a moment, breathing her in.
"Love you," Carla whispered into her skin. "Both of you. More than anything."
"Love you too," Lisa managed, her voice cracking. She let go of Carla’s hand slowly, fingers trailing until they lost contact. "Go. Before you miss it."
Carla nodded. She grabbed her bag, blew a kiss to Betsy who was now waving enthusiastically at a stern-looking security guard, and turned toward the gates.
She walked fast, her heels clicking on the linoleum, shoulders set tight. She didn't look back. If she looked back and saw her girls standing there - Lisa looking wrecked and Betsy shouting about dinosaurs - she’d turn around, and Underworld could rot for all she cared.
The hotel room in Milan was luxurious, spacious, and completely soul-sucking. It was beige. Everything was beige. The walls, the carpet, the bedspread.
It wasn't just the colour, though. It was the smell. At home, their bedroom smelled of the vanilla candle Lisa burned in the hallway and the artificial strawberry sweetness of Betsy’s hair detangler that seemed to coat every surface in the house.
Here, the air smelled of aggressive lemon polish and recirculated air-conditioning. It was clean, sharp, and cold.
It was a physical shock, the silence. Carla didn't even take her coat off. She dropped her bag by the door, kicked off her heels with a groan that sounded pathetic even to her own ears, and collapsed backward onto the pristine, untouched bed. It felt wrong. The sheets were too stiff. The pillow was too high.
She fumbled for her phone, her hands actually shaking slightly. She hit the video call button and held the phone up above her face, staring at her own tired, pale reflection, counting the seconds. Pick up. Please, pick up.
The screen flickered, and the beige world melted away.
The image was grainy and low-light, illuminated only by the soft, amber glow of their bedside lamp, but to Carla, it looked like oxygen.
"Hey," Lisa’s voice was a whisper, rough with sleepiness.
Carla let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding since she walked through the departure gates. It came out as a ragged shudder. "Hey."
Lisa shifted the phone, and the camera angle adjusted. Lisa was lying back against the pillows, wearing that old grey t-shirt Carla loved. But it was what - or rather, who - was on top of her that made Carla’s throat close up so tight it hurt.
Betsy was sprawled across Lisa’s chest like a starfish. She was fast asleep, mouth slightly open, one arm thrown dramatically over Lisa’s neck, her blonde curls fanned out over Lisa’s collarbone.
"Oh god," Carla whispered, the fight draining out of her instantly. Tears pricked her eyes, hot and sudden. "Lisa. Look at her."
"She wouldn't settle," Lisa murmured, stroking Betsy’s back with a rhythmic, soothing motion that Carla could almost feel through the screen. "She kept asking for 'Big Bear'. I tried reading the story about the train, but apparently, I do the voices wrong. She told me the train sounded like a 'grumpy tractor'."
Carla let out a wet, choked laugh. "It does. You have no range, darling."
"I miss you too," Lisa whispered, ignoring the insult. She looked at the camera, her eyes soft and searching, scanning Carla’s face. "You look...panicked, love. Breathe."
"I can't," Carla confessed, the words tumbling out. "I can't do this, Lisa. I swear to you, I almost told the pilot to turn the plane around. I was sitting there, strapped in, and I felt like I couldn't breathe, and I actually logged onto the in-flight WiFi to see if I could book a flight back tonight."
"Carla..."
"I’m serious. It took everything I had not to get on a return flight the second I landed. I don't care about the fabric. I don't care about the Italians. I feel...I feel wrong. Physically wrong." Carla pressed the heel of her hand against her chest. "It’s too quiet here. I feel like I’ve lost a limb."
"I know," Lisa soothed, her voice a gentle, steady rumble. She didn't dismiss it; she didn't tell her to pull herself together. She just held the space. "I know it feels impossible right now. It feels wrong here, too. The bed is massive. And Betsy kept waking up looking for you. We’re all a bit lost tonight."
"I hate it."
"I know you do." Lisa shifted slightly, adjusting her grip on the phone so she didn't disturb the toddler using her as a mattress. "But listen to me. You are Carla Connor-Swain. You are brilliant, and you are strong. You’re going to wake up tomorrow, you’re going to walk into that meeting, and you’re going to be magnificent. Because that’s what you do."
"I don't feel magnificent," Carla whispered, wiping a tear that had escaped down her temple. "I feel small."
"You’re not small," Lisa said firmly, but softly. "You’re just loved. You’re missing us because you love us, and we love you. That’s the price, isn't it?"
