Chapter 2: Worship in the Morning Light
The first thing Savannah registered was the warmth. It wasn't just the morning sun painting stripes across her duvet, but the solid, breathing warmth of Ethan curled around her back, his arm draped possessively over her waist. His breath was a soft, steady rhythm against the nape of her neck.Then, a shift.The rhythm changed. He stirred, and she felt the exact moment he woke, a subtle tightening of his fingers against her stomach.His lips touched the ridge of her shoulder blade, a dry, sleep-soft kiss. Then another, an inch higher. A slow, deliberate path traced up the slope of her neck, each kiss a silent punctuation in the quiet room. She kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep, savoring the ritual.
When his lips finally brushed the shell of her ear, his voice was a raspy whisper, untouched by the day.“You’re here.”
A simple statement. For him, a miracle.She smiled into her pillow.
He nudged her, gently, and she let herself be rolled onto her back.The sheer canopy above her was a blur of ivory. His face hovered over hers, his messy blond hair backlit by the sun, creating a hazy golden crown. He looked utterly serious, his green eyes scanning her features as if memorizing a newly discovered constellation.
“Savannah,” he breathed, his voice thick.He didn’t say more. Instead, he bent and pressed his lips to her forehead.Then her closed eyelid. The tip of her nose.Each corner of her mouth. He kissed the pulse point on her wrist, his thumb stroking the delicate skin there. He treated her not like a person, but like a relic, a sacred site he’d been granted permission to visit. It was clumsy in its thoroughness, utterly lacking in practiced grace, and it made something crack open inside her chest, spilling warmth through her veins.
She lifted a hand and threaded her fingers into his hair.“Good morning,” she whispered.
He paused, his lips against her collarbone. “Is it?” he murmured, the words vibrating against her skin.“It feels… more than good.”
She laughed, a soft, husky sound. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m honest.” He finally looked up, meeting her eyes. The shyness was there, but it was edged now with a quiet confidence that hadn’t existed before last night.The empty classroom had dismantled a barrier. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up. That this will be a dream where I remembered to bring you the right kind of water.”
“The raspberry lime one,” she said, her heart clenching.“See? You remember.I’d dream that.” He lowered himself onto his elbows, framing her face with his arms. The sheets were tangled around their legs, the room smelling of lavender, vanilla, and the distinct, intimate scent of their shared sleep.“But this is better. This is real.”
They lay there for a long while, not speaking, just existing in the sunlit quiet. Savannah’s mind, usually a whirlwind of schedules and social calculus, was still. The pressure of her image—the flawless Savannah Hart who dated lacrosse players, not shy comp sci freshmen—felt distant, like a costume she’d shrugged off in the tunnel last night. Here, in this rumpled bed, she was just a girl being worshipped by a boy who saw her as his entire world.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, shattering the silence.Then buzzed again.And again. A relentless, rhythmic seizure of light and sound.Ethan flinched, the spell broken. Savannah sighed, a deep, resigned exhale that came from her toes. “Reality calls.”
“Ignore it,” he whispered, dipping his head to kiss her shoulder again.“It’s Lexi. If I ignore it, she’ll send a search party.” With another sigh, she stretched an arm out and grabbed the buzzing device.The screen was a torrent of messages from the group chat.
Lexi: Brunch at The Griddle in 30.Be there.
Maya: Pre-gamed with mimosas already.Hurry.
Lexi: @Savannah Hart.Hello?
Maya: She’s probably still asleep from her strenuous fall yesterday.😉
Lexi: Well, wake her up. We have plans.Savannah dropped the phone onto the bed face-down. “Brunch.”
“Oh.” Ethan’s expression clouded, then cleared with forced brightness.“Okay.You should go. I should… I have that project outline with Chloe to finalize anyway.”
The name, in this sacred space, was a sudden splash of cold water.Savannah sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. The sun felt suddenly too hot.“Right. The algorithm expert.”
He sat up too, his brow furrowed.“It’s just a project. You know that.”
“I know.” She did know.The panic from the stadium felt foreign now, a relic of a past self. But a new, quieter unease took its place.Brunch with the squad meant questions. Meant seeing Lexi’s arched eyebrow when she mentioned how she’d spent her night. Meant performing a version of herself that no longer fit. “It’s just… they’re going to ask questions.”
Ethan’s shoulders slumped the tiniest bit.He understood. He wasn’t oblivious to the whispers, he just chose to tune them out for her sake. “Tell them you were studying,” he said, a weak attempt at a joke.
