Archive of Our Own ^beta

On this Friday evening, Andrea arrives at the townhouse just moments before Miranda, a rare coincidence amid the whirlwind of Gala season and a relentless political campaign. Their chaotic schedules rarely aligned, so Andrea’s spirits lift at the sight of Miranda standing in the entrance hall by the staircase—looking as stunning as ever.

“Ah, I’m so glad you’re here! Can’t wait to have my hands on you,” Andrea beams, already savoring the thought of having the house all to themselves for the weekend.

But Miranda’s face doesn’t share Andrea’s bright anticipation. Instead, a heavy shadow hangs over her features—an exhaustion so deep it seems to whisper of impending sorrow.

Andrea freezes, a cold knot forming in her chest as the joyful energy drains from her. The warmth in her eyes flickers and fades, replaced by quiet anguish.

“There is something I need to discuss,” Miranda says, her voice steady but tinged with a crack. She clears her throat and clasps her hands tightly.

“It’s of sensitive nature and it might lead to our separation,” she adds abruptly, her gaze fixed on the floor, avoiding Andrea’s eyes.

Andrea’s heart stumbles. Her belongings drop to the floor with a soft thud. With open arms, she steps closer, her voice gentle but urgent. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

Miranda remains still—neither stepping forward nor retreating. She stands rigid, like a statue worn thin by fatigue. Andrea’s worry swells.

They face each other in the silence of the hallway, separated by an invisible gulf.

“Nothing has happened, Andrea,” Miranda finally snaps, her irritation barely masking the turmoil beneath. “But I want to be honest with you.”

She lifts her gaze slowly, meeting Andrea’s protective brown eyes—so full of concern that Miranda almost drowns in them.

“I should have told you sooner,” she mumbles, voice low and heavy.

Sensing Miranda’s stillness—her refusal to storm away—Andrea gently wraps her fingers around Miranda’s cold, trembling hands. She strokes her thumbs over the soft skin, silently pleading for a sign, but Miranda remains quiet, her eyes downcast.

“You can tell me anything, Miranda,” Andrea murmurs, her voice steady and warm, though beneath it lingers a flicker of fear she fights to hide. She holds her lover’s gaze with tenderness, trying to anchor her with calm and reassurance.

A heavy silence stretches between them. Miranda inhales sharply through her nose, as if trying to steady the turmoil roiling inside. Andrea’s fingers brush over her hands again, and Miranda blinks rapidly—eyes fluttering like fragile wings, begging to shield the tears threatening to spill.

It feels as if the simple act of speaking has drained all of Miranda’s strength. The words she planned to say remain locked away, courage nowhere to be found. Time hangs suspended, their heartbeats syncing in the thick, uneasy quiet.

“Um, what if you get ready like you usually do when you come home,” Andrea offers gently, “and I’ll join you when you’re ready to talk? I can wait in the study.”

Movement—any movement—feels like a lifeline. Maybe distraction can untangle the knot in Miranda’s mind.

Miranda nods, a flicker of gratitude softening her expression. Faster than Andrea expects, she withdraws her hands, turns, and begins to ascend the stairs, fingers curling lightly around the railing for support.

Within moments, she vanishes from sight on the second floor.

Andrea exhales deeply, a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The air rushes out in a whoosh, dizzying and slightly light-headed.

She needs to eat. And prepare—for whatever may come.

The apartment is quiet; no one else is home to break the tension or offer a distraction.

In the kitchen, Andrea swings open the fridge and pulls out a random container. She stabs a fork into the cold food, eating a few bites with the door still ajar, letting the chill soothe her ragged breath. The food calms the tight coil of nerves twisting in her stomach.

Startled by the sound of the door left open, she snaps the container shut, slides it back into place, and closes the fridge firmly.

Still wrapped in the house’s silence, a mouthful of food revives her enough to move.

She decides to prepare a light platter for Miranda—something varied but simple. Nuts, cheese, and a handful of fruit, portioned into small plastic containers stacked neatly for easy carrying.

During her time as Miranda’s assistant, Andrea learned well how her partner snacked: tiny bites, carefully measured—a survival tactic for a relentless schedule.

Unsure when the conversation will come, Andrea sets the containers on the study’s coffee table, waiting quietly for Miranda’s return.

And she waits. Meanwhile, she removes her coat, shoes, socks, earing and even manages to remove her bra from under her shirt. The less to bear, the better.  

“It’s of sensitive nature and it might lead to our separation.” That sentence haunts Andrea. Yet, the last few weeks have been peaceful and comfortable. Andrea searches and searches for what she could have possibly done wrong that would have influenced Miranda to end their relationship.

After a few moments, Andrea hears soft footsteps approaching. Miranda enters the study.

Her hair is still damp from a recent shower and makeup wiped away. Miranda looks so defenceless. Maybe this is the posture that suits her the best: no pretence. Transparency for what seems to be an impending difficult conversation. She wears a white bathrobe.

Miranda’s gaze drifts to the neatly arranged containers of food on the coffee table. Without a word, she moves quietly toward them, picking up a small handful of grapes and eats them. She chews tensely, eyes fixed somewhere just beyond Andrea, avoiding direct contact.

Andrea’s chest tightens. Her head aches, a swirl of confusion and fear clouding her thoughts. She watches Miranda chew and feels a sudden pang of helplessness.