Carla looked at the screen - at the steady rise and fall of Betsy’s back, at the way Lisa’s hand protected her, at the kindness in Lisa’s eyes. "It’s a steep price."
"It is," Lisa agreed. "But you’re not alone. Even in that beige room, you’re not alone. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere."
On the screen, Betsy stirred. She let out a tiny, soft snore and nuzzled deeper into Lisa’s neck, her hand curling into a fist in the fabric of Lisa’s shirt.
Carla watched them, a fierce wave of longing washing over her. "Is she warm enough?"
"She’s fine. She’s a furnace. I’m actually sweating, but I don't dare move her," Lisa smiled, a small, tired thing. "Go to sleep, Carla. You look shattered."
"I can't sleep," Carla admitted. "If I hang up, the room goes quiet again. And I’ll start looking at flights again."
Lisa didn't hesitate. Her face softened, filled with an infinite patience. "Then don't hang up. Put the phone on the pillow next to you."
Carla swallowed hard, gratitude swelling in her chest. "Really?"
"Really. I’m plugging mine in. We’ll stay on all night. I want to hear you breathing, okay? I need to know you’re safe."
"Okay," Carla whispered.
She finally sat up, shrugging out of her coat and tossing it onto the floor. She crawled under the beige covers, fully clothed in her shirt and trousers because she couldn't be bothered to change yet. She propped the phone up against the spare pillow, turning the volume up as high as it would go.
"Can you see me?" Carla whispered, curling onto her side, facing the screen, her hand reaching out to touch the glass.
"I can see you," Lisa’s voice came from the speaker, tinny but comforting. Lisa had propped her phone up too. All Carla could see was the curve of Lisa’s shoulder, the top of Betsy’s head, and Lisa’s eyes watching her, heavy with sleep and love. "I’ve got you, Carla. Close your eyes."
"Night, chicken. Night, baby bear."
"Night, my love," Lisa whispered.
Carla lay there, watching the rise and fall of Betsy’s breathing on the small screen, listening to the soft rustle of Lisa’s duvet and the steady rhythm of Lisa’s breath over the speaker. The silence of the hotel room was pushed back, filled instead with the digital presence of her family.
It wasn't perfect - she still ached to reach out and touch them - but as Lisa’s breathing grew deeper and more rhythmic, Carla finally felt her own heart rate slow down. She wasn't alone.
In Manchester, Lisa waited.
She kept her eyes fixed on the small screen of her phone until she saw Carla’s breathing even out, her face finally relaxing into true sleep. Only then did Lisa allow her own mask to slip.
She let out a long, shaky exhale, resting her forehead gently against the top of Betsy’s curls.
"God," Lisa whispered into the darkness of the bedroom, barely voicing the sound.
She looked at the empty space on the bed beside her - the space Carla should be occupying. It felt vast. It felt cold. Being the strong one was exhausting. Being the one who had to say 'You can do it' when she wanted to scream 'Come home right now' was exhausting.
She reached out, her fingers hovering over the screen where Carla’s sleeping face was pixelated and frozen in low resolution. She traced the line of Carla’s jaw on the glass.
"Come home," Lisa whispered to the empty room.
She tightened her arm around Betsy, needing the physical anchor of the toddler to keep herself from falling apart, and finally, reluctantly, let her eyes drift shut.
The next morning, Lisa woke up with a mission.
The bed felt empty and wrong without Carla. The space where Carla usually lay was cold, the pillow uncreased. Instead of wallowing in it, Lisa decided to channel that energy into aggressive productivity. If she stopped moving, she’d start checking the flight tracker again, and Carla wasn't due back until tomorrow.
"Right," Lisa announced to the room, hoisting a sleepy, bed-headed Betsy into her arms "Shall we get ready for Mama coming home? We need glitter. We need paint. We need to make this house look like we haven't just been eating toast and crying for twenty-four hours."
Betsy rubbed her eyes and yawned, showing all her tiny teeth. "Is Mama coming in the minute?"
"Not in the minute, baby. Tomorrow. But we need to get ready."
"I want to wear my Spiderman pyjamas," Betsy negotiated immediately.
"It's 7am. You can wear them for breakfast."
The day was a blur of controlled chaos. Lisa was determined to make the house perfect, which naturally meant that Betsy was determined to "help" in the most destructive ways possible.
At 10am, Lisa was scrubbing the kitchen counters. Betsy was "washing" the patio doors with a wet wipe, mostly just smearing fingerprints around in wider circles.
