Chapter 2: Steam, Towels, and a Question
Morning arrived in jagged stripes of light, cutting through the gaps in the blinds and landing in bright bars across the rumpled sheets. Tim's eyes opened slowly, his brain climbing out of sleep with the reluctance of a man who knew reality was waiting and wasn't sure he wanted to face it.
The bed was empty beside him.
He sat up fast, heart lurching, and then he heard it—the hiss of water from the bathroom, the soft clink of bottles being moved around. His shoulders dropped. She was still here.
The previous night came flooding back in fragments. Rain. Her silhouette in his doorway. The way she'd guided him with patient hands and whispered instructions. Two orgasms. Two. He'd read about that in theory but hadn't quite believed it was something men could actually accomplish on their first attempt.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his face. His glasses were still on the nightstand where she'd put them. He grabbed them, shoved them on, and squinted at the clock. 7:43 AM. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been awake before nine.
The shower stopped.
Tim froze, suddenly aware of his own body—still in yesterday's boxers, hair a disaster, breath probably smelling like something had died in his mouth. He should brush his teeth. He should put on clothes. He should do something other than sit here like a deer caught in headlights.
But before he could move, the bathroom door swung open.
Lucy stepped out wrapped in a towel. Just a towel. It was his towel, he realized—the blue one with the frayed edge that he'd bought at Target three years ago. It looked significantly better on her than it ever had on him.
Her hair was wet and slicked back, droplets still clinging to her shoulders. Steam curled around her like she was some kind of mythological figure emerging from the mist. She looked at him, and that smirk—that devastating, knowing smirk—spread across her face.
"Morning, sleepyhead."
"Morning," he managed. His voice came out like gravel.
She padded across the room, bare feet slapping against the hardwood, and stopped at the foot of the bed. The towel was wrapped loosely, dangerously, and he was trying very hard not to stare.
"So," she said, "I've been thinking."
"Dangerous."
She laughed. "Funny. You're funny in the morning. Good to know."
"What were you thinking about?"
"You." She tilted her head, studying him with those dark, sharp eyes. "Specifically, something I heard about you."
His stomach dropped. "Heard about me? From who?"
"Your roommate from freshman year. Jake something?"
"Jake Morrison." Tim groaned. "What did he tell you?"
"Nothing bad. Just that you've never been kissed."
The words hung in the air between them. Tim felt heat crawl up his neck, spreading to his cheeks. He wanted to disappear into the mattress.
"That's..." He cleared his throat. "That's accurate."
"Accurate." Lucy's eyebrows rose. "So you've never been kissed. You're twenty-four years old, and you've never had someone's lips on yours."
"I was busy."
"Busy."
"Books. Research. My dissertation doesn't write itself."
She crossed her arms, which did interesting things to the towel. "Tim."
"What?"
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"I prefer 'academically focused.'"
She stared at him for a long moment, and he could practically see the gears turning in her head. Then her expression shifted into something he was starting to recognize—that determined, slightly mischievous look that meant she'd made a decision.
"Get up," she said.
"What?"
"Get up. Come here."
He didn't move. His body felt disconnected from his brain, like the signal was getting lost somewhere in his spine.
"Tim." Her voice was soft now, almost gentle. "I'm not going to bite you. Not yet, anyway. Just come here."
He rose from the bed. His legs were unsteady, and he was acutely aware of every step he took, every squeak of the floorboards beneath his feet. The room felt smaller with her in it, the walls pressing in like they were trying to push him toward her.
He stopped a foot away. Close enough to see the water still beaded on her collarbone. Close enough to smell the soap she'd used—his soap, actually, the cheap bar stuff that smelled like chemicals and desperation.
"I've never been kissed," he said. "You already know that."
"I do."
"And you want to..."
"Fix that. Yes." She looked up at him, and there was no mockery in her eyes now, just something warmer. Something he didn't have a name for. "Can I kiss you, Tim?"
