Chapter 5: Teasing the Boy
The room was a serene pocket of warmth in the cool evening, the streetlight’s yellow geometry now a fixed feature on the cream-colored rug. Savannah held Ethan, the reality of his words—the only thing that’s ever made sense to me—still humming in her bones like a second heartbeat. His face was nestled back in the hollow of her throat, his body a line of loose-limbed surrender along hers. The world had narrowed to this: the scent of his skin, the weight of his trust, the profound quiet.
Her fingers, still tangled in his hair, gently scratched his scalp. “You know,” she murmured, her voice a low, fond rasp in the twilight, “for a nineteen-year-old, you have a very old soul.”
He shifted, his nose brushing her collarbone. “I’m almost twenty.”
“Almost doesn’t count, baby.” The endearment slipped out, soft and unconsidered.She felt him smile against her skin.
“You’re only a year older,” he mumbled, the protest lacking any real heat.
“A year and three months,” she corrected, a playful lilt entering her tone.She tightened her arms around him. “It’s a significant gap.Makes you my baby boy.”
He went perfectly still. Then, a full-body flush seemed to radiate from him, the heat reaching her own skin. His ears, pressed close to her jaw, burned. “Savannah,” he whined, the name half-muffled, half-pleading.She laughed, the sound rich and genuine, vibrating through her chest into his. She loved this. Loved the power of a simple phrase to unravel him, loved that it wasn’t embarrassment from shame, but from a shy, overwhelmed joy.“What?It’s true. My sweet, awkward, baby boy who hides in my cleavage when the world gets too loud.”
He groaned, the sound vibrating deliciously against her sternum.But he didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, his arms locking around her back as if to seal himself in. “It’s not… I’m not hiding from the world,” he said, his voice earnest even in its muffled state.“I’m hiding in you. It’s different.”
The distinction, so perfectly Ethan, stole her breath. She kissed the crown of his head, her lips lingering in the soft mess of his hair.“I know,” she whispered.“And I love it. I love that you want to.It makes me feel… like I’m your fortress. Or your secret garden.Something safe.”
He was quiet for a long moment. The breeze from the window lifted the curtain, bringing in a damp, earthy smell of impending rain. A distant rumble of thunder, soft as a stomach growl, echoed far away.
“You are,” he finally said, his voice so small she felt it more than heard it. “You’re the only safe place I’ve ever had.”
The raw admission hung between them. It wasn’t sad, not the way he said it.It was a fact, offered up like a gift.Savannah’s throat tightened. She thought of his quiet dorm room, the empty bleachers where he sat alone, the invisible bubble he seemed to occupy on campus. She saw it all now not as loneliness, but as a waiting—a patient, quiet waiting for this, for her, for a harbor.
She guided his face up again, needing to see his eyes. In the lamplight, they were the color of moss after a rain, wide and deep and completely unguarded. She traced the line of his eyebrow with her thumb.“You can hide here whenever you want.All the time. Even when I’m old and twenty-one, and you’re still my twenty-year-old baby boy.”
He made a face, a wrinkled-nose, mock-annoyed expression that was so adorable she had to kiss the tip of his nose. “You’re impossible,” he grumbled, but he was smiling, that shy, lopsided smile that started in his eyes.
“And you love me,” she said, testing the words, watching his reaction.The smile softened, turned profound. “Yeah,” he breathed, no hesitation, no awkwardness.Just pure, simple truth. “I really do.”
The thunder rumbled again, closer this time. A fresh, cool wind swept into the room, lifting the hair from her neck.Ethan glanced towards the window. “Storm’s coming.”
“Mmm,” Savannah agreed, not loosening her hold. “So stay.”
He looked back at her, and she saw a flicker of something—domestic ease, a sense of belonging so new it still surprised him.“I don’t have my stuff,” he said, almost apologetically. “Toothbrush. Clothes.”
“We’ll improvise.” She finally untangled herself, sitting up.The air felt cool on her skin where he’d been pressed. She swung her legs off the bed, the fluffy rug soft under her feet, and padded to her dresser. She rifled through a drawer, pulling out an old, faded softball t-shirt from high school and a pair of plaid sleep shorts with a drawstring waist. “Here,” she said, tossing them to him on the bed. “They’ll be big, but they’ll work.”
He caught the clothes, holding the soft cotton like something sacred. “And a toothbrush?”
She walked into her adjoining bathroom, the light flooding the bedroom briefly before she returned, brandishing a sealed, neon green toothbrush still in its plastic packaging.“Travel stash. For when Jessica sleeps over and forgets hers.” She tossed it to him.
