Chapter 19: First Dawn
The first thing she became aware of was the weight. Not the familiar, low-centered weight of the baby, but a delicious, anchoring pressure across her thighs. Then came the sensation of cool sheets being drawn slowly down her legs, the whisper of cotton against her skin. A sliver of morning light cut through her eyelids, too bright, painting the red darkness of her closed world.
She stirred, a murmur of protest forming in her dry throat. The hangover was a dull, respectful throb at her temples—courtesy of a single half-glass of champagne she’d insisted on at midnight—but the fatigue was profound, bone-deep.
“Shhh.” The sound was a warm breath against her inner thigh. The sheet slipped further.
Her eyes flew open. She lifted her head, the movement making the room sway. Matt was a dark shape under the rumpled duvet, the covers tented over his broad back, his trajectory unmistakable. He was at the foot of her bed, moving with a deliberate, slow-motion stealth.
“Matt.” Her voice was sleep-ravaged, a croak.
The duvet shifted. His face emerged from the edge, his eyes meeting hers. He looked rumpled, his hair a chaotic mess, a faint smile playing on his lips. “You’re awake.”
“What are you doing?”
“It’s New Year’s Day.” He said it like it was obvious, like he was stating the weather. “I’m starting it right.”
“By lurking under my covers?”
“By not lurking.” His hand, large and warm, slid beneath her thigh, gently guiding it over his shoulder. The simple authority of the gesture sent a shock of pure, undiluted want through her lethargy. “Go back to sleep if you want. Or don’t. But let me do this.”
Before she could formulate another half-hearted protest, he disappeared again. The world reduced to sensation. The scratch of his stubble against the impossibly soft skin of her inner thighs, a contrast that made her gasp. The hot, steadying press of his palms holding her in place. Then his mouth.
It was not tentative. It was assured, languid, a study in focused attention. He took his time, as if he had mapped her out in the dark and was now revisiting every point of interest. The throbbing in her head receded, replaced by a different, gathering pulse.
She let her head fall back, a fist pressed to her mouth. The light through the window was merciless, illuminating the dust motes dancing above the bed, the ordinary clutter of her bedroom—the stack of pregnancy books, a lone sock on the floor. The sheer normality of the scene around her made the intimacy beneath the covers feel doubly illicit, doubly intense.
He found a rhythm, a deep, slow persuasion that coiled the tension in her belly tighter and tighter. Her breaths became short, ragged things. She dared to look down again, to see the shape of him beneath the fabric, the devoted curve of his back. The visual undid her. A sound escaped her, part moan, part sob.
He responded by deepening his attention, his hands sliding further under her to tilt her hips, opening her to him completely. The intimacy was total, devastating. It wasn’t just the physical act; it was the unspoken claim of it, the way he navigated her changing body without a moment’s hesitation, as if this landscape was his to explore.
The climax, when it broke, was a slow, sun-warmed wave rather than a crash. It rolled through her in long, shivering increments, pulling a weak, shuddering cry from her lips. She trembled, sensitive and raw, but he didn’t stop. He gentled his touch, but persisted, his mouth soft and insistent, guiding her through the aftershocks and directly into the building tension of another.
“Matt… wait…” she panted, her hands tangling in the duvet.
He paused, his breath hot against her. “Tell me to stop.” His voice was muffled, thick.
She couldn’t. The words wouldn’t form. All she could do was arch into the sensation, a silent plea.
He understood. The second time was faster, sharper, a bright, cresting peak that left her gasping for air, spots dancing behind her eyelids. As the pulses faded, he finally relented, pressing a final, soft kiss to the inside of her thigh before emerging.
He looked wrecked. His lips were swollen, his chin glistening. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving hers. They were dark, satisfied, a little awed.
“Happy New Year,” he said, his voice rough.
She couldn’t speak. She reached for him, her arms weak. He came up the bed, gathering her against him, her back to his front. He felt solid, real. The scent of her was on his skin, mingling with his own sleep-warm smell. They lay there, tangled and sticky and quiet, as the morning solidified around them.
After a long while, he nuzzled her hair. “I should make coffee. And you need water. And probably toast.”
“In a minute.” She pressed herself closer, feeling the firm ridge of his erection against her backside. A faint, exhausted thrill went through her. “You’re… um.”
“Yeah. Ignore it. It’s not an invoice.”
A surprised laugh hiccupped out of her. She turned in his arms to face him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you taste better than champagne.” He kissed her, slow and deep, letting her taste herself on his tongue. It was profoundly intimate, more so than anything that had come before. When he pulled back, he smoothed her hair from her forehead. “Seriously, though. Water. You drank about three sips last night and then cried during the countdown because someone on TV dropped the ball.”
“It was symbolic,” she grumbled, but she let him go.
He returned with two glasses of water and a packet of saltines. They sat propped against the headboard, sipping in silence. The domesticity of it was as startling as the sex.
“Your mom call at midnight?” she asked, remembering the way his phone had buzzed insistently.
“Yeah. She wished me a prosperous year and asked if I was in a safe location.” He shook his head, a wry smile on his face. “I told her I was at a friend’s. She said, ‘Matthew, it’s one in the morning. What kind of friend?’ I said, ‘A good one.’ She sighed. It was a long sigh.”
Hannah traced the rim of her glass. “You’ll have to tell her.”
“I know. And I will. When there’s something more concrete to tell.”
She looked at him. “What’s more concrete than this?”
He took the glass from her hand and set it on the nightstand, alongside the tiny cream-colored hat with the waves, which she’d placed there like a totem. He turned back, his expression serious. “This is you and me, Hannah. In this room. It’s real. But ‘concrete’ for my mom is plans. Dates. Intentions. She’s going to have questions I don’t have answers to yet. Like… where do we live when the baby comes?”
The question hung in the air, massive and simple. Her apartment was a one-bedroom walk-up. His was a studio across town.
“I don’t know,” she said, the honesty frightening her.
“Me either.” He took her hand, lacing their fingers together over the swell of her stomach. “But we’ll figure it out. One Tuesday at a time, right?”
The baby chose that moment to kick, a firm, unmistakable thump against their joined hands. They both looked down. Matt smiled, a real, wonder-struck smile. “See? The furniture-rearranger agrees.”
Later, after toast and coffee and a shared shower that was more functional than erotic, he dressed to go. He had a shift that afternoon. At the door, he pulled on his boots, looking like any guy leaving after a night out, except for the way his eyes kept finding hers, soft and proprietary.
“I’ll call you after work,” he said, zipping his coat.
“Okay.”
He leaned in, kissed her once, softly. “Don’t overthink today. Just… be.”
He left, pulling the door shut with a quiet click. Hannah stood in the sudden silence of her apartment. The bed was still unmade, the sheets carrying the imprint of his body, the scent of them. She walked to the nightstand and picked up the little wool hat. It was so small it fit entirely in her palm.
She looked from the hat to the rumpled bed, then to the empty doorway. ‘Be,’ he’d said. She curled her fingers around the soft wool, feeling the nubby knots, and for the first time in a long time, she tried.