Chapter 9: Breakfast Distraction
The croissants went stale on the counter. The orange juice warmed in its carton. The morning sunlight carved a sharp rectangle across the floor, climbing slowly over the discarded grey t-shirt, the trail of socks, the edge of the rumpled bed.
His skin was warm under my palms. Every breath he took was a movement I felt. My head rested on his chest, rising and falling with the steady, slowing rhythm of his heart. My fingers traced idle patterns through the fine dark hair there, following the line of his sternum.
“We wasted the croissants,” I murmured into the quiet.
His chest vibrated with a low laugh. His arm, slung heavy across my bare back, tightened. “Worth it.”
I propped myself up on an elbow to look at him. His face was relaxed in a way I’d rarely seen, the usual intense focus soft around the edges. He opened his eyes, dark and warm, meeting mine. A faint blush crept up his neck. He was still gettable. Even now.
“What?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep and other things.
“Nothing. Just looking.” I bent and kissed the spot just beneath his collarbone. He shivered. “My boyfriend has nice arms.”
The word ‘boyfriend’ still felt foreign in my mouth, a new, thrilling flavor. It made his gaze intensify, his hand coming up to slide into my hair, holding me gently in place against him.
“Say it again,” he said, quiet.
“Boyfriend.”
He exhaled, a long, satisfied sound. “Yeah.” He pulled me up for a proper kiss, slow and deep. When we parted, he brushed my hair back from my forehead. “I have to go soon. Captains’ meeting at eleven.”
Reality, with its schedules and obligations, began to seep back into the room. I slumped against him. “No.”
“I know. But it’s the playoff run. Everything’s hyper-scheduled.” He sounded genuinely sorry. He glanced at the clock on my nightstand. “I’ve got forty minutes.”
“What’s the meeting about?”
“Mostly how to keep the freshmen from burning out or burning down the dorms. Same as always.” He shifted, rolling so he was half leaning over me, bracing himself on an elbow. The sheets pooled around his waist. The sunlight caught the defined lines of his shoulder, the sweat not yet dried at his temple. He was a landscape I was just learning. “Can I come back after? We could actually eat something. Maybe go out.”
“I have that group project call at three.”
“After that.”
“Mayu might come by. She’s been texting. She knows something’s up.”
He winced, a flicker of his old nervousness returning. “Right. Mayu.” He took a breath. “Okay. We’ll deal with Mayu. I’ll come back after your call, and we’ll… face the music.”
“She’s going to be insufferable.”
“She’s earned it,” he conceded. He leaned down, kissing me once, twice, before reluctantly pulling away and sitting up on the edge of the bed. The muscles in his back shifted as he reached for his clothes. I watched him dress, the simple act feeling impossibly intimate. He pulled the grey shirt back over his head, and the transformation was subtle but definite—Yuki, my boyfriend, pulling himself back into the role of Yuki, the captain.
He stood, running a hand through his hair. He looked back at me, still tangled in the sheets. A slow smile spread across his face, pure and uncomplicated. “Hi.”
I grinned. “Hi.”
He came back, bent over the bed, and kissed me once more, a firm, promising press of his lips. “Later,” he said against my mouth.
Then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him. The room felt too large, too quiet. The scent of him—soap, skin, something uniquely Yuki—lingered on my pillows. I hugged one to my chest and laughed, a giddy, disbelieving sound that echoed in the empty space.
The group call was a blur of pixelated faces and conflicting opinions on font hierarchies. I contributed nods and vague agreements, my brain replaying the morning on a loop: the feel of his hands, the weight of him, the quiet words in the sunlight.
The call ended. Silence settled back in. I was stacking my notebooks when a rapid, rhythmic pounding shook my door.
“Open up! I have Thai food and zero patience!”
Mayu.
I opened the door. She barrelled in, laden with plastic bags that smelled of lemongrass and peanut sauce. She kicked the door shut with her heel and dumped the food on my desk, then spun to face me, hands on her hips. Her eyes were sharp, scanning me like a detective at a crime scene.
“You,” she announced, “are glowing. It’s disgusting. And you didn’t answer my last three texts. Spill everything, starting with why my brother’s car was parked outside for four hours this morning when he had a captains’ meeting.”
