I woke up to sunlight.
Thin, golden strands cut across the room in silence, warmer than the ones from yesterday—less hesitant. The air smelled faintly of lavender detergent and something else I couldn't quite place.
Emily was still beside me.
She was facing me now, her cheek squished slightly against the pillow, her lips parted just a little. Her hair had fallen from its bun sometime in the night. A few strands curled across her face, soft and light.
I didn't move.
I watched her breathe.
Her chest rose and fell under the blanket we still shared, and her arm—our arm—was tangled with mine. Our legs, too. I must've shifted in my sleep.
But I didn't want to move. I wanted to stay there.
The warmth between us was still there… but quieter now. Less like fire, more like embers.
And yet, I could still feel the echo of last night. My lips had touched her. My hand had moved over her skin. And she'd let me. She didn't pull away. She didn't say stop.
I swallowed, suddenly self-conscious. What if she regretted it? What if it had only been okay in the dark?
My fingers twitched against the blanket, unsure whether to pull away or hold on tighter.
She stirred.
Her eyes fluttered open, slow and groggy, blinking against the sunlight. It took her a second to focus on me.
Then she smiled. Small. Sleepy.
"Hey," she murmured, voice rough from sleep.
"Hey."
We stared at each other for a moment. Nothing more. Just… held there.
Then Emily's expression shifted slightly, her brows dipping.
"Did you sleep okay?"
I nodded. "Yeah. You?"
"Mhm." She paused. "Warmest I've been since moving in."
That made me smile.
She didn't look away. And neither did I.
There was a question in the air—several, probably—but neither of us asked them yet.
She rolled onto her back and stretched, arms above her head, shirt lifting just a bit. I looked away, but not before I saw the bare skin just above her waistband. Smooth. Pale. My mouth felt dry again.
She sat up slowly, brushing hair from her face.
"Wanna get coffee before class?" she asked.
"Yeah. Let me get dressed first."
We slipped out of bed. She didn't say anything about the way I hesitated before pulling my hand from hers. Or how long I stood there watching her back as she rifled through her drawer for a fresh top.
I went to my side of the room and changed in silence.
And the whole time, my skin still tingled. From where she touched me. From where I touched her.
We didn't talk about it.
All day, the memory of last night stayed wrapped around me like invisible thread. Tightening every time she smiled. Every time our arms brushed. Every time I caught her looking and she quickly looked away.
We never mentioned the kisses. Or the way I held her. Or how her breath had stuttered against my skin.
But it lived in every silence between us.
And now it was evening again.
Emily stood by her bed, brushing her hair. The lamplight hit her face just right—soft shadows along her jaw, her cheekbones, her throat. Her tank top slipped slightly off one shoulder, but she didn't fix it.
I watched her from my bed.
Not openly. Just little glances, whenever I thought she wouldn't notice.
But she did. I could tell.
She wasn't teasing. She wasn't avoiding me. She just seemed... waiting.
As if we were both afraid to touch that moment again. And also desperate to.
She finished brushing and set the comb down slowly, as though she were buying time. Then turned slightly toward me.
"Do you wanna sleep over again?" she asked, almost casually. "In my bed, I mean."
I felt the heat rise in my chest. Not embarrassment. Just… that breathless tension again.
I nodded. "If you want me to."
"I do," she said softly.
The way she said it—I do—tightened something inside me.
I got up and crossed the room barefoot. Slipped under the blanket again. Just like last night.
But this time, we didn't pretend to be cold.
She didn't turn away from me. She was already facing me.
Close enough that I could feel the warmth of her breath.
We stayed like that. Still. Breathing each other in.
I reached out slowly, brushing her hair behind her ear. My fingers lingered near her jaw.
She leaned in.
And my heart nearly stopped.
We didn't kiss.
Not yet.
But she was looking at my lips.
And I was looking at hers.
My hand drifted to her waist again, like it belonged there.
"Claire," she whispered.
"Yeah?"
"Can I…?" she trailed off.
I nodded before she could finish.
Her fingers found my arm, then moved up to my shoulder. Soft. Unsure.
The touch made my whole body feel awake.
She leaned forward.
And kissed me.
She leaned forward.
And kissed me.
It was soft—barely there. Her lips brushed mine like a question. I answered with a breath, then another kiss, slower this time. Longer.
I felt her exhale through her nose. Felt the hesitation leave her.
Our mouths moved again, firmer now. Not rushed, just… needy. Like we'd been holding something in for too long and it was finally slipping through.
Her hand slid up my arm, resting gently at the back of my neck. My fingers curled into her waist.
I opened my mouth slightly.
So did she.
And that's when it changed.
Our tongues met—shy at first, soft and wet and tentative. Just a flick, a tease, but it made something in me jolt. My stomach flipped. My thighs clenched on instinct.
We kissed deeper.
My lips parted wider, sucking gently at her lower lip. Her tongue slid past mine again, slow and slick, curling just enough to make me gasp into her mouth. The kiss turned warm—wet—with our saliva mingling, strings of it catching at the corners of our lips when we pulled away briefly, only to crash back into each other harder.
The taste of her made my mouth ache.
Our tongues tangled, sliding, pressing, licking into every kiss like we were trying to drink each other. Her breathing hitched—mine too.
And between my legs, I throbbed.
There was no ignoring it anymore. That pulsing heat, that subtle grind of my hips against the sheets—searching for friction. I felt her do the same. Her thigh brushed between mine, and I swear I could feel how warm she was through the thin fabric.
We didn't speak.
Our mouths stayed busy. Wet sounds filled the small space between us—soft gasps, lips parting, the occasional sticky pop as we pulled back to breathe.
Saliva dripped down my chin, clinging to the edge of my lip, but I didn't care. She didn't either.
I kissed her again. Harder. And she moaned into it, hips twitching once—just once—but enough for me to know:
She was feeling it too.