Chapter 3: The Morning After
The pale gray light of early morning crept through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the tangled sheets. Maisie's eyes fluttered open, her body heavy with the kind of deep, satisfied exhaustion that came only after being thoroughly and completely wrecked.
The space beside her was empty.
Cold.
She reached out without thinking, her fingers brushing against fabric that had long since lost its warmth. The absence hit her like a physical blow, a cold knot tightening in her chest. Of course. Of fucking course. She should have known better than to think this would be different. The pattern was as predictable as a binary star system: meet at a party, hook up, wake up alone, pretend it didn't sting.
She sat up slowly, wincing at the pleasant ache between her thighs, and that's when she saw it. A crumpled napkin from the campus café lying on the pillow where his head had been. She snatched it up, her heart doing something stupid and hopeful in her chest.
Went to get coffee. Be right back. Don't go anywhere.
She read it three times. The handwriting was messy, almost illegible, the kind of scrawl that suggested he'd written it in the dark without wanting to wake her. She pressed the napkin to her face, inhaling deeply, catching the faint ghost of his scent mixed with the cheap paper smell.
The knot in her chest loosened, but didn't fully unravel. Hope was a dangerous thing. Hope was the thing that got you hurt.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her feet hit the cold floor. The room was a disaster—even more so than usual. Her clothes were scattered like casualties of war, his shirt draped over her desk chair, her torn panties still lying crumpled on a stack of graphic novels. She caught her reflection in the dark screen of her monitor: hair a wild copper explosion, lips swollen, a fresh red mark on her collarbone that she hadn't noticed before. She looked thoroughly fucked. She felt it too, in the best possible way.
Grabbing his shirt from the chair—she couldn't resist, it smelled like him—she pulled it over her head and padded to the bathroom. The shower was quick but necessary, the hot water washing away the sweat and the sex and the lingering ache. She dressed in fresh jeans and a faded Rogue Squadron t-shirt, her hair still damp and dripping down her back.
The napkin sat on her desk like a promise. She picked it up again, reading it once more. Don't go anywhere.
She was still staring at it when the door swung open.
Adam stood in the doorway, two cups of coffee in a cardboard carrier and a paper bag in his other hand. He was wearing the same jeans from last night, but a different shirt—a plain black henley that hugged his shoulders. His hair was damp too, like he'd showered somewhere else. Or maybe he'd just run his hands through it enough times.
"You're still here," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. There was something in his voice, something almost like relief.
"I live here," she said, gesturing vaguely at the chaos around her. "Where else would I be?"
He laughed, and the sound filled her small room, warming the corners that had felt cold moments before. "Fair point." He set the coffee and bag down on her desk, clearing a space among the scattered papers and action figures. "I wasn't sure what you liked, so I got you a medium vanilla latte and an everything bagel with cream cheese. I also grabbed a chocolate croissant, because I figured you might want a choice."
She blinked at him. "You remembered."
"Remembered what?"
"Vanilla latte. I mentioned it once, at the diner, when we were talking about..." She trailed off, trying to remember the context. They'd talked about so much that night—Star Wars canon, the failures of the prequels, the superiority of the original Thrawn trilogy, the proper way to pronounce "Wookiee."
"About how the coffee at the campus café tastes like robot fuel, and how your go-to order was the only thing that made it drinkable," he finished. "Yeah, I remember."
She didn't know what to say. Boys didn't remember things like that. In her experience, they barely remembered her name. She just stared at him, her mouth slightly open, fighting the absurd urge to cry.
"You okay?" he asked, tilting his head.
"Yeah," she managed. "Just... surprised. Usually I'm awake alone by now."
The words hung in the air between them, heavier than she'd intended. She watched something shift in his expression—not pity exactly, but understanding. Like he knew exactly what she meant.
"Usually," he said carefully, "I'm not the kind of guy who stays."
She felt her cheeks flush. "And this morning?"
He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the remnants of his soap beneath the coffee aroma. "This morning, I found myself wanting to bring you breakfast. Which is weird, because I don't think I've ever wanted to bring anyone breakfast before."
Her heart did a stupid little flip. "Well," she said, striving for casualness and failing entirely. "I guess there's a first time for everything."
"There is." He wasn't looking at her face anymore; his gaze had dropped to her shirt. "Is that—" He pointed at the faded logo. "Is that a Rogue Squadron shirt?"
Warmth spread through her chest. "Original," she confirmed. "Not the reboot. I have strong opinions about the reboot."
