She breathed out a shaky laugh. “You make everything sound like a lesson plan.”
“Can’t help it.” I squeezed her ankle. “But I’m not grading you. I just… want you to know I’m in this with you. At your pace.”
She nodded—the kind that’s less agreement and more I hear you. It was enough.
I graded for a while, red pen clicking, paper rustling. She dozed against my thigh, waking now and then to sipand grimace. Around nine, she sat up too fast and went still, palm to her mouth. I set the pen down, ready to grab the trash can, but the wave passed. She swallowed hard, wiped her eyes, and gave me a small, embarrassed smile.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“Being… not cute.”
“You’re beautiful,” I said, not performing. “Sick, well, tired, sweaty, laughing, mad. All of it.”
She didn’t argue, which is how I knew the truth stuck.
Her phone lit. and she typed something short, set it face down.
“Tell me something about your day,” she said, eyes heavy.
“My day?” I smiled. “I broke up a debate in third period about whether space smells like burnt steak.”
“And does it?” she asked around her lazy smile.
“How the hell am I supposed to know? I’m smart but not that smart.”
We busted out laughing, and it felt good to have that moment with her.
We drifted again, the way people do when they’re tired and pretending not to be. I packed the untouched Thai and put it in the fridge, came back to find her watching me, face soft. Something about the way she looked—as if she was saying goodbye to a version of fear—hit dead center.
“What?” I asked.
She shook her head, stood, crossed the room, and climbed into my lap again. The weight of her—solid, warm, real—unclenched a knot I hadn’t noticed.
“Kiss me,” she said.
“You sure?” I searched her face. “You’re not feeling great.”
“I feel better with you,” she said, and that truth opened the next door.
I kissed her, slow to start. She didn’t want slow. Her hands went urgent, tugging at me, at the hem of her tank. The kiss changed temperature—turned to heat and the plea she refused to say out loud.
We didn’t rush, but we didn’t pause either. Clothes slid. The couch took us again. She pushed, I answered. We moved the way we move on a table when the shot presents itself and there’s no reason to overthink.
After, she lay on her side, facing me, tracing the vein in my forearm with one fingertip like she was mapping it. The room was so quiet we could hear the building’s old pipes click.
“I like your hands,” she said, voice gone small again. “Rock-solid.”
“They’re yours,” I said, and realized it came out like a vow.
Her eyes filled. She blinked hard, like tears offended her. “God, why am I like this,” she whispered, half laugh, half sob.
“What’s this?” I asked, thumb catching the damp at the edge of her lashes.
“Soft. I’m not soft, Quentin.”
“You are with me,” I said. “That’s the point.”