There was no point in evasion. “We’re together.”
Her mouth fell open. The theatrical shock was probably only half-feigned. “Define ‘together.’ Like, you hooked up? Or like, he finally manned up and…”
“He asked. Officially. Last night. And then… this morning happened.” I could feel the heat in my cheeks.
Mayu stared at me for a long second. Then a slow, wide, utterly triumphant smile spread across her face. “I knew it! I knew he was going to crack! Last night? After I left?” She collapsed into my desk chair, spinning it once in glee. “Details. Omit nothing. Was it painfully awkward? It was, wasn’t it? Did he use a flowchart?”
I laughed, leaning against the bedframe. “He just showed up. Said he needed to ask the most important question. Asked if we could be ‘tell-people, update-your-status’ official.”
“Oh my god.” She clutched her chest. “He’s such a dork. I love him. I’m going to mock him forever.” She leaned forward, her glee shifting to something more sincere. “And you said yes. And you’re… good?”
The concern in her voice undid me. I nodded, suddenly feeling watery. “I’m really good, Mayu. It feels… right. It feels like I’ve been missing something that was right next to me the whole time.”
She got up and wrapped me in a tight, lemony hug. “Okay. Good. That’s… good.” She pulled back, swiping at her own eyes dramatically. “Ugh, don’t make me emotional. I’m here for the gossip and the schadenfreude.” She returned to the food, ripping open containers. “So, we’re good? Me and you? This isn’t weird?”
“Are you kidding? You’re my best friend. This just means I get to keep you both.”
“Damn right.” She handed me a container of pad thai and a fork. “Okay, logistics. Have you told your mom? Does Mom know her surrogate son is now banging her daughter?”
I choked on a noodle. “Mayu! No. God, no. It’s been like twelve hours.”
“He’ll want to tell his parents soon. He’s weirdly formal about that stuff. He’ll probably want to call them together, like a press conference.” She smirked. “He’s been prepping for this his whole life. He’s got binders.”
We were halfway through the food, deep into dissecting every glance and comment from the past five years, when another knock came at the door. Softer this time.
My stomach flipped. Mayu’s eyebrows shot up. “Speak of the devil. And he knocks now? How polite.”
I opened the door. Yuki stood there, changed into jeans and a dark green hoodie. He had a paper bag in one hand. He looked from me to Mayu, who was now posed regally in my desk chair, a fork held like a scepter.
“Hey,” he said, his voice careful.
“Hey.” I stepped back to let him in.
He entered, the room shrinking with his presence. He nodded at his sister. “Mayu.”
“Captain,” she said, with a mock-serious nod.
He held up the paper bag. “I brought actual food. Since we missed breakfast. There’s a non-stale croissant in here for you.” This last part was directed at me, a private joke.
The air was thick with a bizarre new dynamic. Yuki set the bag next to Mayu’s Thai containers. He shifted his weight, hands going into his pockets, then coming out again. He was nervous.
Mayu watched him, her expression unreadable for a beat. Then she sighed, the sound exaggerated. “Okay, come here, you big idiot.”
Yuki blinked. He walked over to her. She stood up and pulled him into a hug. It was brief but firm. She patted his back twice. “Don’t screw this up,” she said, her voice muffled against his hoodie.
“I won’t,” he said, the words low and serious.
She released him, shoving him playfully toward me. “Good. Now, I would stay and witness this fascinating social experiment, but I have a date with a biology textbook and crippling anxiety about my future.” She grabbed her purse, heading for the door. She paused, her hand on the knob, and looked back at both of us. A real, soft smile touched her lips. “I’m happy for you guys. Seriously. It’s about time.”
Then she was gone, leaving a vacuum of silence.
Yuki let out a long breath, as if he’d been holding it for years. “That went better than my simulations.”
I laughed, moving into the space he occupied. He met me halfway, his arms sliding around my waist, pulling me close. He buried his face in the curve of my neck and just breathed.
“She’s happy,” I said into his shoulder.
“I know.” He pulled back to look at me. “Are you?”
“I brought you a croissant, didn’t I?”