He looked from the clothes in his lap to the toothbrush in his hand, then up at her, standing in the center of her pastel room with her arms crossed, a smile playing on her lips.A slow, wondrous smile spread across his own face. “You’re letting me stay.”
“Yeah,” she said, her tone gentle. “I’m letting you stay.Get changed. I’ll be right back.”
She took her own sleep clothes and slipped into the bathroom, closing the door. She changed quickly, listening to the quiet rustle of fabric from the bedroom. When she emerged, brushing out her hair, the sight of him nearly undid her.He stood awkwardly by the side of the bed, swimming in her old clothes. The softball shirt hung loose on his narrower frame, the neckline slipping off one shoulder. The plaid shorts were rolled at the waist and still draped past his knees. He looked utterly adorable, like a little boy who’d raided his big sister’s closet, his blond hair mussed and his green eyes unsure.“Well?” he asked, shrugging helplessly.
Savannah put a hand over her mouth, not to stifle a laugh, but to hold in the overwhelming surge of tenderness. “You,” she stated, walking over and straightening the collar of the shirt, “are the cutest thing I have ever seen in my entire life.”
He rolled his eyes, but the blush was back, creeping down his neck. “I feel ridiculous.”
“Don’t.” She smoothed her hands over the soft cotton covering his shoulders.“You feel like mine. Now come on, baby boy. Let’s brush our teeth.”
They stood side-by-side at her vanity sink, their reflections blurred in the steamed mirror from her earlier shower. He unwrapped the green toothbrush with careful concentration.She squeezed paste onto both their brushes. For a few minutes, there was no sound but the rhythmic scrub and the gurgle of water in the sink. She watched him in the mirror, his serious focus on the mundane task, the way he avoided looking directly at his own reflection. When he rinsed and spat, he caught her watching him and his ears went pink again.
“What?” he asked, wiping his mouth.“Nothing.” She rinsed her own mouth, smiling. “Just you.”
Back in the bedroom, she turned off the floor lamp, plunging the room into the deep, grey-blue light of the storm-veiled night. Only the streetlight’s glow from outside provided illumination, painting silver edges on the furniture. The first heavy drops of rain began to tap a sporadic rhythm on the window pane.She climbed into bed first, holding the duvet open for him. He hesitated for a second at the edge, then slid in beside her, his body a line of welcome warmth. He automatically turned towards her, his head seeking its accustomed place on her shoulder, his hand resting on her stomach.
She settled them, pulling the covers up high, the world outside dissolving into the sound of the rain, now falling in earnest.It was a steady, soothing drumbeat on the roof.
“Savannah?” His voice was a whisper in the dark.“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For… for this. For letting me be here.”
She turned her head, her lips finding his forehead in the darkness.“This is where you belong,” she said simply. “Now go to sleep.”
A few minutes passed, the rain easing into a gentle whisper. Just as she felt his breathing begin to slow and deepen into sleep’s rhythm, he spoke again, his voice thick and drowsy.
“Hey, Sav?”
“Mmm?”
“You’re my safe place.”
Her heart folded softly around the words.“I know,” she whispered back. “And you’re mine.”
She felt his lips press a soft, sleepy kiss against the skin of her shoulder, right at the neckline of her tank top.It was a seal on the promise.
As the rain washed the world clean outside, Savannah lay awake a little longer, listening to his breathing, feeling the solid, trusting weight of him against her. The title ‘baby boy’ didn’t feel like a tease anymore.It felt like a truth.It felt like hers. And for the first time in a long time, with the awkward, wonderful boy in her arms and the storm cradling the house, she felt no pressure at all—only peace, deep and certain as the night.
And for the first time in a long time, with the awkward, wonderful boy in her arms and the storm cradling the house, she felt no pressure at all—only peace, deep and certain as the night.
She slept the heavy, dreamless sleep of someone who has finally put down a weight they didn’t know they were carrying.
The storm had quieted hours ago, leaving a world washed clean and dripping softly outside the window. Savannah woke not to an alarm, but to the gentle insistence of grey morning light filtering through the damp curtains. Her first conscious sensation was warmth.A solid, pleasing heat draped across her torso and settled deep in her bones. Then came the scent—lavender from her own skin, yes, but underneath it, something uniquely him. Clean cotton sleep and a faint, sunny smell, like skin that has simply been living quietly.
And the weight.Ethan hadn’t moved an inch in the night.
