Chapter 2: Morning Light, Hard Again
The first thing Leon registered was warmth. Not the generic warmth of blankets or the anemic morning sun filtering through Bea's gauzy curtains—this was specific. Deliberate. The kind of warmth that had a shape and a name and was currently pressed flush against his pelvis in a way that made his eyes snap open.
Bea's ass was a work of art.
He'd known this abstractly, of course. Had admired it in jeans, in skirts, in the thin cotton of her pajama bottoms on movie nights when she'd stretch across the couch and he'd have to look anywhere else. But knowing and feeling were different things entirely, and right now, feeling was winning by a landslide.
She was curved against him like a question mark. Her back fit perfectly against his chest, her head tucked under his chin, her legs tangled with his. And her ass—fuck, her ass—was pressed directly against his morning erection with an accuracy that couldn't have been accidental.
Leon held his breath.
Maybe she was still asleep. Maybe this was just how she slept, all tangled up and oblivious, and he should carefully, quietly extract himself before things got awkward. He could slip out of bed, find his clothes, maybe make coffee. Normal things. Things that didn't involve his dick pressed against his best friend's—his girlfriend's?—ass at seven in the morning.
She shifted.
It was small. Subtle. Just a slight roll of her hips that could have been readjusting, could have been nothing. But the movement dragged her ass along the length of him, and Leon had to bite down on his lip to keep from making a sound.
Then she did it again.
Slower this time. A deliberate grind that started at the base of him and ended with her practically nestled between his thighs. He felt every inch of the contact—the soft give of her flesh, the heat radiating through the thin cotton of her underwear, the way she seemed to fit against him like they'd been designed for this exact configuration.
"Bea," he said. His voice came out rough. Sandpaper and gravel.
She didn't respond. Her breathing stayed even, her body relaxed. But her hips rolled again, a lazy circle that made his toes curl.
"You're awake."
Nothing. Just the soft sound of her breath and the slow, maddening rhythm of her body against his.
Leon slid his hand over her hip. Her skin was warm, sleep-soft, and she didn't flinch when his palm settled there. Didn't react at all except to press back harder, her ass grinding into him with more purpose now.
"You're a menace," he muttered.
Still nothing. But he felt her lips curve against his forearm. A smile she couldn't hide.
Two could play this game.
He let his hand drift lower. Over the curve of her hip, across the flat plane of her stomach, down to the waistband of her underwear. She was wearing something lacy, the kind that probably matched the bra he'd tossed on her floor last night, and the fabric was damp beneath his fingertips.
He paused there. Right at the edge.
Her breath hitched. Barely audible. A tiny crack in her performance.
He slid his fingers beneath the lace.
She was soaked.
Not just warm, not just ready—soaked. His fingers slid through her folds like they were made for it, and she was so wet that he could hear it, a soft, obscene sound that made his cock twitch against her ass.
"Jesus, Bea."
She finally spoke. Her voice was sleepy and smug, muffled by the pillow.
"Good morning to you too."
"You're—" He pressed two fingers against her entrance, not quite pushing in, just feeling. "How long have you been awake?"
"Long enough."
"Long enough for what?"
She turned her head, just enough that he could see her profile. Her eyes were closed. Her smile was not.
"Long enough to know you've got exactly ten minutes."
His fingers stilled. "What?"
"Elin's coming home." She shifted her hips, pressing back against him in a way that made his brain short-circuit. "She texted. She's on the train. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen if she stops for coffee."
Leon's mind raced. Elin was Bea's roommate. Elin was also, from what he remembered, terrifyingly observant and prone to making comments that made him want to crawl out of his own skin.
"Ten minutes," he repeated.
"Give or take." Bea finally opened her eyes and looked at him over her shoulder. Her gaze was heavy-lidded, sated from last night but already kindling with something new. "Think you can manage?"
"I can manage a lot of things."
"Prove it."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He pushed his fingers inside her.
