34 | Chase It
Friday?
I was in his kitchen when it hit me.
Early morning, him still asleep, me padding around in his t-shirt looking for coffee that I now knew exactly where to find. The city outside the window was pale and quiet, that grey-gold shade of early light when everything looks provisional, not yet committed to the day.
I filled the kettle. Found the mug I’d started thinking of as mine—the blue one, second shelf.
And then I just—stood there.
It started as a deal. A favor between old friends. It ended with me in his kitchen, wearing only his shirt, wondering how the hell I got here.
The thought arrived fully formed, the way some things did, and I stood and let it sit.
Eight weeks ago I’d been in Hailey’s backyard trying to figure out how to get through a party without talking to Charles. I’d invented a boyfriend. Walked into Theo in the dark and felt his hands catch me before I fell and thought: safe.
I knew exactly how I’d gotten here.
I set the kettle down.
The bedroom door opened behind me. Footsteps—unhurried, familiar now. His arms came around me from behind. His mouth pressed against the back of my neck.
“Making coffee?” His voice was rough with sleep.
“Kettle’s on.”
He didn’t let go. Just stood there with his arms around me and his chin resting on my shoulder, both of us looking out at the city coming slowly into focus.
“I like you here early,” he said.
“I like being here early.”
We stood like that.
“We should tell our parents,” I said finally.
His arms tightened slightly. “Yeah.”
A beat.
“You’re nervous?” I asked.
“I’m not nervous.”
“You went quiet.”
He didn’t answer. Which was its own answer.
I turned in his arms to face him. “My dad loves you more than he loves me. You know that, right?”
“That’s not true.”
“He taught you his chess opening. He has never taught me his chess opening.” I smiled. “When we walk in on Sunday he’s going to shake your hand and look at me like I finally did something right.”
Something in his expression loosened.
“So basically,” I continued, “if anyone needs to be nervous it’s me. I’ll have to ask him for your hand.”
He laughed—surprised, real. “You’re already thinking about that?”
“That’s not—” I felt heat climb my face immediately. “That was a figure of speech. I didn’t mean—”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not—”
“Tessa.” He was smiling now, that quiet delighted smile that undid me a little every time. He cupped my face in both hands. “You’re adorable.”
“Don’t call me adorable—”
He kissed me. Soft, warm, unhurried.
When he pulled back I was still flushed and he was still smiling.
“Sunday,” he said.
“Sunday,” I agreed.
The kettle was whistling. He reached past me to take it off the heat, his arms still around me, and poured the water without letting go.
THEO
An hour later she was in the shower and I could hear her through the door—not singing exactly, more like humming fragments of something she didn’t quite remember, the kind of sound people made when they forgot they weren’t alone.
I came in.
The glass was fogged. I could see the shape of her through it, the red of her hair darker with water. She pushed the door open slightly and looked at me with one eyebrow raised.
“Hi,” she said.
“Move over.”
She moved.
The water was hotter than I’d have run it myself. She handed me the shampoo without being asked and turned back into the spray, and I watched water run down her spine and told myself I was just washing my hair.
We didn’t talk much. She washed her face with her eyes closed, efficient, and I watched her without pretending I wasn’t anymore, and at some point she became aware of it and stilled slightly.
“Theo.”
“Mm.”
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
She turned her head. Looked at me through wet lashes, water still streaming over her shoulders.
I put my hand on her hip and turned her to face me.
She looked up. The water ran over both of us, steam thick around us, and I took my time—let my eyes move over her the way I’d been wanting to since I saw her in my kitchen wearing my shirt an hour ago.
“What,” she said. Slightly breathless already.
“You’re beautiful.” I said it plainly. “I don’t think you know how much.”
Her chin lifted slightly—reflex, deflection. I caught it with two fingers before she could look away.
“Don’t.”
She stilled.
I traced my thumb along her jaw, down her throat, and then I took her wrist gently and guided her hand to her own chest.
“Touch yourself,” I said quietly. “I want to watch.”
Her breath caught. “Theo—”
“Go on.”
A beat. Her eyes were dark, uncertain, heat spreading across her cheeks that had nothing to do with the steam.
Her fingers moved. Slowly at first—tentative, self-conscious—her palm cupping her own breast, her thumb brushing across her nipple.
Something tightened in my chest.
“See?” I said. Low. “See how perfect you are?”
Her head tilted back slightly. Her lip caught between her teeth.
“Keep going,” I said.
Her fingers moved again—less hesitant now, finding a rhythm, her breathing shifting into something slower and heavier. I watched her face the whole time. The flush spreading down her throat. The way her lashes dropped.
“Lower,” I said.
Her hand stilled.
“Tessa.” My voice dropped. “Lower.”
Her eyes came to mine—dark, questioning.
“I want you to feel what I feel,” I said. “Go on.”
Her hand slid down. Across her stomach. Lower still, and I watched her breath catch the moment she touched herself, watched her lips part on a sound she tried to swallow.
I covered her hand with mine—not taking over, just adding pressure, guiding.
“There,” I said. “See? Look how ready you are.”
“Theo—” My name came out wrecked.
“That’s for me,” I said quietly. “All of that. You understand?”
She nodded—barely, her head falling back against the tile.
I let her stay there for a moment, my hand over hers, the water long since cold, neither of us noticing. Then I walked her back one step until her shoulders met the tile properly, my body close to hers, my mouth at her temple.
“You’re perfect,” I said. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. “And you’re mine.”
