I'm Yours - Ch.20 Let's Hurt Tonight
Toto’s POV
She didn’t stir when I adjusted my arm beneath her.
The morning wasn’t quite here yet—just that soft, slate-blue light creeping in under the edges of the curtains, whispering across the sheets in pale strokes. Her back was pressed against my chest, her body tucked perfectly into mine like we’d done this for years, like we were made for this alignment. My arm was wrapped low around her waist, the other beneath her pillow, cradling the weight of her head. Her skin was warm against mine, her breathing even, her fingers lightly curled against my forearm as if holding onto me, even in sleep.
And God, she was so still.
So at peace.
The contrast was almost jarring, knowing how fast her world usually moved. How relentlessly she worked, how often she carried herself like the whole sky might fall if she let go for even a second. But here, in the hush of pre-dawn, she wasn’t that girl. Not the student, not the fellow or intern, not the girl constantly calculating her next step. She was just Y/N. Bare-faced, soft-limbed, half-wrapped in my sheets and my arms, breathing me in like I was the safest place she’d ever found.
Her straightened hair was a little messy now—sleek, yes, but beginning to bend and wave where it had pressed against the warmth of the pillow, against my chest. A few strands had fallen across her cheek, and I carefully brushed them back, letting my fingers linger. I could’ve stayed like that forever—just watching the way her lips parted with every breath, how her body unconsciously pressed closer to mine the longer we stayed wrapped together.
And I had no plans to move. Not even a little.
Years of habit told me I should be up already. My internal clock buzzed faintly with the expectation of schedules—pre-race meetings, factory briefings, early flights across continents. But this wasn’t that kind of morning. There were no responsibilities waiting beyond this bed. No calendar demanding my attention. The only thing that mattered was the weight of her in my arms, and the quiet ache in my chest that came from loving someone so much it hurt. Because I did. Love her.
Not just in the casual, passing way people throw the word around. But in the way that rewires you. The kind of love that shifts your center of gravity, that has you memorizing the shape of her shoulder under your palm or the way her breath hitches in that half-second between dreams and waking. And holding her like this—peaceful, trusting—it undid me. Completely.
She looked so young in this light. Not naïve. She wasn’t that. But soft. Vulnerable in a way she never allowed herself to be in public. There were no guards here. No rehearsed glances or ironclad composure. Just her. Curled into me like she belonged. And maybe that’s what wrecked me most—that she did belong. Here. With me.
I rested my chin lightly on the top of her head, inhaling the fading scent of lavender lotion and sleep. She murmured something in her sleep, too quiet to catch, but her fingers twitched against my skin. Even asleep, she was holding on. And I held her tighter in response, my palm splayed against her stomach, grounding us both.
The room was warm. Sacred. Like time had slowed down just for us.
And I knew—when Monday came, when the noise of our worlds returned, when expectations tried to carve her into pieces again—I’d remember this. This morning. Her, asleep in my arms, completely undone by safety. I closed my eyes, pressed a soft kiss to the back of her shoulder, and whispered, just for her, “I’ve got you.”
I stayed like that longer than I meant to, caught between the steady rhythm of her breath and the softness of dawn curling through the curtains. Her skin was warm against mine, her weight tucked against my chest like she belonged there—like this was how our bodies had always meant to fit. And maybe they had. There was no performance in her sleep. No barriers. Just trust. Just her, fully unguarded, and the quiet that wrapped around us like the rest of the world had agreed to pause. But eventually, hunger whispered into the silence, low and practical, tugging me gently from the moment. Not out of love. Never out of love. Just forward. Into the next thing I could do to care for her.
I shifted slowly, carefully, easing myself out from behind her without letting the chill follow. I reached for the closest pillow, tucking it where my body had been. She stirred faintly, a small sigh caught in her throat, and my chest clenched for a beat—but she didn’t wake. Her hand curled around the pillow on instinct, and I watched her settle again, peaceful and perfect.
Barefoot and quiet, I stepped into the hallway, the wood floor cool under my feet. My t-shirt clung to my chest in that familiar morning way—slightly wrinkled, soft with age, warm from sleep. I ran a hand through my hair as I passed the tall windows, the early light pouring in like honey, slow and golden, touching everything with a kind of grace I rarely noticed before her.
In the kitchen, the house felt different. Not empty. Just quiet. A soft jazz record was still playing low from the night before—its gentle brass and hush of strings weaving through the air. And that was enough for me to decide.
Waffles.
Not frozen. Not boxed. Real ones. From scratch, like my mother used to make on rare mornings when love was the first language spoken. Flour, eggs, vanilla, a bit of melted butter. Something warm. Something slow. Something that said: you matter. I pulled out the ingredients and found a mixing bowl, the familiarity of the motion grounding me. This wasn’t just breakfast. It was care. It was intention. I wasn’t just feeding her—I was building the kind of morning she didn’t know she was allowed to have. One where she didn’t have to hustle. Or worry. Or perform. One where someone else did the work, just so she could breathe.
The batter was thick, warm with vanilla and just the right pinch of salt. I poured the first ladle into the hot waffle iron, the hiss of contact cutting through the hush of jazz and early light. The scent of butter began to curl through the kitchen, deep and rich, clinging to the morning air. It smelled like something you wanted to stay for.
I didn’t hear her at first—no footsteps, no creaking floorboards. But I felt her. The change in the room. The way the air shifted behind me, heavier with presence. A pause in the silence that wasn’t empty. My skin caught her before my eyes did. That subtle pull at the center of me that always knew when she was near.
She was just standing there. Watching.
I didn’t turn.
Not yet.
Some part of me—some instinct—knew she needed the moment. To take it in. To exist without being seen too quickly. I gave her that space, hands moving with practiced ease as I filled the second waffle mold. Her energy was soft, hazy with sleep, but it reached me all the same. Like she was still waking up, not just to the day but to the idea of us, of this, of being allowed to arrive slowly and still be wanted.