Lisa’s phone buzzed on the counter.
Carla [10:14 AM]: If one more man uses the word 'synergy', I am going to flip this table. I hate them all. I miss you.
Lisa snorted, typing back with one hand while stopping Betsy from eating the wet wipe with the other.
Lisa [10:15 AM]: Don't flip the table, you'll wrinkle your blazer. We miss you too. Betsy is cleaning the windows. By which I mean, she is licking the glass.
Carla [10:16 AM]: Stop her. That’s disgusting. Also, send a picture immediately.
By mid afternoon, the living room had been transformed into an art studio. Lisa had bought a roll of butcher paper and enough non-toxic paint to coat a small village.
"Okay," Lisa instructed, dipping a paintbrush into the red pot. "We need to write ‘Welcome home Mama'. Big letters."
Betsy nodded seriously, dipping her entire hand into the blue paint. "I do a dinosaur," she stated.
"A dinosaur? Okay. A welcome home dinosaur."
"A blue dinosaur," Betsy clarified, slapping her hand onto the paper with a wet thwack. "He is eating the letters."
"Please don't let the dinosaur eat Mama's name," Lisa laughed, leaning over to kiss the top of Betsy’s head. "She wants to read it."
"He is hungry," Betsy insisted, smearing blue paint over the 'W'.
They spent two hours on the banner. It was a masterpiece of disaster. Lisa’s lettering was neat and blocky, spelling out WELCOME HOME MY LOVE, but it was completely surrounded by Betsy’s contributions: blue handprints, green splodges that looked like aliens, and a copious amount of silver glitter that was now embedded in the carpet, Lisa’s eyebrows, and probably their DNA.
Lisa sat back on her heels, surveying the mess. It was colorful, it was loud, and it was full of life. But as she looked at the empty spot at the table where Carla usually sat - where Carla would usually be rolling her eyes and pretending to hate the mess while secretly taking photos of it - the silence hit Lisa again.
She wiped a smudge of red paint off her arm. It was exhausting work, solo parenting while missing half your heart.
Halfway through cleaning up, Betsy had a little wobble. She sat back on her heels, lower lip trembling, looking at the drying banner.
"Mama see it now?" she asked, her voice small.
"Not yet, baby."
"I want Mama to see it now."
"I know," Lisa’s heart broke a little. She went to the hallway and grabbed Carla’s scarf from the hook - the cashmere one that smelled heavily of her expensive perfume. She wrapped it around Betsy’s neck. "Mama’s coming. Smell that? That’s Mama."
Betsy buried her nose in the wool, breathing deep, and seemed to settle.
Carla [2:30 PM]: Lunch break. They are serving dry chicken. I am fantasizing about a kebab. How is the fortress?
Lisa [2:32 PM]: [Image Attachment: Betsy grinning maniacally, covered in blue paint, wearing Carla’s scarf like a cape, holding up a paintbrush like a weapon]
Fortress is under siege. The glitter bomb has detonated. We are eating fish fingers. Come home.
Carla [2:33 PM]: Oh my god. Look at her. She’s beautiful. I’m getting on the plane. I don't care. I'm leaving.
Lisa [2:33 PM]: Stay. Finish. Come home tomorrow. We’ll be here.
By evening, the house was clean(ish), the banner was drying on the dining table, and the adrenaline was wearing off. The silence was creeping back in.
Lisa bathed Betsy, scrubbing the blue paint off her skin ("My dinosaur spots!" Betsy complained), and got her into her pyjamas. But as bedtime approached, the wobble started again. Betsy stood in the middle of her mother’s room, clutching her stuffed rabbit, looking at the door.
"Mama kiss?" she asked, her lip trembling. "I need the kiss for the dreams."
"Mama’s on the phone, remember?" Lisa scooped her up, carrying her to the big bed. "Let’s call her."
She propped the phone up against the lamp again. This time, Carla answered instantly. She was back in the hotel room, looking exhausted but soft.
"Hi," Carla breathed, her face lighting up the second she saw them. "Hi, my girls."
"Mama!" Betsy shouted, reaching for the screen. "I made a dinosaur! He ate the letters!"
"Did he?" Carla cooed, her eyes crinkling. "Was he a tasty dinosaur?"
"He was blue," Betsy explained, as if that answered the question. She yawned, a massive, jaw-cracking thing.
"You look tired, baby bear," Carla said softly. She looked at Lisa, her gaze lingering. "You look tired too, babe."