He smiled, but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. There was a shadow there, a thought he wasn’t voicing. He kissed my forehead. “Eat. Then… can we talk? Not about anything bad. Just… the future. The summer. The variables.”
The warm, giddy bubble of the morning met the cool, sharp air of reality. I nodded. “Yeah. We should.”
We ate the croissants at my tiny desk, our knees touching. The talk wasn’t dramatic. It was pragmatic, a quiet mapping of the dread that had been hovering since the rooftop. My internship in the city was almost certain now. His preseason training was a beast, six days a week. The hour-long train ride felt like a canyon.
“Weekends,” he said, tracing the wood grain of my desk. “I can come up on Sundays. My only full day off. And you could come here some Saturdays, after your shift.”
“It’s not nothing,” I offered, the phrase feeling weak.
“It’s not,” he agreed. He looked up, his gaze steady. “I’m not worried about the distance. I’m worried about the launch. The first month. You’ll be in a new place, a new job, overwhelmed. I’ll be here, buried in drills. We’ll both be tired. That’s when things get fragile.”
His honesty was a bracing slap. It wasn’t doubt; it was strategy. He was scouting the obstacles before the game began.
“So what’s the play, Captain?” I asked softly.
He took my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles. “Communication. Lower expectations. No romantic fantasies of nightly three-hour calls. We check in. We send stupid pictures. We count down to Sundays.” He squeezed my fingers. “And we don’t let a bad week make us think it’s a bad thing. We’ve waited too long for this thing to let a train schedule break it.”
The plan was simple, unsentimental, and solid. It was so him. It made the anxiety coiling in my stomach loosen its grip.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay.” He brought my hand to his lips, kissing the backs of my fingers. “Then we have three weeks left of this. Of convenience.” His eyes darkened, intensity flooding back in. “I intend to make them count.”
He stood, pulling me up with him. The conversation was over, the map drafted. Now there was only the present. He walked me backward toward the bed, his gaze holding mine.
“No more talking,” he murmured, his lips finding the sensitive spot below my ear.
I breathed him in, the worry dissolving under his touch. The future was a problem for future us. For now, we had three weeks of stolen mornings and easy kisses. We had a title. We had a plan.
And as his hands slid under my shirt, warm and certain, I knew we had everything we needed to begin.
And as his hands slid under my shirt, warm and certain, I knew we had everything we needed to begin. His touch was a relief after the clinical talk of schedules, a return to the language our bodies understood better. I caught his wrists, stilling them, and leaned back just enough to see the question in his eyes.
“Wait,” I said, my voice lower than I intended. A new, thrilling nervousness uncoiled in my stomach. “I have something. I bought it… after the rooftop. Just in case.”
His brow furrowed, but he released me, giving me space. The air between us crackled with a new kind of anticipation. I walked to my closet, my back to him, and retrieved the small black bag I’d hidden behind a stack of sweaters. The satin was cool against my fingers. I turned around, holding his gaze.
I started stripping. First, the worn cotton shirt, pulled over my head and dropped to the floor. His breath hitched. Next, the clasp of my bra, letting it fall away. I kept my eyes on his, watching the dark intensity there deepen, sharpen. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my jeans and pushed them down my hips, stepping out of them.
Now I stood in only my plain cotton underwear. He was perfectly still, a statue of want. Then I reached for the bag.
I pulled out the lingerie, the delicate black lace stark against my skin. The bodice was a intricate web, the panties a mere scrap of fabric. I dressed slowly, deliberately, feeling the cool lace settle against my heat, the tight embrace of the bodice lifting my breasts. I had never done anything like this. My heart was a wild, frantic thing against the constricting lace.
When I was finished, I let my hands fall to my sides. The silence was profound. He hadn’t moved, but his entire being seemed focused on me with a terrifying intensity.
“You…” He stopped, swallowed. His voice was gravel. “You brought that for me?”
“For us,” I corrected softly, taking a step toward him.
He shook his head, a raw, jerky movement. His hands were clenched at his sides. “You need to tell me to stop. Right now. Or I won’t be able to control myself. I will fuck you through this mattress and rip that pretty lace to shreds.”
A shot of pure, dark heat went straight through me. I closed the final distance until I was a breath away. I could see the pulse hammering in his throat.