His head was still a heavy, perfect anchor on her shoulder, his face completely buried in the side of her breast. One arm was thrown possessively across her waist, his hand slack now in sleep, fingers curled loosely against the small of her back. His other hand was tucked between them, a warm fist resting just below her collarbone. He breathed in a slow, deep rhythm, each exhale a concentrated puff of damp heat that seeped through the thin fabric of her tank top and directly into her skin.
He was so deeply under, lulled by her warmth and the familiar, comforting scent of her lotion and perfume that clung to the sheets.A slow, private smile spread across Savannah’s face. She let her head tilt back into the pillow, her eyes tracing the water stains on the ceiling from last night’s rain.She didn’t dare move. This was a museum piece, a moment of such unguarded vulnerability she was afraid to shatter it. He looked younger in sleep, the usual faint line of concentration between his brows completely smooth.His lips were slightly parted, pressed firmly against her.
He murmured something then, a nonsense syllable lost against her.His brows twitched. His sleeping arm across her waist tightened a fraction, his hand flexing softly against her back. The movement seemed to travel through him.She felt the shift in his breathing, the intake becoming less rhythmic, more conscious. He was swimming up from the depths, and she watched, utterly captivated, as he arrived.
His first true movement was a nuzzle. A slow, blind, seeking press of his nose and mouth deeper into the softness of her breast. It was instinctual, a half-asleep animal burrowing into its den.A low, contented hum vibrated against her ribs.Savannah held her breath.
His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and hazy with sleep. He didn’t lift his head. He just blinked, his eyelashes brushing her tank top, staring at the blurred, close-up world of navy-blue cotton. Confusion clouded his green eyes for a second—the unfamiliar room, the soft light—then it cleared, replaced by a dawning, soft recognition. This was her room.This was her. A drowsy, beatific smile touched his lips, still hidden from her view.“Morning,” she whispered, her voice scratchy from sleep.
The sound of her voice seemed to startle him pleasantly. He flinched, a full-body jerk of waking realization, and finally began to lift his head.It was a slow, reluctant journey. He peeled his cheek from her, the skin there pink and warm from hours of pressure. His gaze traveled up her body, over the curve of her breast, along the line of her neck, finally meeting her eyes.His hair was a magnificent disaster, stuck up on one side and flattened on the other. His eyes were still glazed with sleep.“Hi,” he croaked. The single word was thick and rough.“You sleep okay?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
He didn’t reply with words. Instead, he made a sleepy, overwhelmed sound in the back of his throat and let his head drop back down, not to its previous spot, but lower, turning his face directly into the soft swell of her breast. He inhaled deeply, as if trying to draw her scent into his lungs.“M’sorry,” he mumbled, the apology muffled. “You’re just… so warm.And you smell so good. I can’t think.”
She laughed, a light, airy sound.“Don’t think then.”
He nodded, a small movement against her. For a few minutes, they just lay there in the quiet grey light, his face nestled against her, her fingers idly tracing the line of his spine through the oversized softball shirt. The peace of the night had carried over, blanketing the morning in a soft, precious haze. She could feel him waking up by increments, his body becoming less pliant, more aware.
His hand, the one tucked between them, stirred. His fingers flexed, brushing lightly against the underside of her breast through the tank top.He stilled again, as if surprised by his own boldness. His breathing hitched. Savannah watched the top of his head, her own pulse picking up a subtle, answering rhythm.He tried to be subtle.It was adorable. He shifted his head just a little, as if adjusting his pillow, and used the movement to press his lips in a soft, closed-mouth kiss against her.It was through the fabric, but the intention was clear.A shy, sleepy request.
“Ethan,” she whispered.He froze. “Too much?”
“Not enough.”
The permission hung in the air, charged and soft.She felt the exact moment he understood. He took a shaky breath, his exhale warming the cotton. Then his head lifted again, just enough for him to look down at the terrain of her chest. His gaze was focused, a little hazy from sleep but intent. He looked at the faint outline of her bra beneath the tank top, at the gentle slope of her body.He looked utterly transfixed.
His hand came up from between them, hovering in the air for a second like a hesitant bird. Then, with a concentration that was almost comical, he brought his fingertips to the hem of her tank top. He didn’t push it up.He just touched it, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger as if assessing its quality. His cheeks were flushed a deep, rosy pink.
“Can I…” he started, then lost his voice.He tried again. “This is in the way.”