She shivered.
I kissed her once—slow, unhurried, completely certain—and felt her melt into it.
Then I reached past her and turned the water off.
The silence after was loud.
“Come on,” I said.
She followed me to the bedroom without a word.
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her standing in front of me—hair damp, skin still warm from the shower. I reached out and unwrapped the towel without ceremony, letting it fall.
She didn’t move to cover herself.
Good.
I took my time looking. Let her feel it—the weight of my attention moving over her. The flush spread down her throat and across her chest and I watched all of it without apology.
Then I leaned back slightly and looked at her.
“Come here,” I said. “On your knees.”
Something shifted in her expression. She held my gaze for a beat—checking, deciding—and then she moved.
Her hands found my thighs. Her mouth found me, warm and certain, and I exhaled slowly through my nose and let her work. She was careful at first, then less careful, finding a rhythm that made my hand curl loosely in her hair without meaning to.
Two strokes. Three.
I tightened my grip and pulled her back.
She looked up at me, lips parted, eyes dark.
“Up,” I said. “On top.”
She climbed onto the bed and over me, and I put my hands on her hips and settled her exactly where I wanted her. Just—there, feeling her warmth against me, watching her face.
“Put your hands on my chest,” I said.
She did.
“Now take me.”
Her breath caught. Her hand moved between us, found me, guided me to her—and then she sank down slowly, inch by inch, her eyes staying on mine the whole way down until she was fully seated and we both went still.
“Move,” I said.
She moved—tentative at first, finding her balance, her hips rolling slowly. I kept my hands loose on her waist, just there, and watched her figure it out. Watched the moment it clicked, the small exhale when she found the angle that worked.
Then I tightened my grip and slowed her down.
“Slower.”
She stilled.
I adjusted her—tilted her hips forward, changed the angle—and pushed up slightly to meet her.
Her breath left her in a rush.
“There,” I said. “Feel the difference?”
“Yes.” Unsteady. “Yes.”
“Good. Now move. Slowly.”
She moved. I watched her face—the concentration giving way to something looser, her lip caught between her teeth, her head dropping forward.
“Head up,” I said.
Her eyes opened. Found mine.
“I want to see you,” I said. “Don’t hide.”
She held my gaze. Her rhythm steadied—deeper now, more certain—and I let my hands slide from her hips upward, across her stomach, her ribs. Just watching her move above me, her hair still damp, the morning light on her skin.
After a moment her rhythm stuttered slightly.
“Theo—” A breath. “Help me.”
“No.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
“You’re doing it perfectly,” I said. “Chase it.”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” I held her gaze, steady, certain. “I want to watch you get there. Don’t stop.”
Something moved across her face—frustration, want, focus. Her jaw set slightly.
She moved again. Deeper this time. More deliberate.
“Good,” I said quietly. “Just like that.”
Her breathing changed—shorter, sharper, her hands pressing harder against my chest. I kept my hands on her hips and watched her face—open, unguarded, unable to hide anything from this angle.
“You feel incredible,” I said. “You know that?”
She shook her head—reflex.
I sat up.
One arm wrapped around her back, pulling her chest flush against mine, and my mouth found her throat, her collarbone, breast—my lips closing around her, my tongue moving slowly, and felt her whole body shudder and her hips stutter and lose the rhythm entirely.
“Don’t stop,” I said against her skin.
“I can’t—when you do that I can’t—”
“Yes you can.” I pulled back just enough to look at her. Her eyes were dark, her lips parted, her hair falling forward over her shoulders in damp waves. “You can. Show me.”
Her hips moved again.
I watched her find it—that focus, that surrender to her own body—and kept my mouth on her skin and let her work, my hands on her hips now, controlling, holding, there.
“That’s it,” I said against her breast. “Just like that. You feel perfect.”
“Theo—” Broken now, urgent.
“I know.” I pressed my thumb between us, exactly where she needed it. “Come on. I’ve got you.”
She shattered—her whole body clenching, her nails digging into my shoulders, my name muffled against my neck as she shook through it, her hips still moving, chasing every last wave until she finally went still and heavy against my chest.
I held her through all of it.
Then I rolled her beneath me—one smooth movement, her back hitting the mattress—and her eyes opened wide.
“I'm not done,” I said quietly.
I pushed into her again—deeper from this angle, her breath catching on impact—and set a pace that was nothing like before. Faster. Harder. My forearms braced beside her head, my eyes on her face, nowhere to hide and nowhere I wanted to be except exactly here.
Her legs wrapped around me.
“Don’t stop,” she said. “Please don’t stop.”
“I won’t.”
I didn’t.
The rhythm built until her second orgasm hit harder than the first, until she was arching clean off the mattress and pulling me with her, and I followed with my forehead pressed to hers and her name the only word I had left.
----
Afterward she lay across my chest, one hand loose against my ribs, her breathing slowly returning to something normal.
I looked at the ceiling.
She shifted. Tilted her head back to look at me.
“What,” she said.
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing.”
“The quiet thing. Where you look like you’re thinking something you’re not going to say.”
I looked down at her. At the red hair spread across my chest, the faint flush still on her cheeks, the expression she wore when she was paying attention and trying to look like she wasn’t.
I could marry that girl.
The thought arrived without warning and I let it sit there for a moment before I decided what to do with it.
“Just looking,” I said and kissed her lightly.
She studied me for a moment. Decided to let it go. Turned her face back into my chest.
I will marry that girl.