“Could we move to the bedroom?” Miranda’s voice is calm, polite but firm. Finally, her piercing blue eyes meet Andrea’s, but the emotion behind them is unreadable.

Andrea nods quickly, rising to collect the containers. She barely notices her own uneven steps, the anxiety knotting tighter in her stomach as she follows Miranda toward the bedroom.

Their bedroom is Andrea’s sanctuary—the only place in the world she would choose as a retreat. It’s more than luxury—the memory foam mattress, the exquisitely soft sheets, the mingling scent of their pheromones. It’s the history and intimacy the room holds. Miranda had redesigned the space to celebrate their union, blending their personalities in colors and textures, inviting Andrea to help select every detail.

A sudden thought strikes Andrea—could this be the last time she is welcomed here?

Inside the room, Andrea sets the food containers on her nightstand. The weight of what’s to come presses down on her—the unspoken conversation Miranda has struggled to begin.

Summoning what courage remains, Andrea turns to see Miranda seated at her usual spot on the bed. One hand rest flat on the blanket, supporting her, a leg tucked beneath her, while the other arm and leg dangle off the edge, poised to spring up and flee at the first sign of escape.

So Miranda is just as unsettled as Andrea is.

Then, unexpectedly, Miranda offers a small, nervous smile—the kind that slips out despite attempts to hold it back, a fragile mix of fear and hope. In her vulnerability, she is radiant—the most beautiful woman Andrea has ever known. The fragile uncertainty swirling around her stirs a lump in Andrea’s throat.

A sniff escapes Andrea. She opens her mouth, but no words come. It’s not clear what she should say. Tears prick her eyes, then spill down her cheeks unbidden.

Contrite, Miranda taps Andrea’s side of the bed, inviting her to join her in closeness.

“Come here,” Miranda tells her.

Quickly, Andrea sits on the bed and takes Miranda’s hand and kisses it, with despair, eyes closed. Miranda’s hand gets wet from Andrea’s tears but she does not flinch. She only stares at Andrea with gratitude, with an apologetic glow. Andrea inhale Miranda’s natural scent. “Oh, darling,” Miranda also brings their hands closer to her mouth and she kisses Andrea’s.

They stay like this, for a few moments. Breathing and looking at each other’s hands, face, hair, shoulders.

After a while, Miranda finally speaks. “I value our relationship. It’s the most meaningful I’ve ever had. Therefore, I have a duty to be honest with you,” Miranda states.

“Okay.”

"You know me better than anyone, Andrea”, she stares deeply, as a warning. “You understand that I don't take any decision lightly”, she states, “and the recent changes in the nature of, well, our intimacy, are a testament to the love I feel for you," Miranda speaks so delicately, like a slowly expelled breath. Andrea has to concentrate to be able to hear Miranda.

Andrea nods, indicating that she listens and approves. She is also reassured but it does not make the anxiety disappear.

Miranda breathes through her noise. “I do feel affection towards you Andrea. More than I ever thought possible. Please understand that.”

Andrea nods again, knowing that this love declaration is a preamble for something dramatic.

“I do, Miranda, and I love you as well. Very much,” Andrea, too, wants to make sure Miranda knows that, despite all their differences. And despite the outcome of whatever this is.

In turn, Miranda also nods. Her whole body tightens up and Andrea knows that Miranda is about to reveal the sensitive nature of the subject.  

“I wish to limit our sexual relations, and I need your understanding,” Miranda manages to say affirmingly.

Andrea’s ears ring, like of cloud of pollution obstructing comprehension. The implications behind Miranda’s saying makes Andrea’s soul fall into abyss. Is Miranda coming to realization that she isn’t attracted to women? Is Andrea’s body too fat for Miranda’s standards? Is Miranda going back to Stephen? Did she cheat and caught a sexually transmitted disease?

“I’m not sure I understand,” Andrea feels sick, her skin might be turning green.

After all these years, Andrea should know how much Miranda despises repeating herself. But this once—here and now, in the heart of a conversation that promises to be long and difficult—Miranda makes an exception.

It takes emotional intelligence, and no small amount of maturity, to even begin to grasp what Miranda is about to say. She believes Andrea has the sensitivity to understand, but she's less sure about the maturity. Still, she has faith.

Miranda shifts on the mattress, trying to settle her nerves, then speaks evenly.

“I don’t like having sex. In general. I’ve never enjoyed it—with anyone.”

Andrea’s face twists in a mix of hurt and withdrawal. “You mean with me?” It isn’t a question—it’s a wound. Her body coils in on itself, suddenly aware of every imperfection: her breath, the calluses on her feet, the unbrushed hair, the uneven breasts, the unshaved legs. She turns away, her back now facing Miranda.

Something in Miranda softens.

“Oh, Andrea. That’s not what I meant. Not at all.”

She untucks her leg from beneath her and shifts closer, gathering Andrea into her arms. Andrea stays still, heart pounding. Miranda holds her firmly—warm, steady, loving. She buries her face in Andrea’s hair, breathing her in, pressing soft kisses to her neck.

Andrea no longer trembles. The cold is gone, replaced by Miranda’s embrace.

“You are a voluptuous creature,” Miranda whispers. “Gorgeously sensual and naturally seductive. Your resourcefulness, your intelligence, your kindness, and your beauty—those are the roots of your appeal. Don’t you ever doubt that.”

