Chapter 3: The Morning After the Morning After
894 Words
Maya woke to sunlight she didn't recognize.
For a disorienting moment, she didn't know where she was — the angle of the light was wrong, the ceiling was different, and there was an arm draped across her waist that definitely did not belong to her pillow.
Then Leo shifted behind her, pulled her closer, and murmured something unintelligible against her shoulder.
She remembered everything.
The car. The alley. The way he'd said her name like a prayer. The way she'd come apart beneath him not once but twice, three times, she'd lost count somewhere around 3 a.m. The way he'd carried her to this bed and then worshipped every inch of her like he had all the time in the world.
She smiled into the pillow.
"Stop thinking," he said, his voice thick with sleep.
"How do you always know?"
"Your body changes." His hand slid from her waist to her hip, slow and possessive. "You get lighter. Like you're about to float away."
She turned in his arms to face him. In the morning light, he was even more dangerous — sleep-softened, unguarded, his dark hair a mess and his jaw rough with stubble. His eyes were still heavy-lidded, but there was a warmth there she hadn't seen before.
"Hi," she whispered.
"Hi."
They looked at each other for a long moment. Then he kissed her — not the desperate, hungry kisses of last night, but something slower. Deeper. The kind of kiss that said *I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere yet.*
Maya melted into it.
His hand traveled down her back, over the curve of her hip, along her thigh. She was still naked beneath the sheets, and so was he, and the feeling of his skin against hers was almost too much — warm and rough and impossibly good.
"We should get up," she said between kisses.
"Absolutely."
Neither of them moved.
"We should eat something."
"Later."
"Leo —"
He rolled her onto her back in one smooth motion, settling between her thighs like he belonged there. And maybe he did. Maybe he'd belonged there for a year, and they'd both been too afraid to find out.
His mouth found her neck, then her collarbone, then the place where her heartbeat fluttered at the base of her throat.
"I want to take you to breakfast," he said against her skin. "But first —"
His hand slid lower. She gasped.
"First," he continued, his voice dropping to something rough and dark, "I want to hear you say my name again. The way you did last night. When you thought no one was listening."
Maya's hands fisted in the sheets. "Leo —"
"Louder."
She arched beneath him as his fingers found the exact place she needed them, already knowing her body better than she'd expected. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
"Leo," she said again, louder this time, and the sound of it seemed to undo something in him.
He kissed her hard, swallowed her moans, and then he was inside her — slow at first, then deeper, then faster, until the only sounds in the room were their breathing and the soft rhythm of the bed and her voice saying his name over and over like a confession.
---
An hour later — or maybe two, time had stopped meaning anything — they finally made it to the kitchen.
Maya sat on his counter in one of his button-down shirts, nothing else, watching him make coffee in a small French press. He'd put on boxers but no shirt, and she couldn't stop staring at the muscles in his back, the way they moved beneath his skin.
"You're staring again," he said without turning around.
"You're worth staring at."
He turned, coffee pot in hand, and the look he gave her was so tender it almost hurt. He set the pot down, walked to her, and stood between her bare thighs. His hands rested on her knees.
"I need to tell you something," he said.
Her stomach tightened. "That sounds serious."
"It is." He took a breath. "I haven't done this in a long time. The —" he gestured vaguely between them, "—the being with someone. The waking up next to someone. I forgot what it felt like. To not want to leave."
Maya's throat tightened.
"And I'm not saying I know what this is," he continued. "I'm not saying I have answers. But I'm saying — I don't want to pretend this didn't happen. I don't want to go back to elevator nods and pretending I don't notice the way you bite your pen when you're frustrated."
She laughed softly. "You noticed that?"
"I noticed everything."
She pulled him closer, wrapped her legs around his waist, and pressed her forehead to his.
"I don't want to pretend either," she said. "But I'm scared, Leo. I'm really scared."
"Me too."
"That's not very reassuring."
He smiled — a real smile, the first one she'd seen that reached his eyes. "Good. Then we'll be scared together."
He kissed her again, soft and sweet, and then he handed her a mug of coffee and lifted her off the counter.
"Breakfast," he said. "For real this time. And then —"
"And then?"
His hand found hers. Fingers interlaced. A promise without words.
"And then we'll figure it out."
- Writer
