Chapter 22 A Sunday Kinda Love #2
“I realized I was living someone else’s version of success,” she continues. “So I pivoted. Took the long way around. Chose a life I could actually live inside.”
“I’ve been thinking about doing the same,” I admit. “I just don’t know if I’m allowed to say that out loud yet.”
“You are,” she says gently. “That’s why I tell these stories. You don’t owe your past self anything if it’s costing you peace.”
The words settle heavy and true.
I think about my dad. About the future he keeps mapping for me. About the ladder I’ve been climbing without ever asking where it leads.
“I’m scared,” I say. “Of choosing wrong. Of disappointing people.”
Michelle smiles, patient and sure. “There’s no wrong path, Harlee. There’s only the one you’re brave enough to walk.”
Her phone buzzes. She sighs. “I’ve got to run, but my office hours are open. Let’s talk more.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.
She squeezes my hand once. “Whatever you choose—make sure it’s yours.”
The universe must’ve heard her.
Because less than twenty-four hours later, life comes knocking with its usual chaos.
I’m snagging my third cup of coffee from one of those blessed complimentary stands scattered around campus when my phone chirps. I juggle my textbooks and a half-eaten bagel, fish it out of my tote—and freeze.
Missed call. Voicemail. Herman Prince.
“Again?” I mutter, thumb hovering over Decline. Our last conversation was a minefield. I tap Ignore, but the knot in my chest stays put.
I sit on a nearby bench, the cold metal biting through my jeans. I shouldn’t listen. I know how this goes.
Curiosity wins.
Play voicemail.
“Harlee, it’s your father. Call me back. We need to talk about—”
Click.
The message cuts off, but the pressure’s already there.
Before I can overthink it, my screen lights up again. Incoming call.
I groan, then answer.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Harlee.” His voice is stiff. Controlled. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”
“I’ve been in class,” I say. “That thing you like to remind me you’re paying for.”
“Watch your tone. I’m your father. Not one of your little friends.”
There it is.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“You apply to the program yet? Applications opened last week.”
“I haven’t.”
He scoffs. “You want to throw away a future people dream about for some startup fantasy? Wynter got lucky. You don’t have that kind of talent. You think she plans on carrying you forever? I’ve met the Maddox family. Her father wouldn’t have let her chase that dream if it wasn’t going somewhere.”
My jaw tightens.
“With all due respect, Dad,” I say, even and steady, “it’s my future. Not ours.”
He starts to cut in, but I don’t let him.
“If I want to ‘throw it away’ or whatever you keep calling it, that’s my choice, not yours. I won’t be applying to the energy program next summer. You can tell your colleagues thank you for the opportunity, but I’ve decided to go in a different direction.”
He exhales like disappointment is leverage.
“You’re being dramatic.”
The word lands harder than it should. August once said it with a grin, affection softening the edges. This isn’t that. This is annoyance. Like I’m wasting his time.
“I’m not a puppet, Dad.”
Silence.
Then: “Your mother would’ve wanted—”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “Don’t bring her into this.”
The quiet stretches. The kind that used to make me fold.
It doesn’t.
“You don’t get to use her memory to control me,” I say. “I’m done shrinking myself to make you proud.”
A beat.
Then another.
“Your mother’s birthday is this weekend,” he says, softer. A reminder he knows still works.
“I know,” I say. “I didn’t forget.”
I end the call.
I sit there with the phone face-down in my lap as wind skates leaves across the pavement. My breath shakes once, then settles.
I didn’t cry.
Didn’t cave.
Maybe I’m not who he wants me to be. But I’m finally becoming who I am.
And I know—without needing to argue it—that Mom would’ve been proud.
I toss the rest of my cold coffee and stand.
Time to choose.
Days bend into nights as the leaves start to drop around us. Fall’s in full swing now. Windows cracked just enough to let the chill flirt with the room. Candles burned low, wax pooling like they’re giving up the ghost slowly.
Wynter’s got the vibe locked. Vanilla candle. Weed smoke curling lazy and sweet. Some overpriced sage bundle she grabbed from Whole Foods because “Mercury’s in retrograde and my chakras are beefin’.”
She’s folded into our thrifted velvet couch like a cat in a kimono. Goddess braids tucked into a silk scarf. Blunt balanced between two fingers. Delilah sprawled across her lap, purring like she’s on payroll.