She turned to him, taking his face in her hands.The stubble on his cheeks was barely there, a soft blond shadow. “I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to make you a secret.”
The words hung between them, heavier than she intended.His eyes searched hers. “You don’t have to. I’m… I’m not a secret worth keeping, but you don’t have to.”
“Don’t say that.” She kissed him, hard, trying to press the statement back into his mouth.“You are. You’re the only thing that feels real.”
He pulled her into a tight hug, his face buried in her hair. They stayed like that for a long minute, a fortress against the impending day.
When she finally pulled away and swung her legs out of bed, the cool air of the room hitting her skin felt like a loss. She moved to her closet, aware of his eyes on her. The act of choosing an outfit—a simple lavender sundress—felt loaded. It was the kind of dress Lexi approved of: effortless, feminine, expensive-looking.Armor.
She heard the rustle of sheets as Ethan got up and started collecting his scattered clothes from the floor—his jeans, his wrinkled t-shirt, his boxers tangled near the vanity stool. The sight of him, naked and slightly awkward in the sharp morning light, dressing quietly in her pastel sanctuary, was more intimate than anything that had happened in the dark.
“You don’t have to rush off,” she said, brushing her hair.
“I know.” He pulled his shirt over his head, his voice muffled for a second. “But I’ve got the thing. And you’ve got the… Griddle.” He said it like it was a tribunal.He was dressed now, looking more like the boy from the stadium bleachers, but different. Softer around the edges.His gaze kept finding hers in the mirror. He came up behind her, resting his hands on her bare shoulders.He met her eyes in the reflection. “You’re my goddess, you know,” he said, the words stumbling out with their usual clumsy sincerity. “My everything.”
She placed a hand over his, her throat tight. “You’re my blue-screen moment,” she whispered back, a callback only they would understand.
A genuine, goofy smile broke across his face.He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll see you tonight?I could bring food. The right kind of water.”
“Yes.” She turned and kissed him one last time, a slow, lingering promise. “Tonight.”
She walked him to the door of her apartment, a surreal domestic moment. He paused on the threshold, looking both ways down the empty hallway like a spy, before giving her a final, quick kiss and stepping out.
The silence after he left was profound.The room still held his warmth, his scent on her sheets. She stood there, in the center of her perfectly curated world, and felt the ghost of his touch on her skin. The phone buzzed again on the bed.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and went to face her friends.
The Griddle was a cacophony of clattering plates and shrill laughter. Savannah slid into the circular booth, immediately enveloped by the cloud of expensive perfume and mimosa breath.
“There she is!” Lexi announced, as if Savannah had returned from a expedition.“We were about to send out a search party. You look… well-rested.”
Maya snickered, sipping her orange juice and champagne. “Rough night recovering from that fall, Hart?”
Savannah ordered a coffee, black, feeling the need for something solid and un-sweet. “Something like that.”
Lexi’s eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned her face.“You’re wearing yesterday’s perfume. And your ‘I just got laid’ glow is, frankly, blinding.”
“Lexi,” Savannah warned, but her friend plowed on.
“It was the charity case, wasn’t it? Ethan.” Lexi said his name like it was a mild pathogen. “You had a sleepover.”
The table went quiet, all eyes on Savannah.This was the moment. She could laugh it off, make a joke about pity, deflect and protect the fragile ecosystem of her social standing. She felt the old instincts rise, the practiced, polished persona ready to take the wheel.But she saw the empty classroom in her mind. Felt the ghost of his lips on her shoulder blade.Heard his raspy, sincere voice in her quiet bedroom.
“Yes,” Savannah said, her voice clear and calm.She looked directly at Lexi. “I was with Ethan.We spent the night together. It was… really nice.”
The silence this time was stunned.Maya’s mimosa glass halted halfway to her lips. Lexi blinked, her perfectly curated composure slipping for a split second.She recovered with a slow, calculating smile.
“Well.I hope he was suitably grateful. For the attention.”
Something hot and fierce, a new and terrifying protectiveness, surged in Savannah’s chest. “He doesn’t need to be grateful, Lex.He’s my boyfriend.We’re together. It’s not a charity project.”
Lexi leaned back, her smile now icy.“Alright, alright.Defensive much? I’m just looking out for you. It’s a big leap from the top of the pyramid to… wherever he is.Just be careful you don’t fall again. For real this time.”
