Eden

In her mind, a good teacher, for those above the age of ten, needed that mystical ability to connect with students. To coax them into that mindspace of feeling safe enough to make mistakes without imploding from embarrassment. To guide them gently. Completely. Warmly. To be someone, who was the same age as her peers, they liked. At least a little, otherwise their brains would auto-mute words like spam cells.

And to be fair, Mel was decent at reading emotions. She tried, earnestly and albeit a little awkwardly, but still consistently, to make people feel heard. Validation was practically a reflex by now. Plus, she was working toward her MD, and social skills weren’t exactly optional unless you wanted your bedside manner reviewed like a one-star motel or the sketchy diner that was two blocks away from her high school, where all of the kids went because they served alcohol to underaged teenagers.

It was that combination of self-awareness, mild optimism, and the promise of a very modest profit that convinced her to accept the offer to tutor first-year med students.

She would see her juniors after her rotations on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 5 to 7 P.M., giving her enough time to scramble back to her apartment with Becca in tow to make dinner (whatever was readily microwaveable), and help her sister to bed. Then, she would have the rest of her night to study or network or whatever it was she needed to do, and crash only to wake up before the Sun rose and do it all over again. And at the end of the month, she would have roughly an additional $360 to do whatever she needed with. An adjustment to her schedule, but she’d managed to intertwine it after a few weeks.

Turns out, the whole “teaching twenty-somethings thing” wasn’t the kryptonite she’d thought it would be. She was… surprisingly good at it. Maybe not in the connecting-on-a-deep-soul-level way, but her fellow students seemed comfortable enough around her. Relaxed-ish. No one cried. Importantly, they all passed their exams–some with grades that made Mel suspicious that they’d been underestimating themselves for months. So she talked herself into confidence, as she tended to do. Yes, she could do this. Make a little money, résumé-build, and refresh her own knowledge while helping others. A win-win-win situation. 

At least, until you.

You–arriving with your perfectly styled hair and those light pink ribbons that looked like they’d been tied by a benevolent woodland creature (did that even make sense?). You, wearing cardigans you’d crocheted yourself, as you informed her with a small, proud smile. Which felt illegal somehow because med students weren’t supposed to have time for hobbies, let alone aesthetic hobbies. You, who always smelled like you’d walked straight out of a bakery, warm vanilla and butter-soft sweetness trailing behind you like an olfactory hallucination. It was embarrassing how quickly Mel’s apartment accumulated vanilla bean candles after that.

It all was a little unbelievable to her, honestly. Because what kind of med student had the time for all of it? To be soft and strangely curated? Mel had once gone four days without washing her hair because she’d been trapped in a cycle of work-sleep-work-adrenaline. The idea of crocheting anything, other than her own nervous system, was laughable. But then she remembered that, one: not everyone had to support themselves and their sister, and two: you were being tutored for a reason.

And that reason, whatever it was, made Mel feel strangely determined. Maybe it was because the first time you showed up for a session, her heart had done a ridiculous, genuinely concerning shimmy-beat in her chest. Mel knew what attraction could do to a person–could ruin concentration, logic, and on top of it all: boundaries. But she was high-functioning, disciplined to a fault, and because of that, she forced herself to tunnel whatever strange dopamine release you stimulated into something useful. I.e., figuring out why you were struggling so she could fix it.

And, okay, maybe impress you a little bit. Get in your good graces. She wasn’t immune to human nature.

Not that you weren’t nice to her. That wasn’t it at all. Actually, that was the problem. You were nice in the way the warm pastries you smelled like are nice. Comforting, fragrant, and likely to make someone overindulge without noticing.

She knew that you listened to every word she said. Your body language gave you away every time: chin propped on your hand, leaning in by fractions like Mel was gravitational. How your eyes never strayed from her face. Which should’ve been illegal during study sessions because it made her stomach twist at the thought of looking away from notes and textbooks. And every time you arrived at the library, at the table towards the back corner the two of you had claimed, you would just talk to her about your day. About anything. How your sister kept trying to buy her cat t-shirts to help with whatever skin disease it had, how your anatomy professor pronounced “sternocleidmastoid” like he was trying to summon something, and the most recent episode of Love Island UK. And you would ask her questions too. Real questions. Ones about her rotations, her favorite coffee shops, and her sister. Talking for much longer than you should’ve, considering you were only supposed to have an hour slot with Mel. 

But when the inevitable moment hit–your startled glance at the time, your soft, “Shoot, I didn’t realize what time it was”–Mel could never bring herself to remind you about the overtime fee.

All she could say was: “It’s alright.” 

Because the smile you would give her each time was worth more than any amount of money you could’ve given her.

Which should’ve been the first warning sign (the neon billboard of warning signs), that Mel was willing to rearrange even the microscopic minutes of her schedule for you. That you spent more time talking about her than about biochemistry, which, in a tutoring context, was objectively unhinged behavior. 

“And you know I can’t stand it when my roommate hogs our washing machine, and all day yesterday it was like she was guarding it or something,” you ramble as Mel nervously glances at the clock on the far wall again. She’d only managed to get you to listen for twenty minutes before you’d found a way to get off-topic. “So,” you sigh, and the sound is so soft and dramatic that Mel’s eyes snap back to you like they’ve been tethered. “I had to wear this sweater, and it’s cute, yeah, but feel it– Here.” You extend your arm to her. 

Mel’s gaze flicks from your outstretched arm to your face, then back to the arm. When she hesitates too long, which is a poor habit she’s developed around you, you retract your arm. “It’s really rough. Probably best that you didn’t touch it anyway–”

“Um, sorry, but did you need help with epigenetics?” she asks, stumbling over her words a little as she busies her hands with the notes in front of her. “Lots of first-years struggle with that topic in Dr. Barnes’s class…” Mel can’t look at you. She just… cannot. If she does, she’ll get sucked into your orbit again, nodding and listening and pretending like you didn’t make her heart melt in her chest cavity.

On track, stay on track.

She repeats the mantra again and again like it’s going to convince her of something.

There’s a soft shuffle as you adjust in your seat. “I guess,” you mumble, and she instantly worries that she said the wrong thing.

“Okay,” she offers, gentling her voice into something steady. “I really do love listening to your stories with your roommate, she sounds… interesting, but I want to make sure you feel prepared for your upcoming exam.” Good, that was good. Professional. Back to teacher-mode that still hadn’t figured out why you were struggling in this class.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mel watches as you sit up a little straighter, your loosely-curled hair falling over your shoulders effortlessly and in a way that looks much softer than your sweater. “Me too,” you reply, and, thank goodness, you don’t sound upset. Which is enough for Mel to make eye contact with you again. 

But all of a sudden, you look so uninterested again.

