sebastian
When I wake up in the morning, I've rolled out of Harris' arms to the opposite edge of the bed. But our legs are still tangled together, and he's still on his side, facing me with his eyes shut.
Carefully, I untangle our limbs and roll onto my side to face him. He's so delicate when he sleeps. Usually, with how often he's smiling or laughing, Harris has all these happy little lines on his face. Although I'm sure they'll be more permanent when he's older, right now, they're nowhere to be seen. In fact, Harris is frowning slightly in his sleep, this little Grumpy Cat look that makes me want to laugh. And I would, if I weren't worried about waking him up.
I don't know how long I lie there, staring at him while attempting to not feel creepy about it. Eventually, I decide to roll onto my other side and check my phone. The first Instagram story I click on is of a few juniors—now seniors—from the debate team swimming in the quarry at sunset, on the pH testing side, not me and Harris'. It almost looks fun, but see also: excrement-laden waters. No thanks. I'm no Elana Doorsey. I'm nobody. Jumping off that cliff into Lake Franz was a big, bold thing for me to try, just to get out of my own head. I don't know how much more out of my head I can be.
I click to the next story. And what a coincidence—Elana Doorsey herself. In a hospital bed. Making a duck face. Guess who ended up in the hospital, slayyyy.
Wow. See, this. This is why I don't do things.
The movement of my turning over must wake Harris, though, because next thing I know, he's snaking an arm over my bare side and pressing a soft kiss against the back of my neck.
"Morning," he says, and fuck, his voice is so gravelly. I can't.
"Good morning," I tell him, unsure of whether or not I'm supposed to turn around. My mouth tastes terrible, I realize—morning breath is not my friend, evidently. "How did you sleep?"
I feel him stretch his legs out. Some joint of his cracks, and he groans. "Not bad," he says. "You?"
"Pretty good." I'm trying not to overthink 'not bad,' even though it's a little hard. "The storm put me right to sleep."
"Nice. The cardio put me right to sleep."
I snort, setting my phone back down next to my pillow. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. You're welcome."
His arm tightens around me, pulling me against him. His morning wood presses against my lower back, but I'm too tired to even think about the prospect of morning sex. I'll need at least two minutes of waking-up time before that. But I'm not sure that Harris has that on his mind, because he simply nuzzles against the crook of my neck and shoulder, then mutters, "Thank you," so quietly that I wouldn't be surprised if I dreamed it.
Goddamn. This boy. Saanvi has been trying to get me to reassess things with him, see where we stand, but I can't bring myself to do it. This is all too perfect. I can't risk ruining it.
I can feel his arm flex as he tries to pop another joint. "You're so cute," he says. "Seriously, thank you for last night. I had a great time."
"Yeah, thank you too." A great time. I'm telling myself to not overthink it, but there's a niggling urge to know: am I just 'a great time' to Harris?
Nope. Nope. Don't think about it. You know you're not.
He presses another feather-light kiss against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. I guess I can overthink it later.
"Got any plans for today?" I ask him, admittedly a little proud of myself for not asking anything embarrassing—and/or too heavy for this early in the morning.
"Nope," Harris says. "Why?"
I shrug. The movement shifts his arm, and he readjusts. I'm a little icked out by his hand's sudden presence on my stomach, but he moves it up to my diaphragm without me saying anything. Another kiss against my neck, and suddenly, I'm melting into him, our bodies seemingly melding together. His arm is tight around me, and I sigh as his fingers trace down my exposed side.
He leads me on like that, slowly turning me on through my morning brain fog, then chuckles softly. "Why?" he asks again. "What are your plans for today?"
I can't see his face right now, but I can imagine his expression—smug. Oh, he's definitely pleased with himself right now, and honestly, I can't even blame him. "Nothing really," I tell him. "Just wanted to know what you're thinking."
"I mean, I was thinking about going swimming."
"At the public pool?"
"Man, fuck public pools."
"So, where, Lake Franz? Ew."
"Shut uuup." He's smiling, I can hear it. "If it's too gross for you, we could always try the quarry."