She gasped. A real one this time, not the theatrical nonsense she'd been pulling before, and her hips bucked against his hand. She was tight and hot and so wet that his fingers slid in to the knuckle with almost no resistance.
"Leon—"
"Shh." He curled his fingers, finding that spot that had made her scream last night. "You don't want to wake the neighbors."
She laughed. It came out breathless and broken. "Fuck the neighbors."
"Ten minutes, Bea. Focus."
He worked her with his fingers, fast and rough, no pretense of gentleness. Not that she wanted gentleness—the way she was grinding against his hand suggested she wanted the opposite. Her leg lifted, opening herself wider, and he used the new angle to drive deeper.
"You're so wet," he said against her ear. "Is this all for me?"
"Don't—" She moaned, cutting herself off. "Don't be smug."
"You said that last night too."
"And you were smug then too."
He added a third finger. She cried out, then clamped her hand over her own mouth, and the sight of that—her palm pressed to her lips, eyes squeezed shut, body writhing against his hand—made him harder than he'd ever been in his life.
"Ten minutes," he reminded her. "You're wasting time."
"Then do something about it."
He pulled his fingers out.
She whined. Actually whined, a sound of pure frustration that dissolved into a groan when he grabbed her hip and pulled her onto her back. She landed on the pillow, hair spread out, cheeks flushed, chest heaving beneath the thin tank top she'd slept in.
"You're wearing too many clothes," he said.
"So are you."
He stripped off his boxers. She watched him do it, eyes tracking down his body, lingering where his cock stood fully erect against his stomach. She licked her lips.
"Fuck," she breathed.
"Yeah."
He grabbed her underwear and yanked. She lifted her hips to help, and then they were both naked, and there was nothing between them but air and time.
"Is the door locked?" he asked.
"Does it matter?"
"Bea."
She laughed. "Yes. It's locked. Now get inside me before I lose my mind."
He positioned himself between her legs. She was glistening, thighs slick with everything he'd been doing to her, and the sight made his mouth water. He wanted to taste her. Wanted to bury his face between her legs and stay there until she forgot her own name.
But they had ten minutes.
Later. There would be later.
He pushed inside her.
She cried out behind her hand, muffling the sound against her palm. He felt her body stretch around him, hot and tight and perfect, and he had to pause for a second just to breathe. Just to keep from coming right there like a teenager.
"Move," she demanded.
"I'm getting there."
"Get there faster."
He moved.
The first thrust was slow, a deliberate drag that made her gasp. The second was harder, and the third harder still. By the fourth, he'd found a rhythm—fast and deep, hips snapping against hers, the sound of their bodies filling the room along with her muffled moans.
"Leon—" She grabbed at his shoulders, nails digging in. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."
He didn't stop.
He braced himself on one arm and covered her mouth with his other hand. She didn't complain—just closed her eyes and let him take what he needed, hips rising to meet every thrust, body arching beneath him like she was trying to get closer, always closer.
"You feel—" He groaned. "You feel so good. Always so good."
She bit his palm.
He laughed, breathless, and drove into her harder. The bed creaked. The headboard hit the wall with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump that would definitely be audible through the thin apartment walls, and neither of them cared.
"Five minutes," she mumbled against his hand.
"You're counting?"
"Always."
He pulled his hand away from her mouth and kissed her instead. Dirty. Wet. All tongue and teeth and the taste of her morning breath, which should have been disgusting but wasn't, because it was her.
"I love you," he said against her lips.
She smiled. "Love you too. Now shut up and fuck me."
He did.
The angle changed when he hitched her leg higher over his hip, and suddenly every thrust was hitting that spot deep inside her. Her eyes rolled back. Her fingers twisted in the sheets. She was making sounds now that she couldn't muffle, small desperate noises that rose in pitch with every movement.
"Almost," she gasped. "I'm almost—"
"Come for me."
"Leon—"
"Come for me, Bea."
She did.
