I'm back. I always seem to want to write these two. I've been having a hard time in my real life and re watching OITNB and felt inspired for this story. If anyone still watches and enjoys this story I'd love a review.. My trusty ai companion Bruce helped me write this. I brought the idea and then he brought the smut ;) Enjoy!
Chapter One: Before the Fall
The sun woke first, pressing amber-gold stripes across the hardwood floor. In the center of the tangled bedsheets, Piper lay still, watching the dust motes dance in the light, Harper's warm body curled against her side like a kitten. The child's breathing was deep and even, one thumb tucked in her mouth, the other clutching a mangled flamingo with one googly eye.
Piper didn't dare move. These were the sacred moments. The in-between.
Larry was already up — she could hear him humming from the kitchen, some indie folk tune she'd teased him about a hundred times. The smell of fresh coffee curled through the brownstone like a bribe. And somewhere beneath it all, the scent of cinnamon waffles, which meant Harper had successfully conned him out of the usual cereal routine.
"I smell syrup," Piper whispered into her daughter's curls.
Harper stirred with a sleepy groan. "I told Daddy it was a special day."
"Oh yeah?" Piper shifted just enough to look down at her.
Harper blinked up at her with that mischievous glint that came from both of them. "Because it's Tuesday."
"Well… hard to argue with that logic."
They made it down the hall with Harper clinging to her flamingo and Piper clinging to the last threads of her dream — something about being at a beach, watching Harper run ahead of her, laughing. The dream faded as reality wrapped around her like her robe. Warm. Familiar.
Larry turned, spatula in hand, hair a mess, glasses slipping down his nose.
"Morning, ladies," he said with a grin. "Waffles or waffles with extra love?"
"Waffles with extra sarcasm," Piper replied, kissing his cheek. She didn't realize she'd miss that kiss someday. That she'd miss the smell of waffles forever.
The rest of the morning passed in crayons and cartoons, Harper drawing hearts on the fridge in purple marker while Piper tried to scrub them off without laughing. Larry promised a picnic in the park — Harper insisted on wearing her tutu over her jeans.
"Don't stifle her creative expression," Larry said, mouth full of apple slices.
Piper raised a brow. "Says the man who once wore socks with flip-flops."
They left the house at noon. Harper skipped between them, one tiny hand in each of theirs.
Piper didn't know it was the last time they'd all walk down that street together.
They laid the blanket out near the duck pond, Harper immediately launching herself into the grass to collect sticks for what she called "her nest." Larry handed Piper a thermos of peppermint tea and two slightly squashed sandwiches wrapped in beeswax cloth. He looked proud of them, like they were gourmet.
She took one, watching as Harper spun in a circle, tutu swishing over her jeans, curls bouncing. The little girl was humming to herself. Something Piper didn't recognize but sounded suspiciously like the jingle from a yogurt commercial.
"You ever think we'd end up like this?" Piper asked softly, peeling a piece of bread crust back as if it might hold the answer.
Larry leaned back on his elbows. "What, sitting in a park eating sandwiches while our daughter builds a nest out of twigs and old cigarette butts?"
She gave him a look.
He smiled, then grew quiet. "No. But I'm glad we did."
Piper watched the way sunlight shimmered across Harper's hair. A pang of something sweet and aching settled in her chest. She was happy. Truly, solidly happy. Which was why the undercurrent of unease always felt so strange. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop when there were no shoes in sight.
"You think we're boring now?" she asked, only half joking.
Larry scoffed. "You run a candle empire out of our guest room. I've been trying to edit the same five-minute clip of a food truck interview for two weeks. We are beyond boring. We are suburban folklore."
Piper laughed. It came easily.
They played for hours. Harper fed half their grapes to the ducks and named a particularly aggressive one "Spaghetti." Piper took Polaroids. One of Larry and Harper squinting into the sun. One of their shoes, all lined up. One of Harper mid-spin, hair flying like wildflower petals.
Later that night, Piper tucked Harper into bed, fluffing her pillow and smoothing the blanket over her tiny body. The flamingo had been upgraded to its own pillow beside her. A crown made from construction paper was balanced crookedly on Harper's forehead.
"Tell me a story," Harper said sleepily.
"About what?"
"About when I was a baby."
Piper smiled. "You were tiny. Like, smaller than a loaf of bread. And you used to scrunch your nose when you were mad. Like this—" She made the face, and Harper giggled. "We used to call you Bean, remember?"
"I'm not a bean anymore," Harper whispered proudly.
"No. You're a whole garden now."
Harper yawned and turned onto her side, thumb back in her mouth, flamingo pulled to her chest. Piper stayed a moment longer, just watching.
Later, she would wish she'd stayed even longer. Just five more minutes. One more kiss on the forehead.
But that night, she padded softly into the hallway, turned off the light, and closed the door with a soft click.
Just like any other night.
