Chapter 22 A Sunday Kinda Love
A Sunday Kinda Love
Harlee
The sunlight creeps across my thighs like a nosy neighbor—uninvited but familiar, shameless in its curiosity.
It moves slow and deliberate, stretching across August’s bed in long bands of gold.
It warms the bend of my knees, lights up the rumpled duvet, kisses the cracked crest of my mama’s old Howard University tee like it knows exactly how sacred this cotton is.
A relic of who I was before men like August ever entered my orbit.
I blink awake.
Not groggy. Not startled. Just… here.
The air is thick with him. Cedarwood and pepper. Coffee grounds. Something warm and dark underneath it all, like sunshine caught in linen. The sheets are tangled, lived-in. They remember us.
And I’m still here.
No leggings. No bra. No frantic mental inventory of where my clothes are or how fast I need to gather myself into something respectable.
No panic. No guilt. No shame warming up in my chest.
Just me, stretched out in the middle of his too-big bed like I belong. Like the mattress has memorized my shape. Like this is where I was meant to wake up.
And underneath it all—him.
Not beside me, but still wrapped around me in the quiet ways. In the echo of his voice from last night, low and grounding in my ear.
“Sleep, mami. I got you.”
Not sex. Not temptation, dressed in a lawsuit.
Rest.
The kind that doesn’t ask for anything back.
I remember dozing off in his passenger seat, limbs heavy from too many lectures and not enough meals. I don’t remember crossing the threshold or climbing into his bed. But I remember the care in his hands. The way he took his time, like there was nowhere else he needed to be.
And I let him.
I lie there another beat, breathing, letting the stillness settle. No rushing. No sneaking. No need to disappear before daylight can catch me.
Then I hear it.
Movement down the hall. Cabinets opening. The low hiss of something hitting hot oil. And coffee—rich and nutty—curling through the air like an invitation.
My stomach growls before my brain fully catches up.
He’s cooking.
And I’m not running.
I sit up slowly, stretching, the shirt riding high on my thighs. There’s a dull, comfortable ache behind my eyes, the kind that comes from real sleep instead of exhaustion.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and let my feet hit the hardwood. Cool. Solid. Real.
No tiptoeing.
I find my glasses on the nightstand and slide them on. The room sharpens into focus: warm neutrals, clean lines, hints of his life in the details. A record player. A book left open like he meant to come back to it. My ring, still where I must’ve tossed it last night without thinking.
I smile at that.
The smell of coffee pulls me forward. I walk barefoot through his space like I’m allowed.
And that’s when it clicks.
This isn’t a morning-after.
This is a morning with.
The kitchen is washed in light.
August stands at the stove, shirtless, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, humming something old and soulful under his breath.
Oil pops softly. Coffee brews. The whole space smells like intention.
Morning light spills across him, catching on the ink wrapped around his arm—black and grey, deliberate, each piece feeding into the next like it was planned that way.
Not crowded. Not random.
A lion’s head sits high on his shoulder, calm but alert—more watchful than aggressive.
Below it, a compass stretches over his bicep, the needle fixed steady, like it refuses to be moved.
The rest flows down his arm in clean lines and shadow—script woven between it, subtle enough that you don’t read it all at once. You have to earn it. Piece it together.
I haven’t.
Not all of it.
My eyes drop lower—ribs, waist—
There it is.
That same Spanish phrase just above his sweats, half-hidden, like it’s not meant for everyone.
His arm flexes as he reaches for the pan, ink shifting over muscle, alive in a way that feels unfair for this time of morning.
He doesn’t look over.
Just keeps humming. Cooking.
Existing like this isn’t doing something to me.
I pause in the doorway.
Not because he’s half-naked. Because he looks settled. Like he woke up here on purpose.
He turns when he senses me, smile breaking easy across his face. Dimples. Always those damn dimples.
“Morning, dormilona” he says. “You didn’t even flinch when I got up. Thought you might sleep through the apocalypse.”
I pad closer, rubbing at one eye. “Not with all this going on.” I gesture toward the stove. “What is that, and can I have all of it?”
He laughs, setting the spatula down. “French toast. Oat milk. Just Egg patties. Vegan maple sausages.”
I stop short. “You’re telling me this wasn’t a grocery run inspired by panic?”
“Some of it,” he admits. “Whole Foods delivers, now”
“Wow,” I murmur, sliding onto a stool. “You out here stocking your fridge like you planned for company.”
“I planned for you.” He shrugs. “I pay attention.”
That lands. Quiet. Heavy in the best way.