Her body clenched around him, tight and pulsing, and the sensation was enough to send him over the edge. He buried himself to the hilt and came with a groan that he couldn't have silenced if he'd tried.
For a moment, neither of them moved. They stayed tangled together, sweaty and breathless, the morning sun painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets.
Then Bea shoved his shoulder.
"Get up."
"Rude."
"Elin. Five minutes."
He rolled off her and onto his feet, grabbing his discarded boxers from the floor. Bea moved faster than he'd ever seen her, yanking on underwear and a giant t-shirt that technically belonged to him but had migrated to her closet months ago.
"You're wearing my shirt," he said.
"You're welcome to take it back."
"I think I have a better idea."
She threw a pillow at him.
They stumbled into the bathroom together, sharing the sink as they brushed their teeth and ran fingers through their hair. Leon watched her in the mirror—the flush still on her cheeks, the love bites blooming on her neck that she was definitely going to have to cover with makeup—and felt something settle in his chest. Something warm and permanent.
"You're staring," she said around a mouthful of toothpaste.
"You're worth staring at."
"You used that line last night."
"It worked last night."
She spat. Rinsed. Turned to face him with a smirk.
"It's still working."
The front door opened just as they made it to the kitchen. Elin walked in carrying two coffee cups, her eyes sweeping the disaster zone—flour still dusting every surface, the burnt cupcake tray, the bowl of batter that had been knocked to the floor and partially licked up by someone (definitely not them, probably the cat).
She stopped. Looked at Leon in his rumpled shirt. Looked at Bea with her sex hair and guilty expression. Looked at the closed bedroom door.
"Good morning," she said flatly.
"Morning," they said in unison.
Elin set the coffee cups on the counter. Picked up the spatula. Started scraping dried batter with deliberate, loaded silence.
"I don't want to know," she said finally. "I don't want details. But you," she pointed the spatula at Leon, "are washing the dishes. And you," she pointed it at Bea, "are telling me where you left my good mixing bowl."
"Under the table," Bea admitted.
"Unbelievable."
Leon laughed. Bea joined him. And Elin, despite her best efforts, cracked a smile.
The cupcakes were still ruined. The kitchen was still destroyed. Leon's phone was still blowing up with notifications from Lisbon.
But when Bea reached for his hand under the counter and squeezed, he squeezed back. And everything else faded into noise.
Elin's eye roll was tectonic. It shifted the entire atmosphere of the kitchen, from tense to resigned to vaguely amused in a single, practiced rotation.
"I'm going to my room," she announced, grabbing her coffee. "I'm going to put on headphones. I'm going to pretend this entire apartment doesn't smell like a bakery had a threesome."
"Love you," Bea called after her.
"Bite me."
The bedroom door clicked shut. A beat of silence passed. Then another.
Bea dissolved into laughter.
It started as a snort—unflattering, real, the kind of sound she'd never make if she were trying to be sexy. It built into something bigger, a full-body thing that had her bending over the counter, one hand clutching her stomach.
Leon watched her. The morning light caught the curve of her hip where his shirt rode up. Her hair was a disaster. There was dried frosting on her elbow, somehow, from last night.
She was the best thing he'd ever seen.
"You're staring," she said, straightening. Her eyes were wet with laughter. "You've got to stop doing that."
"I can't."
"That's a terrible answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She crossed the kitchen and slid her arms around his waist. Her chin rested against his sternum. From this angle, she had to look up at him—a rare thing, and one he suspected she only tolerated because it let her see his face when she said things that wrecked him.
"So," she said. "What now?"
The question landed harder than it should have.
He knew what she meant. Not the immediate what now—not the dishes, not the ruined cupcakes, not the assignment they still had to finish. She meant the bigger thing. The morning-after thing. The thing that came after I love you and before whatever came next.
"I don't know," he admitted.
"Honest."
"You want me to lie?"
"I want you to be you." She traced a line down his sternum with one finger. "You're the one who ran off to Portugal for three months without telling me why."
The words hung there. Neutral. Inviting.