“Go ahead,” you say softly, even though your tiny, reassuring smile doesn’t make the dimple on the left side of your mouth appear, the one that she waits for. You click your pen once. Twice. “I’m listening.”

There were at least a thousand better ways of trying to pursue someone than whatever ritualized self-sabotage you were currently performing. For the sake of your time, your GPA, the sake of your dwindling checking account. Your soft and already overtaxed psyche. Add an ellipsis, and the universe would happily keep listing reasons until the heat death. 

But you’d always been a bit of a hopeless romantic. That embarrassing evolutionary quirk that was recessive in most populations, but apparently dominant in you. The books, the movies, the daydreams, all of it, was something that crowded your inner ecosystem early on, building little shrines in your neural pathways. The trait had become a determining factor in the fabrication of your personality. Some people said it made you naïve or too much of an idealist, but you were a firm believer that it just made you more interesting. That it let you throw yourself fully into things whenever you met someone new, because this could be the one. Your brain loved that phrase, fed it like a pet.

And sure, that had happened maybe one too many times, but this was different. It really was, while your heart was a repeat offender, you felt it in your bones. That she was the one. Your bones said so, and they are usually quiet, reserved things. They knew it from the first time you saw Melissa King during the office hours of your biochem class–when she drifted in to ask Dr. Barnes about research she was helping him conduct, all focused precision and sunlight-in-a-labcoat energy. The moment practically rang like a tuning fork. The stars had aligned. 

A bit deterring that she didn’t remember you from that moment when you first came to her for tutoring, but you were determined. 

If that wasn’t clear enough from the fact that you did not actually need help with biochem. In truth, you loved biology. Chemistry, not-so-much, like an unpleasant acquaintance you’d learned to make polite eye contact with, but with biology it was a bit better. As an undergraduate, you passed all of your science-related classes with mostly flying colors. 

But Mel didn’t need to know that. 

So, a month after your first session with her, you were more than happy to nestle yourself in the farthest-back corner of the library. Your baby pink scarf folded expertly around your neck to look almost copy-and-paste to a Pinterest post, and in front of you: two travel trays of coffee from Mel’s favorite café. An offering. A bribe. A caffeinated cry for attention. A little overkill, but you only knew the structural backbone of her preferences. Oak milk and cinnamon syrup and hot, not iced. So, naturally, you bought every drink on the menu with those two things. In small, though. Because you are thoughtful and fiscally irresponsible in equal measure. 

The receipt burned in your coat pocket, but you couldn’t help it.

But now, when Mel approaches, her hazel eyes widening just a fraction (she was always early, you had to be earlier), you felt a little stupid. 

“Are there more people joining us?” she asks, voice as gentle as always and, like always, it’s enough to tug at some sensitive organ behind your ribs.

You shake your head. “No, but on Tuesday you said that you were doing overnight rotations for the first time and, I don’t know, I feel like I waste so much of your time, so I wanted to get you coffee.” It all spilled out, clumsy and too fast. Rambling, sure, but it makes Mel’s cheeks pinken. Or maybe that was the cold. The tiny smile that lifts the corners of her lips, though, isn’t weather-induced. That lessens the anxiety of potentially overdoing it, but only slightly. “And… I wanted to get your order right, but then I saw how many cinnamon drinks they had–”

“No!” she cuts in quickly, gently, the way you were used to. “No, I really appreciate it. This is really kind of you to do.” 

You thought romantic fit a little better, but then you remembered that Mel didn’t necessarily know your intentions. 

“Did you pay for all of this?” she asks.

“I… had a coupon.” Which is a lie that survives exactly one nod from her before collapsing under your conscience like a wet cardboard box.  “I–” You take a deep breath. “Yes, I did pay for all of it. Without a coupon.”

Her frown is small but incredibly efficient. Her eyes widened again, that soft hazel alarm system she carried around in her skull.  “Can I pay you back?”

You nearly laughed, just a tiny exhale of disbelief, as your fingers worked at the knot of your scarf. “No. This is a thank you for putting up with me.”

“I don’t– ‘Put up’ with you,” Mel says quickly, hands still tucked in her coat pockets. Her expressions stayed wide-eyed and soft, a kind of gentle sincerity you were helpless against. “And you don’t waste my time, either. You get off track sometimes, but it’s nice listening to you.”

“You think I’m nice to listen to?” Mel opens her mouth, then closes it–faltering in the same way your heart did when the words left her. “I think you’re nice to listen to too,” you continue quietly, glancing down at the coffee as you smile to yourself. 

Your scarf becomes a pastel heap atop your bag. Your coat follows. Mel, in a burst of something eager and endearing, rushes to sit next to you. “You have a very nice voice. And the way you tell stories is animated and makes them fun to listen to,” she says, voice lowered like yours. Eyes on the coffee like yours. Smile on her lips like yours.

Good planning on your part.

Mel doesn’t mention the logistical impossibility of drinking all these coffees alone, though you could see the calculation behind her eyes. Instead, she picks one up, looking at the order written on the slip of paper stuck to the side of the cup. 

“We don’t have to–”

“Tell me what the monosaccharide make up in these coffees is,” she interrupts, and dread coils in your chest, “and how it would affect the chemical circulation in your body.”

A frustrated grumble almost leaves you. 

Right back to tutor-mode.

You’d more or less accepted that you were never going to see any other version of Mel than the sunshine-in-scrubs version–the happy-go-lucky, frighteningly intelligent one who handled anatomy in a way that was envious to most. Which you would’ve been fine with, that aspect of her was your favorite, if you weren’t halfway to being in love with her after what amounted to a handful of tutoring sessions and a concerning number of cinnamon beverages. 

Nothing in your life had ever been as easy as falling for Mel. Which, by the laws of cosmic balance, should have meant there had to be some kind of drawback, right? Very much wrong. 

She was never impatient with you, even when your “mistakes” were as intentional as a cat knocking things off a counter. She never made you feel stupid. Her sense of humor, when she let it peek out from behind her mentor mask, had you in stitches. And you were starting to suspect she was happy all the time, which seemed biologically implausible. No human maintains a constant emotional temperature. Not even Mel. 

You thought that maybe the first emotion she would showcase to you, other than happiness, would be frustration. Mild annoyance, at least. Instead, it was panic.

Her phone had already buzzed once during this session. She’d silenced it immediately, murmuring something like, “Sorry, I thought I muted that,” in the same tone someone might use to apologize for bumping into you. But then it rang again, mid-explanation of metabolism and genetic disorders. A small frown tugs at her lips as you fiddle with your pen, and when she manages to wrestle the device out of her pocket, you see the jolt of worry pass through her hazel irises. 

“Do you mind if I take this?” 

You quickly shake your head, extending your arms in front of you. “No, no, not at all,” your voice fades softly as she answers the call, lifting her phone to her ear. You try not to notice how she doesn’t leave the table.