The golden hour-lit juniors pop up in my head. You see people do it once or twice, but the quarry is beyond unappealing to me. "Um, no, you're right. Franz is way less gross than Wetspring."
"That's what I thought." His lips. Fuck. They're just so fucking soft against my skin. I can't handle it, so I turn around to face him. His arm slides around me because he seemingly knows what I'm thinking, he always knows, and then our lips are pressed together, his tongue slipping inside and finding my own, teasing me.
He doesn't seem to mind my morning breath, and I find that his is just as ignorable. My hands are right up against him, one tangled in his messy hair, the other pressed against his sternum. I'm hard now too, but I couldn't lie to you—no way do I have the energy for that.
Luckily, Harris seems to be similarly exhausted from last night. He rests our foreheads together, and I find I don't even mind the feeling of our sweat mingling. He's breathing a little hard. So am I. When he pulls back a few inches to look me in the eye, I'm right there with him. Seeing his gaze locked on mine reminds me of last night, when he pulled away from our kiss to do just this. Just, oh my gosh. He's amazing.
"What do you wanna eat for breakfast?" he asks.
"What kinds of cereal do you have?" I counter, even though the thought of making something like waffles together sounds beyond cute. I should probably keep that to myself though. Harris seems like he shoves four Eggos in the toaster before school and pours an ungodly amount of syrup on them, and calls it "breakfast."
"Nah," he says, shaking his head slightly. "We're not playing the cereal game yet. Can I cook anything for you?"
"You cook?" I ask him, honestly taken aback.
"Uhhh, yeah." He says it like it should be obvious, even though it's so obviously not. "What, do I seem too lazy or something?"
He seems like he's anticipating his feelings being hurt, somehow. I don't know how I can tell, but it's easy to. "No, no, I just wasn't expecting it, you cooking."
"Hmph."
"It's hot," I assure him, sneaking in to press a kiss next to his mouth. I could kiss him all day, any and everywhere. "You cooking? Wowwww. Why, sheesh, even."
"Alright, alright, alright, quit trying to butter me up, you dork. What do you want to eat?"
"Waffles?" I offer, because fuck, now I'm in the mood.
He does one of those tight-lipped, sweetly dorky smiles. "I don't have a waffle maker. But how about pancakes?"
"Pancakes," I agree, then kiss him some more.
—
He's perfect, I decide. Harrison McCammon is perfect.
We're in his kitchen, bowls littering the sink now that the last of the pancake batter is gone. Harris is in loose basketball shorts and his same sweatshirt from last night, frowning into the fridge.
"I thought we had syrup," he says, leaning back to peek around the door, his look apologetic. "Are you okay with whipped cream?"
"Is that even a question?"
"Just making sure."
He dollops some generic-brand Cool Whip onto both plates of pancakes, then goes back to the fridge to grab a box of blueberries and strawberries, checking both boxes before rinsing a couple handfuls of each of the fruits.
"No mold," he promises, "although it's probably a good thing we're eating these today."
He walks out from the kitchen, a plate and silverware in each hand. I've been sitting at the dining room table for most of the pancake–cooking—a punishment for being too physical in the kitchen, which is probably fair, because "kitchen plus horny" likely equals "terrible disaster."
When he sits my plate down in front of me, I'm beyond surprised. I mean, he isn't just sweet and shamelessly clueless and caring, but also cooks? Fuck. Alright, okay, whatever, fine, he's just perfect, it's whatever, I don't care. Not one bit.
He's watching me while I eat. I'm trying to pretend that I don't notice, but when you're the only two people in the room, and sitting so close together at that, it's kind of hard not to make it obvious. So I go for the second best option and ask, "What?"
"Hm?" Harris asks, poking into a blueberry with his fork. "Nothing."
"No, you're staring. What is it?"
He smirks, just a little, enough to make my stomach flip, and repeats, "Nothing. I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're so frustrating."
"And you love it." He licks a dollop of whipped cream off his thumb.
I find myself smiling and rolling my eyes, just a little. "Maybe." And I know he knows that, yes. I do. I love it. I absolutely love it.