"I bet you do." He grinned, and it was the same grin from the diner, the one that made her feel like they were sharing a secret. "I have strong opinions about the Thrawn trilogy."
"You said you read it."
"I did. All three. Twice."
"Fuck off, you did not." But she was already smiling, unable to stop herself.
"I absolutely did. My dad had the original cover editions. The ones with the awful '90s art where Thrawn looks slightly constipated." He picked up one of the coffees and handed it to her. "I was obsessed. I read them so many times the spines cracked."
She took a sip of the latte—perfect temperature, perfect sweetness—and studied him over the rim of the cup. "If you're lying to me right now, I'll be genuinely upset."
"I'm not lying." He unwrapped the chocolate croissant and tore it in half, offering her the larger piece. "Tell me something I wouldn't know. Something obscure about the trilogy that proves I actually read it."
She took the croissant, thinking. "What's the name of the creature that delivers the warning message to the Rebellion in Heir to the Empire?"
He didn't miss a beat. "A Vornskr. The creature itself is called a Vornskr—they're force-sensitive predators from Myrkr. But I'm pretty sure you're thinking of the specific one that attacked Luke in the forest, which is what delivered the warning."
Her jaw dropped. "You actually read them."
"I told you." He took a bite of his croissant, chewing thoughtfully. "My dad was a huge fan. It was the one thing we could talk about when I was growing up—Star Wars, specifically the Expanded Universe. We used to have these long debates about whether Palpatine's return in Dark Empire was brilliant or a betrayal of the original trilogy's ending."
"Dark Empire was a beautiful fever dream," she said automatically, the words coming from some deep well of nerd instinct. "People are too hard on it."
"It was a beautiful fever dream that ruined the narrative impact of Return of the Jedi," he countered, but he was smiling. "But I'll admit, the art was incredible. Cam Kennedy's work was stunning."
"Okay," she said slowly. "I'm impressed. I didn't think—" She hesitated, suddenly aware of how vulnerable she was being. "I didn't think guys like you read stuff like that."
"Guys like me?" He raised an eyebrow, amused.
"You know." She gestured vaguely. "Guys who look like..." She trailed off, feeling her face heat. He didn't just look like a jock, but he also didn't look like the kind of guy who had strong feelings about a character who was supposed to be the daughter of the mad clone Jedi Jorus C'baoth. "Guys who look like they spend their weekends lifting weights and not reading."
"Ah." He nodded solemnly. "You've discovered my secret. I do both. I'm a man of contradictions."
She couldn't help but laugh. "I guess you are."
They settled onto her bed, coffee cups balanced carefully among the plushies. She'd shoved a few aside to make space, and he'd accepted the arrangement without complaint, not even seeming to notice that he was sitting next to a Trandoshan action figure still in its packaging.
"So," he said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Tell me something else. What's your favorite book in the expanded universe?"
"That's like asking me to choose a favorite child."
"Indulge me."
She thought about it, genuinely considering the question. They'd talked about this at the diner, vaguely, but now he was asking with real interest, and she found herself wanting to give him a real answer.
"The Hand of Thrawn duology," she said finally. "The one where they have to deal with the fallout of the Clone Wars and the politics of rebuilding the Republic. It's not the most action-packed, but it's about the characters, you know? About who they've become after everything they've been through. And there's this one scene—" She paused, trying to explain it. "There's this scene where Leia is talking to her reflection, and she doesn't recognize herself. She's been so many things, done so many things, and she's still trying to figure out who she is."
"That's the one where they're on Bastion."
"You've read that one too?"
"I told you." His voice was soft. "I'm full of surprises."
She set down her coffee, looking at him properly. He was watching her with an intensity that made her stomach flutter. The expression in his eyes wasn't just attraction—it was something deeper, something like recognition. Like he saw her, the real her, the one who spent hours in a galaxy far far away because it made her feel less alone.
"What?" she asked, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing." But he kept looking at her. "I just like the way you talk about this stuff. The way your face lights up. You're so passionate about it."
"Passionate is a nice way of saying obsessed."
"Obsessed isn't a bad word," he said. "Being obsessed with something means you care. It means you've found something worth caring about." He reached out, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. "I think that's beautiful."
The words settled over her like a blanket, warm and unexpected. She didn't know how to respond, so she didn't. Instead, she leaned forward and kissed him.