He could tell her now. Could explain about the thesis, the fellowship, the way he'd panicked when he realized he was in love with her and had no idea what to do about it. Could admit that he'd booked the flight the same night he'd watched her dance with someone else at that Halloween party two years ago, drunk and laughing and so beautiful it had made his chest ache.
Could tell her he'd spent three months in a foreign country trying to forget her and failed so completely that he'd written her name in the margins of every notebook he'd brought.
"It was an escape," he said finally.
"From what?"
"You know what."
She didn't look away. "I want you to say it."
He took a breath. Then another. The refrigerator hummed. Elin's headphones were probably not working as well as she'd hoped.
"I was scared," he said. "Of this. Of what I felt. Of ruining the one good thing in my life because I couldn't keep my hands off you."
"Leon."
"I left because I thought if I could put an ocean between us, I could get over you." He laughed. It was humorless. "It didn't work."
"No," she agreed. "It didn't."
"I know that now."
"You know it because you came back and kissed me."
"I kissed you because you dared me."
"I dared you because you were looking at me like you wanted to eat me alive."
"I always look at you like that."
"Yes," she said simply. "You do."
The honesty of it punched through him. All those years of stolen glances, of looking away too fast, of telling himself she hadn't noticed. She'd noticed everything. She'd been keeping score.
"You're infuriating," he said.
"You love it."
"I love you."
Her expression softened. That was the thing about Bea—she was all sharp edges and quick comebacks until you caught her off guard. Then something else showed through. Something raw.
"Say it again," she said.
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love—"
She kissed him.
It was slower than the kiss on the counter last night. Less desperate. More deliberate. Her lips moved against his like she was learning the shape of them, and her hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, to rest on either side of his neck.
When she pulled back, her eyes were bright.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"This is happening. For real." She said it like she was testing the words, seeing how they fit. "I'm not letting you run away again."
"Good."
"I mean it, Leon. If you disappear, I'll come find you. And I will cause a scene."
"I would expect nothing less."
She smiled. The dangerous one. The one that usually meant trouble.
"You still have flour in your hair," she observed.
"Whose fault is that?"
"Yours. You're the one who flung the batter."
"You're the one who knocked it out of my hands."
"Because you were trying to get in my pants."
"I was trying to get in your pants," he confirmed. "Successfully, I might add."
"Modest."
"Realistic."
She laughed and pulled away, scooping up her coffee from the counter. Her butt brushed against the lip of the drawer as she moved, and Leon's eyes tracked the movement without permission.
The shirt she was wearing—his shirt—was long enough to cover her ass, but barely. Every time she shifted, the hem rode up just enough to reveal the curve of her left cheek, the edge of her underwear, the smooth expanse of her thigh.
He wondered if she knew she was doing it.
She knew.
"You're doing this on purpose," he said.
"Doing what?"
"That."
She turned. The hem lifted. She didn't bother to pull it down.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're awful."
"I'm wonderful."
"That too."
She set the coffee down and sauntered back toward him. There was no other word for it—the slow roll of her hips, the way she let her weight shift from side to side in that calculated, teasing way. His shirt swayed with the movement, and he caught glimpses of skin, of lace, of the body he'd mapped with his hands and mouth just hours ago.
She stopped inches away. Close enough to touch. Far enough that he'd have to reach.
"The dishes," she said.
"What about them?"
"Elin wants you to do them."
"I want you to take off my shirt."
"Your shirt?"
"Technically it's mine."
"Possession is nine-tenths of the law."
He stepped forward. She stepped back. A dance they'd been doing for years, only now the choreography meant something different.
"Bea."
"Hmm?"
"Take off the shirt."
"Ask nicely."
"Please."
She tilted her head. Considered him. Then her fingers found the hem and pulled it up—slowly, deliberately, exposing her stomach inch by inch, her waist, the underside of her breasts.
She stopped.
"Is this what you wanted?"
"I want more."
"Greedy."