“Hey, Becca,” Mel says, same gentle tone, but with something threaded underneath, something heavier, quieter. Immediately, you busy yourself with scanning over your notebook and doodling with your pen over the page. Anything to imply you were not listening, even though you very much were.

Becca, Mel’s sister. Right. You knew of her, but Mel hadn’t told you much about her.

Ink spirals into another spiral in the margin of the page. You can’t hear what Becca says, but you see the way Mel’s brows knit together, delicate, little stitches forming between her eyes. A few more moments pass and you watch the way Mel processes whatever Becca’s saying, somewhat giving up on pretending you’re not paying attention to her micro-expressions. Then, Mel nods to herself, shifting in her seat as she reaches for her coat with her free hand.

“Okay, alright. I’ll be there as soon as I can, Becca–” she cuts herself off, probably because Becca says something else. “I-I’m not sure what time, I’ll try to catch the next bus– 20 minutes,” Mel finally settles on, voice quickening in the way only anxiety would influence. And that’s when you start moving as well, packing up your pens and highlighters back into your floral print pencil bag. “I know you’re capable of taking care of things, but try not to touch anything else so you don’t get hurt. Okay, bye. I love you.”

And then she hangs up, eyes immediately finding where you’re zipping your bag shut and moving to stand, coat draped over your arm.  

“I’m really sorry, it’s an emergency…” she began, but you were already shaking your head, soft and instinctive, like brushing away dust.

“Don’t worry at all,” you say gently, shouldering your bag higher so it doesn’t slip off your arm. “Um, did you say you were going to try to catch the next bus?”

Mel nods as she stands, shrugging her coat on with hurried, fluttery movements. “The blue route for the campus bus, yes,” she confirms. “Next one comes in hopefully the next ten minutes, so–”

“I can drive you,” you blurt before you can stop yourself. 

Her eyebrows tilt up at the inner corners and the urge to kiss the two little creases that appear, both impulsive and horrifying, surges through you. Instead, you swallow the urge to tuck into yourself and hide at the offer. “I mean– I know those buses aren’t super reliable and that sounded… important.”

The furrow disappears and you mentally facepalm again.

“Not that I was eavesdropping."

Mel graciously chooses not to comment on that particular lie. “I have to go help my sister. She was doing something with the stove– cooking, actually, and she said that it started beeping and she couldn’t turn it off,” Mel pauses to take a deep breath. “I’ve been trying to get her used to making dinner since I’ll be gone on night rotations and I’m just really hoping that the beeping isn’t the fire alarm.”

You nod, scrambling to search for your keys in your bag. A strange, fragile warmth flickers through you. Part of you can’t believe she’s willing to tell you this much, considering how set she usually is on keeping you on task, but then you remember she’s not technically tutoring you right now. Loopholes in her professionalism.

“I’m parked right outside the library if you want me to… you know.”

You regretted the phrasing immediately.

You hate that she hesitates.

“If that’s alright–” 

You cut her off with a sharp nod, already stepping past her toward the exit with the momentum of someone who refused to give her a chance to decline. She mumbles something under her breath, but then her soft footsteps flutter after you, warm against the hush of the library carpet.

Out the double doors, the sun was already mostly set, part of the charm that was late January weather that also made the sky all purples and blues. You press your coat closer to your chest like it’ll do something to prevent your ribs from rattling in the cold. Brisk walk, keys out, your car chirping its hello before you’ve even fully reached it. The cold is quick to seep into your bones, nosy and unapologetic, and you clamber into the driver’s seat while making sure the passenger's side is open for Mel. A quick pat-down for phone, wallet, keys (your ritual), and then the engine rumbles to life.

“Did you put your seatbelt on?” 

There’s a tiny (almost offended) noise that slips out of you at that, and of course, the strap decides to seize up when you try to yank it across your chest. “Thought this was an emergency?”

“Well– It is, but you’re three times more likely to get injured if we crash.”

You smile at that, something warm flickering against the cold. “Have some faith in my driving skills.”

“It’s the law–”

“Address?” You cut in, and when your eyes flick to the rearview mirror you catch a sliver of her expression: lips pressed tight, worry sharpening the shape of her mouth. You nearly giggle, but then you remind yourself you have to get her to her sister. Urgency. Focus.

“I can give directions while you drive,” Mel says, already leaning slightly forward like her willingness alone will propel the car. So you reverse, ease out of the library lot, and follow her quiet, steady instructions.

The drive settles into a mostly silent rhythm–click of a turn signal, the occasional “left here,” her nerves humming like a low-voltage field between the two of you. Eight minutes, maybe less, before you pull into the lot of her apartment complex. Car off. Doors open. You fall into step behind her, trailing through the lobby’s stale heater air. It’s only when you’re both standing in front of the elevator, Mel rocking back and forth on her toes with her hands buried in her coat pockets and her gaze fixed somewhere too far ahead do you realize that she didn’t invite you to come with her.

You glance back over your shoulder at the doors that lead back into the parking lot. Would it be more awkward to leave now or follow her all the way up? You don’t have time to decide when the elevator dings quietly, signaling the arrival of the lift. As the doors open, Mel doesn’t hesitate to enter, turning to face you as you stand frozen for a moment. 

“Can I?”

Mel jolts a little, like your voice bumped into her shoulder. “Y-Yeah, sure,” she breathes, shuffling to the side, clearing space for you like it’s permission to view one of the most intimate parts of her life. You slip into the elevator just before the doors yawn shut, close enough that the warmth radiating off her arm could be mistaken for contact. It isn’t, technically. But your skin beneath your cardigan can feel the idea of it.

The ride up to her floor is brief and hushed. Quieter than the drive to her apartment, like the metal box swallowed all the spare words.

When the doors slide back open, Mel’s already halfway down the hallway before you figure out which way to turn out of the landing. Quick to move, quick to get her keys out, quick in a way that can only be shaped by purpose. But even rushed, her hand is steady enough to fit the key into the lock and twist on the first try, nudging the door open and leaving you to enter after her. 

“Becca?” Mel calls. And there it is–the rhythmic, insistent beeping you’d overheard Becca and her discussing, spiking the air with an almost anxious pulse.

Carefully, you close the door behind you, keeping your coat draped over one arm as you take in the entryway of the apartment. A shoe rack sits to your left beside a closet that probably contains coats and other winter wear. And despite the sight, Mel had kept her shoes on, so you do as well. Shuffling in the direction she went, you let your gaze skim the room as you go, taking in the cozy environment of the small space that held a sense of careful curation. The gray L-shaped couch that wore an assortment of throw blankets made from fabrics that somehow managed to look both fuzzy and silky at the same time. The small fireplace is on and tossing out a soft amber glow. And along the mantle and walls: pictures. Mel and Becca throughout the years, stitched into the living room like a timeline.