I’m curled into my corner with lemon tea and a blanket, laptop open purely for aesthetics.
Then, out of nowhere—
?? “He was shaped like a pretzel, still thought he had potential—mm-mm, baby, that’s a no for me…” ??
I laugh, startled. “Is that a new one?”
She shrugs without missing a beat. “Working title. Could apply to several men. Versatility matters.”
I sip my tea, still smiling, and she clocks it instantly.
Not the laugh. The smile.
The lingering one.
She squints at me. “Why you smiling like that?”
“I’m not,” I say too fast.
She hums, slow and knowing. “Mmhmm. That’s the smile you get when you’re thinking about somebody but don’t want to tell the group chat yet.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s weak. “You’re projecting.”
She sits up a little, blunt forgotten. “Harlee.”
I don’t say anything. Just stare into my mug like the tea might snitch.
“You like him,” she says calmly.
It’s not a question.
My shoulders lift in a half-shrug. “I don’t know. It’s just… easy. Which is weird.”
Her brow arches. “Easy how?”
I think about it. About mornings that don’t feel rushed. About space being made without me asking. About not feeling like I’m auditioning for my own life.
“He listens,” I say finally. “Like, actually listens. And he doesn’t make me feel small for still figuring shit out.”
Wynter nods slowly, absorbing. “That’ll do it.”
“And he’s not trying to rush anything,” I add, words spilling now that the seal’s cracked. “He’s just… there. Teaching me stuff. Showing me how things work. Letting me get hands-on.”
Her mouth twitches. “Hands-on.”
I glare. “Don’t.”
She grins. “I won’t. Yet.”
I take a breath, quieter now. “I don’t know what this is. But I like it. And that scares me a little.”
That gets her full attention.
“Okay,” she says, shifting to face me completely. “Let’s talk logistics, not vibes. Are you discreet… or are you a secret?”
I freeze.
She softens her tone. “I’m not trying to kill the mood. I just need to know who’s carrying the risk if this shit goes left.”
I swallow. “Discreet,” I say. Then, after a beat, “But sometimes it feels like the line could blur.”
She nods. “That’s the part you gotta watch. Because he’s powerful, yeah, but you’re the one with something to lose right now. School. Future. Your name.”
I nod slowly. “I know.”
She studies me for a long second, then smiles, wicked and warm all at once.
“But,” she adds, leaning back into the couch, “I am absolutely here for the bullshit nonetheless. You deserve something good. Just don’t let it cost you yourself.”
I smile again. Softer this time. “I won’t.”
She plucks at her guitar absently, eyes half-lidded.
?? “Said he cook for me on Sundays, said he listen when I speak, Say he don’t need me impressive, say he like me when I’m weak. Mm… gray sweatpants got me soft, Armani got me deep, Hope he knows the real test come when it ain’t sexy to be sweet.”??
I groan. “You are not writing about him already.”
She shrugs. “If the gray sweatpants fit…”
I laugh, sinking deeper into the couch, warmth blooming in my chest.
For the first time in a while, liking someone doesn’t feel like a liability.
It feels like a choice.
And Wynter sees it.
Among our distinguished graduates is a student who has exemplified academic excellence and scholarly achievement throughout their time here at our university…
The words echo, distant and ceremonial, like they’re coming through water.
Then—
Bam. Bam. Bam.
I jerk awake.
I’m slumped over my desk, cheek pressed to my laptop, drool forming a very un-academic puddle near my notes. My neck aches. My mouth’s dry. The sun’s barely up, and my last coherent thought involved Fourier transforms and the strong desire to launch my degree into Lake Michigan.
Another knock. Steady. Intentional.
I fumble for my glasses, blink at my phone.
7:03 a.m.
I throw the door open with annoyed force. Ready to cuss whoever the fuck is on the other side when—
August.
Hood up beneath a wool peacoat. Eyes tired. Hands full.
He looks like he hasn’t slept more than a handful of stitched-together hours, but when he sees me, he smiles like I’m the thing keeping him upright.
“Hey,” he says softly, lifting a drink carrier and a brown paper bag. “I brought coffee. Muffins. And… me.”