She kisses Andrea again. And again.

“I’m confused,” Andrea whispers, her voice barely holding steady.

Miranda exhales sharply, a sound closer to a groan than a sigh—exasperation edging in.
“Of course you are,” she mutters, eyes turning away, heavy with shame. “I apologize for my clumsiness. This is just as difficult for me as it is for you.” She presses her fingers to her temple, willing herself to focus.

Andrea turns to face her. Now they sit cross-legged on the bed, facing one another. Miranda looks as vulnerable as she had that night in Paris.

“You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?” Andrea’s voice trembles, her lower lip quivering despite her best efforts to hold it together.

Miranda doesn’t hesitate. “No. On the contrary, ” she pauses, then adds softly, “But you might. Eventually.”

Andrea’s breath catches. “Then I’m even more lost,” she admits. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say, Miranda.” Her voice frays at the edges, though she fights to stay composed.

Miranda closes her eyes. She initiated this, and now she has to see it through.

“Andrea… what I’m telling you isn’t temporary. This isn’t about menopause, or stress, or being too tired. It’s not because I don’t find you attractive. It’s something I’ve known about myself for a long time. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

She leans in, close enough to feel Andrea’s breath on her cheeks.

“I believe our relationship is strong enough to hold this truth. But if it’s not, I won’t blame you.”

Andrea doesn’t speak. She simply stays there, quiet, grounded by Miranda’s nearness. She watches Miranda’s face—those sharp, expressive features she’s learned to read so well. And yet, tonight, Miranda’s face is unfamiliar. Not unreadable—just new. Like a language Andrea hasn’t learned yet.

“Have you noticed anything... unusual about our sex life?” Miranda asks, her eyes fixed on Andrea, as if hoping to plant the answer directly into her mind.

Andrea stares back, mind racing.

Sex with Miranda had always felt rare and precious—something Andrea never took for granted. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it felt like a gift. Miranda was older, more private, constantly occupied, and—truth be told—complicated. Andrea had always accepted that.

But… now that Miranda asks, a thread begins to unravel.

Miranda never climaxed. Not from Andrea’s touch, not from anyone else’s—Miranda had told her that once. She had always been the initiator in theory—dirty talk, teasing texts, expensive lingerie, whispered fantasies over the phone. But when it came to the act itself, it was Andrea who made the first move. Always.

Miranda gave everything—attention, affection, effort—and Andrea never felt denied. Miranda did almost everything to Andrea and she was permissive, open-minded and gave Andrea multiple orgasms. But whenever she tried to return the touch, to pleasure Miranda in turn, Miranda would decline gently or accept with polite detachment… and eventually lose interest. Not once had Miranda initiated sex herself.

And not once had Andrea questioned it.

The pieces begin to fall into place. Her expression shifts as realization dawns.

Miranda sees it. She hums in quiet affirmation. “You thought I was just… worn out.”

Andrea nods faintly, the weight of understanding settling over her shoulders.

She had. Until now.

“I am aegosexual. I like the idea of sex, but I don’t feel the need to initiate or have sex. I value sex as a disconnection from myself.”

This is all going too fast.

“But, Miranda, I mean. We’ve had sex. Many, many times,” several images of their sexual encounters come to her mind.

“Yes, we did, my dear,” Miranda does not seem regretful of any of these numerous times.

“And you’ve been active,” Andrea blurts, her voice tight with disbelief. “I mean—I thought you were enjoying yourself. You—God, you ate me out on the kitchen table right after I suggested it out loud.” Her hands gesture vaguely around the room, as if the walls might confirm the memory. “You fucked me with three fingers, right here, on all fours, on the carpet—just outside the bathroom.”

She could keep going. She has a whole catalogue of memories ready to spill out.

“You fingered me in Roy’s car!”

A smile plays at Miranda’s lips—fond, almost nostalgic. That memory, in particular, had stayed with her. Andrea had shouted through her orgasm, and since that day, Miranda hadn’t been able to look Roy in the eye without blushing.

“Yes,” Miranda says gently, “because I knew how much it would please you. That’s why I did all of it—because it made you happy.”

Andrea freezes. Her brows knit, her voice drops.

“Are… are you saying I coerced you? That you had sex with me against your will?”

Her eyes are wide with horror. Her voice trembles with something close to guilt.

For a moment, Miranda says nothing. And then—she laughs.

It’s sudden and inelegant, shoulders shaking as she leans into Andrea. Her head falls onto Andrea’s shoulder as the laughter bubbles out of her, uncontained and luminous.

Andrea blinks, stunned, more confused than ever. She can’t find the humor—can’t even locate it—and yet she places her hands gently on Miranda’s back, feeling the vibrations of her laughter. She lets herself hold that moment, even if she doesn’t understand it.

“Don’t mock me,” she murmurs, uncertain whether to be embarrassed or hurt.

“I’m not,” Miranda replies, still chuckling as she lifts her head, cheeks flushed pink, eyes tender. “You couldn’t harm a fly, Andrea. The idea that you coerced me is—well, absurd.”

She exhales slowly, her voice softening. “Being intimate with you was never a burden. Never.”

Andrea watches her closely. The heaviness of their conversation still hangs in the air, but something in Miranda has shifted—lightened. Her posture is less rigid, her tone less guarded. Andrea may still be lost in the middle of this emotional maze, but at least now, Miranda no longer seems trapped in it.