In the kitchen, the beeping cuts off right as you lean your head around the doorway, like it was waiting for an audience before dying pathetically. Next to the stove, Mel’s standing with a girl a little shorter than her, ponytail neat, posture alert. Their voices are low, not secretive but close-knit, so you step fully into the room and clear your throat, a tiny sound just to say “Hey, I exist”. Mel glances back at you. Something in her face has unspooled, not relaxed exactly, but less taut with worry. A loosening of some invisible thread.

“Oh– Becca,” she says, looking back to her sister. “This is my…” Her voice fades, like she doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. And you couldn’t blame her, truthfully. You definitely weren’t just her student, that felt… wrong to say. But could you be considered friends? If she weren’t so caught up in making sure everything stayed professional, without a doubt. But considering how she was hesitating to call you a friend, told you everything you needed to know. “My–”

You step in gently, offering your name and cutting the fraying thread before it snaps. You aim a small smile at Becca, a small hint of nervousness coursing through you. “I like your glasses.”

“Thank you,” Becca chirps, the pitch of her voice slightly higher than Mel’s but just as enthusiastic. “Are you the reason she got here so quickly?”

You nod, grin holding steady. “I drove her, yeah. Everything okay with the oven?”

“Mel showed me that I was pressing the wrong button to turn off ‘pre-heat’.”

“Ah,” you murmur, nodding like you’re trying to signal solidarity, domestic struggles are universal. You sneak a glance at Mel out of the corner of your eye, just checking the temperature. If she was okay with you talking with Becca like this. Her face doesn’t give anything away, strangely, or maybe everything. “Happens,” you settle on, shrugging slightly. “When I was learning how to make bread, it would never rise because I would only let it rest for four hours instead of eight.”

Becca nods, mirroring your earlier action. “What kind of bread?”

“Sourdough,” you reply, thumb brushing the fabric of your coat draped over your arm. “I’m sensitive to gluten, so normal bread makes my stomach hurt.”

Her eyes widen, earnest curiosity. “Can you still have pizza?” 

You let out a small laugh–light, involuntary. “I can, yeah. I can still have bread and dough, but my stomach can’t digest a type of carbohydrate called fructans, so it makes my stomach hurt,” you explain. You can feel someone’s gaze settle on you. Not heavy, just aware. “So sourdough is better, because it has less of those fructans.”

“You should make some for us sometime,” Becca declares, like it’s already been decided.

“I would…” you start, gaze flicking over to Mel again, just to make sure you’re not overstepping. She nods, simple and quiet, and the smile that comes with it hits you like a small shove to the chest. Your own smile breaks open, unguarded. “Love to. I would love to.”

“And you should stay for dinner. I’m making pizza,” Becca adds, pivoting the offer toward you with zero hesitation. Instinctively, you look at Mel again. 

She blinks once, and you can practically see the way the gears are turning in her brain as she processes what Becca offered. “I have to leave for my rotations at eight, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to–”

“No,” you cut in, maybe a little too fast, but sincerity rushes out of you before her caution can build momentum. “I would like that very much.” 

It lands in the space between you with a warmth that feels almost fragile.

You glance toward the entryway, then back to her. “Should I put my shoes by the front door?”

Things shift after that dinner in the King apartment. Not in a dramatic, plates-rattling-off-the-shelves way, but in a quieter sense. In a warmer sense.

Mel seemed more open. Permeable, almost. Like whatever membrane she kept between “tutor Mel” and “Mel with thoughts that didn’t revolve around school and maybe some insecurities” got a small, polite tear in it. Which you took as a good sign. That dinner with her and Becca led you to see her in a different way, to see a different side of her. Still as happy and sweet as she’d always been, but a barrier had been broken down for her to be more comfortable. Becca spoke quite a bit, but so had Mel (both of them could really talk), and once she got going, she could fill a room with words like steam, warm and a little disorienting. You hadn’t said much, but you’d laughed. Loudly. Maybe even a little embarrassingly. Smiled until your cheeks felt like overworked muscles. You felt at home. Dangerously at home.

And the fact that the tutoring session that followed the next Tuesday, she acted the same as she had at the dinner. No awkwardness, no shifting back to that profession “tutor” frame of mind. Which you, being a rational adult with a functioning prefrontal cortex (questionable), took as a sign of encouragement.

So by Thursday, you decide to test things again. Ask Mel to meet you somewhere else. Send her the address to a café on campus so she wouldn’t have to spiral into transportational logistics. And you deliberately leave your notebooks in your apartment. 

“You grabbed the wrong bag?” Mel asks, standing next to the table you’d chosen, the coffee shop mostly empty in the late afternoon. Just the two of you, the hum of the espresso machine and the occasional ghost of a milk frother. Her confusion behind her glasses almost makes you giggle. You felt a little bad, sure, maybe you were wasting some of her time, but the guilt was manageable when it came to the itch of wanting her unshared attention. That high from the previous week of quality interaction without books in front of you being something you were chasing.

“I was in a rush, I thought I was going to be late,” you lie halfheartedly. If you can even call that flimsy sentence a “lie”.

Mel tilts her head slightly as her eyebrows furrow.

“Is that why you wanted to meet somewhere else too?”

You don’t know what to say for a moment. Then, “I needed… a change of scenery.” Which is technically true, if “change of scenery” included not sitting five inches from her face while pretending you were more interested in glycolysis than her face.

She goes quiet. Then, she sits, placing her own bag on the floor next to her chair. 

“We’ll just have to find other ways to apply concepts to hypothetical scenarios then.”

“Or,” you try, attempting to redirect her mental train tracks away from biochemistry and back toward you. “We could order a hot coffee and then go to that winter market event the art department is having.” Finishing the offer with a tiny smile, barely a twitch of your lips, Mel’s eyebrows crease again.

“What does that have to do with biochemistry?”

Okay. So maybe she was converting back to the tutor persona.

“I’ve been studying all day. And you should do something fun before your rotations tonight,” you point out, sliding the words to her carefully, like offering an easily startled deer a handful of grass. “We can do one loop around whatever stalls they have up and then go back to the library or wherever and do some review.” At this point, your desire to spend time with her is outweighing your desire to appear relaxed and non-pushy. “Please? It’s only a five-minute walk from here.”

Mel exhales, soft and resigned, and you have to stop yourself from grinning. “Okay, but we should be back at the library in half an hour.” 

“Good enough for me,” you agree quickly, taking what you can get as you stand to order.

Thankfully, the drinks come out quickly, you having ordered a hot tea and Mel a coffee to hopefully help her begin to energize for the rest of her night. Both are steaming, but the warmth is welcome against your palms as you step outside. The café door shuts behind you with the jingle of a little bell that sounds far too cheerful for the level of emotional turbulence you’re experiencing. You fall into step side by side. Close. Again, close enough to almost brush arms. Close enough to feel like an accident.