And then, without a word, I felt her move behind me.
Not her hand. Not her voice. Just the gentle weight of her forehead pressing against the space between my shoulder blades. Bare and warm through the thin fabric of my t-shirt.
My breath caught.
Her scent—sweet cherry and marshmallow cream, soft and indulgent—wrapped around me like a memory I didn’t know I needed. And that simple touch? It undid me. Quietly, completely.
I closed my eyes for a second. Let her rest there. Let her have that moment. Let myself feel it.
“Morning, Schatzi,” I said quietly, not moving. Letting the name hold its own kind of gravity.
She hummed in response, breath brushing through the cotton of my shirt, and it felt like being branded in reverse—something soft and sacred marking me from the inside out.
“You gonna stay there all morning?” I added, teasing, still not turning. “Because I might burn the waffles.”
She didn’t answer, not right away. Just lingered a few seconds more, then finally peeled herself back with that sleepy kind of reluctance that said she didn’t want to stop but would let the day begin.
I turned only once she stepped to the side—her hair still straight from the night before, falling in soft, slightly tousled sheets around her shoulders. Tank top askew, pajama pants sitting low on her hips. Barefoot, blinking, and so beautiful it made my chest ache.
“You look like you sleepwalked out of a dream,” I said, brushing my fingers lightly against her waist as she passed.
“Come on, sit.”
She moved on instinct, eyes half-lidded, letting me pull the stool out for her. I didn’t need to ask if she was okay—I could read it in how her limbs moved, how her body leaned ever so slightly toward mine.
“I got you,” I said again, turning to the espresso machine.
Ice clinked into the tall glass. The coffee hissed and poured, a swirl of lactose-free milk and just a touch of caramel folding into the dark. I didn’t need instructions—I knew her taste, the same way I knew precision in an engine. By paying attention.
I handed her the glass. Her fingers closed around it like it was more than a drink—like it was reassurance.
She took a sip. Eyes fluttered. Shoulders dropped. I didn’t have to ask.
“Good?” I said.
“Perfect,” she whispered.
By the time the waffles were golden and steaming, she looked more awake. I plated hers with sliced strawberries and just enough syrup to pool into the ridges. A pat of butter softened on top. I set it in front of her, then sat beside her, our thighs brushing under the table.
We ate in that kind of silence that didn’t ask for anything. No small talk. No rush. Just the rhythm of forks tapping plates, coffee being sipped, her warmth close enough to touch.
It was the kind of morning that wrapped around you slowly. The kind you didn’t realize you were waiting for until it arrived.
Just waffles. And her. And a silence I never wanted to end. She forked a bite of waffle, dragging it through the syrup-soaked butter like she was testing something—then took the bite slowly, humming around it like it was better than she expected. I watched her chew, swallowed my own smirk.
“You always make that sound when you’re impressed,” I said, nudging her thigh lightly with mine. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile tugged higher at the corners. “You’re fishing.”
“No,” I said, taking my own bite, “I’m documenting. For science.”
She arched a brow. “What, gonna log this under ‘waffle-induced vocal reactions’?”
“Exactly. Column A: pleased hums. Column B: eye rolls. Column C…” I looked at her and dropped my voice slightly, teasing, “That face you make when you pretend not to be obsessed with me.”
She choked on her sip of coffee, laughing behind the rim of the glass. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” I said, tilting my head toward her, “here you are.”
She didn’t respond right away. Just kept chewing, eyes on her plate, but her smile softened—just enough. Like she was still getting used to being looked at that way. Like she didn’t quite know how to accept it, but wasn’t pushing it away either.
I reached over and pulled her plate a little closer so she didn’t have to lean. “You’ve got syrup on your lip.”
She blinked. “Where?”
I leaned in, brushing my thumb gently over the corner of her mouth. “Right—there.”
Her breath hitched, just slightly. I let my hand linger for a beat before drawing it back.
“Thanks,” she murmured, glancing away too fast. Too cute.
I bit into another bite of waffle, satisfied. God, I loved this. Every second of it. The slow unraveling of her. The way she softened in the mornings, without even realizing it. No makeup. No armor. Just her. Bare-faced and buttonless and so completely, ridiculously perfect that it made my chest feel too small.
“You’re staring again,” she said, eyes still on her plate.
“I know.”
She peeked up at me then, lips parted just slightly, half in disbelief, half in amusement. “You don’t even try to deny it.”
“Why would I?” I shrugged. “You’re kind of my favorite thing to look at.”
Her face flushed instantly, and she ducked her head again, trying to hide the smile that slipped out anyway.
“Stop,” she said under her breath, but she didn’t really mean it.
I reached for my coffee, eyes still on her. “Not a chance.”
We kept eating. Bite by bite. Smile by smile. Tease by tease. Her knee brushed mine again, and this time, it stayed there. A small contact, casual on the outside—but underneath, I felt it. The permission. The quiet way she was letting herself be close.
And all I could think was: I want a thousand more breakfasts just like this. Same waffles. Same kitchen. Same girl.
Maybe forever.
We lingered over breakfast until the plates were mostly clean, save for the last sticky trace of syrup glistening on her fork. She leaned back in the chair with a satisfied sigh, her iced coffee half-melted beside her, fingers lazily swirling the straw. I didn’t rush her. I didn’t want to. She looked too good like this—sated, soft, real.
I gathered the dishes while she finished the last bites. She tried to protest, but her effort was half-hearted at best.
“You cooked,” she said, already standing to help. “Let me—”
“Nope,” I cut in, taking her plate before she could grab it. “Your job is to sit there and look too pretty for your own good.”
She blinked at me, cheeks tinted just slightly. “You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m in love,” I said simply, rinsing the plates. “Let me be a little hopeless.”
She blinked again, her mouth parting, then closing—like the words disarmed her in the best way. And then she smiled. Soft. Private. The kind of smile she didn’t give to anyone else.