"Glitter is exhausting," Lisa admitted, lying down next to Betsy and pulling the duvet up. "She’s fighting sleep, Carla. She misses your singing."
Carla smiled, a sad, sweet thing. "Okay. Cuddle in."
Lisa stroked Betsy’s hair, her fingers trailing rhythmically from her forehead to the nape of her neck. Betsy blinked slowly, fighting it, her eyes fixed on Carla’s face on the screen.
"You are my sunshine..." Carla began to sing. Her voice was low and slightly husky, not perfect, but warm and rich with so much love it filled the room. "My only sunshine...you make me happy, when skies are grey..."
Lisa closed her eyes, listening to her wife sing across a thousand miles. She kept stroking Betsy’s hair, feeling the toddler’s breathing slow down, the tension leaving her small body.
"You'll never know, dear, how much I love you..." Carla’s voice wavered slightly on the last line. "Please don't take my sunshine away."
By the time the song finished, Betsy was out, her mouth popping open in a soft snore.
Lisa opened her eyes to find Carla wiping a tear from her cheek.
"She’s out," Lisa whispered.
"Good," Carla sniffed. "God, I want to be there. I want to smell her hair. I need to hold you. The screen is cold, Lisa."
"Tomorrow," Lisa promised, her voice thick.
Lisa watched Betsy for a moment longer to make sure she was truly out, checking for that specific heavy rhythm of deep toddler sleep. When Betsy let out a tiny, soft snore, Lisa smiled.
"She’s out cold," Lisa whispered, shifting carefully on the mattress. She didn't leave the bed; she just scooted over to her own side, propping the phone up against the lamp on her bedside table so she could lie down facing it. "Thank god for that song. It’s magic. You’re magic."
On the screen, Carla let out a soft exhale, her shoulders dropping. She was sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, still in her silk blouse and trousers, looking impeccably put together but visibly drained.
"You’ve got paint in your hair," Carla noted, her voice warm, eyes crinkling at the corners.
Lisa’s hand flew to her fringe, trying to check her reflection in the tiny selfie camera. "What? Where?"
"Left side. Just above your ear. It’s green."
Lisa rubbed at it, pulling her fingers away to see a smear of emerald green. She groaned. "Oh, for god’s sake. I thought I got it all. I’ve been scrubbing for an hour. I look a state."
"You look beautiful," Carla corrected immediately, and the weight behind the words made Lisa flush in the darkness. "Though I will divorce you if you get acrylic paint on my pillowcases."
"Noted," Lisa laughed softly. She punched her pillow into a better shape. "So, why are you in your room? I thought the Italians were taking everyone out for dinner? Usually, you’d be three grappas deep by now."
Carla pulled a face, wrinkling her nose. "They asked. They were very persistent. I told them I had a migraine. I couldn't think of anything worse, Lisa. Sitting in a loud restaurant, making polite conversation about supply chains with a bunch of men in grey suits...I just wanted to be here. With you."
"Where are we going now?" Lisa asked as the background changed.
"Bathroom," Carla announced. She propped the phone up on the marble shelf above the sink. "I need to take this face off. I feel like I’m wearing a mask."
Lisa watched, mesmerized, as Carla tied her dark hair back into a messy bun, loose strands falling around her neck. She watched her wipe away the sharp winged liner, the mask she wore to face the world, revealing the soft, tired skin beneath.
"Right," Carla sighed, patting her face dry. She stepped back from the sink, reaching for the buttons of her blouse. "I’m getting changed. Don't look."
"I am absolutely going to look," Lisa drawled, resting her chin on her hand. "It’s the highlight of my day."
Carla rolled her eyes, but a small, pleased smile played on her lips. She turned slightly away from the camera, slipping the silk blouse off her shoulders, the movement fluid and graceful.
"You’re terrible," Carla teased, reaching for the navy pyjama set she’d hung on the door hook.
"I’m devoted," Lisa corrected, her voice dropping an octave, turning husky. "And you, Mrs. Connor-Swain, are stunning. Even in a hotel bathroom with bad lighting."
Carla paused, the pyjama top half-on. She looked back at the screen, biting her lip, a flush rising on her chest that had nothing to do with the heat of the room. She held Lisa’s gaze for a long beat, the air between Manchester and Milan suddenly crackling.
"Wait until I get home," Carla promised, her voice low. "And I’ll give you a better show than this."
Lisa swallowed hard. "Is that a promise?"