Maybe now Miranda will be able to explain more in details what essentially is aegosexuality.

“It won’t surprise you to hear that I’m not a naturally affectionate person,” Miranda begins, her voice calm, almost clinical. “I’ve never been sexual. Not even as a teenager. And no, I wasn’t traumatized. I haven’t had any unwanted experiences—I assure you of that. I just never understood the obsession with sex, all the noise around it.”

Andrea listens more clearly now; the ringing in her ears has faded, and Miranda’s tone has shifted—more open, more grounded. Something inside her has relaxed.

“My satisfaction has always been intellectual,” Miranda continues. “In every realm of life, I take pleasure in the abstract—in ideas. I enjoy conceptualizing, analyzing, building mental structures. My mind, when allowed to roam freely, is feral. I’m moved by how brilliance can rise from nothing, how form evolves into influence, into beauty. That’s what excites me. That’s where I find… ecstasy.”

She speaks like someone half in a dream, and Andrea watches, captivated. Miranda is never more beautiful than when she’s lost in her own thoughts, drawing shapes in the air with her voice.

“I am passionate,” Miranda says, “but only when it’s measured. I rarely let emotion dictate my decisions. I follow intellect, instinct, creativity—even when the results make others call me names.”

She lets out a quiet, amused snort. “Dragon Lady. Ice Queen,” she mutters, almost fondly.

“I like being in control,” she says, her voice solidifying again. “I like using my power to shape, to plan, to lead. That control—that mastery—is what gives me satisfaction. I know what I’m doing. Nothing escapes me.”

She leans in slightly, voice lower, deliberate. “Nothing,” she repeats, emphasizing the word like a vow.

Andrea remains quiet, eyes searching Miranda’s face. She isn’t sure where this is heading, but she listens with reverence.

“Except when it comes to you.”

Miranda’s hand comes up to Andrea’s cheek, warm against the softness of her skin. Her eyes scan Andrea’s, back and forth, gentle and unwavering.

“When it comes to your happiness… then I stop thinking.”

She leans forward, presses a kiss to Andrea’s cheek. It’s soft and it makes Andrea shiver.

“I thought I could place myself in positions where your satisfaction was guaranteed,” Miranda murmurs, her fingers drifting to the edge of Andrea’s ear, brushing through soft brown hair. “I thought I could keep setting my boundaries aside… for you.”

Andrea feels something click into place. The threads of Miranda’s logic, her confessions, are finally weaving into something that makes sense.

Miranda continues, her voice now steadier, though edged with distaste. “Sexuality holds power in this world. It builds empires and topples them. Civilizations have collapsed under the weight of it. I’m not naïve—I know how central it is.”

Her eyes darken slightly.

“I also know how central it can be in the life of a young woman. A young woman like you. A woman as… breathtaking as you.”

She tucks a strand of Andrea’s hair behind her ear, her touch careful, tender. She doesn’t look away.

“Oh, how gorgeous you are,” Miranda utters before swallowing hard, clearing her throat. Sadness is showing again on the lovely features of her tired face.

“I embraced this new level of intimacy between us because I am not an Ice Queen,” Miranda says gently. “I’m fully capable of falling in love. And I have. I was willing to go against my nature to please you. To meet you where you are. But it’s proven harder than I imagined.”

She pauses, swallows, her voice beginning to fray.

“For me, love has never been tied to sexuality. It never has. I’ve tried… please know that I have tried, Andrea.”

A tight silence falls before Andrea suddenly moves, wrapping herself around Miranda with aching tenderness.

“Oh, Miranda,” she breathes, burying her face into the curve of Miranda’s neck. Her arms cling desperately.

The air in the room feels lighter, less charged. Something about the confession, the honesty, has made space for softness. They hold each other closely, bodies pressed together, gently swaying in an unconscious rhythm. Their limbs tangle naturally, without hesitation.

“It breaks my heart,” Andrea whispers against Miranda’s skin. “I wish I’d known.”

Her voice cracks, the words aching with remorse.

“I never would’ve—”

She can’t finish the sentence. The guilt creeps in. How she wishes Miranda could feel the depth of her sorrow—how sorry she is that Miranda ever felt compelled to perform, to push past her comfort just to meet an expectation that should have never been unspoken. If only Miranda had told her sooner.

Now, Andrea dreads the memories of their lovemaking, fears they were tainted with silent suffering. She wonders if Miranda ever felt trapped, aching for escape while Andrea was swept up in her own desire.

Miranda, sensing the storm of emotion, strokes Andrea’s hair gently. Her hand moves in calming rhythms, and she sighs into the closeness, drawing comfort from the shared warmth.

“It wasn’t your burden to carry,” Miranda murmurs. “It was mine to speak. Not yours to guess.”

“I never would’ve imagined, you were so skilled,” Andrea points out.  

This comment makes Miranda proud. “Well, I hate a job that isn’t done in excellence.”

Andrea laughs. The sound is soft and relieved, like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. She lifts her head to meet Miranda’s gaze, and for a moment, they simply look at each other—eyes open, raw, searching.