We moved around each other easily. Her drying the mugs. Me rinsing the waffle iron. A casual dance we’d done before, though never with this much ease. This much quiet joy. I caught her humming once—some song she probably didn’t even realize was playing in her head—and I filed it away like everything else.
After breakfast—after the stolen bites, the syrup dribbled down her chin, after she’d giggled when I wiped it away with my thumb and kissed the corner of her mouth like I couldn’t help myself—we drifted. Naturally. Wordlessly. The kind of movement that doesn’t need discussion because the next place is already written into your bodies.
We ended up in the sunroom.
It had taken me days to prepare.
Quietly. Without telling her. Because this wasn’t about a grand gesture or making a point—it was about anticipation. About listening to the spaces between what she said. About memorizing the kinds of silences she filled with longing.
I’d cleared the furniture to one side and layered the floor with thick pillows, oversized throws, and a soft, hand-woven rug from Morocco—the one she’d touched in a market stall and whispered felt like memory. Like the kind of warmth your body knows before your mind catches up. I had doubled back later, after she was distracted, to buy it in secret.
The windows were cracked open just enough to let in a breeze that smelled faintly of wood smoke and the coppery sweetness of drying leaves. The autumn sun reached in unapologetically, falling across the floor in slanted gold. The air inside was warm—ripe with cinnamon from breakfast, linen from the blankets, and the lavender that still lingered in her skin.
But what mattered most—what made her stop when she crossed the threshold—were the books.
Stacks of them. Careful chaos. Poetry anthologies and academic texts, physics journals beside Baldwin, Morrison leaning against a slim collection by Ocean Vuong. A few volumes of romantic prose she'd marked on her wishlist without knowing I saw. And Hamlet. Every edition I could find—old and new. Annotated ones with tissue-thin pages, glossy hardbacks, an absurdly ornate collector’s copy she would almost certainly hate, and a secondhand paperback from a shop in Brixton with water stains and her own handwriting in the margins.
She hadn’t written it, of course. But the quote was identical. Word for word. And I recognized it the second I saw it: Give me that man that is not passion’s slave... She’d recited it once while we sat in a café, breathless, not realizing she was whispering it into the steam of her coffee like a confession.
I laid that one on top.
When she stepped into the room, her smile faltered—not from disappointment, but from the stunned hush of recognition. Her fingers hovered above the stack as though afraid touching it would collapse the moment.
“You did this… for today?” she asked, her voice delicate, as if louder words might break something sacred.
I nodded. “I thought you might want to exist somewhere outside the world.”
Her straightened hair caught the light—sleek and fluid, like ink in water. It framed her face in dark, elegant lines, still bearing the softness of sleep. She moved without a word, her bare feet soundless on the rug, the hem of my sweatshirt swaying around her thighs.
She didn’t need an invitation.
She dropped into the pillows with a kind of grace that only came from trust. A quiet collapse. Like she knew this space—this version of quiet—was hers to belong to.
I followed a moment later, leaning against a low cushion, one knee bent, the other stretched long beside her. She looked up at me, lashes heavy, lips parted in something between reverence and disbelief. Then she handed me the leather-bound Hamlet.
“Pick one,” she said softly.
I let the book fall open where it wanted, where the spine was most worn. Midway through madness and grief, where the pages thinned like they, too, had been cried over.
She curled beside me, her body fitting like punctuation. One arm draped across my ribs, her cheek resting just beneath my collarbone, her fingers loosely tangled with mine.
I began to read.
“I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth...”
Her eyes slipped shut. Not in sleep. In resonance. In the way one might close their eyes to listen to rain or music or memory.
She mouthed the words with me, her lips grazing the curve of my bicep as she whispered: “...but man delights not me.”
She sighed through her nose. Quietly. Like the ache in the text had lodged somewhere in her chest.
“This most excellent canopy, the air, look you,” I read on, “this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire... why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors.”
She stirred only slightly. “Hamlet was dramatic as hell,” she murmured, lips curling faintly. “But God, he understood loneliness. The kind that stays even when you’re surrounded.”
I looked down at her, brushing a smooth strand of hair from her face with the back of my fingers.
“And you?”
She opened her eyes, slow, sleepy, but clear. “I’m not lonely,” she whispered. “Not here.”
I felt the words all the way to the bone.
She reached toward the books again, her fingers dancing over the edges until she pulled out Vuong’s Night Sky with Exit Wounds. She opened to a poem like she knew exactly where it lived.
“Tell me it gets better. Tell me the night is just a book of candles we forgot to read,” she quoted softly.
And then, with a teasing glint in her eye: “Tell me you’re not reading Hamlet to seduce me.”
I grinned, teeth grazing my bottom lip. “Only if it’s working.”
She leaned in, kissed my jaw. “Tragically.”
We stayed like that for hours. Reading. Teasing. Tracing lines of poetry down each other’s arms like scripture. The sun climbed higher, casting new shadows, but the moment didn’t shift. If anything, it deepened.
And maybe, just maybe, this was what love looked like on a quiet Sunday morning—wrapped in pages and poetry, with stolen lines of Shakespeare and syrup still in the corners of her smile.
The sun had shifted by the time we uncurled from the sunroom.
It wasn’t dramatic—no abrupt decision or sudden spark—just a slow reawakening, the kind that comes when skin has memorized skin and silence has stretched long enough to feel sacred. The kind of stillness that feels earned. She shifted against my chest, lashes brushing the fabric of my shirt, breath warm across my ribs. Poetry still clung to the corners of her mouth. My arm remained looped around her shoulders, her fingers lazily tracing the hem of my sleeve.
Then, without moving much at all, she murmured into my side, “You promised me fresh air.”
I tilted my chin slightly, looked down at her. “I did.”
The words were simple, but they fell like a vow.