"That’s a guarantee." Carla finished buttoning her top, the moment of heat softening back into domestic comfort. She grabbed her robe and walked back into the bedroom, the camera shaking as she moved.
"Have you eaten?" Lisa asked suddenly as she noticed the slight tremor in Carla's hands now that the adrenaline of the flirtation had faded.
Carla hesitated. "I had a biscotti with my coffee at lunch."
Lisa’s eyebrows shot up. "Carla."
"I’m not hungry, babe. My stomach is in knots."
"I don't care," Lisa said firmly. "You need to eat. Pick up the room service menu. Right now. Or I’ll call the hotel and tell them you’re holding me hostage."
“You’re so bossy.”
“Yet you love it.”
Carla rolled her eyes, but she dialed the number. Lisa waited, listening to Carla order - Tagliatelle, per favore. Si, grazie - feeling a wave of satisfaction that she could still take care of her wife from a thousand miles away.
When the food arrived, Carla ate, sitting cross-legged on the bed. And as she ate, the color started to come back to her cheeks.
"Better?" Lisa asked softly.
"Yeah," Carla admitted quietly, pushing the tray away to the floor. "Better. You were right. As usual."
"I usually am."
Carla slid down against the pillows, pulling the duvet up to her chin. The lights were dimmed, and the atmosphere shifted from caretaking to a deep, aching honesty.
"Lisa?"
"Yeah, love?"
Carla picked at a loose thread on the duvet. "Do you know how weird this feels? Being apart?"
"It feels awful," Lisa agreed. "The bed is too big."
"No, but…it’s more than that," Carla said, her brow furrowing as she tried to find the words. "Before...before us, before Betsy...I used to love this."
Lisa frowned slightly. "Love what?"
"Running away," Carla admitted softly. "I used to book these trips just to get away from the street. I loved the silence. I loved checking into a hotel where nobody knew my name, nobody needed anything from me, and I could just...disappear. It felt like freedom."
She looked up at the screen, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
"But now? I’ve been here for thirty hours, and it doesn't feel like freedom. It feels like hell. The silence isn't peaceful anymore, Lisa. It’s just...loud. It’s just reminding me that my family isn't here."
Lisa’s heart squeezed in her chest. She reached out, touching the screen where Carla’s face was.
"That’s because you’re not running away anymore, Carla," Lisa whispered. "You have a home to run to."
Carla let out a shuddering breath, a tear finally escaping to track down her nose. "I do. I really do. And it scares me, how much I hate being away from it. I feel like my skin has been peeled off."
"You’re not falling apart," Lisa said fiercely. "You’re just loved. And you’re coming home tomorrow."
"Promise me you’ll be there? At the house?"
"I’ll be there. Me and Betsy. The dinosaur banner is waiting. The glitter is waiting."
Carla managed a small, sleepy smile. Her eyes were fluttering shut, the food and the emotional release finally knocking her out. "Stay on the line?"
"I’m plugging my phone in right now," Lisa promised. "I’m not going anywhere. I’ll listen to you breathe."
"Okay," Carla slurred, her lashes hitting her cheeks. "Night, Lisa. You’re beautiful. Even with green hair."
"Goodnight, my love," Lisa whispered.
She watched for a long time, until Carla’s breathing evened out into a deep, rhythmic sleep. Only then did Lisa close her own eyes, lulled to sleep by the sound of her wife breathing in a hotel room in Milan, and the warm, heavy weight of her daughter breathing right beside her in Manchester.
When the morning of Carla's return finally, the house was vibrating.
Lisa was still fast asleep, clutching the spare pillow, when the alarm went off. Except it wasn't her phone alarm. It was a small, wriggling projectile launching itself directly onto her midriff.
"Oof!" Lisa gasped, winded, her eyes snapping open to find a face inches from hers.
"MAMA DAY!" Betsy shrieked, bouncing on Lisa’s stomach like it was a trampoline. "WAKE UP MUMMY! IT IS THE MAMA DAY!"
Lisa groaned, peeling a curl of hair off her face and checking the clock. It had just gone six.
"Betsy," Lisa wheezed, grabbing the toddler before she could launch another assault on her bladder. "Gentle. Mummy is old."
"Get up!" Betsy commanded, scrambling off Lisa and landing on the floor with a thud. She started running in circles. "Mama is coming! We need to do the waiting!"
Lisa, fueled by sadness and sheer relief, dragged herself up and went into overdrive. She dressed Betsy in her absolute best outfit: a rainbow-striped long-sleeved shirt under denim dungarees, with her wildest curls tamed (mostly) into a headband.