The wind nudges at you again, brushing your hair back. It’s brisk, still cold thanks to the year shifting into early February, but you welcome it. It helps cool your cheeks, which are doing their best impression of a space heater thanks to Mel existing in a three-foot radius. 

The path to the winter market winds past the art building, whose windows glow dimly with the aura of warmth. And then the first string lights come into view–soft, slightly mismatched bulbs strung haphazardly between temporary poles. The whole thing looks like someone’s well-intentioned attempt to summon whimsy using only extension cords. But it’s still sweet. Stalls line the small courtyard: tables draped in mismatched cloths that display handmade ceramics, candles that all have names like “snowbound reverie” and “forest melancholy no 7”, and crocheted hats in various colors. The air smells like cinnamon and melted wax.

Mel slows, her eyes wide behind her glasses. Not overwhelmed, you hope, just taking it all in. Part of you almost takes her free hand to tug her along. But you don’t. “This is… very colorful,” she says finally.

You laugh, soft. “Yeah. I think that’s the point.” 

You walk a little further in, the lights reflecting off her glasses as the cold turns your breath into small, white ghosts that vanish as soon as they appear. The two of you weave through the little crowd, and for the first time in a while, you feel unburdened. Light, almost buoyant. Mel’s shoulder brushes yours once, probably accidental. But she doesn’t move away. So you don’t either.

“You know,” she starts again, out of nowhere, and you lift your tea to your lips to take another sip. “Becca really liked having you stay for dinner last week.”

Your eyes widen a fraction, surprise blooming in your chest like an ill-framed timework. “Really?” This time, Mel’s the one who laughs softly, the sound unbearably gentle.

“Yeah, she thinks you’re funny.” In an attempt to hide your smile, you take another sip, letting the liquid warm your throat. “I liked having you there too,” she adds, quieter. “It’s been just Becca and me for so long and… I think I forgot a little about what it’s like to have another friend.”

Friend.

The word lands in your stomach with the emotional equivalent of an anvil while your heart stutters like it’s buffering.

“I had a good time,” you manage. “Becca’s amazing.”

Mel lets out another little huff of a laugh, her free hand tucking into her pocket. “She’s the best,” she agrees, but you can hear the not-so-subtle question lingering: “What about me?” You inhale slowly, your attempt at being steady.

“And you know I like spending time with you too.”

Mel’s head snaps toward you. “You do?” she asks, the question so full of hope that it makes your chest squeeze. When you look at her, her face is lifted in the way that only occurs when people are in slight disbelief.

You simply nod. “What do you think this is?” Mel blinks before glancing around at the stalls you’re slowly passing. The string lights. The hand-knit scarves and hats. “This is me,” you say gently, “trying to spend time with you.”

It might be the wind, but you think you hear her breath hitch.

She says your name suddenly. “Would you… want to come over for dinner again? With Becca and me?” Mel pauses, then adds, in a rush, “If you want. Only if you want.”

A bitter laugh almost leaves you. “I want,” you joke and confirm at the same time, but in your head you know: I want you.

Mel doesn’t know what she’s doing. She never has, not when it comes to you. But lately or now or however long this has been happening, she’s begun to suspect she’s gone about all of this entirely wrong. Or maybe too right. Because seeing you in her space every week, laughing with Becca in the kitchen, coaxing actual food out of her stove, tucking yourself into the corner of her couch like you’ve always belonged there–it’s all grown too domestic for her heart to handle.

Her fifth and final week of OB/GYN rotations was looming, hopefully with the prize of a brief reprieve from the schedule of overnight shifts. A break she desperately needed. But for now, she would have to settle with one of her few sacred nights off. Which she was still working. Still working, but quieter. Trading patient chaos for helping Dr. Barnes tie up loose ends of a research project.

And it happened to fall on a Thursday. Your Thursday, with one of the dinners you’d both somewhere along the line stopped pretending anything about was remotely related to tutoring. It was a Thursday, which meant you had come over for dinner as usual. So you’d eaten together, and now, she was letting you stay with Becca while she wrapped things up. Which meant she’d be coming home to you. Walking into her space and finding you there already, warm and waiting. 

Not exactly conducive to staying focused. Not when she was trying to finish this summary quickly. Efficiently. Efficiently and still quality work that wouldn’t make Barnes sigh at her tomorrow.

But efficiency became harder with every line she typed. Her fingers moved while her brain dutifully tried to follow, but her thoughts kept slipping. Kept skimming back to you, drawn like they always were.

To how tutoring had quietly shifted, week by week, to be less about notes and material and more about lingering dinners. Shared smiles. Soft moments that felt suspiciously like dates if she considered them for too long.

Which she couldn’t do.

The thing was, Mel had suspected you knew what you were doing in the easiest first-year course after the first session. Your first interaction with Becca weeks ago was what had confirmed it.

She had been trying to figure out a way to bring it up ever since, but every solution she came up with fell short. Too blunt, too awkward, too likely to make you feel embarrassed or guilty. And Mel didn’t want you to feel either of those things. Partly because they were just awful things to feel, and partly because she didn’t want to ruin whatever was going on between the two of you. 

Because it was what she’d been hoping for, for longer than she’d ever admit out loud.

“How’s it going, kid?” 

Mel startles, looking up as Dr. Barnes materializes beside her table. She forces her mind to settle back into the present and manages a small smile. “Good. I’m almost done.”

He nods, warm and approving, the corners of his mouth lifting in the gentle way that always made her feel like she was doing better than she thought. She hesitates. Her pulse stutters. Then, before she can overthink it, “Actually, I have a question about one of your students–” She gives him your name. First and last.

The look of recognition flickers through the silver-haired man’s eyes. “Ah, yes. Nice girl. Always in office hours, even though she’s got one of the strongest brains I’ve seen in years.” He chuckles, “Watch out, she might be trying for your research position.”

Mel almost smiles, because the project is practically finished and he knows it, but the idea of you chasing her spot warms something in her chest strangely.

“I tutor her, actually,” Mel says and the man nods.

“You tutor her? Hm,” he hums, but he doesn’t seem to think much of it. “What was your question again?”

Mel swallows. This shouldn’t feel like going behind your back, but it does.

“I was just wondering if you had anything you’ve noticed about her performance in your class,” Mel finally manages to get out. “I know you have a decent number of students, so if you haven’t, that’s totally fine.”

She knew the answer already.

Dr. Barnes considers the question, brows knitting faintly as he thinks. Mel’s fingertips drift over the keys, skimming the familiar ridges, tapping out a nervous rhythm she can’t control. Finally, he shakes his head.

“Nothing of concern,” he says, “Honestly, I’m a little surprised she’s in tutoring.” A soft laugh. “But she does more than keep up. Reminds me of you a bit.”