She moved first. Always so gracefully, like her body remembered freedom before her mind even asked for it. She sat up with a stretch, arms lifted high, the hem of my sweatshirt lifting just enough to tease the slope of her waist. Her legs folded, unfolded. She let her head fall back for a second, hair catching the golden spill of late-afternoon light, her neck exposed in a way that made reverence feel like the only appropriate response.
I didn't rush her. Watching her exist—just that—felt holy.
We left the warmth of the sunroom, her fingers trailing along the edge of the wall like she was tasting the air, and I followed her down the hall into the bedroom.
She moved like she belonged there.
Not like a guest. Not like someone visiting someone else’s space. But like she already knew where everything lived—her things, her pace, her presence.
Her duffel still sat at the edge of the bench, half-zipped from the night before. She crouched beside it, rummaging through the organized chaos until she pulled out a pair of worn black leggings and the same white socks she always reached for when she didn’t want to think. The kind with the frayed hems and faint pink lettering near the toe. I watched as she tugged them on with a kind of clumsy precision, one leg at a time, nearly losing her balance and catching herself on the bed with a soft laugh.
“My legs forgot how to exist,” she mumbled, still tugging at the ankle seams.
“Tell them they’re doing great,” I replied from the doorway, unable to hide the grin stretching across my face.
Her eyes flicked to me with a look that could only be described as fond exasperation. And then she made her way to the wardrobe. My wardrobe. With zero hesitation, she opened it and started flipping through the hangers like she was selecting from her own closet.
The intimacy of that undid me.
She held up one hoodie—then another—tilting her head thoughtfully before settling on the faded navy one from the Bahrain test sessions. The one with the fraying cuffs and tiny oil stain near the hem.
“This one?” she asked, eyes lit with something quiet and teasing.
I leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “That one’s seen some things. Also... it’s huge. You’ll disappear in it.”
She smirked. “Perfect.”
And then she pulled it over her head, arms disappearing momentarily in the thick cotton before the fabric fell around her in a wave. She yanked the hem into place, smoothing it over her hips with a little flourish.
“I like drowning in your stuff,” she said, muffled through the neck opening.
My mouth twitched at the corner. “I like watching you drown in my stuff.”
She turned then, straightened hair catching the window light like silk—smooth, inky, weightless. It brushed across her shoulders in slow motion as she moved toward me, face still unpainted, lashes soft, mouth unhurried in its curve. She looked like something out of a half-remembered dream. The kind you don’t tell anyone about because speaking it aloud might break it.
I grabbed my own hoodie—gray, slouchy, familiar—and pulled it on. Joggers. Sneakers. Nothing extravagant. Intentional comfort.
When I turned around, she was standing in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the sleeves of mine. Her eyes flicked to mine in the reflection.
“You matching me?” she teased.
I stepped forward, stopping just behind her. “I match what I want to keep up with.”
She turned, bumping my chest lightly with her shoulder. “You always flirt like it’s a competition.”
I bent, brushed a kiss just under her ear. “I flirt like you’re already mine.”
That made her pause. Her breath caught. Just for a second. But I felt it.
Then she pulled back, swatted me with her sleeve. “So smug.”
“Only because it’s working.”
By the time we reached the foyer, it was nearly three. She slipped her fingers into mine easily, like it was second nature, like she'd been doing it for years. And maybe, in some way, she had—reaching for something she hadn’t believed she could have, until now.
I opened the front door to the quiet hush of afternoon air. Leaves rustled softly down the garden path. The light was soft but unflinching, slanting through the trees in thick golden beams.
“Come on,” I said, brushing my knuckles across her back as we stepped outside. “Nothing too dramatic. Just a small path. No cliffs. No life-threatening terrain.”
She looked at me, amused. “Low-stakes cardio?”
“Romantic, slightly smug cardio,” I corrected.
She laughed, that quiet, warm sound that hit somewhere behind my ribs. And we walked—just like that. Her in my hoodie, me in hers by spirit, feet in sync on the gravel, hearts a little steadier than before.
Not because anything had changed. But because everything had already begun to.
The path curved gently away from the house, flanked on both sides by low hedges and bursts of wildflowers that had no business blooming this late in the season, but did anyway—bold and out of place, like they were refusing to die quietly. She pointed at them, brushing her fingers along the petals as we passed, murmuring names under her breath. I didn't know if she was right. I didn’t care. The way she said them made me want to believe her.
“You know,” she said, tightening her grip on my hand just slightly, “for someone so competitive, this is a suspiciously slow-paced walk.”
I raised a brow. “Suspicious, how?”
She swung our hands lazily between us. “Like maybe you’re trying to lull me into a false sense of security before springing something ridiculous. Like racing to that tree,” she pointed vaguely ahead, “or announcing some obscure hiking trivia I’m supposed to be impressed by.”
I glanced at the tree. “Tempting. But no. Today’s a slow burn.”
She gave me a sidelong look. “That’s your version of romantic?”
“Absolutely.” I leaned in a little, voice dropping. “Slow burns last longer.”
She made a face. “Wow. That was dangerously close to being smooth.”
“Close?” I feigned offense. “That was incredibly smooth.”
“It was... medium smooth. Like a slightly oversteeped cup of tea.”
I laughed—actually laughed—and squeezed her hand. “God, you’re annoying.”
“You love it,” she said with a grin, that smug little tilt of her head that told me she already knew the answer.
And I did. I loved the way she could disarm me with a look. How she tossed her sarcasm like petals, soft but precise. I loved the way she kicked at a loose stone on the trail and kept talking like we hadn’t just spent the entire morning wrapped around each other like poetry and limbs and shared breath.
The trail narrowed for a moment, enclosed by tall, sun-dappled branches that arched overhead like a natural cathedral. Light flickered through the leaves, falling in soft patterns across our skin. I let her walk ahead for a moment, just to watch. The hem of the hoodie swayed around her thighs with each step. Her hair—still straight and silk-smooth—caught the breeze and shifted like it had its own tempo. Like it was dancing.