“I don’t want you to control yourself,” I whispered. I placed my palm flat on his chest, over his racing heart. I leaned in, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “But first… can I taste you, Yuki? Let me give you a blowjob. Let me make you come in my mouth.”
A ragged groan tore from him. His control snapped. His hands were suddenly everywhere, gripping my lace-covered hips, dragging me against him. The hard line of his erection pressed insistently against my stomach through his jeans.
“Yes,” he hissed, the word ragged with surrender. “Fuck, yes. Please.”
He fumbled with his belt, his usual grace obliterated. I sank to my knees on the floor between his feet, the hardwood pressing into my skin. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself. He was thick and fully hard, the head flushed and already wet. I didn’t wait, didn’t tease. I took him into my mouth in one slow, deep slide.
The taste of him was salt and skin and pure Yuki. He cried out, one hand tangling in my hair, not pushing, just holding. I focused on the weight of him on my tongue, the way his thighs trembled when I sucked hard. I used my hand at the base of his shaft, twisting in time with the rhythm of my mouth. His hips gave a shallow, helpless thrust.
“God… your mouth… so fucking good.” The words were broken, praise and prayer. His grip in my hair tightened. “Look at me.”
I opened my eyes, lifting my gaze to his. Seeing him like this—head thrown back, jaw clenched, watching me with desperate, hungry eyes—unlocked something feral in me. I moaned around him, the vibration pulling another sharp gasp from his lungs.
“I’m not gonna last,” he warned, his voice strained. “Sweetheart, I’m gonna…”
I took him deeper, letting him hit the back of my throat. I relaxed, accepting him, and that was all it took. His release was a violent, shuddering wave. He came with a choked-off shout, pulsing hot and bitter down my throat. I swallowed, taking everything he gave, until he was spent and soft in my mouth.
He collapsed backward onto the bed, pulling me up with him before I could even catch my breath. He flipped me onto my back, his mouth claiming mine, tasting himself on my tongue. His hands ripped at the fragile lace, the sound of tearing fabric loud in the quiet room.
“My turn,” he growled, and there was no more talking.
The torn lace was a black cobweb on the pale sheets. His mouth was on my breast, sucking hard, his teeth scraping the peak before his tongue soothed the sting. His hand slid between my thighs, rough and demanding.
“You’re so fucking wet for me already,” he muttered, his fingers sliding through my slickness. “Just from sucking my cock.” He pushed two fingers inside me without warning, a sharp, perfect stretch that made me cry out. “That’s it. Sound fucking wrecked for me.”
He worked his fingers in a ruthless rhythm, curling them, scissoring them, opening me up. My hips jerked off the bed, chasing the sensation, but he held me down with his other arm across my waist. “I said I was going to eat you out. I’m going to taste what I did to you.” He withdrew his fingers, shiny and wet, and shoved them into my mouth. “Taste yourself.”
The act was so raw, so degrading and perfect, that I moaned around his fingers, sucking them clean. He watched, his eyes black with lust. Then he shoved my thighs apart, his shoulders forcing my legs wide, and put his mouth on me.
There was no softness, no tentative exploration. He licked a broad, flat stripe from my opening to my clit, then sealed his lips around the swollen bud and sucked. Hard. A white-hot wire of pleasure snapped tight in my core. I screamed, my hands flying to his hair, gripping fistfuls.
“Right there, god, right there,” I chanted, my voice breaking.
He fucked me with his tongue, deep and dirty, then focused again on my clit, sucking and flicking with relentless precision. He added his fingers again, three now, stretching me impossibly full, pumping in time with his mouth. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave building too fast. The pressure was merciless, exquisite.
“I’m gonna come,” I gasped, trying to warn him, to hold it back.
He growled against me, the vibration pushing me over the edge. “Come. Now.” He sucked harder, fingers thrusting deeper.
I shattered. The orgasm ripped through me with violent, pulsing waves, my back arching off the bed as a broken scream tore from my throat. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow, drinking down my release as I convulsed around his fingers, milking the last shocking pulses from me until I was a trembling, oversensitive heap.
He crawled up my body, his lips and chin glistening. He kissed me, letting me taste my own sharp, musky flavor on his tongue. His erection pressed against my thigh, hot and insistent.