His heart was hammering so hard he was sure she could hear it.
"Yes," he said. "Please."
She smiled—not the smirk, but the private one, the one that made his chest ache—and reached up to cup his face. Her palms were warm against his skin, still slightly damp from the shower. She pulled him down, slowly, giving him time to pull back if he wanted to.
He didn't want to.
Her lips met his softly. Tentatively. A question more than a statement. She tasted like mint toothpaste—his toothpaste—and something underneath that was just her, warm and real and electric.
His eyes closed.
The world narrowed to this single point of contact. Her mouth on his. Her hands on his face. The way her breath hitched slightly when he pressed back, a small sound of surprise that made his chest swell.
She pulled back an inch. Just enough to speak.
"Not bad. For a beginner."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
He kissed her again, harder this time. Less tentative. His hands found her waist, and the towel was right there, the fabric soft and damp beneath his fingers. She sighed against his mouth, and the sound went straight through him like a current.
His tongue brushed against her lower lip, and she opened for him without hesitation. The kiss deepened, turned into something messier, more urgent. He was learning in real time, cataloging every response—the way she leaned into him when he tilted his head, the way her fingers curled into his hair, the small moan she made when he slid his tongue against hers.
His body was responding in ways he couldn't control. Heat pooled low in his stomach, and he pulled her closer, needing to feel more of her against him. The towel slipped, loosened by movement and moisture, and she didn't stop it.
She didn't stop anything.
The towel dropped to the floor, and she was pressed against him, skin to skin, her body warm and soft and impossibly close. He groaned against her mouth, and she swallowed the sound, her hands sliding down from his hair to grip his shoulders.
For a moment, she wavered. He felt the shift in her balance, the way her knees seemed to give slightly. She broke the kiss, gasping, and her eyes were wide and dark and a little stunned.
"That," she said, breathless, "was not beginner level."
"I've been reading up on it."
She laughed, the sound bright and genuine, and hit his chest lightly with her palm. "You're impossible."
"I get that a lot."
"No, you don't." She looked up at him, and there was something soft in her expression, something vulnerable. "You don't get that a lot, do you? People don't say things like that to you."
He didn't know how to answer that. So he just shrugged, one shoulder rising and falling awkwardly.
"I'm going to say it more often," she said. "Impossible. Ridiculous. Absolutely infuriating. And also..." She traced a finger down his chest, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. "Kind of amazing."
"You're just saying that because I kissed you."
"I'm saying that because I want to do it again."
She rose on her toes and kissed him—quick, this time, a peck that was almost chaste except for the way her body pressed against his. Then she stepped back, and he felt the loss of her warmth like a physical blow.
"I need to get dressed," she said. "I have a class at nine."
"Right." He nodded, trying to remember what classes were. What time was. What words meant. "Class. Yes."
She gathered her clothes from where they'd been discarded the night before—still damp, still smelling faintly of rain—and started pulling them on with the efficiency of someone who'd done this before. She was comfortable in her own skin, he realized. Unself-conscious. He envied that.
"Tonight," she said, buttoning her blouse. "My place. Seven o'clock."
"Tonight?"
"Is that a problem?"
"No. No problem. I just..." He gestured vaguely at himself, at the room, at the impossibility of what was happening. "You want to see me again?"
Lucy paused mid-button. She looked at him with an expression that was part exasperation, part fondness.
"Yes, Tim. I want to see you again. I want to see you a lot." She crossed the room and kissed him one last time, swift and decisive. "Don't overthink it. Just show up."
And then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving him standing in the middle of his cluttered studio in nothing but his boxers, his lips still tingling with the imprint of hers.
The rain had stopped. Sunlight streamed through the window now, golden and warm, catching the dust motes floating in the air. The coffee cups were still everywhere. The books were still piled high. His dissertation was still waiting.
But something had changed.
He touched his lips, and he couldn't help the smile that spread across his face.
For the first time in his life, Tim Bradford was looking forward to tonight.