Mel drops her gaze to the glow of the laptop screen. The spreadsheet of data blurs, words bleeding into one another. How was she supposed to bring this up to you without it negatively affecting you? Without unraveling the first thing she’s wanted for herself in a long time?

“Goodness, it’s almost 12:30,” Dr. Barnes comments, checking the time, but Mel barely registers it. The last thing she wanted to do was push you away in any way, and now, she was worried that if she said something, you would be too embarrassed to speak to her again. “Didn’t realize it got so late. Sorry for keeping you, kid.” 

It takes her a moment, but she finally tears her eyes from the screen, clearing her throat as she closes the laptop gently, almost reverently. “Yeah, um… I’m gonna head home for the night.”

Home.

Home to you.

You don’t realize you’d fallen asleep on the couch until Mel wakes you.

The living room is dim except for the soft lamp Mel insists “doesn’t give her headaches,” and outside, it’s the kind of winter darkness that feels heavy, full-bodied. It’s been that way since you arrived at her apartment for dinner with her and Becca. But it tells you that you hadn’t been asleep long between helping Becca to bed and waiting for Mel to come back. There’s also something telling in the fact that your body chose her apartment as a place to shut down. Something you definitely won’t be admitting out loud. At least, not yet. Unless you wanted to spontaneously combust on her plush beige rug.

You jolt slightly when her hand gently rubs your shoulder, warm and careful in that Mel-way that always makes your chest go oddly tight. Your eyes flutter open, the world coming back to you as the sleep slowly melts from your brain. For a moment, you don’t remember where you are. And then you see Mel.

Her green-rimmed glasses over her tired hazel-colored eyes, facial features soft with something that you could only describe as a mix between exhaustion and comfort. Hair down. That tiny mark beneath her right eye. You’re used to your brain getting the urge to kiss her face no matter the state it’s in, so you’re not surprised when your gaze lingers on the little freckle longer than necessary. Longer than appropriate, if that was possible.

Your mouth goes dry.

“Sorry,” you say, voice thick with sleep as you push yourself to sit up with one hand, the other coming to rub at your own eyes. “Didn’t mean to… fall asleep.” The offer sounds lame, but it’s the truth. “What time is it?”

Mel’s eyes don’t leave yours.

“I think almost one,” she answers. That habit of matching your tone like it’s instinct. It sends warmth through you and under your skin–your body reacting before your mind can catch up. “Is Becca asleep?”

You nod, small and slow, keeping yourself propped up and sitting on your left hip as you look up at her. This feels intimate. Dangerously so, with only the little table lamp glowing from the far end of the couch. The room is dim enough that the edges blur a little. “Yeah,” you breathe, still half-dazed from the way she’s looking at you. “How’d the research go?”

“Good, always good.” Her hands remain at her sides. Not clasping each other like they usually do, not fidgeting. Just there. Open. Unguarded. It sends a ripple of warmth down your spine. “Were you wearing that when you got here?”

You blink. “Hm? Oh–” You glance down at yourself. At her jacket you’d zipped over your bra after accidentally knocking the rest of your wine onto your top while talking animatedly with Becca. It’s barely oversized on you, smelling faintly of Mel’s detergent, and you feel suddenly, achingly exposed. “Spilled wine on me after you left. My top’s drying in the sink…” You trail off, noting the dilation of her pupils. Her gaze dips and flickers before she drags it back to your face.

“I didn’t think–”

“It’s alright,” Mel cuts in quickly. “We’re… friends.”

Oh.

That word again. You feel it like a thumb pressed too hard to a bruise.

“Yeah,” you whisper, voice barely there. “Yeah, and it’s late so I should probably get going.” 

You don’t move.

Mel doesn’t look away from you. 

“Can I ask you a question?” You nod again as your breathing goes shallow, uneven. “Why’ve you been asking me to tutor you for this long?”

Your heart almost stops in your chest. Stutters then slams.

“I… don’t follow,” you try, but it’s pathetic. Unconvincing, because your voice gives you away immediately with how thin and shaky it sounds to your own ears. You’d already proven how horrible you were at lying to Mel. And while those had been over small things, nothing you say could hold up when her eyes turn slightly pleading.

“Please be honest with me.”

Fuck.

A long breath leaves your parted lips and you have to break eye contact with her. “What did Dr. Barnes say?”

Mel hesitates, just long enough for you to see the way her thoughts flicker across her face, fighting to stay contained. “Dr. Barnes didn’t say anything,” she finally confesses, and fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Embarrassment curls heavy in your stomach where warmth had been residing from being so close to her. You had been so close and now she probably thought you were crazy for joining tutoring just to get close to her. 

“You figured it out,” you manage, pressing a hand over your eyes as if that could shield you from the humiliation crawling up your throat. “I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t–”

Lips press to yours.

Your brain blanks, violently, like a switch flipped. Every muscle in your body forgets what it’s supposed to do. Your heart forgets how to beat. The apology dies on your lips the second they touch Mel’s. Sudden, yet shockingly sure.

She pulls back only after a moment, but you’re frozen, breath shaking, hand still over your face.

And then she touches you.

Not rushed. Not greedy. Just that careful, unbearably gentle way she has, fingers finding the back of your hand and curling around it, coaxing it down from your eyes. You let her. You can’t not. She drags your hand down slowly, slow enough that you’re forced to look at her, your eyes forced to take in the hazel of hers blown wide with nerves, and– God, you were going to go into cardiac arrest.

By the time your hand lowers past your chin, you’re already leaning in–and maybe she is too, you can’t tell, can’t separate your want from hers–and then you’re kissing her again. Deeper. Harder. 

Again, your body reacts before your mind catches up, chasing the warmth of her mouth, the tension that finally snaps between you as she meets you with equal force. 

You honestly can’t remember who moved first.

But then her fingers are slipping up to hold your jaw and the moment her palm settles, all warm and steady and you melt and you don’t care about who started it anymore. The kiss deepens in a way that feels dangerous to you, like a line’s been crossed that you can never step back from. But you don’t think to pull away because you can’t think you can only feel. And Mel isn’t trying to retreat either. If anything, she leans in harder, like she’s finally letting herself have something she’s been holding back from for far too long.

Your hands find her waist without thinking. Heat beneath the fabric of her shirt, the gentle curve of her hip, and you feel her breath catch against your mouth. Just a sound, barely there, but it shoots straight through you.

“Mel,” you hear yourself whisper against her lips, but you’re not sure if it’s a question or a plea.

She presses her forehead to yours, breathing hard, her thumb stroking your cheek like she’s trying to convince herself that you’re there. Her glasses have slipped slightly down her nose, and for some reason, that sight has something twisting in your chest, painfully tender.

“I didn’t know how to ask, because it didn’t make sense and I–” she pauses, voice low enough to clue you to her probably being out of breath. “I was just hoping…”

She doesn’t have to finish the thought for you to know.