"You look gorgeous," Lisa told her, tapping Betsy’s nose. "Mama is going to faint."
"She will fall over," Betsy agreed cheerfully, running off to spin in circles in the hallway.
Lisa spent the next hour cleaning a house that was already clean. She checked her texts for updates approximately every thirty seconds. Landed. Love you. Baggage Claim. Oh god, I can’t wait. Waiting for a taxi. I love you so much.
Finally, she went upstairs to get ready, Betsy trailing behind her like a high-stakes supervisor. Lisa put on a soft jumper and jeans - comfortable but nice - and sat at her dressing table to apply light makeup, trying to hide the dark circles from two nights of restless sleep.
Betsy immediately climbed onto Carla’s stool, kneeling up so she could see into the mirror. She watched Lisa apply concealer with the scrutiny of a health inspector.
"You are painting your spots," Betsy observed critically.
"I am hiding my tired eyes," Lisa corrected.
"You look like a panda," Betsy said frankly. She spotted a large, fluffy powder brush and grabbed it before Lisa could intervene. "I do it. I am the expert."
Lisa hesitated. "Okay, but only the cheeks. And gently."
Betsy nodded seriously. She leaned in close, her little tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in sheer concentration - a habit Lisa knew she got from Carla when she was reading complex contracts.
Lisa stopped moving. She sat there, feeling the soft bristles of the brush against her skin, and watched Betsy in the mirror. She looked at the furrow in Betsy’s brow, the tiny, determined set of her jaw.
A few years ago, Lisa’s mornings had been cold coffee, silence, and the grim reality of case files. She used to pride herself on needing nothing and no one. Now, her mornings involved glitter, dinosaur debates, and a three-year-old makeup artist.
She looked at Betsy’s reflection, and then at her own - tired, yes, but softer. Happier. A lump formed in Lisa’s throat. She wouldn't trade this chaos for a thousand silent mornings. She loved this life so much it terrified her.
"Done," Betsy announced, pulling Lisa out of her reverie. She stepped back, tilted her head critically, and sighed. A dramatic, world-weary sigh that belonged in a boardroom. "Beautiful, Mummy."
Lisa’s heart melted into a puddle on the floor. She grabbed Betsy and kissed her cheek loudly. "Thank you, baby. You’re the best expert in the world."
The phone rang.
Lisa snatched it up, her heart leaping. She put it on speaker, Betsy scrambling at her heels as they moved downstairs.
"I’m on my way," Carla’s voice came through, sounding breathy and vibrating with the background noise of the road. "The driver is a maniac. I think I’m going to die in a Ford Mondeo before I see you."
"Don't you dare," Lisa laughed, the sound wet with relief. She lit the candles on the mantelpiece with shaking hands. "We are ready. The banner is up. The child is clean. Mostly."
"SURPRISE MAMA!" Betsy yelled at the top of her lungs, leaning into the phone.
Lisa winced. "Betsy! It’s a surprise later!"
"I heard that!" Carla’s laugh crackled down the line, warm and rich. "I’ll be there in two minutes. I might actually explode."
The next two minutes were an eternity. Lisa paced. Then, finally: the crunch of gravel. A car door slamming outside.
Lisa grabbed the bouquet of flowers - white lilies and daisies - shoved them into Betsy’s hands, and scooped the toddler up, rushing to the hallway.
They heard the key in the lock. Then the handle turned.
The door swung open, and Carla stepped in. She looked exhausted, her coat hanging loose, bags under her eyes, but to Lisa, she looked like the sun coming out.
Carla dropped her bags on the mat with a heavy thud. She looked up and saw them.
Betsy didn't wait. She squirmed out of Lisa’s arms, landing on her feet and launching herself like a tiny missile.
"MAMA!"
Carla gasped, dropping to her knees on the hallway runner just in time to catch the hurtling toddler. The flowers got completely smushed between them, petals raining down onto the carpet, but nobody cared.
"Oh, my baby," Carla choked out, burying her face in Betsy’s neck, squeezing her tight. "Oh, I missed you."
"Mama home!" Betsy babbled, kissing Carla’s cheek. "I made a dinosaur! He is blue!"
Carla kissed her back, hard, then looked up. She saw Lisa standing there, hands trembling, eyes wet.
Carla stood up, setting Betsy down gently. "Go show me the dinosaur in a minute, baby," she whispered, her eyes locked on Lisa.