“You taste like heaven,” he breathed, nipping my lower lip. “But I need to be inside you. I need to fucking own this.” He reached for his discarded jeans, fumbling for his wallet. The rip of a foil packet was loud. He sheathed himself quickly, his hands shaking. He positioned himself at my entrance, the broad head nudging against me. He looked down, meeting my dazed eyes.
“Tell me you’re mine.” His voice was guttural, a command.
“I’m yours.”
He pushed in. The stretch was intense, breathtaking, a slow, burning invasion that forced a choked gasp from my lungs. He filled me completely, a seamless, perfect fit. He held there, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of control.
“All mine,” he whispered, a possessive truth. Then he began to move.
He set a punishing, deep rhythm from the start. Each thrust drove the breath from my body, my head pushing into the pillows. The bedframe knocked a steady, frantic beat against the wall. He braced himself above me, his arms caging my head, every muscle in his shoulders and back corded with strain.
“Look at me,” he demanded. I forced my eyes open, meeting his furious, adoring gaze. “Watch me while I fuck you. Watch how much I need this.”
I did. I watched the sweat drip from his temple onto my chest. I watched his lips part on ragged breaths. I watched his total absorption in the act of claiming me. It was the most intimate thing I’d ever seen.
“Touch yourself,” he grunted, his pace increasing. “Make yourself come on my cock. I want to feel you clamp down on me.”
My hand slipped between our bodies, finding my clit, swollen and sensitive. The indirect pressure from his thrusts and the direct circles of my fingers built a new, tighter coil deep inside. My breathing turned to shallow, frantic pants.
“Yuki… I can’t… it’s too much…”
“You can. Come for me. Now.” He slammed into me, changing his angle, hitting a spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids.
The second climax was different—deeper, a rolling detonation that started in my womb and radiated out, seizing every muscle. I clenched around him, a tight, rhythmic pulsing that pulled a raw, guttural shout from his throat.
His control broke. His thrusts became erratic, animalistic, driving into me with a force that shook the world. “Fuck, I’m gonna… take it, take all of it,” he snarled, and with three final, brutal pumps, he stilled, crushing me into the mattress as his own release roared through him. I felt the hot pulse of him inside the condom, the twitch of his hips, the full-body shudder he couldn’t suppress.
He collapsed, careful to keep his weight on his forearms, his forehead pressed to my shoulder. Our sweat-slick skin glued us together. The only sounds were our ragged, syncing breaths and the distant hum of campus life, continuing on, oblivious.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The fading light. The smell of sex and torn lace. The ache between my thighs, sweet and thorough. He stirred, pressing a soft, incongruously tender kiss to my shoulder before rolling off and disposing of the condom. He returned to the bed and gathered me against him, my back to his chest, his arms a heavy band around my waist.
We didn’t speak for a long time. His fingers traced idle patterns on my stomach. My mind was quiet, blissfully blank. The earlier conversation about distance and trains felt like it had happened to other people in another lifetime.
“The croissants are definitely ruined,” he said finally, his voice hoarse.
A laugh bubbled out of me, shaky and real. “Worth it.”
“Every time.” He nuzzled my hair. “I have to go. Team dinner. Mandatory morale.”
The words were a stone dropped into the calm pool of our aftermath. The three weeks were already bleeding away. I nodded against his arm.
“Okay.”
He held me tighter for a second, then released me. We dressed in silence, picking up the pieces of the ordinary world. He tugged on his hoodie. I pulled on sweatpants and his discarded grey t-shirt. It smelled like him.
At the door, he paused, his hand on the knob. He looked back at me, at the room that held the evidence of our collision. His expression was complicated, a mix of satiation and a dawning, grim focus.
“Sunday,” he stated. It wasn’t a question. “I’m yours all day. No meetings. No practice. Nothing.”
It was a promise, a bulwark against the coming fracture. “Sunday,” I affirmed.
He left. I locked the door behind him and slid down to sit on the floor, his shirt clutched in my hands. The room held the echo of him, of us, a tangible ghost in the settling dust.
It was only Wednesday. Sunday felt like a century away. But it was a point on the map we’d drawn. It was something to hold onto.