But even now, memories crowd in. Andrea can’t stop them. She remembers the echo of Miranda pushing her to the edge, right here on this very bed. The tug of fingers in her hair. The helpless cries she’d let out when Miranda made her squirt, soaking the cotton sheets beneath them. The sheer ferocity of that moment still hums in her body.

Maybe Miranda is remembering too.

“I want you to know,” she says softly, “I’ve never felt shame or resentment when we made love. Not once. I took pleasure in your pleasure. I loved making you come around my fingers, or my tongue… and I devoured every exquisite sound you made—sounds I never imagined could come from those full lips.”

She leans in and kisses Andrea. Not out of desire, but out of devotion. The kiss is slow, unhurried, full of reverence. Their lips brush lightly, savoring the warmth, the scent, the shape of each other. Nothing more is asked, and nothing more is offered.

Still, Andrea’s heart remains tangled in confusion. She searches Miranda’s face, as if trying to read between the lines.

“So… you do like making love to me?” she asks, her voice hesitant, unsure.

“I like pleasuring you,” Miranda replies, steady. “Yes. I find fulfillment in your pleasure. But if I could be removed entirely from the equation—if I could take myself out of sex—I would be more at ease. I would prefer not to act in a sexual way, anymore.”

Andrea frowns, processing. “You mean… you’d still want to pleasure me, just… without sex? Without… um, genitals involved?”

Miranda doesn’t answer right away. She seems to retreat inward, working through the question herself, as if trying to translate the truth of her body into language.

That’s when Miranda’s cellphone makes a notification sound.  

Miranda complains under her breath, coming to the realisation that this conversation will be halted.

“Um, I’ll shower, if you don’t mind. I need to process all of this,” Andrea admits, “um, I’ll be right back?” she says with an honest smile.

“Please do,” Miranda comments, “come back, I mean.” Phone in hand, she does wait until Andrea exit the room before checking her alerts.

Before entering the ensuite bathroom, Andrea takes a handful of cheese from the plastic container on her nightstand and takes a mouthful.

Aegosexual.

This word isn't part of her vocabulary, but Andrea realizes how important it will become in her everyday life. As she undresses, she reflects on the word itself. The etymology seems elementary: a to indicate absence, ego to indicate the self. So, absence of self in sexuality? It must fall under the asexual spectrum.

Andrea steps into the shower. As hot water cascades on her shoulders, it makes her hair heavy and damp. Immediately, she recalls the time when the twins badly wanted to go to the Water Slides. Andrea went with them. The activity itself is pleasurable, but Andrea was completely drained after; hours of having on a humid bikini that always needed to be readjusted; the need to apply sunscreen again and again; sliding down the plastic slides that are narrow and sometimes pinch skin; the headache that comes from being under the sun standing on cement; the lunchbox that spilled and was crushed under the weight of a wet summer towel; the tiredness that came from being active in the water all day…

Andrea had sworn she could only handle it once a year—no more.

Maybe it’s the same with Miranda, but towards sex?

Is their lovemaking officially over? Or limited to once a year? Andrea shakes her thoughts.

Andrea steps out of the shower, steam curling behind her. She towels off slowly, feeling the tension begin to ease from her shoulders. Her skin tingles with freshness, and for the first time in hours, her eyes reflect a glimmer of energy. The heaviness she’s been carrying feels a little lighter.

She slips into her favorite pajama bottoms and a soft tank top, then heads to the sink to brush her teeth. As she moves through the familiar rhythm, a quiet resolve begins to form.

She needs to ask Miranda questions. If she’s truly going to accept a relationship without regular sex, she needs to understand what that means. For both of them.

When she returns to the bedroom—still her favorite place in the entire world—Miranda is sitting on the bed, staring down at her phone. But she doesn’t look nearly as tense as Andrea expected. There’s a calmness in her posture, a quiet detachment that feels oddly reassuring.

Andrea pauses in the doorway, uncertain for a moment. She doesn’t want to intrude. But as she steps closer, something softens inside her.

The plastic containers on the nightstand are nearly empty. Miranda has been snacking.

Andrea smiles. That, more than anything, makes her heart swell.

When she notices Andrea is back, Miranda puts her phone down and looks up. Her face is gaining color and confidence.  

“All good?” Andrea wonders, pointing to her phone.

Miranda puts it away, “I’ll deal with this later,” and invites Andrea to join her under the comforter. Doing so, Miranda pulls the cover down to make space.

Only, Miranda is completely naked.

Andrea pauses, hesitates, almost feeling the urge to look away.  

“So, um, you are comfortable if we’re naked?” Andrea really needs to start asking all of the questions that are running through her head.

“Of course,” it seems so evident to Miranda. “Being naked is not coded for me as a form of seduction. It’s a form of intimacy,” Miranda explains, before realising something. “Wait, does it make you uncomfortable?”

Andrea appreciates that Miranda is asking about it. Her nakedness does not make her feel uncomfortable. However, since they are being truthful, Andrea might as well admit to Miranda that she isn't immune to her and that, unlike her, Andrea is aroused by her.

“To be honest, seeing you naked does stimulate sexual attraction in me,” Andrea mentions, “well, not particularly now,” she specifies, “but it always have and probably always will," Andrea says with a sad smile. “But context and consent are indisputable, and I understand your mindset better, now,” Andrea states.

Miranda reaches to recover her bathrobe, trying to be mindful.

“No, please. Don’t. I like us, like this,” Andrea points to the space between them.