"Starving."
She pulled the shirt over her head.
The morning light did something to her skin. Made it glow, made it warm. She wasn't wearing a bra—he'd thrown the lacy black one somewhere last night, and she clearly hadn't bothered to find a replacement.
Her breasts were perfect. Heavy. Full. The kind that moved when she moved and made his brain stop working entirely. Her nipples were dark and tight in the cool air, and he wanted to put his mouth on them, wanted to suck and lick and bite until she was screaming his name loud enough for Elin to hear through her headphones.
"Leon," she said. "You're staring."
"I know."
"Do something about it."
He crossed the space between them and put his hands on her waist. Just his hands, warm against her skin, thumbs brushing the curve of her ribs. She shivered.
"Like this?" he asked.
"More."
He slid his palms up. Over her ribs, along her sides, until his thumbs traced the underside of her breasts. She inhaled sharply. Her nipples pebbled tighter.
"Still more," she said.
He cupped her breasts in both hands.
The weight of them filled his palms. Softer than he remembered, warmer, and when he swept his thumbs over her nipples, she arched into him with a sound that was almost a whimper.
"Again," she breathed.
He did it again. Slower this time. A deliberate drag of his thumb pads across the sensitive tips, watching her face the whole time. Her lips parted. Her eyes fluttered closed.
"You've got a thing for my hands," he observed.
"I've got a thing for all of you." She opened her eyes. "But yeah. The hands are good."
He pinched her nipples—gentle, testing.
She gasped. Her hips jerked forward involuntarily, and the movement pressed her pelvis against his thigh. She was going to leave a mark. He wanted her to.
"Do that again," she said.
He did it again.
Her hands found his biceps. Curled around them like she needed to hold on. Her fingers dug into the muscle, and he flexed without thinking—a reflex, an instinct, but she noticed.
"Of course you have muscles," she said. "Of course you do."
"You have muscles too."
"Not like these." She squeezed. "What do you even do? Lift weights between lectures?"
"Sometimes."
"Of course you do."
"You're complaining?"
"I'm appreciating." She ran her hands down his arms, slow, like she was committing the shape to memory. Her fingertips traced the curve of his triceps, the hard ridge of his forearm, the veins that stood out beneath his skin. "I've been watching you do this for years, you know. The little flex when you think no one's looking."
"You noticed."
"I notice everything."
"I know."
She reached for his stomach. Her palms flattened against his abs, and he felt his muscles jump at the contact. She explored with the same deliberate attention she'd given his arms, tracing the lines of his abdomen, the valley of his hip bone, the trail of hair that disappeared beneath his boxers.
"You have an obscene body," she said.
"I work for it."
"I can tell."
"Your turn."
She stepped back. Let him look. All of her—the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, the smooth column of her thighs, and above it all, her beautiful face with that infuriating, knowing smile.
"You're not going to survive this," she said.
"What?" You're not going to survive it. You're going to lose your mind."
"I already lost it."
"Good."
He reached for her. She dodged.
"Cupcakes," she said sweetly. "Dishes."
"You're evil."
"You love it."
He did.
The kitchen was a disaster zone. Flour on the counters, frosting on the floor—how had that even happened?—and the smell of burnt batter still lingering in the air. Leon found a sponge, ran the water hot, and started on the mountain of bowls and utensils.
Bea sat on the counter and watched him. She was still wearing nothing but underwear. She picked up a stray handful of flour and tossed it at him.
"Dusting me again?" he asked.
"Decorating you."
"I'm not a cupcake."
"Debatable."
He flicked water at her. She squealed and retaliated with more flour, and within thirty seconds they were both covered in white powder, laughing so hard that Elin banged on the wall.
"Sorry!" Bea shouted.
"You're not sorry," Leon said.
"I'm really not."
She hopped off the counter and picked up a towel. Started wiping down the countertops, the cabinets—even the ceiling fan, which still had a suspicious dusting of flour from last night. Her movements were casual. Relaxed. Domestic in a way that made his chest ache.