She didn’t turn to check if I was watching. She didn’t need to. We both knew I was.
“You’re quiet,” she said without looking back.
“I’m happy,” I said simply.
That made her pause. Just long enough to glance over her shoulder. Her face was open, unreadable in the best way—like she wanted to say something but didn’t want to disrupt whatever had just passed between us.
We kept walking.
The path veered slightly left, downhill now, and then suddenly opened up into a small clearing. Not big. Not showy. Just perfect.
A soft, mossy embankment gave way to a still pond nestled beneath a willow tree, its branches dipping into the water like fingers. The surface mirrored the sky—pale blue brushed with high, sweeping clouds. There were tiny dragonflies flitting at the edges and the sound of a distant bird calling from somewhere beyond the treeline.
She stopped at the edge, blinking once, as if trying to decide whether to comment or just take it in.
“This feels staged,” she said eventually.
I shrugged, stepping beside her. “Mother Nature’s got flair.”
She looked at me. “You brought me here on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Only because I suspected you’d look really, really good sitting next to a pond in my hoodie.”
She shoved my arm lightly. “Shameless.”
“You say that like it’s not my best quality.”
She rolled her eyes and dropped onto the grass without ceremony, legs folding beneath her in one graceful move. I followed, slower, more deliberate—more reverent, really—because something about this space, this moment, felt like it deserved to be approached carefully.
We sat in comfortable silence, her knee brushing mine. The air was cool but forgiving, the kind that made you want to stay just a little longer than you meant to. She picked a blade of grass and twirled it between her fingers.
“You always this poetic when you walk girls to scenic ponds?” she asked, not looking at me.
“Nope,” I said honestly. “Just you.”
That made her glance over. Her eyes were warm, playful, but there was something else too—something that had settled into her over the last hour. That same quiet I’d first seen when she stepped into the sunroom. A hush born from being seen too clearly, and deciding not to run.
She leaned her weight slightly into my side, just enough for me to feel her warmth through the layers of cotton between us.
I looked down at her. The way the late afternoon sun lit her face in soft highlights. The way her lips parted just slightly when she wasn’t speaking, like she was holding a secret behind them. The straight line of her hair as it slipped down her back, glossy and perfect, even in this wild little patch of nature.
And I knew.
Not just that I wanted to kiss her.
But that it was the exact moment to.
I didn’t reach all at once. No dramatic shift. Just a slow turn of my body toward hers. My fingers found hers again, twining between them without force. She met my gaze—curious, slightly amused, completely open.
“You’re doing that stare-y thing again,” she whispered.
“Only when I’m about to do something dumb,” I murmured.
“Like?”
“Like this.”
And I leaned in.
Not rushed. Not hungry.
Just soft.
Measured.
Like the moment deserved its own breath.
Her lips met mine without hesitation, warm and plush, like they’d been waiting all day. Her hand slid up my chest, gripping the collar of my hoodie, pulling me closer without pulling me apart.
The kiss wasn’t long.
But it was full.
Of everything we hadn’t said.
Of everything we didn’t need to.
When we pulled back, she didn’t speak. She just let her forehead rest against mine, our breaths mingling in the quiet.
The pond rippled behind us. The willow swayed.
And in that clearing, with the world paused and her heart pressed softly to mine, I realized I didn’t need to win her.
I already had.
She was the one who broke the silence first—not with words at first, but a gentle laugh. The kind that bloomed from somewhere deep, spreading warmth up through her chest and into the air between us. She tilted her face toward the sky, eyes closed, letting the sun kiss her like she belonged to it.
“That was definitely planned,” she said, smile tugging at her lips. “The kiss. The pond. The atmosphere. You set this up like some undercover romantic.”
I leaned back into the grass beside her, head turned to watch her, not even pretending to look away. “You make it sound like I had a blueprint.”
“You absolutely did,” she said, still facing the sky. “And don’t try to deny it. You’ve got that face. The one that says you’ve been five steps ahead since this morning.”
I reached for her hand, lacing our fingers together, letting my thumb brush over hers slowly. “I wasn’t planning a kiss,” I said honestly. “But I was hoping. Because now you’re mine. And I get to kiss you anytime I want.”
That made her look at me.
Fully.
Eyes soft, lips parted, the teasing pushed to the background by something quieter—something real.
“I’m your girlfriend,” she said, like she was still trying the words on for size.
I smiled. “You are.”
She turned toward me, resting her chin on my shoulder as she traced small circles into the fabric of my hoodie. “I like how that sounds.”
“Good,” I murmured. “Because I’m going to say it a lot.”
She blushed. I saw it—felt it, even, in the slight shift of her body closer to mine. Her leg brushed against mine, warm even through the cotton, and for a moment neither of us said anything. We didn’t have to. The way her fingers gripped mine said enough.
When we finally stood to walk back, the pond behind us still, the willow swaying just enough to feel like a benediction, she was quieter—but not withdrawn. Just thoughtful. Content. Like the kiss had opened some soft place in her, and now she was learning how to breathe from it.
“Still suspicious this was all spontaneous,” she said lightly, swinging our joined hands as we walked. “You’ve got way too much boyfriend energy today.”
“Boyfriend energy,” I repeated. “I like the sound of that.”
She glanced at me. “It’s intense.”
“You knew that when you said yes.”
She bumped her shoulder into mine. “I didn’t know I’d be taken on a fairytale hike with bonus kissing.”
I stopped walking, tugged her hand gently until she turned to face me again. “You’re mine now. There’s going to be a lot of kissing.”
Her breath hitched just enough to make my chest swell.
“I’m not complaining,” she said, a little too quickly.
I kissed her forehead—soft and lingering. “Good.”