She removes her own clothes and joins Miranda in bed, both naked.

Andrea lies on her side and leans on Miranda's shoulder, wrapping one leg around her hips. Miranda supports Andrea's upper body with one arm, and places her other hand on the thigh that rests on her hips.

Content, relaxed, it's as if nothing has changed. Their skin touching, warm and familiar.

Their breathing harmonizes. Andrea loves all the different scents she detects on Miranda—there must be drugs in her pheromone. And Miranda strokes Andrea's long hair and slowly runs her fingers along the incredibly soft skin of Andrea's thigh.

“Do you mind if I ask questions? I-I mean, I want to understand, and right now it all seems nebulous. Can I ask you things?”

“Yes, you may,” Miranda agrees, “ask me things.” Not Miranda’s favorite word.  

Andrea does not know where to start.

“You do feel arousal? I mean, when we were together, um, I mean when you were, um…” all this talk about aegosexuality abruptly makes Andrea nervous, as if sex has become taboo.

“Fucking you?” Miranda finishes Andrea’s sentence. Andrea definitely needs to understand these boundaries. Andrea squints, surprised by Miranda’s vocabulary.

“Andrea, I am not sex-repulsed,” Miranda retorts, almost offended.

“But you just told me you wish not to have sex again,” Andrea does not want to become impatient, but she is getting lost here.

“We can still talk about sex. You can still describe sex as it is.”

“Alright,” Andrea breathes in and out. She rephrases her question.

“While being aegosexual, do you feel arousal?”

Miranda needs time to answer properly, in ways Andrea could understand. Andrea almost looks up to read Miranda’s face.

“If I do feel arousal, I don’t need or want direct genital stimulation to process, alleviate, or discharge that arousal. It is not how I am made,” Miranda enlightens, “I don’t feel attraction towards genitalia. Exposing genitals and expecting them to be touched as a form of love isn’t wired in me. It’s as unnatural as sticking a finger in someone’s ear or nose,” she clarifies.

"As she speaks, Miranda runs her hand up Andrea’s thighs, tracing gentle circles—an action that eases Andrea’s self-doubt.

“For me, sex isn't the right way to express affection or desire. I enjoy the idea of it—the fantasy, the imagery, the emotional intensity it sparks in my mind—but I don't want to actually take part in it,” she manages to say and it makes Andrea’s head rejoice in clarity.

Andrea briefly wonders, “But aren’t genitals made for that?”—then immediately regrets the thought. It feels like a childish echo of the heteronormative idea that her vagina exists for penetration by penis, or that her uterus is meant to carry children. She rejects both notions completely. She does not engage in either. That choice is hers alone—an expression of her own bodily autonomy.

Miranda reaches out to get the containers of fruit, but Andrea stops her in motion. “I’ll get it.”

Andrea turns around, takes a container and sets it directly on Miranda’s stomach.

Miranda does not comment and takes a fruit directly out of it.

“How do you cope with arousal, if you do experience it?” Andrea asks with curiosity and genuine interest. Andrea notices the more Miranda talks, the more comfortable she becomes.

“The same way I enjoy all the substantial and pleasing gifts of life. An exceptional meal at the restaurant,” Miranda says, taking a grape out of Andrea’s hand, “or a breathtaking sunset,” Miranda looks at the portrait on the wall of herself and the twins at the beach, “or an impeccably dressed model carrying our newest creation,” and now she points to Andrea’s breasts. “I savor them with all my being. It does not mean I need my genitals rubbed or my breasts licked to consume my arousal.”

“But, I mean, orgasms. Don’t you want them?” Andrea tilts her head, setting her chin on Miranda’s upper chest.

Miranda sighs and eats another grape. This conversation isn’t about to end, and she can’t afford to be annoyed by Andrea’s appropriate questions about an aspect as sensitive as their intimacy.

“They are disconnected from sexuality. If my body is tense or if libido is somehow active, I can touch myself until release, but to me, it’s not linked to arousal. I’m not thinking of myself as a sexual person, or wondering if it’s sexually enticing. I just do. It’s boring and uninspired, like massaging a knot.”

Andrea vividly remembers how eager she used to be to touch Miranda—to make love to her tenderly and slowly, or sometimes with intensity and passion. But those moments never lasted long. Miranda would gently signal her to stop, asking instead for a kiss. "Another time," she would say, or offer, "Let me take care of you instead." Over time, Andrea adjusted to their rhythm. Miranda never complained, and that silence became part of their unspoken understanding.

Andrea hesitates for a moment, then asks, "Okay... so what about all the sexts and dirty talk?"

The question seems to spark something in Miranda—a flicker of interest.

"Ah, that I do enjoy," she replies, her voice velvet-smooth. "It’s entirely for your pleasure—and it doesn’t require my physical involvement. I take great satisfaction in crafting a fantasy, down to the tiniest detail. I love the aesthetics of it—the idea of you."

Her fingers trace slowly along Andrea’s spine as she continues, “The color of your clothing... your delicious little moans... the way your mouth curls in pleasure... the dampness of your underwear... your teasing impatience," she presses a kiss to Andrea’s temple.

Andrea lets out a soft moan. It’s almost surreal how easily Miranda’s voice stirs something deep in her stomach, almost overwhelming. And yet, it’s clear Miranda doesn’t experience the same effect.