He watched her scrub at a stubborn spot of dried batter. Watched the muscles move in her back, the way her hair fell over her shoulder, the small, private smile she wore when she thought he wasn't looking.
He dried the bowls she washed. She handed him a glass, still sudsy.
"Rinse it better."
"It's fine."
"It's not. There's soap in it."
"Adds character."
"It adds diarrhea."
He laughed. The sound felt strange in his throat—realer, more honest than the laughs he'd been giving for months. Since before Lisbon, probably. Since before he'd admitted to himself what she truly meant to him.
She finished the counters and dried her hands. Then she leaned against the stove and looked at him, and he could see something shifting beneath her expression.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Bea."
She crossed her arms. The movement pushed her breasts together, and he tried very hard not to stare. He failed.
"I'm just thinking about logistics," she said.
"Logistics."
"The assignment. The cupcakes. We still need to actually do this."
"I hadn't forgotten."
"Have you checked your phone?"
He hadn't. The phone was still on the counter where he'd left it, still buzzing intermittently with notifications he'd been ignoring.
"Sofia," he said.
"Sofia."
" It's nothing."
"Is it?"
She didn't sound jealous. She sounded careful, like she was handling something fragile.
"She wants to talk about thesis paperwork," he said. "Some kind of deadline mix-up."
"Okay."
"That's it."
"I didn't ask."
"You didn't have to."
She nodded. Looked away. Her uncertainty didn't sit right with him; Bea was never uncertain.
He set down the towel and crossed the kitchen. His hands found her waist—that same spot, that same warm skin—and he pulled her close.
"I was gone for three months," he said. "I spent maybe two weeks actually dealing with the program. The rest of the time, I was either thinking about you or trying to forget you. Not that it worked."
"Leon—"
"Nothing happened with anyone else. I want you to know that. There's never been anyone else."
She met his eyes. The tension he'd noticed before fled her face, replaced by something else.
"Good," she said. "Same."
"Same?"
"Same."
He kissed her. Soft this time, almost chaste, a promise more than a claim. She melted into him, her hands sliding under his arms to wrap around his back.
"You know I can't stay here all day," he said when they broke apart. "I have to go home eventually. Shower. Get my own clothes."
"You could just not."
"Bea."
"I'm serious." She pulled back to look at him, and her expression was a mixture of defiance and something almost shy. "Stay. Call in sick. We'll finish the cupcakes. We'll watch bad movies. We can finally use the couch for something non-sexual."
"Is that what you want?"
"I want you here." She said it simply. Without inflection. Like it was a plain fact. "I've been waiting for it for four years. I don't feel like sharing yet."
He should say no. He had emails to answer, a thesis to salvage, a life to reassemble after three months away. But her hands were on his chest, her body pressed against his, and the kitchen smelled like vanilla and burnt sugar and her.
"Fine," he said. "But we're actually doing the cupcakes."
"Obviously."
"And you're putting on clothes."
"Do I have to?"
"Elin will kill me."
"Elin will forgive you."
"For you, maybe."
She grinned. "For you too. She likes you."
"She literally threatened me with a spatula."
"That's Elin for I love you."
He laughed. The sound came easy now. The tightness in his chest—the one that had been there since before Lisbon—had loosened.
"Where are the sprinkles?" he asked.
"Hall closet. I hid them so we wouldn't eat them all."
"Bea."
"What? They're good sprinkles."
She turned toward the hallway, and he watched her go—the sway of her hips, the curve of her ass, all of it bare except for that thin strip of lace. At the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder.
"You coming?"
"A minute."
She disappeared around the corner. He heard a closet door open, a small crash, a muttered curse.
His phone buzzed again.
He picked it up. Scrolled through the notifications. Most were from Sofia—a series of increasingly concerned messages about deadlines and forms and something he'd apparently missed while he was busy ruining his own life over a woman.