We kept walking, the trail narrowing and sunlight breaking through in lazy, golden streams. Leaves crunched faintly underfoot. Her fingers found mine again like a habit, like muscle memory that had only just been discovered but already knew what to do.
The path curved up slightly. She groaned, dramatically, tugging at my hand. “This is practically cardio.”
“It’s a five-degree incline,” I said.
“My point stands.”
I laughed, tugging her gently along. “Want me to carry you, girlfriend?”
She narrowed her eyes, but her mouth betrayed her—smiling like she couldn’t stop even if she tried. “You love saying it.”
I looked at her, completely undone by the way she existed beside me. “Yeah. I do.”
We reached the crest of the path and saw the house again in the distance, wrapped in early evening light. The sun had dipped lower now, gold turning richer, heavier, like the day was slipping into something softer. Something more intimate.
“Race you to the door,” she said suddenly, lips twitching.
I blinked. “You’ll fall. That hoodie’s swallowing you.”
“You worried about me or the hoodie?”
“Both. But mostly you.”
She didn’t answer. Just grinned. Then she bolted.
And God help me, I chased her—just like I always would.
She was my girlfriend now. And I didn’t care how many races I lost, as long as I got to catch her at the finish.
She reached the porch first, breathless and smug, turning around just as I jogged up behind her.
“I win,” she said, triumphant, the hem of the hoodie bouncing with every breath she took.
“You cheated,” I replied, hands on my hips, doing my best not to stare too obviously at how good she looked in it. “You launched a surprise sprint. That’s not fair competition.”
“Maybe,” she said, swiping a few strands of hair off her forehead, “but you still chased me.”
I stepped closer, enough that her victory smile flickered into something softer. “Always.”
She blinked up at me, and for a second I thought about kissing her again. Right there on the porch, dirt on our shoes, laughter still clinging to our clothes. But she turned before I could, pushing the front door open with her shoulder.
The inside air hit us with a wave of warmth—still faintly cinnamon from the morning waffles, grounded in the quiet of home. She kicked off her shoes, tugged at the cuffs of the hoodie… and then, in one slow motion, pulled it over her head and tossed it onto the arm of the couch.
And just like that, my brain short-circuited.
Because underneath it—God help me—was a fitted tank top, simple, soft, but hugging her just right. Like it knew she was my undoing and had no problem contributing to it.
I froze. Mid-step. Watching her shake out her straightened hair like she didn’t just casually reset my entire blood flow.
She stretched, arms over her head, back arching just slightly. “Too hot for layers,” she said offhandedly, completely unaware—or maybe fully aware—of what she was doing to me.
I cleared my throat, mentally replaying every responsible adult thought I’d ever had just to keep from grabbing her. “Right. Yeah. Definitely warm.”
She gave me a side glance. “You okay there?”
“Totally fine,” I said, voice tight. “Just... reevaluating everything I’ve ever believed about cotton.”
She burst out laughing. That full, unfiltered sound that made every room feel like spring.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re mean,” I shot back, narrowing my eyes, still not quite trusting myself to get too close.
“Oh, come on,” she said, walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge like she lived here—because she basically did. “You’ve seen me in a tank top before.”
“Not like that one,” I muttered, mostly to myself.
She glanced over her shoulder. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Dinner. I’m making dinner.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, grinning, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge and leaning against the counter. “You’re totally flustered.”
“I’m inspired.”
She cocked a brow. “To cook?”
“To survive this,” I muttered.
But I meant it.
She pulled herself onto the stool at the kitchen island, propping her chin on her hand, eyes following me as I moved through the space. I opened cabinets, pulled down the pasta, the spices, a jar of roasted tomatoes. Simple. Comforting. Something I could make without thinking.
“You want anything specific?” I asked, setting a pot on the stove.
“I want whatever you’re making.”
I glanced at her.
She smiled.
So I cooked.
Not with flair. Not with any grand culinary technique. But with the kind of calm that only came from being watched by someone who made you feel like home. She sat quietly for a while, sipping her water, legs swinging slightly. Then she started asking questions. Casual things. Favorite comfort meals. Worst recipe disasters. If I ever burned something on a race weekend. (I had. Twice.)
Her laughter danced around the room like music.
“You’re a good cook,” she said as the pasta boiled, as I sautéed onions and garlic in olive oil.
“I like feeding you,” I admitted, stirring slowly.
She propped her cheek on her hand again, that tank top making it impossible to concentrate, but I fought through it. “You like feeding me, kissing me, dressing me, flirting with me. Is there anything you don’t like doing?”
I thought about it. Turned off the burner. “Yeah. Letting you leave.”
She went quiet then.
Not awkwardly.
Just... deeper.
Her eyes dropped to the counter, a small smile playing at her lips. “That’s not in the plan right now,” she said softly.
I plated the pasta—linguine with roasted tomato cream sauce, parmesan shavings, and just a touch of basil. Set her bowl in front of her. “Good.”
She took a bite. Closed her eyes. Let out a satisfied hum that shot straight through me.
“You and your sounds,” I muttered, shaking my head.
“They’re honest,” she said with a wink. “Which means this is amazing.”
We ate like that—me watching her more than eating, her pretending not to notice. Her bare arms resting on the countertop, her fingers curled around the fork, her lips stained faintly with tomato.
I couldn’t believe she was mine.
That I got to feed her. Fluster over her. Fall for her in real time.
And all while she sat there, completely unaware of the way she kept wrecking me with every small, ordinary, extraordinary thing she did.
The sun outside dimmed further, casting a honeyed glow through the windows. Our bowls slowly emptied. Our smiles never did.
And the evening—like her—had only just begun.
She twirled the last few bites of linguine onto her fork, eyes fluttering closed like the meal had melted something in her. When she looked at me again, it wasn’t just satisfaction in her expression—it was that same relaxed trust from the sunroom. That rare kind of peace that came when the walls dropped and didn’t have to go back up again.
