Chapter 9
1140 Words
Bianca’s POV
The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of her childhood bedroom, casting soft light over the half-packed duffel bag on the floor. Bianca yawned, stretching as she turned to find James still half-asleep beside her, hair tousled, arm thrown across the pillow like he owned the bed. Like he belonged here.
She smiled to herself, brushing a thumb over the scar at the corner of his lip—he’d told her last night it came from crashing his bike into a koi pond as a kid. Rich people problems.
“You gonna just stare at me all morning?” James mumbled, eyes still closed.
“Maybe. You look too peaceful. It's annoying.”
He cracked one eye open. “You’re cute when you lie.”
Bianca chuckled, climbing out of bed and tossing a rolled-up pair of socks at him. “We’ve gotta get going soon. My mom already packed us breakfast. Savannah says she’s gonna cry if you don’t say goodbye.”
“Honestly? I might cry too.”
She paused, looking over her shoulder with an arched brow. “You’re dramatic.”
He grinned. “You bring it out of me.”
---
James’s POV
Her house had a hum to it. The warmth of Sunday gospel music floating from the kitchen. The smell of cinnamon rolls. Savannah yelling something about “beating him at Uno next time” from down the hall. It was chaos—and it was perfect.
It was the opposite of what he grew up with. Polished floors, hushed dinners, porcelain silence. His mother would never hum while folding laundry.
And yet, as he stood in the doorway of the kitchen watching Bianca hug her mom, he felt a pang he didn’t expect. He didn’t want to leave.
Mrs. Lawson handed him a brown paper bag. “Three sausage biscuits in there and a container of grits. You’ll eat them, or I’ll find out.”
James bowed his head slightly in mock seriousness. “Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled at him then—really smiled. “Take care of my girl.”
“I will,” he said, and for the first time, it didn’t feel like a promise. It felt like a vow.
---
Bianca’s POV
They drove with the windows down, wind tangling her hair and the taste of her mother’s biscuits still lingering on her tongue. James tapped the steering wheel in time with the music. Occasionally, he glanced at her like she was a sunrise.
She tried not to let herself fall any harder. But when he reached over and laced their fingers together—like it was just second nature—she knew it was already too late.
James’s POV
The highway rolled beneath them like a ribbon of quiet promises, long and stretching. The sun was warmer now, casting golden light over Bianca’s profile as she stared out the window, her hair wild from the wind and her mind somewhere far off.
“I meant what I said,” he said softly, his voice nearly swallowed by the hum of the road.
She turned, blinking. “About what?”
“Taking care of you.”
Bianca’s expression flickered—walls going up, just a little. “You don’t have to say things you think my mom wants to hear.”
“I wasn’t saying it for her.” His hand tightened around the steering wheel. “I was saying it for me.”
Bianca studied him. The sincerity. The low warmth in his voice. She wasn’t used to being looked at like this. Like she was something someone wanted to protect and not fix.
“I never planned on this,” she said after a beat. “Harvard was supposed to be tunnel vision. No distractions. No guys. Especially not ones who…” she hesitated.
“Ones who what?” he asked gently.
She exhaled. “Who look like you. Who come from your world.”
He was quiet for a moment, then reached over and tucked a strand of her wild curls behind her ear. “If it makes you feel better, I wasn’t supposed to fall for a girl with paint on her jeans and grits on her lips either.”
That made her laugh—soft and involuntary.
“I think my mom’s going to push harder soon,” James admitted. “She doesn’t like things out of her control. Doesn’t like surprises.”
“And I’m definitely both,” Bianca said.
He glanced at her, a half-smile dancing at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. You are. And I wouldn’t change a single thing.”
She leaned back in her seat, heart thudding. “You say that now. Wait until the storm hits.”
He reached over again, fingers grazing her thigh. “Then let it. I’m not running.”
---
Bianca’s POV
The Harvard gates looked colder than she remembered.
Maybe it was the shift from her mom’s warm kitchen to the crisp, calculated chill of the ivy-covered walls. Maybe it was the weight of goodbye still clinging to her skin like the scent of the cinnamon rolls packed in the back seat. Or maybe… it was the quiet dread curling in her stomach now that they were back to his world.
James pulled into a parking spot near her dorm, cutting the engine. For a moment, neither of them moved.
Her fingers fiddled with the paper coffee cup she’d barely touched. “Do you think they’ll ever see me… as enough?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
James looked over slowly. “They don’t have to,” he said. “I do. And I already do.”
Her throat tightened. It should’ve been enough. Maybe someday it would be. But the reality of who he was—Saito Media, J&S Hotels, polished suits and arranged futures—sat heavy between them.
She looked up, trying to force a smile. “Thanks for coming home with me. My mom adores you.”
“I adore her. She fed me like I was going off to war.”
Bianca laughed, and the sound felt like a small act of defiance. Like hope.
He reached over and traced the back of her hand. “Hey,” he said, more serious now. “No matter what’s coming… this? You and me? It’s real. And I’m not walking away.”
She met his eyes and nodded, heart aching and swelling at the same time. “Okay.”
He leaned in slowly, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “I’ll call you later?”
She nodded again, quietly gathering her things and stepping out of the car. But when she turned back one last time, he was still watching her like she was the only thing worth looking at.
--
- Writer
