Chapter 27: The Morning After Promise
He woke to the feeling of being watched.
Not a paranoid twitch, but a deep, cellular awareness of a fixed gaze. The room was dim, the single bulb off, a grey dawn light seeping around the edges of the blinds. It painted everything in washed-out blue and shadow.
Jennie was curled on her side facing him, head propped on her hand. Her black hair was a river over his pillow and her bare shoulder. She hadn’t been sleeping. Her dark eyes were open, unblinking, tracing the lines of his face as if memorizing the topography of a newly claimed country. She’d been doing it for a while.
“The fuck,” he croaked, his voice sleep-ravaged. He didn’t move. “You’re creepy as hell.”
A smile touched her lips, slow and genuine. “Your breathing changes. It gets deeper, here.” Her finger, cool, tapped the center of his chest. “Then shallower. Then you twitch your right eyebrow. Just once. Right before you wake up.”
He stared at her. The events of the night crashed back in—her father’s voice, the question hanging in the stale air, the crushing relief of her ‘yes’, the frantic, quiet way they’d spent the hours after Rosé left. The dark bloom of a hickey stood out on her pale throat. His mark. The reality of it, this new permanent fixture in his life, was a boulder sitting on his sternum. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just heavy.
“You just… laid here and watched me sleep.”
“I was listening, too,” she said, as if sharing a fascinating secret. “To your dreams. You talk. Nothing clear. Just sounds. Grunts. My name, once.”
He felt a blush creep up his neck, hot and irritating. He covered it by rolling onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. The sheet slid down to his hips. “I don’t talk in my sleep.”
“You do. It’s data. I’m collecting it.” She shifted, her body a line of heat against his side. She settled her head on his chest, her ear over his heartbeat. Her hand slid across his stomach, fingertips brushing the trail of dark hair below his navel. He sucked in a breath. “I want all of it. The sleepy sounds. The morning breath. The way you pretend you don’t care about things you care about deeply.”
“I don’t pretend,” he muttered into his bicep.
“You’re pretending right now. You’re thrilled I’m here. You’re also terrified. The ratio is about sixty-forty.”
He lifted his arm and looked down at the top of her head. Her hair smelled like his shampoo now, mixed with that faint, ghostly cherry blossom. A weird possession. “You’re a fucking nightmare.”
“Your nightmare,” she corrected softly, pressing a kiss to his pec. “And I’ll always be here when you wake up. I’m not going anywhere, Leonid. Not unless you tell me to. And even then, I might just wait outside the door.”
The promise was absolute. It should have felt smothering. It did, a little. But underneath the weight was a bizarre, anchoring solidity. For someone who floated through classes and practices and life with detached, lazy arrogance, being someone’s absolute north star was… something.
He let his arm fall around her, fingers threading into her hair. “You need a hobby. Other than me.”
“I have one. It’s you.”
He snorted, but pulled her tighter. They lay like that as the room lightened from grey to a dull gold. The distant sounds of the dorm stirring began: a door slamming, a toilet flushing, the faint thump of bass from some early-riser’s playlist.
His stomach growled, loud in the quiet.
Jennie lifted her head. “You’re hungry.”
“I’m always hungry.”
She sat up in one fluid motion, the sheet pooling around her waist. The morning light caught the silver rings on her fingers, the delicate curve of her spine, the dark bruise on her neck. She looked like a painting of devotion and damage. “I’ll make you something.”
“There’s nothing here. Maybe stale bread. Definitely beer.” He watched her slide out of bed, unconcerned with her nakedness. Her body was a fact to her, one that belonged to him. It still knocked the air out of his lungs.
“I’ll find something.” She pulled on his discarded volleyball hoodie, which drowned her, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips. She padded barefoot to his mini-fridge, a determined little ghost in the gloom.
He lay back, listening to her rummage. The domesticity of it was more intimate than anything they’d done last night. This was the part he’d never considered—the morning after the confession, the mundane act of a weird girl trying to feed you from your own empty fridge.