He should reply. He should be responsible. He should do about a dozen things that didn't involve standing in Bea's kitchen, shirtless and covered in flour, smiling at nothing in particular.
Instead, he set the phone face-down on the counter.
There were more important things to attend to.
Bea emerged from the hallway with a jar of sprinkles in one hand and a black t-shirt in the other. She'd put on underwear—actual underwear, not the lace—and her hair was tied up again, and she looked entirely too pleased with herself.
"Found it," she said. "Also, this is yours."
She tossed him the shirt. He caught it one-handed, pulled it over his head. It smelled like her.
"Now you're dressed," she said. "Disappointing."
"You said I had to be."
"I said Elin would kill you. I didn't say I agreed."
He laughed. And then he kissed her again. And then—eventually, with some difficulty—they returned to the cupcakes.
The second batch actually turned out. Maybe because they were paying attention this time. Maybe because they'd gotten the tension out of their systems.
Probably not.
The tension was still there. It hummed between them with every accidental touch, every loaded look, every moment of silence that said more than words. They frosted cupcakes with orange and black icing, and Bea drew little bats with a piping bag while Leon watched her hands move, and he thought about those same hands on his body, and he had to look away.
"So," Bea said, setting down the piping bag. "You're coming to the Halloween party, right?"
"When is it?"
"Saturday. My friend's place. Everyone dresses up."
"I don't have a costume."
"I'll help you."
"I don't want to dress up."
"You're coming." She stuck a candle into a cupcake and lit it. "And you're going to have fun. And then afterward, we're going to come back here, and I'm going to take off whatever costume you end up wearing, and we're going to—"
"Bea."
"—finish the evening in a manner befitting a couple."
"We're a couple?"
She paused. Held the lighter in mid-air. Looked at him with an expression he couldn't entirely read.
"Aren't we?"
The moment hung there. This was it—the threshold. They could step back. Could laugh it off, call it a fling, pretend the last twenty-four hours hadn't been building for years. Could go back to dancing around each other, back to stolen glances and unspoken longings.
Or they could step forward.
"Yeah," he said. "We're a couple."
She smiled. It was different from her other smiles—not dangerous, not knowing, not teasing. Just happy. Just her.
"Good," she said. "Now blow out the candle."
"Why?"
"Because I made a wish, and if you don't blow it out, it won't come true."
"You're ridiculous."
"Blow."
He blew.
The flame flickered. Died. Smoke curled up toward the ceiling fan, joining the last traces of flour and cinnamon in the air.
"What did you wish for?" he asked.
"If I told you, it wouldn't come true."
"You don't actually believe that."
"I believe in a lot of things." She stepped closer. Wound her arms around his neck. "I believe in you. I believe in this. And I believe that you owe me a shower."
"Why do I owe you a shower?"
"Because you're covered in flour and I'm not having sex with someone who looks like a ghost."
"I thought you had it all figured out."
"I do." She pulled at him. "Shower. Now. Before Elin comes out and starts asking questions."
"You just want to get me naked."
"Obviously."
She dragged him toward the bathroom. He followed.
The cupcakes sat on the counter, finished at last. Two dozen of them, decorated with bats and ghosts and tiny orange pumpkins. The kitchen was still messy—still floury, still cluttered, still smelling like a bakery.
But it was done. The assignment was done.
For now.
The shower was small and cramped, and the water pressure was mediocre at best, and Bea kept hogging the hot water. None of it mattered.
She soaped her hands and ran them over his chest, down his stomach, lower. Her fingers moved with the same deliberate attention she'd used on his arms earlier—like she was memorizing the shape of him.
"Turn around," she said.
He turned.
She washed his back. Scrubbed at the flour and batter like it was dirt, like she was erasing every trace of the last three months. Her hands worked the muscles of his shoulders, and he let his head fall forward, forehead pressed to the cool tile.
"That's good," he said.
"I know."
She pressed closer. Her breasts flattened against his back. Her mouth found the curve of his shoulder, teeth grazing his skin, and he shivered beneath the spray.