He slides a mug of coffee toward me, already fixed the way I like it, then presses a kiss to my forehead. No agenda. No heat. Just care.
“Means you were comfortable,” he says.
“I was,” I admit.
He sets my plate down, our fingers brushing. “You know you can stay as long as you want.”
The moment opens.
I smile. Then deflect, because old habits die hard. “Depends. Is breakfast included every time?”
He chuckles, easing onto the stool beside me. “Always.”
We eat in companionable quiet. Forks clink. The city hums faintly beyond the windows. Nothing rushed. Nothing asked for.
I shift my stool back an inch.
Without looking, he hooks it with his foot and pulls me right back.
“Nope,” he says easily. “I like you close.”
I shake my head, laughing. “You’re needy.”
“Only for you.”
I nearly choke on my coffee.
Eventually, I push my plate away. “Okay. I need to freshen up before I pass out on your couch.”
“Ensuite,” he says. “Extra toothbrush is in the drawer.”
I arch a brow. “Trusting me not to run?”
“If you were gonna,” he says gently, “you would’ve already.”
That shuts me up.
The bathroom surprises me.
Warm stone. Heated floors. Soft light bouncing off glass and clean lines. Two slate-gray robes hanging side by side like a suggestion, not a demand.
I find the toothbrush, still sealed.
I stare at it longer than necessary.
Not because I’m impressed.
Because I don’t feel like a guest.
I rinse my face, brush my teeth, take my time. No rushing. No bracing. Just existing in the quiet.
When I step back into the bedroom, the bed is still unmade, sunlight spilling across the sheets like it knows what happened here.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I don’t reach for it right away.
Then I see the name.
Seriously, Do Not Answer: You act crazy and suddenly I’m not good enough for a text back? Cute. Call me when the 'bad bitch' energy wears off.
Something in my chest goes still.
No spike of anxiety. No urge to explain. No familiar pull to manage his feelings.
Just clarity.
This isn’t concern.
It’s control wearing a joke.
I don’t respond.
I don’t block him either. Not yet.
I lock the screen and set the phone face-down.
He doesn’t get to follow me in here.
Not into this morning. Not into this version of me.
I crawl back into August’s bed, pulling the blanket over my legs, breathing in coffee and skin and something steady I’m still learning how to trust.
The door creaks softly.
“You okay?” August asks from the doorway, two fresh mugs in his hands.
I look up and smile. Real this time.
“Yeah,” I say. “I just… didn’t wanna leave yet.”
He sets the mugs down and joins me on the bed, knee brushing mine.
“Good,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t done with you.”
And for the first time, I don’t wonder what that costs me.
By midweek, the days blur. Lectures. Labs. Coffee cups stacking by my desk. Late-night calls that end with me smiling into my pillow and wondering when that started happening.
But right now, I’m locked in.
Wide awake in Dr. Michelle Abigay’s finance seminar.
The room is a modern amphitheater of cold air and glowing laptop screens, winter coats rustling softly as people settle in.
Michelle cuts through all of it. She’s magnetic in a mustard Ankara blazer that makes her skin look like carved mahogany, shaved head gleaming beneath the lights.
When she speaks, her Jamaican lilt carries conviction strong enough to hush the room.
“Financial literacy isn’t just about knowing where your money goes,” she says. “It’s about knowing where your power lives.”
My pen moves without me telling it to.
I came to this class expecting spreadsheets and tax codes. What I got was a masterclass in agency.
Michelle paces the front of the room, deliberate. “Y’all think economics is neutral? Nah. It’s personal. It’s systemic. And if you don’t learn how to play a game that’s been rigged since jump, you’re letting someone else write your ending.”
Something tightens in my chest.
I know what it feels like to follow a plan someone else wrote. To mistake obligation for destiny. To be afraid of what happens if I step outside the lines.
When class ends, I linger.
Most students file out, but I move down the steps slowly, heart thudding, until I’m standing near her podium.
“Dr. Abigay?”
She turns, already smiling. “Yes, Ms. Prince?”
I blink. “You… know my name?”
She laughs softly. “You leaned in when we talked about community investment. I remember people who listen like that.”
I shift my bag higher on my shoulder. “Can I ask you something?”
She tilts her head. “Of course.”
“How did you know,” I say carefully, “when it was time to change paths?”
Her expression softens, like she recognizes the question for what it is.
“I was working at the IRS,” she says. “Big office. Big title. Bigger paycheck. And I was sick all the time. Crohn’s disease finally forced me to stop pretending it was worth it.”
I nod, absorbing every word.