Then, Carla moved. She didn't walk; she practically ran, closing the distance between them in two strides. She crashed into Lisa, the force of it nearly knocking them both over.
Lisa reacted on instinct. She caught Carla, her hands finding purchase on Carla’s hips, and lifted her clean off the floor.
Carla gasped, her arms flying around Lisa’s neck, her legs instinctively jumping up to wrap tightly around Lisa’s waist, locking her ankles together behind Lisa’s back. She buried her face in Lisa’s neck for a split second, inhaling the scent of home, before pulling back just enough to find Lisa’s mouth.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was desperate. It was a collision. It was I thought I’d lost a limb and now it’s back.
Lisa held her tight, walking them backward until Carla’s back hit the hallway wall, anchoring them. She kissed Carla back with everything she had, feeling Carla’s hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer.
When they finally broke the kiss for air, neither let go. Carla was still suspended in Lisa’s arms, breathless and flushed. She started peppering kisses all over Lisa’s face - frenetic, joyful smacks.
"I missed you," kiss on the forehead. "I missed you," kiss on the nose. "I missed you," kiss on the chin. "I missed you."
Lisa was laughing, a wet, breathless sound, her head tipped back. "I think you missed me."
Down on the floor, Betsy found this display absolutely hysterical. She started jumping up and down, clapping her hands.
"Silly Mummies!" Betsy shrieked, laughing at the spectacle of Carla hanging off Lisa like a koala. "Up! Me too! I want kisses! Up!"
Carla pulled back, resting her forehead against Lisa’s, grinning through her tears. She looked down at the shouting toddler.
"You want up?" Carla laughed, her voice thick with emotion. She untangled her legs from Lisa’s waist and slid slowly down until her feet hit the floor, though she kept an arm looped around Lisa’s neck. "Come here, you rascal."
She scooped Betsy up, sandwiching the toddler between them.
"Group hug," Lisa commanded, wrapping her arms around both of them.
"Group hug!" Betsy yelled, delighted.
They stood there in the hallway, surrounded by crushed flowers and discarded bags, a tangled knot of limbs and laughter.
Once the initial hysteria in the hallway had calmed down - and Betsy had thoroughly inspected Carla’s face to ensure she was, in fact, real - Lisa took charge.
"Right," she said, pulling back but keeping a possessive hand on Carla’s shoulder, needing the contact just as much as Carla did. "Shower. Change. Comfy clothes. I’m ordering food."
"I want to come with you," Betsy announced immediately, clinging to Carla’s leg like a limpet. She looked up with narrowed eyes, as if she suspected Carla might try to sneak back out the door if left unsupervised. "I need to watch."
"She can come," Carla said quickly, scooping her up. "I’m not putting her down."
Lisa smiled, watching them. "Go on then. But don't let her use my expensive conditioner as body paint."
Lisa listened from the kitchen as she ordered the Thai food. She could hear them upstairs - Carla’s voice soft and murmuring, Betsy’s high-pitched giggles echoing off the bathroom tiles. The sound of the shower running, then more giggling. It was the soundtrack of her life returning to normal, the silence of the last two days finally banished.
She set the table, pouring two large glasses of red wine and a cup of milk.
When they came down, Lisa’s heart gave a ridiculous, happy lurch. Carla was wearing her navy silk pyjamas, and Betsy was wearing a cotton set that looked almost identical, right down to the white piping on the collar.
"Matching," Carla said smugly, sitting Betsy in her high chair. "We planned it. It’s a uniform."
"I can see that," Lisa beamed, placing a steaming plate of Pad Thai in front of Carla. "You both look very dashing. Eat."
The dinner was chaotic and perfect. Betsy was in rare form, telling a long, winding story about a dog she saw, waving a piece of broccoli around like a conductor's baton - a gesture she had absolutely learned from Carla. Carla listened to every word like it was a sermon, nodding seriously, feeding Betsy bites of chicken from her own fork because Betsy refused to eat from her own bowl.
Under the table, Carla found Lisa’s hand. She interlaced their fingers, resting their joined hands on her knee. She didn't let go for the entire meal. Every few minutes, she would squeeze Lisa’s hand, a silent signal. Still here.
By the time the plates were cleared, Betsy was flagging. Her eyes were drooping, her head bobbing, but she refused to give in.
"Bedtime," Lisa announced gently, seeing the signs.
"No," Betsy mumbled, rubbing her eyes aggressively. "Mama go. If I sleep, Mama go."