"I send those messages to please you, and to indulge my imagination," Miranda adds. "But knowing that I don’t want to act on them... do you think I should stop? Are they more frustrating than fun?"

Are they too much of a tease? Is the true query hidden under that question.

Andrea tries to make sense of it.

"So, let me get this straight—you enjoy what these filthy texts do to me, but they don’t turn you on at all?"

"Exactly," Miranda murmurs with a hum of affirmation.

"Can I send you some messages too?" Andrea asks.

"If you’d like," Miranda replies evenly. "Just don’t expect the same kind of reaction. Those words, when aimed at me, don’t spark anything physical. But I would genuinely enjoy witnessing your excitement."

“It sounds like you’re living vicariously,” Andrea points out.

Miranda looks down, then gives a small shrug. "Maybe," she says softly.

"I just don’t experience sexual arousal the way most people do. But knowing it brings you pleasure—that, in itself, makes me happy."

They take a few fruits from the container and chew in silence for a while, Andrea’s head still on Miranda’s shoulder.

"Are you okay with me finding you attractive?" Andrea asks, after swallowing a bite of watermelon.

"Of course," Miranda replies, pressing a kiss to Andrea’s forehead. "It pleases me more than you know. I put considerable effort into maintaining a certain coiffe and presence."

"You’re a natural beauty," Andrea says with admiration. "You radiate the essence of a queen."

And she does—Miranda is, after all, one of the most striking and influential women in the world.

Miranda doesn’t say thank you, but the faint blush on her cheeks says enough.

Then, Andrea grabs the fruit container, lifts it to her mouth, and dumps the remaining pieces in all at once, chewing obnoxiously with exaggeration.

"But the real question is..." she says with her mouth full, trying to suppress her laughter, "do you find me attractive?"

Miranda doesn't bother hiding her amusement; a small giggle escapes her lips.

"Not like this, no. Definitely not," she says with a frown that barely conceals her growing fondness. She’s slowly growing accustomed to Andrea’s habit of breaking tension with humor. It’s proven useful more than once at high-stakes events.

She leans in and kisses Andrea, her lips now tasting sweet—like sugar and mischief.

“Being editor of a fashion empire, beauty is essential in my life. Please don’t doubt yourself only because my body does not sexually respond to you.”

Andrea stops downplaying and stares deep into Miranda’s eyes. A hint of despair comes back on Miranda’s face, similar to the one Andrea saw earlier in the hallway.

Andrea hugs Miranda with sympathy. Miranda holds Andrea more tightly, trying to bring her body as close to hers as possible.

“I only wanted to make sure you had sex in your life, one way or another,” Miranda confesses. “I don’t want you to feel frustration as my previous partners did,” she continues.

Her arms around Andrea tighten further, as if Miranda is trying to merge their bodies.

“I love you so much,” her voice is hoarse. Andrea hugs her back, with force.

“I understand, Miranda, I do,” Andrea kisses her. “I appreciate you speaking to me about this and things will change from now.”

Against all odds, Miranda begins to cry. A torturous emotion that had been crushing her soul seems to evaporate from Miranda's body.

“If you wish to end this relationship and find a more suitable partner who could reciprocate,” Miranda’s voice breaks, “I won’t blame you.”

Andrea reaches over to Miranda’s bedside table to grab a tissue. Miranda blows her nose.  

“We will make it work,” Andrea tries her best to be reassuring. “We will find common ground. Sexuality is a spectrum and there is a place for us somewhere,” she adds. “I’m sure.”

Miranda hopes. “Thank you.” She throws away the discarded tissue.

“I’m the one thanking you for being honest with me. Building a long-term relationship means we need to have these conversations,” Andrea declares.  

Miranda regains her composure, her gaze softening as she watches Andrea with fondness.

Suddenly, a spark of inspiration lights up Andrea’s face. She straightens, eyes gleaming, and looks down at Miranda.

“Okay, hear me out,” she says. “It’s like sports. You could be a huge hockey fan—you’d show up to games, cheer from the stands, rock the team cap, maybe even sponsor the franchise... but never actually play the sport.”

Miranda raises an eyebrow. “I suppose that’s accurate.”

Andrea grins. “I think I finally get it.”

“You think?” Miranda teases.

“Yeah,” Andrea continues, warming to her own metaphor. “I’m your star player on the ice—but you never lace up skates to join me. You’re not out there in the game... but you’re in the crowd, cheering me on.”

Miranda lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. “I still have no idea how your mind works.”

“But you like me!” Andrea beams, leaning down to kiss her.

Miranda kisses her back, lips smiling against Andrea’s—sweet with fondness, like a goal scored in overtime.

Miranda repositions herself to be facing Andrea more, lying on her side.

“Stephen, and the others, thought I was frigid. Broken,” Miranda whispers.

“Oh Miranda, I am so, so sorry,” Andrea’s face is tense from empathy.

“To their defense, I told them I was asexual. I didn’t know aegosexual existed at that time,” Miranda looks away, pensive.

“Actually, do you mind if I google that?”

Miranda looks back at Andrea.

“The journalist in you wish to investigate?”

“No,” Andrea insists. “The lover in me wants to be respectful and learn more about something so important to you,” Andrea can’t resist to place the tip of her finger on top of Miranda’s nose. “I want to be supportive.”

