The way we made love in his room—seriously, like oh my fucking God, who even am I that this is my life?
And the way he kissed me goodbye on my front porch around midnight?
Reluctantly.
As though leaving me physically pained him.
That memory alone heats my cheeks.
I mean honestly.
It's absurd to want someone this much.
We don't even have titles.
No labels.
No promises.
No real claim on one another.
And yet—I can't stop thinking about him.
I settle into my classroom.
Turn on the lights.
Set out worksheets.
Check my lesson plans.
And then glance at the clock.
Nine minutes have passed.
And yes I’m counting them.
Because every morning Kai arrives with coffee.
And usually something delicious.
A muffin.
A pastry.
One day it was donuts.
Another time he'd brought banana bread.
The man apparently believes carbohydrates are a love language.
And honestly?
I support that philosophy wholeheartedly.
My cheeks heat again when I remember how I'd been his dessert last night.
“Mary Donahue,” I mutter to myself. “Get a grip.”