“It is,” she agreed, her own voice soft.He gave a single, determined nod, more to himself than to her. The logistics, however, seemed to overwhelm him. He was lying on his side, facing her, one arm pinned partly underneath him. The mechanics of undressing her from this angle, while half-draped over her, were clearly a puzzle. He pushed up on his elbow, awkwardly looming over her.This new position seemed to grant him a burst of false confidence. He hooked a finger under the hem of her top.And then he stalled. His eyes flicked from the fabric to her face, back to the fabric. The bra strap, a pale lavender line against her skin, peeked over the neckline of her tank top.That seemed to be his new objective. He released the hem and instead reached for the strap, trying to slide a finger underneath it to tug it down her shoulder. It was a clumsy, fumbling move. The strap, elastic and snug, didn’t budge.His finger just slipped off.He let out a tiny, frustrated puff of air. God, he was cute. Savannah lay perfectly still, letting him work, her heart swelling with a fondness so intense it was almost painful.
“It’s… it’s connected,” he murmured, mostly to himself.His brow furrowed.He was reverse-engineering the problem. The strap was connected to the back.The back had the clasp.The clasp was the key. She saw the realization dawn in his eyes.He needed to address the clasp.
But to get to the clasp, he had to get her top off.And to get her top off, he had to move more. The sheer, sleepy awkwardness of it all was a kind of exquisite intimacy. There was no smooth seduction here, only a genuine, stumbling desire to be closer.He finally committed. “Okay,” he breathed, a quiet proclamation.He hooked both hands under the hem of her tank top this time. “Lift up a little?” he asked, his voice a shy request.
She arched her back slightly, raising her hips off the mattress. He pulled the fabric up in a slow, dragging motion, over her stomach, her ribs, until it bunched under her arms. The morning air was cool on her newly exposed skin. His gaze drank her in, the pale plane of her stomach, the rise and fall of her breath.The simple lavender bra, lacy and practical.
He was stuck again, the shirt gathered around her upper body.The bra was now the sole barrier. He stared at the front clasp, a simple hook-and-eye closure nestled in the center.She could almost hear his brain working. Push the hook, slide the eye free.He remembered her guidance from before, in the dark.
His hands came up, hovering over the clasp.They were trembling, just slightly. He wasn’t nervous from fear, she realized, but from a kind of reverent, overwhelming want. He bit his lower lip, focusing all his sleep-slowed attention on that small piece of hardware.
His thumbs found the edges of the clasp.He pushed.Nothing happened.He pushed harder, at the wrong angle. The metal resisted.A soft, worried sound escaped him. He adjusted his grip, his fingertips brushing the sensitive skin at the center of her chest. The touch sent a shiver through her, involuntary.He felt it and jerked his hands back.
“Sorry!”
“Don’t be sorry,” she whispered. “Try again.”
He took a steadying breath, his eyes locked on the task.This time, his touch was more deliberate. He positioned his thumbs more carefully, one on the hook, one on the eye.He applied pressure, not just pushing, but a slight sideways slide. There was a tiny, metallic snick.It was done.
The tension across her back released instantly.The bra loosened, gapping open slightly in the front. A stunned, victorious smile broke across his face, pure and unadulterated. He looked from the open clasp to her eyes, his expression one of childish triumph mingled with dazed wonder.
He didn’t rush.He moved with a new, slow certainty. He gently eased the two sides of the bra apart, peeling the lace away from her skin. The cool air touched her, and she saw his breath catch.His eyes widened, his lips parting slightly. He just looked, for one long, silent moment, as the last barrier fell away. His gaze held none of the practiced appraisal she was used to from locker-room glances or the fleeting looks from guys at parties.This was pure, uncomplicated awe. As if he’d discovered something miraculous and fragile and entirely his.
Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from his very core, he lowered his head.He didn’t kiss her. He simply turned his face and rested his cheek against the newly bared skin, his eyes sliding closed. The warmth of his skin against hers was electric and profound. He rubbed his cheek there slowly, back and forth, a cat basking in sunlight.His breath fanned across her, quick and shallow.
“Ethan,” she breathed, her hand coming up to cradle the back of his head.
He opened his eyes, looking up at her from where he lay nestled against her breast. The sleep was mostly gone now, replaced by a vulnerable, open need. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, the words raw and unpracticed. “It hurts to look sometimes.” He didn’t mean a physical hurt.He meant the ache of something too good, too real.
She guided him then, a gentle pressure on the back of his head.He understood. He turned his face inward and pressed his lips to her skin, just above her heart. It was a kiss of gratitude, of ownership, of homecoming. He held it there, his body relaxing completely against hers, as if he’d finally, after a long and bewildering journey, arrived exactly where he was meant to be.