The words were a direct hit, a poisoned arrow tipped with the humiliation of her very public stumble.The table’s attention shifted, a predatory interest in the unfolding drama. Savannah felt the walls of her image closing in again, but the core of her, the part that had lain bare in the sunlight, felt solid.She held Lexi’s gaze. “I know exactly where I’m standing,” she said, and her voice didn’t tremble.
The conversation moved on, forcibly steered by Maya towards a scandal involving a sociology professor. Savannah drank her coffee, the bitter taste anchoring her.She participated, she laughed, she performed. But a part of her was already gone, walking back across campus in the morning light, hand-in-hand with a boy who saw her not as a trophy, but as a truth. She checked her phone under the table, hoping for a message.There was none, but the lack felt like a promise, not an absence. He was giving her space to navigate her world.
As the bill came, Lexi nudged her foot under the table.Her voice was lower, almost genuine.“I’m serious, Sav. Just… manage it. Don’t let him become your walk of shame.”
Savannah stood up, dropping her share of cash onto the table. She looked down at her friend, the person who had defined her social landscape for years. “The only shame,” she said quietly, “would be pretending he doesn’t matter.”
She walked out of The Griddle, the autumn air sharp and clean in her lungs. The performance was over.Now, she just wanted to get back to something real. She pulled out her phone, her thumbs hovering over the screen.She didn’t text Ethan. Instead, she started walking—not towards her own apartment, but towards the library, towards the stuffy study rooms and algorithms, ready to disrupt his world just as completely as he had disrupted hers.
Instead, she started walking—not towards her own apartment, but towards the library, towards the stuffy study rooms and algorithms, ready to disrupt his world just as completely as he had disrupted hers.
The library’s automatic doors hissed shut behind her, muffling the campus sounds into a sterile quiet. The air smelled of dust and outdated carpet cleaner. She weaved through the stacks, her sandals silent on the linoleum, her pulse a faint, quick rhythm in her wrists. She didn’t have a plan, just a need to see the look on his face when she appeared, a reversal of his countless visits to her practice field.
She found them in a glass-walled study room on the third floor. Ethan was hunched over a laptop, his brow furrowed in concentration. Chloe sat across from him, gesturing at the screen with a pencil. The scene was utterly academic, benign. Yet seeing them together, heads bent close, sent a fresh, irrational spark through her. She didn’t knock. She simply opened the door.
The sharp sound made them both look up. Ethan’s eyes went wide, then instantly soft, a sunrise of pure, unguarded delight. “Savannah?”
Chloe offered a polite, closed-lipped smile. “Hey. We’re just wrapping up the logic tree.”
“I see that.” Savannah leaned against the doorframe, aiming for casual. The lavender dress felt suddenly too conspicuous. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d see if you wanted to get lunch. Since you missed brunch.”
“Yeah,” Ethan said, already closing the laptop without looking. “Absolutely. Yes. We’re done.” He looked at Chloe for confirmation.
“We’re done,” Chloe echoed, a knowing glint in her eye as she gathered her things. “The syntax is solid. You’re good, Ethan.” She slipped her notebook into her bag and stood. “Nice to see you again, Savannah.”
“You too.” Savannah moved aside to let her pass, feeling a strange mix of victory and foolishness. The door clicked shut.
Ethan was already packing his own backpack, his movements hurried. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know.” She walked into the room, the small space now charged with a different energy. “I had brunch with Lexi and them.”
He froze, a textbook halfway into his bag. “Oh.” The single word held volumes of understanding. “How was the… Griddle?”
“Toxic.” The truth fell out, stark and simple. “I told them I was with you last night. That you’re my boyfriend.”
He slowly zipped his backpack, his focus entirely on the task. “What did they say?”
“Lexi called you a charity case.” She watched his shoulders tense. “She told me not to let you become my walk of shame.”
He looked up then, his green eyes clear and steady. There was no anger, just a deep, quiet assessment. “And what did you say?”
“I said the only shame would be pretending you don’t matter.” Her voice didn’t waver. Saying it to him felt more significant than saying it to Lexi.
For a long moment, he just looked at her. The fluorescent light hummed overhead. Then he crossed the small space in two strides, his hands coming up to cradle her face. His kiss wasn’t shy. It was firm, deliberate, a sealing of a pact. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead pressed to hers. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did.” She closed her eyes, breathing him in—pencil lead, clean cotton, him. “I really, really did.”