I stare. “Aren’t you supposed to be in—”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Red-eye back. Can’t stay long. Just wanted to see you before you disappeared into class and I disappeared into another city.”
I step aside without thinking.
He slips out of his sneakers like he belongs here, sets the coffee down, eyes sweeping the chaos of my living room. Notes everywhere. Books stacked sideways. Me, in pajama shorts, ribbed tank, bonnet still hanging on.
It’s not sexy.
The way he looks at me is.
“I’ve got forty-seven minutes,” he says, glancing at the microwave clock.
“Until…?”
He’s already closing the distance. Hands warm on my hips. Breath low against my ear.
“Until I have to leave,” he murmurs. “Think you can come before then?”
My pulse answers before I do.
And suddenly I’m being lifted, carried down the hall like he’s been counting the steps. No rush. No fumbling. Just intention.
He lays me back like the bed is sacred and I’m the offering.
He doesn’t hurry. Doesn’t grab.
Just looks at me for a long second, like this is exactly where he wants to be. Like this is what he flew home for.
When he leans in, it’s reverent. Devoted. The kind of attention that stills your whole body before it comes alive.
I gasp his name once.
That’s all it takes.
His mouth finds the sensitive skin just below my navel, and a tremor runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold. He kisses his way lower, lips warm, breath hot. The rough edge of his peacoat sleeve brushes my inner thigh and I flinch—just a little. A habit.
He stills.
Lifts his head. Meets my eyes.
“You with me?”
It’s not about consent. It’s about presence. About whether I’m here, in this room, with him—and not somewhere else, bracing for something that isn’t coming.
I nod, throat tight. “I’m here.”
"Watch me, mami, eyes on me."
He squeezes my thigh once, grounding, then lowers his head again. His hands don’t grab. They guide. He parts my legs gently, and the cool morning air hits skin already slick and aching for him. I don’t feel exposed.
I feel offered.
He starts slow—at my knee. The tip of his tongue traces a deliberate line up the inside of my thigh, unhurried, exact. My muscles quiver under the attention. Every inch he takes sharpens the ache between my legs, precise and demanding.
He hums when he reaches the apex of my thigh, a low note of approval against my skin. Noses into the curls there, breathing me in like he’s committing the moment to memory. My hips lift, silent, pleading.
“Despacio, mami,” he murmurs. “Quiero sentir cómo me respondes.”
The answer doesn’t come from my mouth. It comes from the way I don’t pull away.
When his mouth finally settles where I need it, it’s patient. Intentional. The flat of his tongue presses warm and sure, tasting, lingering, drawing it out until the need turns almost painful.
I grip the sheets, rocking toward him, nerves lighting one by one under the relentless attention. He hums softly, the vibration wrecking me, and I cry out his name before I can stop myself.
“August—”
He presses closer. Tongue firm now. Focused. He sets a rhythm that blurs my vision, easing off just enough, then returning, keeping me right on the edge without letting me fall.
The tension coils tight in my stomach. Too tight. I can’t think past it. Can’t breathe around it.
“Aaaah” I cry followed very quickly by my moans. "Shit."
“Ya sé,” he says softly, steady and sure.
He doesn’t rush. He stays right there, steady and sure, until my body finally gives in on its own.
It hits hard. Sudden. My whole body locks, then shatters, a sharp cry tearing out of me as the release rips through. He doesn’t pull away. He stays with me through it, tongue gentle now, coaxing, grounding—letting it pass instead of chasing more.
When I finally come back to myself, I’m boneless. Breathing hard. Spent in the best way.
He kisses my thigh, soft. Grateful.
“Good morning.” He chuckles into my hip.
“Talk about a head start,” I manage, breathy and blissed out.
We lie there after, August’s arms tucked under me like a pillow, his head resting in my lap as we catch our breath. The clock is louder now that it’s been acknowledged.
“How long this time?” I ask.
“Six days.”
“Basically forever.”
“I’ll call.”
“You always say that.”
“I always mean it.”
“I hate leaving like this,” he admits.
“Then don’t,” I whisper.
His smile turns soft and sad. “If I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t.”
So I let him hold me for the borrowed minutes we have left. Wrapped in coffee breath and warmth and the quiet kind of intimacy that lingers long after the door closes.
The last safe moment before the world comes back.