That it was real.

“I didn’t want to make things weird,” you manage, though your hand is still on her waist and once again, neither of you has moved. “I didn’t want to ruin– whatever this is.”

Her laugh is soft, almost disbelieving, almost relieved. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

And then she kisses you again. Slower this time, deeper in a different way, like she’s savoring it, like she’s savoring you. Her fingers slip into your hair and your entire body lights up at the contact. When she finally pulls back, her lips are swollen, her breathing uneven, and she looks at you in a way you’ve never seen her look at anything before.

“This is real now,” you whisper to her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Very real.” And that truth settles over both of you heavy and certain, a little terrifying in the way a sudden drop in elevation is terrifying.

Real enough that she’d herded you into her bed before either of you got too carried away on the couch cushions. Real enough that her sheets are currently trying to swallow you whole, and her jacket, your temporary emotional support garment, is folded neatly beside your pink bra (which earned zero surprise, just an amused little hum like she was saying “of course you would”) on the bench at the end of her bed. Real enough that your stupid, addictive vanilla scent has climbed onto her skin like a parasite, hitching a ride onto the fabric beneath you, into the heat of her breath, onto her mouth as she leaves a constellation of kisses across your chest.

“How many sessions did we have where you asked me questions you already knew the answer to?” she murmurs, mouth pressed to the swell of your breast, voice vibrating against your skin. Her tongue traces around your areola and you make a sound–thin, needy, the kind of sound you’d deny letting slip later.

And really, you don’t have the energy, or want, to lie to her anymore. Too soft and warm and breathless for that now.

“All of them.” Your back arches off the mattress when she closes her lips around your nipple, just for a moment, just enough to rewire several important neural pathways. Relief threatens to bloom into something overwhelming, but she’s already moving. Of course she is. Mel, generous as always, would not let you die instantly from pleasure. Instead, she descends lower–slower, deliberate in the way saints and exasperated women tend to be. 

Her mouth grazes your navel, and your whole body shivers like someone plucked an invisible string threaded through your spine.

“Well,” she says, voice annoyingly complacent, “I know you can’t handle 23 orgasms. That’s medically inadvisable. So that number’s going to have to be used for something else.”

“You remember how many sessions we’ve had?” you manage strenuously, trying very hard not to look directly at the metaphorical sun that is 23 orgasms because you would absolutely lose all remaining brain function. 

“I think I can remember every word you’ve ever said to me,” she replies, far too casually for someone who is immediately returning to your neglected nipple with a kiss like an apology before kissing you proper–affectionate and measured and devastating. Your stomach flutters as her fingers slip beneath your waistband.

“That’s physically impossible,” you counter against her mouth, right as she drags your sweats, and panties, down in one swift and needy swoop.

Mel smiles against your lips like she knows better.

“Mentally impossible,” she corrects, which is objectively unfair because you’re already halfway to giggling when the sound snaps into a small, startled moan when her middle finger swipes over you. Just a curious brush against where your entrance is clenching, collecting wetness to spread around your pussy. Collecting everything your body’s been offering up for her to take. “Quiet,” she murmurs. “We have to be quiet.”

“I know,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut when she circles that tiny, traitorous bundle of nerves with the kind of lightness only Mel could manage.

“And if you ever want to stop, tell me–”

“I know,” you echo again, arms looping around her shoulders like that might just keep you tethered to the planet. Mel’s second finger joins the first at your clit, rubbing with just enough pressure to make your body hum.

You tilt your head, greedy for her mouth, and she meets you there. Steady and controlled as always, kissing you like she’s memorizing every shaky exhale. Her fingers keep working you in slow increments, building your release with the kind of cruel patience you suppose doctors should have. But you would still argue it’s not fair. You sigh her name, embarrassingly whiney, thighs tightening around her hand until Mel has to press her free palm to your hip to keep you from locking her in place. 

Another kiss. Both to muffle your sounds and because you need her, right as one of her fingers slips inside you. Slow, testing how tight you were. Her thumb stays on your clit, circling in a way that would have you keening if you weren’t so focused on her mouth.

“Relax,” Mel whispers when she’s finally able to part from you. “If you want another finger, you have to relax.” 

You want to argue. You want to tell her you’ve never felt safer, or more comfortable, or more open in your entire life, but your hole is fluttering around her, clenching on instinct. Still, you will yourself to loosen, to melt, to take her in. Her finger curls inside you with an unhurried precision that has you panting into her neck, mouthing at the warm skin where her throat meets her shoulder.

“Good job.”

“Mel–”

“It’s okay,” she soothes, her voice an anchor for you. “I’m here.”

She remains careful as she works to get you used to the feeling. “You think you can handle this for 23 minutes?” she teases, and all you can manage is a tiny, broken moan. Your eyelashes flutter, vision blurring. “Cum if you need to,” she whispers with a kiss to your cheek, still being sweet, before her fingers speed up. Somehow even more precise now, curling at exactly the right moment, the right angle, the right pressure. Your hips jolt, chasing her as you’re biting at your lips like the filthy sound of your juices soaking her hand isn’t filling the room.

“Can you– Want you naked too,” you plead, the words tumbling out half-broken and your voice weak with need as your clit throbs helplessly beneath her thumb. “I can–”

“Please,” Mel agrees, somehow sounding almost just as wrecked as you. 

Your hands are useless at first, too shaky and overeager as you try to peel off her jacket and shirt. And once you do manage them off, you fumble with her sports bra. Naturally. Like it’s a puzzle invented solely to humble the horny, and Mel finally huffs out a laugh and helps you with her free hand. The second the last scrap of fabric leaves her body, you drag her back down, a desperate, relieved noise catching in your throat at the needed skin-to-skin contact.

“Like that, Mel, that’s– Oh, that’s perfect,” you whisper to her, voice fraying at the edges as you gush around her fingers, pleasure winding tighter and tighter inside you like someone’s pulling a cord.

“I know, I can feel it.”

Your arms stay locked around her like she might vanish if you stop touching her. And you would feel bad at the way you bite harmlessly into the slope of her shoulder, if your first orgasm didn’t hit you. Slamming through you and pulling your body taut as you grind up against her thumb, pussy sucking her fingers inside like you’re trying to keep them there forever.

She doesn’t stop.

Time becomes a concept you absolutely do not believe in anymore. Seconds, minutes–none of it makes sense or matters. All you know is that Mel keeps going, ruinous enough to be pulling a second orgasm out of you with embarrassing ease. Your body arches, clings, trembles, pleasure slicing through your muscles in sharp, involuntary waves. Only when her thumb leaves your pulsing, overstimulated clit do your legs give up, falling back to the sheets in boneless surrender.

“How long was that?” you pant once your brain and lungs recover enough to form English.