They left the library, his hand finding hers as soon as they hit the sunlight. He didn’t ask where they were going; he just followed her lead. She led him back to her apartment, to the sanctuary of her pastel room. The bed was still unmade from that morning, and the sight of their tangled sheets sent a warm shock through her. He dropped his backpack by the door with a thud that sounded final.
“What do you want to do?” he asked, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room as if waiting for orders.
“I don’t know,” she said, a sudden wave of fatigue from the emotional whiplash of the day crashing over her. “Just… be here.”
He nodded, and they ended up on the floor, leaning against the side of her bed, shoulders touching. He scrolled on his phone for a minute, then showed her a silly meme about coding errors, which made her snort-laugh in a very un-Savannah-Hart way. The tension leaked from the room, replaced by a comfortable, exhausted quiet. Eventually, he had to go to a lab, leaving her alone in the apartment.
The silence after he left was different now. It wasn’t empty; it was full of the echoes of her own boldness, of the defiance she’d leveled at her friends. She felt exhilarated and slightly nauseous. To calm the static in her mind, she pulled out her laptop. She didn’t open social media. Instead, her fingers hovered over the keys before typing a bizarre, secret query into the search bar: what kind of girlfriend am I quiz.
She clicked the first result, a silly, pixelated website adorned with cartoon hearts. The questions were absurd. Do you prefer cozy nights in or exciting parties out? She clicked ‘cozy nights in’ without hesitation. Is trust or passion more important? Trust, obviously, but thinking of Ethan’s hands on her in the dark, she felt the word ‘passion’ thrum under her skin. Do you remember small details about your partner? A memory flashed: Ethan, weeks ago, noting she’d stopped buying the raspberry lime sparkling water because the store was out, and showing up with three different brands for her to try the next day.
She answered every question with a terrifying, giddy honesty she’d never afford a real personality test. She clicked ‘submit results’ with a racing heart.
The page loaded with a swirl of glittering graphics. The banner text loaded first: “You are The Forever Girlfriend!” Savannah blinked, a smile starting. That sounded nice. Devoted. Then the description populated below.
“You’re head over heels, maybe a little too much! Your friends probably say you’re ‘whipped,’ but you just know a good thing when you see it. You’re already picking out baby names and dreaming of a porch swing at eighty. Warning: You might be the ‘crazy’ girlfriend who secretly wants to marry him SO BAD. Slow your roll, sister! But hey, if he’s the one, he’s the one. Just try not to scare him off with the wedding Pinterest boards… yet!”
Heat exploded across Savannah’s face and chest. She snapped the laptop shut as if it had burst into flames. “Crazy girlfriend.” The words echoed in the quiet room. A year ago, a month ago, she would have been mortified, furious at the implication. It was the exact kind of clingy, desperate label she and Lexi would mock.
Now, alone in her room that still smelled faintly of him, she pressed her cold hands to her burning cheeks. A helpless, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of her. It was true. Every word. The quiz, in its garish, reductive way, had scraped her raw and found the gleaming, undeniable core. She did want the porch swing. She was thinking about the baby names, about what his messy blond hair would look on a toddler, about whether their child would have his serious green eyes. The certainty of it was oceanic, terrifying, and magnificent.
She was still sitting there on the floor, the computer a hot brand on her lap, her mind swirling with a chaotic joy, when her phone rang. His name flashed on the screen, a simple, solid fact in her spinning world.
She answered, her voice strangely breathless. “Hey.”
“Hey.” His voice was a warm relief through the line. “Lab’s done. I’m free.” A pause, the faint sound of him walking, of wind. “Chloe said the project is finalized. She’s emailing the professor now.”
“That’s good.” She traced the pattern on her rug, her heart hammering against her ribs. Crazy girlfriend. Crazy girlfriend.
“So…” he began, his signature awkwardness returning now that they weren’t face-to-face. “I was thinking. If you’re not doing anything. And you’re not tired of me. Maybe I could come over? We could… watch a movie or something?”
The mundane question, asked with such earnest care, nearly undid her. He was offering her an exit, a casual out. He had no idea he was asking a girl who, according to the internet, was already mentally designing their wedding invitations.
“A movie sounds perfect,” she managed to say, her voice miraculously even.