“You already are,” Miranda is thankful. “Take my phone.”

Andrea temporarily pulls away from their embrace to retrieve Miranda’s phone.

The brightness of the screen illuminates both of their faces as Andrea starts her search.

Miranda simply stares at Andrea’s focused expression, as one of the loveliest sights she’s ever seen.

But something interrupts Andrea. “It says here that aegosexual partners are keen to propose open relationships?”

She looks at Miranda as if Miranda was responsible for that information. “What? Seriously?” Andrea looks back at the screen, stupefied.

Miranda groans. She didn’t expect Andrea to read this information so quickly. When Miranda previously managed her own research, she also reacted badly.

Andrea continues her reading. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. I am monogamous, Miranda!”

“As am I,” Miranda is amused by Andrea being offended about this. “But even if it does pain me to admit, it does make sense. Open relationships.”

“You are kidding me!”

“I am possessive. I don’t like to share. If I can love, I can also hate,” Miranda has that menacing look that makes Andrea’s knees weak. “Still, I am not against the idea, if it does become a long-term alternative.”

Andrea demonstrates her disapproval by shaking her head. “I’m sure we can find other alternatives,” she specifies.

Andrea goes back to her reading and Miranda wishes there was food left in these containers.

“It says here that aegosexuals can support their partners in sex?” Andrea asks, looking at Miranda with a questioning expression.

Yes, Miranda remembers reading about this as well, and approves.

“I can buy you anything you’d need. Porn, dildos.” Indeed, Miranda isn’t sex-repulsed. “I even purchased a remote-controlled vibrator.”

Andrea exhales deeply, feeling the weight of all the details pressing down on her. “I won’t lie—I’m going to miss it. Being with you like that, being fucked by you. I really enjoyed our physical connection,” she admits, her voice raw with honesty.

Miranda purses her lips, feeling the weight of the moment. She knows she should have found the courage to say all of this sooner. Weeks earlier. But here they are, finally facing the truth.

“I do adore your scent—your perfume, your skin, even the subtle musk of your perspiration,” Andrea begins, her voice warm and sincere. She could say more, but Miranda gently interrupts.

“That’s why I could stay by your side, naked, watching you pleasure yourself if that’s what you want,” Miranda says softly, trying to be clear and reassuring. “But please understand—it wouldn’t sexually stimulate me. For me, it would be about sharing intimacy in a way I feel honored to experience with you.”

Andrea nods, summing it up, “So these are your boundaries.”

Miranda’s tone shifts, growing serious. Saying it out loud—the few possibilities they have—makes the reality sting. She senses that Andrea is missing out on something vital, and a sharp edge of frustration creeps in.

Without warning, Miranda flips them over and settles on top of Andrea, propping herself up on her arms. She hovers close, eyes dark with anguish as she looks down at her partner.

“I have money. Lots of it. Power. You can have anything you want,” Miranda insists, her voice taut, almost desperate, though Andrea can tell she’s speaking to a heart already convinced.

Andrea’s heart tightens. She almost asks Miranda to slow down, to breathe. “I love you for who you are,” she whispers, “not for what you give me.” She feels small beneath Miranda’s intensity.

“Please, Andrea. Let me do this. Let me shower you with gifts,” Miranda pleads, her worry bleeding through her words. “Expressing my love this way is how I try to make up for not being able to offer a typical sex life.”

“You don’t have to make up for anything,” Andrea assures softly, careful not to move too much. She knows how fragile Miranda feels right now. She imagines the storm of worries raging behind those eyes, clouding her clarity.

Andrea understands—logic won’t reach her right now. They’re emotionally drained, physically spent.

With a teasing tone, Andrea playfully feigns annoyance. “Ugh, I guess I’ll just have to wear all your expensive gifts and parade around like a showpiece.”

A breath of relief escapes Miranda, her tension easing. “Yes,” she murmurs, delight flickering back to life. “I take pride in having you by my side.”

Andrea smiles, continuing, “And I can keep complimenting every part of you—all your talents.”

Miranda closes her eyes, a low moan of approval slipping out of her throat. “We all know you have a praise kink,” Andrea adds with a grin, and that makes Miranda’s moans grow even louder.

Slowly, Andrea wraps her arms around Miranda, gently guiding her to lie down—right on top of her. The warmth of Miranda’s bare skin against hers sends a thrilling pulse through Andrea’s body. Every inch of her lover’s weight feels like an exquisite imprint on her own skin.

“Ultimately, it means I’ll be spending hours,” Andrea murmurs, “rubbing your feet, your shoulders, your neck, your wrists?” The thought alone feels like a sacred ritual. “And none of it will be foreplay. It’ll just be the act itself—pure, simple care,” Andrea goes on.

A slow, spreading heat ignites through Miranda’s body. Andrea watches her carefully—there’s no mistaking it: arousal, but not the kind that centers on genitals. This is something different. Something intimate and new. Something they can both explore now that they’re better equipped to understand and incorporate it into their intimacy.

“Unlimited devotion,” Andrea whispers tenderly.

“Oh, and what stops you from starting now?” Miranda teases.

Miranda wants to be adored, praised, spoiled.

And Andrea knows—she can work with this. And she’ll definitely enjoy herself. They both will—fully, deeply, together.

“Lie down, I’ll get the massage oil.”