Mel slides her fingers out, and the movement triggers a warm spill of release from your cunt that makes you whimper. “Ten minutes.”

“Ten– Ten minutes?” you repeat. “I thought… are you actually going to–”

Mel rubs slow circles into your thighs, trying to soothe the little post-orgasm tremors. “We aren’t going to do anything you’re not up for,” she says softly. “Are you doing okay?”

You want to laugh, but the noise that escapes you is more like a delirious sigh. “I’m amazing,” you say, sounding as dazed as you probably look. “I want– I want more, Mel. Please. I want you to feel good too.”

“You can,” she says under her breath, thumb now sweeping circles over your hip. “We can do more, just take a deep breath for me…” 

So you do, eyes locked onto hers as you mirror the rise and fall of her chest, letting your pulse unwind itself, letting your body remember it exists outside of Mel’s touch. “Can you be on top?”

You’re nodding before she’s even finished speaking–enthusiastic, frantic in your eagerness. 

Mel laughs tenderly, slipping out from between your legs, and her hands catch yours to guide you upright. You kiss her before you’re even fully seated, fingers finally (finally) making competent work of her bottoms. You get her out of them at approximately warp speed, significantly faster than she managed with you, which earns you an amused chuckle against your mouth. 

This kiss is different. Slow. Lazy. Melted at the edges as you shift and roll on top of her. Mel’s thighs part for you instinctively, and her hands settle on your hips, positioning you so your cunt hovers over hers, heat meeting heat without quite touching. 

“Is this okay?” she asks, because she’s like that. 

“More than okay,” you reassure, smiling so hard that you can feel your cheeks hurt a little. “Being with you like this is the only thing I’ve wanted for a really long time.” Getting the words out felt better than you thought it would, leaving you feeling lighter.

Mel kisses you again, reverent, while one of her hands helps guide you down onto her. The moment your core meets hers, both of you moan, small and spineless. You’re sensitive from two orgasms; Mel’s sensitive from giving them to you. It’s almost loaded, how good it feels immediately because you know–neither of you is going to last very long.

Your wetness makes it easy to grind down onto her, your swollen clit sliding against hers in a way that knocks your head back and parts your lips. Your name spills out of her lips like a plea, and your hips respond instinctively, moving faster. Her grip on your hips falters as Mel begins unraveling beneath you, lost in the friction. The heat. The way your pussy presses against hers.

“You look– So pretty,” you manage, grabbing one of her legs for leverage so you can move even harder, even closer. “So pretty, Mel–”

“Please kiss me,” she whines, and you fold down immediately, mouths meeting in a messy, hungry kiss. One hand cups her breast, kneading gently as her tongue slips past your lips. “Ah– I love you.”

The words hit you like impact trauma; you whimper into her mouth, whole body shivering. Mel’s hips lift to meet yours, chasing her own high now with a desperation that steals your breath.

“I– love you too. I love you too…” you can barely say, voice working overtime to keep up with your fluttering heart. Your nose bumps hers, and her glasses fog slightly. Before you can think any better of it, you’re sliding them off, careful, wanting to see her eyes as they become half-lidded and heavy with pleasure. “Are you close?”

She nods, impatient and needy in the most perfect way.

You can’t resist. You kiss that freckle just under her eye. “You can let go. I’m right here.” And then Mel’s moving, bucking up toward you with eagerness that can only be driven by the need for release.

“You’re close too?” she pants, and your brain, fogged with heat and overstimulation, almost doesn’t compute that she’s waiting for you. “Please, I need you to–”

“Mel,” you whine, the loudest you’ve been yet, and that’s enough. Her body arches to meet yours, lips pressing wherever they can, teeth grazing, skin brushing, and she falls over the edge with you.

Stars (or sparks, maybe fire) burst behind your eyelids. You think nothing, nothing, will ever feel like this. You think you’ll never love anyone the way you love her.

And when her movements slow and you slump over her like you’ve been unmade, her arms settle loosely around your waist.

“I meant it,” you whisper after a few minutes of quiet. “I love you too. For real.”

Silence. Then, a tiny kiss to your neck.

It’s Thursday when you come to Mel with your final exam.

Well, on her kitchen counter. 

You’re perched next to the stove, hands dusted with flour, showing Becca the proper way to knead bread dough when Mel slips in from her rotation, toes nudging her shoes off into the shoe rack. Right beside a pair of your ballet flats.

“That smells sweet,” she observes, stepping behind you. You turn instantly, a smile breaking out on your face. Without thinking, you lean into her, wrapping an arm around her waist while one of hers snakes over your shoulders. The contact is small, but enough to make your chest feel full.

“Careful, my hands are a little sticky,” you inform her, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before returning your attention to Becca. “It is cinnamon sugar chocolate chip.”

“For breakfast,” Becca chimes in, excited. “But we haven’t put the chocolate chips in yet.”

Mel presses her lips to your hair without hesitation, and heat flares through your body at the familiarity of it. The intimacy of it. You smile up at her, then pivot slightly to guide Becca’s hands. “We can fold them now, Becca. A little at a time, knead a bit more after each pour.” You bend to show Becca where the bag of chocolate chips sits. Once you do, you’re back at Mel’s side, looking up at her with a practiced expression: half mischief, half pleading, all desire, that always seems to coax her lips to yours. She obliges immediately, pressing a small, perfect peck to your mouth.

“I have something to show you,” you murmur to her as Becca continues working at the dough.

“A surprise?"

You giggle, and she laughs softly in return, the sound curling warmly around you both. “Kind of,” you say, keeping your palms up so the remnants of dough don’t stick to her as you tilt your head toward the end of the counter where your biochem final sat. “As of today…” you trail off, eyes darting to the pages, Mels’ own following, and they widen a little. “You are no longer my tutor. Just my girlfriend.”

Her lips part, a small, breathless laugh escaping before she can fully process it. “100%– That’s… Wow, amazing job,” she says, voice lit with excitement and a tinge of disbelief like yours as her eyes lock with yours again. “I-I’m so proud of you.”

“Mostly thanks to you,” you whisper.

Mel’s eyebrows furrow, and she loops both arms around your middle, warm and grounding, pulling you closer. With spring teasing its way into the air, you’re back in lighter, brighter tops, and she’s returned to her beloved soft t-shirts. “You had all of the information and concepts without my help.”

“Yeah, but our… memorization techniques helped a lot.”

Her cheeks flush, delicate and pretty, and you laugh quietly, enjoying the pink spreading over her skin. “W-Well, visualization is one of the best study techniques–”

You cut her off with a soft peck to her lips, the scent of cinnamon sugar from the dough lingering faintly between you. When you pull back, she lets out a breathy laugh.

“Please never make me be your tutor again.” It’s your turn to laugh quietly. 

“How about… only for anatomy?”