I leaned over, pressing a kiss to her cheek before standing to take our plates. “Okay, Schatzi. Time for phase two.”
She tilted her head, teasing. “Which is?”
“Movie night.”
She narrowed her eyes, clearly suspicious. “Are we actually watching a movie?”
I smirked as I ran the tap. “We’ll start one.”
She let out a soft laugh, stretching her arms above her head again. The hem of her tank top lifted just enough to threaten my focus for the second time that evening. I pointed toward the hallway with my chin.
“Go shower. I’ll clean this up.”
She made a face. “I can help.”
“You already did,” I said, rinsing the pan. “You’re fed and glowing. Now go be clean and cozy for me.”
She rolled her eyes, but she stood. “You’re very bossy for someone who just lost a race to me.”
“You’re very distracting for someone who calls that a fair win.”
She laughed again, padding barefoot toward the bathroom, her tank top and leggings hugging her in all the right places. Just before she disappeared into the hallway, she turned and added with a smirk, “Try not to burn anything while I’m gone.”
“I’ll be too busy thinking about you in the shower to operate flames.”
She choked on her own laugh and vanished behind the door.
I cleaned the kitchen with a speed and efficiency I hadn’t managed all day, tossing the leftovers into containers, wiping the counters, setting the dishwasher like I was training for something. And maybe I was. Something like patience. Something like the quiet thrill of knowing she’d be back in ten minutes, skin damp, hair curled back into the version of her that made me weak in new ways.
By the time she returned, I was already in the bedroom pulling on a clean hoodie, still warm from the dryer. I heard the bathroom door creak open first, and then soft footsteps. And when I looked up—
There she was.
Still in her tank top, but her leggings swapped for a pair of tiny cotton shorts that made my mouth go dry. Her skin glowed from the shower, fresh and faintly dewy. And her hair—her hair had returned to its natural texture. Lush, voluminous curls spiraling down her shoulders and back, soft and wild and so effortlessly her.
I froze.
She noticed.
“What?” she asked, running her fingers through the wet curls. “Is it bad?”
I stepped toward her slowly. “It’s perfect.”
Her breath hitched just slightly at the way I said it.
“You keep looking at me like that,” she said, voice low, “and we’re never gonna make it to the movie.”
I reached for her, tugging her gently by the waistband of her shorts until our bodies aligned. “We’ll make it,” I murmured, brushing my nose against her jaw, “we just might be very distracted.”
Her laugh ghosted against my neck. “I knew movie night was a trap.”
“A soft trap,” I whispered, kissing her temple. “One with snacks and sweaters and me worshipping you under a blanket.”
She snorted. “Subtle.”
“I don’t do subtle with you,” I said, pulling away just enough to kiss her. A slow press of lips to lips. Soft but firm. Assured. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything, just gives.
When we finally separated, I tapped her hip lightly. “Go pick a movie. I’ll take a quick shower.”
She nodded, smiling as she turned, curls bouncing with every step.
By the time I returned—damp hair, joggers slung low, hoodie half-zipped—she was already curled up on the couch under a thick knitted throw, remote in hand, a ridiculous Netflix menu on the screen with four half-selected genres blinking in rotation.
“You’re just scrolling,” I pointed out, dropping onto the couch beside her.
“I like the noise,” she replied. “It makes me feel like I’m making a decision.”
“You’re stalling.”
“I’m preparing.”
“For what?”
She looked at me from over the edge of the blanket. “For you. Obviously.”
I blinked, slow and stunned for a second, then climbed under the throw beside her, tugging her into my lap like she belonged there. Because she did. Her legs draped over mine. Her head tucked against my chest. My arms wrapped around her waist like they knew nothing else.
“I like the way that sounds,” I whispered into her hair.
“What, that I’m preparing for you?”
“That you’re mine,” I said. “And this? This is ours now.”
She went quiet again, her hands pressed lightly to my chest, one thumb tracing over the edge of my collarbone like she was sketching something invisible.
“Start the movie,” she said softly.
So I did.
We got maybe fifteen minutes in. Tops.
There was banter, of course. Her teasing me about my choice in overly dramatic crime dramas. Me kissing her cheek in response. Her giggling when I trailed kisses from her jaw to her shoulder.
Eventually, the movie became background noise. And then it became nothing.
Because her lips found mine again.
And this time, it wasn’t soft.
It was slow, yes. But deep. Her hands buried themselves in my damp hair. Mine slid beneath the hem of her tank top, fingers tracing the bare skin of her waist, her spine, memorizing heat and curve and the sacredness of new closeness.
She tasted like mint and warmth and something entirely hers. Her body shifted in my lap, pressing closer, and I groaned quietly against her mouth.
“I thought this was a movie night,” she whispered between kisses.
“I lied,” I breathed, nipping lightly at her bottom lip. “This is a ‘make out with my girlfriend until the world disappears’ night.”
She laughed. Breathless. Beautiful. Eyes bright.
And then she kissed me again—longer this time, like she didn’t want to come up for air.
And maybe we didn’t need to.
Because outside, the sky had gone indigo. Inside, we were wrapped in blanket and heat and all the infinite ways our bodies knew each other.
And in the flickering light of a forgotten movie screen, love didn’t feel like a big, overwhelming thing.
It felt like this.
Skin. Breath. Curls. Laughter.
And her—tangled in my arms, exactly where she belonged.
The kiss deepened without either of us needing to say a word.
Her hands tugged at the collar of my hoodie, pulling me closer, anchoring me. My palms spanned her waist, slid up slowly beneath the tank top to where her ribs rose and fell in a steady rhythm that stuttered every time our mouths reconnected.
She was warm everywhere. Under my hands. Against my chest. Between every breath we shared.
I shifted beneath her slightly, letting her straddle me more comfortably, and she followed without hesitation—hips settling over mine, her fingers dragging through the damp strands of my hair with something between curiosity and claim.
