𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 ✓

TWENTY-FOUR

-

I don't know what the usual protocol is for colleagues who used to hate each other and had what can only be described as a one-night stand. Neither does Sebastian. The next week, we just work on our articles. We barely talk, only exchange little glares and smiles every now and then. We hug once when I get the call that my mother can be released from the hospital in Morroco and will come home next week. Needless to say that it is rather out of order that we actually start to share the bed. The couch really is uncomfortable, he defended his suggestion, but I didn't mind.

Laying in bed with him is very comforting. We don't talk about work, about the articles, about our boss. Or the fact that we're going to leave soon. Actually, we don't talk much at all, and if we do, it's about the weather or about how comfortable the bed is. We don't do much, either. We just lay there, next to one another, until one of us caves in and scoots over the other. We always fall asleep in each other's arms.

And I like it. A lot. 

I don't think I am ready for us to go home and live our own lives again. Because if we keep on behaving like this for the rest of the stay, we will definitely not talk much to each other back in New York either. Which is not what I want. 

It's the third last night, the sky is already showing off stars like Swarowski crystals, and I sit on the porch as I so often do. My laptop is shut and on the side table while I'm leaning back on the sun lounger. I'm wearing Sebastian's grey hoodie jacket, some long, black sweats, and have my hair up in a messy bun that begins to fall apart. 

I hear the porch door slide open, and I turn my head to see him carrying two mugs outside. He puts one down next to my laptop. It smells like tea. 

"I didn't know if you wanted any, so..."

He sits down on the other lounger but doesn't lean back like I do. He's facing me, his eyes follow my movements as I sit up straight and pick up the mug. It's some sort of fruit tea, maybe peach, and I love the way it smells. Gratefully, I smile at him. He seems relieved and takes a hesitant sip.

"We only have three more nights here," he eventually states, and I nod, though it makes me sentimental to think about the fact that we're going to have to leave soon. I don't want to leave. This is perfect. Well, almost.

"Charlie," he sighs, and I still cannot get over the way he says my name, "Do you regret it?"

My body tenses up. He doesn't really think that, does he?

"No," I blurt out, "God, no. Do... Do you?"

His brows rise and he sets the mug onto the side table on his side. 

"Charlie, I have waited so long for this, what do you think? No, I don't regret it. I won't ever regret it."

"Good," I mumble, "I was scared you might."

"Why's that?" he asks, a little baffled by my reaction. I set my own mug down again and turn to him. Our knees touch and a flash of electricity bolts through my body. This man has so much impact on me on so little contact. It's crazy.

"I don't know, we haven't really talked since it happened," I mumble as quickly as possible, staring down at our connecting knees. My hands fiddle in my lap until he gently wraps his around them and holds them in place. His thumb caresses the back of my hand and I bite my lip. 

"I didn't know what to say," he admits, "All the things I'd prepped in my head seemed wrong when I wanted to actually say them out loud."

I chuckle softly. He's nervous because of me. 

"Me neither," I mutter, "All I could think about was that I want to do it again."

I say it before my mind even registers what I've said out loud there. His hands slide off mine which is how I know he's heard me. God, Charlie. Great job. 

"You do?" he asks hoarsely from the back of his throat, his voice cracking. 

"Why wouldn't I?" I ask back, now forcing myself to meet his eyes. His pupils are as dilated as they'd been last week. 

"Careful what you're saying there, Emmons."

My body tingles at his raspy, deep voice, heat piles between my legs. And he's only said one sentence.

I don't even try to keep my guard up. I push myself off the lounger, and a few moments later, I sit on his lap, knees on either side of him, my feet hanging off the chair's edge. Instantly, his strong hands jolt to my waist and hold me. My face hovers a few inches above his. I run one hand through his hair that got tousled by the breeze. 

"Does that mean I can kiss you again?" I ask, my lips suddenly so close to his I can feel his heavy breath on my face. He closes his eyes and hums from the back of his throat. And it's so hot. 

"Charlie." 

He groans it under his breath like he struggles to breathe, and subconsciously, I press myself even closer to him. I can feel that he's not the only one incredibly turned on by this situation. The anticipation is the toughest part, but oh God, it's one of the best.

"Is that a yes?" I teasingly ask, letting my lips brush against his accidentally. His grip on my waist tightens. His thumbs slide underneath the hoodie jacket. The touch of his fingertips to my burning, tingling skin makes me melt. 

His face tilts up, and our lips meet rather softly. My hands entwine in his neck, pulling him closer to me, and the kiss intensifies instantly. Our tongues meet and we monotonously groan in relief. Yes, finally. 

"By the way, it kills me to see you in my hoodie," he hoarsely mumbles into the kiss. I chuckle.

"You look so good in it, I almost don't want you to take it off..."

I pull away, a wicked smile on my face. My next sentence is about to absolutely destroy him, I know it. Though I don't know where that confidence is coming from, I like this version of myself. A lot. And I can tell he does, too.

"Oh, that's too bad. 'cause I'm not wearing anything underneath."