It was different this time. Slower. Sweeter. This wasn't the frantic collision of last night, the desperate hunger that had consumed them in the dark. This was something deliberate, something meant. His lips moved against hers with a tenderness that made her chest ache, his hand cupping her jaw with a gentleness that contradicted everything she knew about him.
She pulled back just far enough to look at him. "I wasn't expecting you to still be here."
"I know."
"I was ready for you to be gone."
"I know." His thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone. "I'm still getting used to staying too."
She kissed him again, and this time she deepened it, her tongue sliding against his, tasting coffee and chocolate. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and she straddled him, her knees settling on either side of his thighs. She could feel him growing hard beneath her, pressing against the denim of her jeans, and the sensation sent a familiar heat spreading through her.
"Maisie," he murmured against her lips. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."
"I want to," she said, surprised by how certain she was. "I want you."
His hands slid up under her shirt, fingers tracing the curve of her spine. "I haven't even finished my coffee."
"Your coffee can wait."
"Jesus," he breathed, but he was already pulling her closer, his mouth finding her throat. "When did you get so bold?"
"Some guy brought me breakfast," she said, arching her neck to give him better access. "It's given me a new perspective on things."
He laughed against her skin, the vibration sending shivers down her spine. "Is that so?"
"Mmhmm." She reached down, fumbling with his belt. "Also, I think I might have a reputation to maintain."
"Which reputation is that?"
"The one where I'm not easy to impress." She finally got his belt undone, her fingers working at the button of his jeans. "But you've exceeded expectations."
"Glad to hear the review is positive." His hands had found the hem of her shirt, and he tugged it over her head, leaving her in just her bra. "Now let me show you how good I can be."
He flipped their positions, pinning her to the mattress in one smooth motion. The plushies scattered, tumbling to the floor, and she couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it—being pressed into a bed surrounded by stuffed Ewoks and a Wookiee pillow.
"What's funny?" he asked, but he was grinning too.
"Nothing," she said. "Just enjoying the view."
He kissed her again, but this time it was different—there was an urgency building, a hunger that mirrored her own. She could taste it in his mouth, feel it in the way his hands moved over her body, tracing the curves of her waist, the dip of her hips. He pulled her jeans down, then her panties, a growl escaping his throat as he touched her bare skin.
She was already wet—had been since he walked through the door, maybe since she read that note. The weeks of wanting him, of lying in this very bed imagining what it would be like, had built a pressure inside her that was demanding release.
"Adam," she breathed, reaching for him. "I need you inside me."
"Not yet." His hand slid between her thighs, fingers finding her already slick. "I want to taste you again."
He didn't wait for an answer. His mouth was on her, hot and hungry, and she cried out, her hands flying to his hair. He was greedier than last night, more demanding—licking into her like he was trying to consume her. She could feel his fingers pressing inside her, curling, searching for the spot that would make her lose her mind.
"There," she gasped, when he found it. "Right there, please, please..."
He didn't relent. He worked her with his fingers and his tongue, driving her toward the edge with relentless precision. She was so close, so goddamn close, when he pulled away.
"Not yet," he said again, his voice rough. "I want you to come on my cock."
"Fuck." The word was a prayer. "Please. Adam. Please."
He sat up just long enough to fish a condom from his jeans—still in his pants from last night, she realized, and the thought made her heat even more. He sheathed himself quickly, then positioned her legs over his shoulders.
"Look at me," he ordered.
She did. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and she could see the same desperate hunger she felt reflected in them. He pushed inside her slowly, inch by excruciating inch, and she felt every moment of it, felt herself stretching to accommodate him, felt the delicious fullness that made everything else fade away.
"Fuck," she whimpered. "You feel so good."
"You feel better." His voice was strained, like he was barely holding back. "So tight. So fucking perfect."
He began to move, and the pace was different from last night. Slower, yes, but no less intense. Each thrust was deliberate, measured, designed to drive her insane. He watched her face, watching her reactions, adjusting his angle until he found the spot that made her see stars.
"There," she gasped. "Oh god, there, right there, don't stop—"
"I won't." He leaned down, his mouth finding hers, swallowing her moans as he fucked her with that devastating rhythm. "You're so beautiful when you're lost like this. When you're just feeling, not thinking."
She wanted to respond, to tell him how gorgeous he was, how good he made her feel, but the words tangled in her throat. All she could do was cling to him, her nails raking down his back, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. She was climbing again, the pressure building, coiling tighter and tighter until she was sure she'd shatter.