"Mama isn't going anywhere," Carla promised, picking her up and kissing her sleepy, warm cheek. "Let's go to the big bed. All of us. Mama will stay right there."
They piled into the master bedroom. Betsy lay in the middle, clutching her stuffed rabbit, with Carla on one side and Lisa on the other. It was a tight squeeze, limbs tangled together under the duvet, but neither adult complained.
Carla picked up The Gruffalo. Her voice was tired, rasping slightly from the travel, but she read with a tenderness that made Lisa’s chest ache. Lisa lay on her side, watching them - her wife and her daughter - stroking Betsy’s back rhythmically until the toddler’s breathing slowed and deepened.
Betsy fell asleep holding onto the cuff of Carla’s silk pyjama top, her fist bunching the fabric tight.
Carla stopped reading. She stared at Betsy’s sleeping face for a long time, brushing a curl off her forehead with a look of pure reverence. Then, carefully, expertly, she slid her arm out.
"I’ll take her," Carla whispered.
"I can do it," Lisa offered softly. "You’re exhausted."
"No. I want to. I need to carry her."
Carla lifted Betsy effortlessly, carrying her out of the room. Lisa waited. She heard the creak of the nursery floorboards. She heard the soft click of the door. She waited for Carla to come back.
She was gone for a while.
When the bedroom door finally opened, Carla stood there in the semi-darkness. She hadn't moved toward the bed yet. Her shoulders were shaking.
"Carla?" Lisa sat up instantly, throwing the covers aside.
Carla stumbled toward the bed and practically collapsed into Lisa’s arms. She buried her face in Lisa’s neck, and the sob broke loose - a deep, shuddering sound of pure release that she had been holding back since she walked through the door.
"Hey, hey, I’ve got you," Lisa soothed, wrapping her arms tightly around Carla, rocking her. "It’s okay. You’re home. We’ve got you."
"I hated it," Carla wept, clinging to the back of Lisa’s t-shirt like a lifeline. "It was the worst few days of my life, Lisa. I walked into her room just now and put her down and I felt like I couldn't breathe because I missed holding her so much. I felt physical pain."
"I know," Lisa whispered, kissing her temple, her hair, her wet cheek. "I know, love."
Carla pulled back slightly, her hands coming up to cup Lisa’s face. Her eyes were red and raw, searching Lisa’s features in the dim light.
"But it wasn't just her," Carla choked out, her voice cracking. "God, Lisa, I missed you. I lay in that hotel bed and I reached for you in the middle of the night and you weren't there, and it felt like…it felt like being dead. I don't work without you. I don't make sense without you."
"You make sense," Lisa murmured, wiping Carla’s tears with her thumbs, her own vision blurring. "You’re Carla Connor-Swain."
"No," Carla shook her head frantically, leaning her forehead against Lisa’s. "I’m nothing without you. You’re my gravity, Lisa. You’re my air. I felt like I was holding my breath for forty-eight hours."
"You can breathe now," Lisa whispered. "I’ve got you."
Carla let out a broken sound and closed the distance between them, kissing her. It wasn't the frantic, happy kiss from the hallway. This was slow, salty with tears, a desperate confirmation that they were back in the same space, breathing the same air. Lisa kissed her back just as hard, pouring every ounce of reassurance she had into it, her hands tangling in Carla’s hair.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, Carla looked shattered but settled. The panic was gone, replaced by exhaustion.
"Come here," Lisa whispered.
She pulled Carla down onto the mattress, wrestling the duvet up and over them until they were completely covered, cocooned in the dark warmth just like they had been a few mornings ago - only this time, there was no suitcase, no taxi, no leaving.
Carla curled into her immediately, burying her face in Lisa’s neck, wrapping a leg over Lisa’s hip to pin her down.
"Never again," Carla swore into Lisa’s skin, her voice muffled but fierce. "I am never leaving you two behind again. Next time, I book a suite. Next time, you come with me. I don't care if I have to buy you both a seat in First Class. I don't care if she draws on the agenda with crayons. I’m not doing it without you."
"Okay," Lisa agreed, stroking Carla’s spine, feeling the tension finally leaving her wife’s body. "We’ll come. We’re a package deal."
"Package deal," Carla echoed, her breathing finally slowing. "I love you. I love you so much it hurts."
"I love you too," Lisa whispered back, pulling the duvet tighter around them. "Sleep now. We’re right here."
And then, surrounded by the scent of her wife, the warmth of their bed, and the knowledge that she wouldn't have to let go until she was ready, Carla slept.