Count to three: My affair with my dynamics professor (teacher x student)

Chapter 42

Morning came in slow, dappled streaks of light slipping past the heavy, rich curtains, painting soft gold across the room.

Frida stirred first — a quiet shift beneath the sheets, her body still heavy with sleep but her mind already reaching for awareness. She blinked slowly, the world coming into focus as she turned her head and found Inés still beside her, the steady rise and fall of her breath visible beneath the blanket.

The duvet had slipped low, dipping to the small of Inés' back, where the early light traced the gentle cut of her muscles, the smooth line of her spine. Frida let out a soft, relieved breath she hadn't known she was holding, something deep in her loosening at the simple, anchoring sight of her there — still here.

Careful not to wake her, Frida pushed herself up, slipping against the headboard with a quiet sigh as the sheets fell around her waist. She drew her knees up loosely, wrapping her arms around them for a moment before letting her gaze drift around the room — seeing it now with morning eyes, with time.

It was beautiful, in a quiet, understated way. The makeup table near the wide windows was delicate, a pale wood with graceful lines, topped with small glass bottles and neatly arranged brushes. Across the room, shelves lined the wall, filled not just with books but with small, carefully placed objects: framed photos, what looked like an old riding trophy, a brass clock, a leather-bound notebook with a worn spine.

The air smelled faintly of jasmine and the softest trace of Inés' perfume — something Frida now recognized, something that already felt like it belonged to this space, to this morning, to her.

For a long moment, Frida just sat there, her heart quiet, eyes roaming, letting it all sink in. She let herself lean back slightly, her fingers brushing lightly over the edge of the blanket, smiling to herself, the kind of smile that comes when you realize you don't need to rush, that the moment is already yours.

A soft rustle pulled Frida's attention back to the bed.

Inés shifted, turning slowly beneath the covers, the faintest crease between her brows as if stirred by some thread of instinct. Still half-asleep, her hand reached out, fingers grazing along the sheets until they found Frida's wrist.

There was no real pull, just the gentle press of fingertips, but it was enough. Frida let out a quiet laugh under her breath — barely a sound — and eased herself back down, tucking herself into the warmth waiting for her.

Inés drew her in without a word, her arm sliding around Frida's waist, chest pressing to her back. The steadiness of her breathing, the soft exhale against the curve of Frida's neck, melted something inside her.

Frida glanced back over her shoulder, heart tugging at the sight. Even like this — hair slightly mussed, cheek pillowed against the sheets, breath warm and slow — Inés was achingly beautiful. The delicate gold chain at her throat caught the morning light, a faint shimmer against her skin, matched by the slim gold bracelet that slipped just slightly down her wrist as she tightened her hold.

Frida let her eyes fall shut, sinking into that perfect, golden hush, the weight of Inés' arm around her a quiet promise she hadn't known she'd been waiting for.

The faint light creeping around the edges of the curtains caught Inés' lashes as she stirred, her breath deepening once before her eyes fluttered open. She shifted slightly, the cool slide of sheets reminding her of the bare skin she'd fallen asleep in — and the soft, warm weight still beside her.

Turning her head, Inés' gaze softened.

Frida was still curled close, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, her golden hair a tousled halo against the pale sheets. Her face was so peaceful, so unguarded, that Inés felt a tender ache press behind her ribs. She reached for the clock on her nightstand — 7:20.