“You have eggs,” her voice floated over. “Two. And something green on the cheese. And a lemon.”
“Sounds gourmet.”
“It’ll be edible. I’m proficient.”
He heard the crack of an egg, the sizzle as it hit the pan he used for ramen. A few minutes later, the smell of burning butter and something vaguely edible cut through the room’s usual scent of smoke and boy. He finally swung his legs out of bed, pulled on his shorts, and walked over.
She was focused, her tongue caught between her teeth, carefully maneuvering the single sad egg in the pan. The hoodie sleeve was pushed up haphazardly. She’d found a half-pack of crackers and arranged them on a paper towel like canapés.
“See?” she said, without looking up. “Proficient.”
His chest did something strange. It tightened, then warmed. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “You know, most people would just suggest getting bagels.”
“This is more efficient. You’re hungry now.” She slid the egg, overcooked at the edges, onto a plate with the crackers and the dubious cheese. She presented it to him with a look of serene triumph. “Fuel. You have practice later.”
He took the plate. The egg was rubbery. The cracker was stale. It was probably the best thing he’d ever been given. To stop himself from saying something stupid, he shoved a bite in his mouth. “It’s shit,” he said around it.
Her eyes lit up. She knew. “I’ll improve. I’ll study culinary techniques. Do you have a preferred breakfast philosophy? Continental? Protein-heavy?”
“Jesus, Jennie.” He ate the rest, every dry, strange bite. He put the plate in the sink and turned to her. She was still standing there, waiting for feedback, his hoodie swallowing her whole. He cupped her face, his thumbs on her cheeks. “You don’t have to do any of that.”
“I want to.”
“I know.” He kissed her, tasting the stale cracker and the shared morning. “That’s what’s fucked up.”
A loud, impatient knock rattated the door. “Leo! You dead in there? Bus leaves in forty!” It was Mateo, the team’s setter. His voice was a foghorn.
Leonid pulled back, forehead resting against Jennie’s. “Shit. Away game.”
“I know. Your schedule is on my phone. Synchronized.”
Of course it was. The knock came again. “Come on, man! I can hear you moving!”
Leonid called out, his voice all lazy irritation. “I’m moving, alright? Chill.” He looked at Jennie. Her expression had shifted. The domestic softness was gone, replaced by a sharp, protective focus. The creature who’d beaten men twice her size was right there under the surface.
“You should go,” she said. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
“You don’t have to…”
“I will be.” It wasn’t an offer. It was a statement of her own laws of physics. She leaned in, kissed him once, hard and possessive. “Win. Or don’t. But come back.”
He grabbed his gym bag, throwing in gear from the floor. She watched every movement, a silent supervisor. As he shrugged on a jacket, she stepped forward and silently fixed the collar, her fingers brushing his neck. The touch was proprietary, gentle, final.
He opened the door. Mateo stood there, ready to complain, his eyes already rolling. Then they slid past Leonid and locked onto Jennie, standing in the middle of the wrecked room, wearing Leonid’s hoodie and nothing else, her hair a mess, that bruise on her throat like a flag. Mateo’s jaw went slack. The gossip had spread, but seeing it was different.
Leonid stepped out, pulling the door mostly closed behind him, blocking her from view. “What?” he snapped, the arrogance back, a shield.
“Dude. Is that…?”
“None of your business. Let’s go.” Leonid started down the hall, not looking back.
He heard Mateo scramble to follow. “No way. You and Jennie Kim? For real? Since when?”
Leonid didn’t answer. He felt the weight of the closed door behind him, the presence left in his room. His skin still tingled where her fingers had fixed his collar. He fished his keys from his pocket, the metal cold. He thought about her watching him sleep, collecting the data of his dreams. He thought about the terrible, perfect egg.
Mateo was still talking, his voice a buzzing, background noise. Leonid ignored him, a slow, private smile touching his lips as he hit the cool morning air. It was terrifying. It was his.