TWENTY-THREE: A Lot Has Changed Between Us

My pillows aren't this fluffy.

My sheets aren't nearly as soft as the ones kissing my bare skin.

Rubbing my face, I sit up in bed. I can tell that powerful rays of sunlight stream across my face before I've even opened my eyes. My room definitely doesn't get this much natural light.

It takes me opening my eyes and looking around the room to remember where I am, and even then, I can hardly believe it.

I'm in his bed.

I'm in Harlan's bed.

And I didn't even have sex in it. Sure, I've had sex virtually everywhere else, but last night, he'd carried me to bed like I'm something precious. Like I'm something to be cared for.

And if I didn’t know any better, it seems that Harlan wants to do just that.

I squint my eyes against the harsh sun as I pat the mattress next to me and feel the empty air above it. Harlan is gone. Which is more than likely fair. I have no idea what time it is.

Also, isn't it Tuesday? I don't have class until noon – actually, I have a class at 9, but it is a gen-ed, so who gives a fuck? I don't even know if Harlan would still be here.

I sling my bare legs over the side of the bed.

Where the hell are my clothes? I rack my brain as well as I can for someone who'd just woken up after a night lovemaking that is certainly a step or two above passionate. The last place I'd had sex is the study. And I wasn’t wearing any clothes when I'd arrived.

But the thought of trying to find my clothes suddenly becomes less and less important as I actually start to think back on last night. My cool fingers go to gently trail on my left cheek.

Right.

I hiss as I realize how much it still stings now that the sleepiness is wearing off.

I smile to myself as I begin going through his drawers until I find a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. I throw the top over my head and straighten it down my torso, watching the hem fall down past my hips and the V-neck collar hang low against my chest. It is too big for me, and I think about how it would fit tight and snug around his towering frame.

Grinning, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and head into the hallway and down the stairs to the kitchen, hoping he'd still be there.

And thankfully, he is.

Harlan stands at the kitchen island with a white, porcelain coffee mug in hand, eyeing a book that lies open on the counter. He wears his expensive-looking glasses with the clear rims and a suit fit for teaching. He looks as intense and as pointed as ever, even just standing in the middle of his kitchen drinking a coffee from his fancy espresso machine.

Probably because he is 6-foot-3 and never smiles, but still.

Jesus, every time I see the man just standing literally anywhere, he looks like he should be accompanied by Carl Orff's O, Fortuna.

His eyes flash up towards me when he hears my bare feet hit the hardwood floor.

"Good morning."

"What the hell?"

"Pleasure to see you too," he murmurs in response, bringing the mug to his lips.

"What time is it?" I ask him. "Where the hell's my phone?"

"Ten o'clock," he says, glancing down at his Rolex. "And I don't know."

Harlan turns around and presses a button on his fancy espresso machine before placing another mug under the dispenser and turning back to me. Is that man making me coffee?

A lot has changed between us in the past few days.