"Bea—"
"Shh." She bit down, then soothed the spot with her tongue. "Just let me."
He let her. She washed him slowly, and by the time the water ran cold and her fingers had traced every inch of him, he was harder than he'd ever been in his life and she was smug as hell about it.
"Your turn," he said.
He washed her hair for her. Rinsed the soap away and watched it run in rivulets down her breasts, her stomach, between her thighs. He dropped to his knees.
"Leon—"
He pressed his mouth between her legs.
She cried out. Caught herself against the wall—arms braced, head thrown back, hips rolling against his face. He worked her with his tongue, tasting her, feeling her tense around him.
"Fuck—fuck, that's—"
He didn't stop. He'd waited four years for this. He wasn't going to rush it.
She came against his mouth with his name on her lips. He stayed there until she pushed him away, too sensitive, and then he rose and kissed her, and she tasted herself on his tongue.
"I love you," she said.
"I know." He smiled. "I love you too."
The water had gone cold. They stepped out, wrapped in towels, and stood in the mirror's steam, looking at each other.
"You look like a mess," she said. "Your hair is ridiculous."
"So is yours."
"Mine is artfully tousled."
"Sure."
She laughed. Kissed him. Then shoved him toward the door.
"Out. I need to get dressed."
"Do you?"
"Yes." She swatted his arm. "Go. Check on the cupcakes. Call your girlfriend back."
"She's not—"
"I know." She met his eyes. "But you should still call her. Whatever she wants, deal with it. So it's not hanging over us."
He nodded. "Okay."
"And then come back here. Because I'm not done with you."
"Aren't you?"
"Never."
He went. Dressed in his rumpled clothes. Waded through the kitchen and grabbed his phone from the counter.
Sofia had left a voicemail. He listened to it—a short, professional message about a form he needed to sign, a deadline that had passed, a simple fix that involved one phone call.
He called her back.
It took ten minutes. She was friendly, efficient, utterly uninterested in anything beyond the paperwork. He apologized for missing the deadline. She emailed the form. He promised to return it by Monday.
"That's it?" he asked.
"That's it."
"Okay. Thanks."
"Everything okay, Leon? You sound different."
"I'm good." He glanced toward the hallway. Bea was humming, a tuneless melody that drifted through the bathroom door. "Really good."
"Good to hear. See you at the reunion next month?"
"Maybe."
He hung up. Set the phone down. Leaned against the counter.
Bea emerged, wearing jeans and a tank top and that stupidly smug smile. Her hair was still wet, and she'd stolen his shirt—the one he'd just put on—and she was wearing it now.
"You took my shirt."
"You left it unattended."
"It was on my body."
"Past tense." She grabbed a cupcake. Took a bite. "These are actually good."
"Thanks."
"Don't let it go to your head."
He crossed the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her from behind. His chin rested on her shoulder. The cupcake was in her hand, half-eaten, and he stole a bite.
"Hey!"
"Sharing."
"You didn't ask."
"It's my birthday."
"It's not your birthday."
"It could be."
She laughed and turned in his arms. The cupcake squished between them—messy, ridiculous, perfect.
"Saturday," she said. "Costume party. Don't forget."
"I won't."
"And tomorrow I'm coming to your place. I want to see how you live."
"It's not as nice as this."
"I don't care."
"And my roommates will be there."
"I'll win them over."
"You'll terrorize them."
"Same thing."
He kissed her. Because he could. Because after four years of wanting and three months of running and one very long night of finally, finally getting it right, he could kiss her whenever he wanted.
"I should go," he said.
"I know."
"I don't want to."
"I know that too."
"But I'll be back."
"You better be."
He pulled away. Grabbed his jacket. Found his keys. Stopped at the door.
"Saturday," she said.
"Saturday."
"And Leon?"
"Yeah?"
She smiled. The dangerous one.
"Bring your appetite."
He laughed all the way down the stairs.