His mouth moved to her ear, and he whispered something filthy—something about how perfect she felt, how much he'd wanted to be inside her again since the moment he'd left her bed to get coffee—and that was all it took.
She came with a scream, her body arching off the bed, her inner walls clenching around him in spasms that she couldn't control. He followed the next moment, driving deep with a guttural groan, his body shuddering above her as he filled her.
For a long moment they just lay there, tangled together, breathing hard. The coffee sat forgotten on her desk, growing cold.
"Holy shit," she finally breathed.
"Yeah." His voice was muffled against her neck. "Holy shit is right."
He pulled out carefully, disposing of the condom, then collapsed beside her. She turned to face him, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingertips. He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm.
"That was..." he started.
"Amazing?" she offered.
"Better." He was grinning again, that boyish grin that made her heart do stupid things. "I don't think I've ever been so distracted by a debate about the New Republic's political structure."
She laughed, genuine and surprised. "Is that what does it for you? Nerdy debates?"
"Apparently." He pulled her closer, wrapping his arm around her. "That, and seeing your face when you talk about the Thrawn trilogy. You get this spark in your eyes..."
"I get the same spark when I talk about anything I love."
"Then I want to keep making you sparkle."
She buried her face in his chest, hiding the warmth spreading across her cheeks. It was too much, this perfect morning, this guy who seemed too good to be true. She braced herself for reality to crash in, for some cruel twist to ruin everything.
But he just held her, his fingers carding through her damp hair, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear.
"Hey," he said softly. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." Her voice was muffled. "I just... I'm not used to this."
"To what?"
"To being seen." She pulled back just enough to look at him. "I mean, like, actually seen. Not just... a hookup. A body. A way to pass the time."
His expression softened. "Maisie, I see you. I saw you at that party, before you even opened your mouth. The way you were arguing with some dude about whether the prequels were actually good—everyone else was just fighting about it, but you were having fun. You were so alive."
"You saw me fighting?"
"I saw you winning," he corrected. "That guy had no chance."
She laughed, surprised. "He really didn't."
"No." He kissed her forehead. "He didn't. And I knew I had to talk to you. Had to know more about the girl who could argue passionately about the politics of the Old Republic."
"The Jedi Civil War," she corrected, grinning.
"See, this. This is what I mean." He cupped her face in his hands. "You're so fucking smart, and you're not afraid to show it. That's rare. That's something to hold onto."
Her throat tightened. She didn't cry—she wasn't going to cry—but it was a close thing. Instead, she kissed him, hoping she could pour everything she felt into that single touch.
"I should probably go," he said, pulling back eventually. "I have a class at eleven."
She glanced at the clock. "It's nine-thirty."
"Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair. "I should get ready. But uh..." He hesitated. "Can I see you again? Tonight?"
Her heart skipped. "Tonight?"
"Yeah." He shrugged, trying to look casual and failing. "Dinner? The new Thai place on Fifth Street? I heard they have incredible pad thai."
"I love pad thai."
"I remembered you said that too." He grinned. "You mentioned it at the diner."
"You're impossible."
"I'm just paying attention." He started gathering his clothes, and she watched him dress with a mixture of longing and disbelief. This couldn't be real. But his scent was still in her sheets, his taste still on her lips.
"Text me when you get home?" she asked. "So I know you made it safe."
She didn't know why she said it—it was the kind of thing her roommate said to her dates, the kind of girl who demanded commitment and got it. She'd never had the courage to ask for those kinds of assurances.
But she was asking now. And he didn't laugh.
"I'll text you," he promised. He pressed one last kiss to her lips, soft and lingering. "See you tonight."
Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
She lay back on her bed, surrounded by scattered plushies and the ghost of his warmth, and pressed her fingers to her lips. They still tingled. The coffee had gone cold, the croissant half-eaten, but she didn't care.
She picked up her phone, typing out a message before she could second-guess herself.
I had a really good morning. Thank you.
She hit send before she could overthink it.
Her phone buzzed almost immediately.
Me too. Can't wait to see you tonight, Nerfherder.
She laughed out loud, holding the phone to her chest. The nickname shouldn't have made her heart skip, but it did. He'd called her that at the diner too, teasing her about her obsession with the OLD canon.
The morning light was brighter now, chasing the shadows from her room. She looked around at the cluttered chaos—the posters, the figurines, the scattered books—and for the first time, it didn't feel like a shrine to isolation. It felt like home.