She kissed like she was learning. But also like she remembered.
And I kissed her like I never wanted to stop.
Her breath caught when my thumb traced under the band of her shorts, not going lower—just enough to tease, to remind her I was here, I was holding her, I wanted her. Not just physically. But all of her. Everything she’d never let anyone else hold.
When she pulled back slightly, her cheeks were flushed, eyes darker but still so open.
“Toto,” she whispered, and it wasn’t a warning or a plea—it was just my name. Said like it meant something. Like she needed to ground herself in it.
I cupped her face with one hand, brushing her curls behind her ear. “Yeah, Schatzi?”
She swallowed, chest rising slowly. “We should stop.”
I nodded instantly. “Okay.”
No pressure. No question. Just acceptance.
She stayed in my lap, still holding onto me, still breathing a little harder than before—but no longer rushing. No longer climbing toward something neither of us wanted to rush.
I leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Then her cheek. Then the tip of her nose.
“You okay?” I asked, voice low.
She nodded. “More than okay.”
Her hands flattened against my chest, and she rested her forehead against my jaw. “I just… like this part too much to mess it up by going too fast.”
My arms wrapped around her again, pulling her close. “You’re not messing anything up. You couldn’t if you tried.”
She let out a soft sigh against my neck, a sound that felt like surrender—but the safe kind. The kind you give when you know someone’s going to catch you every time.
We stayed like that a little while longer, tangled on the couch, her fingers tracing invisible shapes across my chest while the movie played on, entirely forgotten.
Eventually, I felt her start to relax fully—her body softening into mine, breath slowing.
“Come on,” I whispered, brushing my lips over the crown of her head. “Let’s go to bed.”
She nodded without lifting her head. “Only if you carry me.”
I chuckled. “You think I won’t?”
She grinned against my hoodie. “You absolutely will.”
And I did.
I scooped her up with ease, her arms looping lazily around my neck, her head tucked into the crook of my shoulder as I carried her down the hallway to the bedroom. The lights were low, the sheets already turned down. I set her gently on the bed, pulling the blanket over her as she curled onto her side.
I slid in behind her, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her close until her back was pressed against my chest.
She reached down, weaving our fingers together where my hand rested over her stomach.
“I like this part,” she mumbled sleepily.
“What part?”
“The quiet. After.”
I kissed her shoulder, whispering into the dark. “Me too.”
The world outside faded away, and all that remained was the soft rhythm of her breathing, the gentle rise and fall of the bed, and the steady echo of two hearts learning to rest—together.
And in that stillness, as her curls tickled my jaw and her body settled deeper into mine, I knew something bone-deep and certain.
This was home.
She fell asleep almost instantly.
One moment she was curling into my chest, her fingers loosely threaded with mine, and the next—her breathing shifted. Slowed. Deepened. Her body stilled, warm and trusting, like she had given herself permission to completely let go.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t dare.
There was something sacred in the way she slept. Not just because it made her look younger, softer, impossibly peaceful—but because she never used to. Not like this. Not in someone’s arms. Not where she could be touched, seen, held.
The trust in that alone undid me.
I laid there, fully awake, my nose tucked into the crown of her curls, inhaling the scent of her shampoo—sweet and clean and distinctly her—and I let myself just feel it.
All of it.
The weight of her body molded into mine. The heat of her thigh resting over mine. The gentle pressure of her hand still curled in my own.
She was mine.
Not in the way people say out of possession or ego—but in the quiet, stunned kind of way. Like stumbling into something you didn’t realize you’d been building your entire life for. Like every hard lesson, every lost night, every lonely success had led me here—to this girl, in this bed, under this blanket, breathing like I was home.
God, I was so far gone.
And not because of how she looked, though she was devastating without even trying. It was everything else. The way she laughed too loud when she forgot to be careful. The way she quoted Hamlet like it was gospel and made waffles like it was war. The way she looked at books like they might save her and looked at me like I already had.
I loved her.
I hadn’t said it yet—not out loud. Not because I wasn’t sure, but because I was. Because it wasn’t something to throw around like a line. It was something to earn. To prove. To live.
And I would.
Every day, in every small way I could.
With coffee. With kisses. With silence. With patience.
Especially with patience.
Because this—us—was delicate in the realest way. Not because she was fragile, but because the world we lived in wouldn’t allow it to be anything else.
She was in the middle of her fellowship. Bright-eyed and brilliant and carving a space for herself in a world that had tried to keep her out. She had everything to prove, and she was doing it flawlessly. On merit. On fire. On her own name.
And I was… me.
Toto Wolff. Her boss’s boss. The man who sat at the top of the table in every meeting. The name at the bottom of every contract.
We knew what it meant.
What it would mean if people found out too soon. If they whispered about her behind her back. If they tried to reduce her brilliance to the shape of her body in my hoodie or the way I looked at her when I thought no one else could see.
So we’d keep it quiet.
Not because I was ashamed.
But because I was already so proud, I’d burn down the whole grid if anyone tried to take her light and twist it into something smaller.
She shifted slightly in her sleep, pressing her back more firmly into my chest, a soft little sigh escaping her lips. My arms tightened around her instinctively, my fingers brushing the bare skin at her waist under the hem of her tank top.
She was here.
With me.
And whatever the world had to say about that could wait.
For now, it was just the two of us. Breathing. Existing. Wrapped in the quiet truth that none of the noise mattered as long as this stayed real.
As long as she stayed mine.
Sleep tugged at the edges of my mind, warm and heavy, but I fought it for one more moment.
Just to memorize this.
The feel of her.
The rise and fall of her chest.
The heartbeat barely beneath her skin, syncing with mine like it knew the way.
And just before I let go, before my eyes fluttered shut and the darkness pulled me under with her in my arms, I whispered—so quietly it might have only been for me—
“I love you.”
And then I slept. Wrapped around her. Entirely, helplessly, completely hers.