By the time his quiet knock came at her door, she had changed into soft cotton shorts and one of his forgotten t-shirts, a grey thing that swam on her and smelled faintly of his detergent. She’d pulled her hair into a messy bun and dimmed the overhead lights, leaving only the warm glow of her salt lamp and the flickering standby light of the TV. The stage was set for nothing, for everything.
He came in smelling of autumn air and faintly of the library. He’d brought a bag of gummy worms—her favorite—and a bottle of the raspberry lime water. He held them out like an offering. “Supplies.”
She took them, her fingers brushing his, and the simple contact sent a jolt through her. “You’re the best.”
They settled on her couch, a comfortable old thing draped with a knitted blanket. She pulled up a streaming service. “What’s your pleasure? Horror? Sci-fi? Something pretentious with subtitles?”
“You pick,” he said, pulling the blanket over their legs. He sat a respectful few inches away, a gap she could feel like a physical ache.
She chose an action movie she’d already seen, something with explosions and a simple plot. Perfect background noise. She hit play and nestled into the cushions, stealing a glance at him. For the first four minutes and thirty-seven seconds—she counted—he was the model of attentive viewing. His eyes were fixed on the screen, following the car chase with genuine interest. He even commented once, “That gear shift is totally unrealistic for that model of Mustang,” in a soft, matter-of-fact tone.
Then, as the hero delivered a clunky one-liner, Ethan’s focus shattered. It was like watching a switch flip. His gaze drifted from the screen to her hand resting on the cushion between them. He stared at it as if it were the most fascinating object in the universe.
Slowly, as if moving through honey, his hand slid across the blanket. His fingertips, warm and slightly rough, brushed the back of her wrist. A feather-light touch. He traced the line of a vein there, his head tilting slightly. The movie’s soundtrack swelled, guns firing, but in their bubble, the only sound was their breathing.
He didn’t look at her. He seemed captivated by the topography of her skin. His fingers drifted up to her palm, mapping the lines, his touch reverent and curious. Then he turned her hand over, exposing her inner wrist. He bent his head, and she felt his breath, warm and deliberate, against that vulnerable skin. He didn’t kiss it immediately. He just hovered, as if listening to her pulse.
When his lips finally made contact, it was so soft it was almost not there. A whisper of pressure. Then another, an inch higher on her forearm. Each kiss was a slow, deliberate exploration, a quiet cataloging. He moved up her arm, his shyness manifesting not in hesitation but in a profound, focused slowness. He kissed the crook of her elbow, a spot she never considered erogenous, and a shiver ran straight through her.
He shifted then, turning his body toward her, the movie forgotten. His other hand came up to cradle the side of her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. His eyes finally met hers in the dim, flickering light. They were dark, pupils wide, full of a wondering intensity that made her breath catch.
“This okay?” he whispered, the words barely audible over the movie’s mayhem.
She could only nod, her throat tight.
He leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth, then the other corner, mirroring his worshipful pattern from the morning. He kissed the curve of her jaw, the spot just below her ear. Each kiss was an unspoken sentence, a stanza of a poem only he knew. He kissed her eyelids closed, his lashes brushing her skin. He kissed the bridge of her nose, the apples of her cheeks. He was everywhere, his shyness evaporated into this relentless, tender onslaught.
He wasn’t trying to lead to anything else. There was no strategic movement, no practiced escalation. This was the point. The kissing, the touching, the affirmation of her presence. His mouth found hers, finally, and the kiss was deep and sweet, tasting of gummy worms and the unique flavor that was just him.
When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against hers, they were both breathing unevenly. On screen, a building dramatically exploded, painting their faces in flashes of orange and white.
“The Mustang got away,” he murmured, his voice rough.
“What?” she whispered, dazed.
“In the movie. The unrealistic Mustang. It got away.” He said it with complete seriousness, as if he’d been tracking the plot the whole time.
A laugh burst out of her, watery and incredulous. He grinned, that goofy, lopsided smile that transformed his whole face, and then he dove back in, burying his face in the hollow of her neck, showering the sensitive skin there with kisses that were less tentative now, more enthusiastic. He was laughing softly against her collarbone, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her into his lap as if she weighed nothing.
She clung to him, her face pressed into his messy hair, the synopsis from the silly quiz blazing in her mind. The crazy girlfriend who wants to marry him SO BAD. In this moment, wrapped in his adoration, feeling the solid proof of his heart hammering against her own, the label didn’t feel crazy. It felt like the only sane truth she had ever known.