The Third-Floor Window

That, and the ghost of his smell on my pillow. It's a mix of cheap laundry detergent, the crisp bite of autumn air, and something else, something uniquely him. Skin. Just… warm skin. I can't stop pressing my face into the cotton, trying to drown in it.

I should be asleep. My biology textbook is staring at me from the floor, its spine cracked open to a chapter on cellular respiration. But how am I supposed to care about mitochondria when my entire body is still humming, every nerve ending replaying the last three hours?

It started with rain. It always seems to start with rain here. A sudden, cold downpour that had everyone sprinting across the quad, laughing, jackets pulled over their heads. I was coming out of the library, weighed down by books and the dread of another lonely night in this cinderblock box of a dorm room. I saw him then, leaning against the brick archway of my residence hall, just watching the sheets of water fall.

Leo. From my Lit seminar.

He wasn't doing anything remarkable. Just… existing. And somehow, that was enough to make my breath catch. He had one hand shoved in the pocket of his dark jeans, the other holding a beaten-up copy of On the Road, thumb keeping his place. His hair was already damp, curling just slightly at the nape of his neck. I wanted to press my lips right there.

"Looks like we're stuck," he said. His voice was lower than I remembered from class, where he spoke sparingly, but always with a thoughtfulness that silenced the room.

"Yeah." I winced at the breathiness of my own reply. Smooth, real smooth.

He glanced at my arms, struggling with the books. "Here, let me."

Before I could protest, he'd taken the stack from me. His fingers brushed against mine. A simple, accidental touch. It shouldn't have sent a jolt straight to my stomach. But it did. It fucking did.

"I'm on the third floor," I said, my voice finding a little more strength.

"Lead the way."

The walk up the stairs was agony. The quiet between us was thick, charged. I was hyper-aware of him behind me, the sound of his footsteps, the soft rustle of his jacket. I could feel his presence like a physical heat against my back. I fumbled with my keys at the door, my fingers suddenly stupid and clumsy.

And then we were in. My room. My sanctuary, my mess. The bed was unmade, a pair of jeans discarded on the floor. A half-eaten apple sat on my desk next to a mug of cold tea. I felt a flush of embarrassment, but also a strange thrill. This was me, uncensored. He was seeing it.

He placed my books neatly on the desk and turned to look around. His eyes didn't judge. They took in the fairy lights strung over the window, the postcard of Van Gogh's Starry Night tacked to the wall, the small collection of books on my nightstand.

"Cozy," he said, a small smile playing on his lips.

"It's a shoebox," I laughed, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

"A nice shoebox." He was looking at me now, not the room. Really looking. His eyes are this impossible shade of hazel, more green than brown, with little flecks of gold around the pupils. I felt seen in a way I hadn't in a long time. Not just looked at, but seen. The girl who argues about Shakespearean motifs and also leaves socks on the floor.

The rain pattered against my window, a steady percussion soundtracking the moment. The room felt smaller suddenly, the air thinner.

"I should probably…" he gestured vaguely toward the door.

"You don't have to." The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. Raw, unpolished. A direct line from my brain to my vocal cords with no filter in between. "I mean… the rain's still coming down pretty hard."

He didn't move. He just held my gaze, and the silence stretched, but it wasn't awkward anymore. It was full. Full of everything we weren't saying. The attraction that had been a low hum all semester in the back of that classroom, now amplified in this tiny, private space.

He took a step toward me. Then another. I held my ground, my heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted to escape and go to him itself.

He stopped just inches away. I could smell the rain on him. I could feel the heat radiating from his body. He reached up, so slowly, and brushed his thumb across my cheekbone. His touch was calloused, rough from what? Guitar strings? Holding a pen too tight? I didn't know. I wanted to know everything.

"Is this okay?" he whispered. His voice was rough, scraping against something deep inside me.

I couldn't speak. I just nodded, my eyes locked on his.

He leaned in, and his kiss wasn't what I expected. It wasn't a hungry, frantic dorm-room kiss. It was slow. Deliberate. A question and an answer all at once. His lips were soft but firm, and he tasted like coffee and the mint gum he'd been chewing earlier. He cupped my face with both hands, his thumbs stroking my temples, and I melted into him. My hands came up to grip his wrists, feeling the steady, strong beat of his pulse under my fingers.

We broke apart, breathing ragged. His forehead rested against mine.

"I've been wanting to do that since September," he breathed.

A laugh bubbled out of me, giddy and relieved. "Me too."

That broke the last of the tension. He grinned, a real, full, devastating grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. And then he kissed me again, and this time it was hungry. It was all the pent-up weeks of stolen glances and wondering.

My back met the cool cinderblock wall beside the door. The shock of the cold against my skin through my thin shirt made me gasp, and he swallowed the sound. His hands slid from my face, down my neck, over my shoulders, coming to rest on my hips. His grip was firm, possessive in the best way. I arched into him, wanting to feel all of him.

His mouth left mine and trailed down my jaw, to my throat. He kissed the frantic pulse there, his tongue flicking against my skin. I moaned, my head falling back against the wall with a soft thud. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. It was soft, so much softer than it looked.

"Leo," I whispered. It was half a plea, half a prayer.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide. "Tell me what you want."

The directness of it, the sheer emotional bravery of asking that question, undid me. In the dim light of my desk lamp, with the rain still whispering against the glass, it felt like the most intimate thing anyone had ever said to me.

"You," I said, the word raw and honest. "I just want you."

He took my hand and led me the few steps to my bed. We fell onto it together, a tangle of limbs and soft laughter. The ancient springs groaned in protest. We broke apart for a second, laughing at the sound.

"Shhh," I giggled. "The RA on duty is a nightmare."

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Then you'll have to be quiet."

He said it playfully, but the look in his eyes was dead serious. A challenge. A promise.

He knelt over me, and we just looked at each other for a moment. He traced the line of my eyebrow, the curve of my lip, as if he was memorizing me. The playfulness was still there, but it was layered over something deeper, more intense. It was lust, sure, a heat I could feel pooling low in my belly. But it was also… curiosity. A genuine desire to know the landscape of me.

He leaned down and kissed me again, deeply, while his fingers went to the buttons of my flannel shirt. He took his time with each one, his knuckles brushing against the lace of my bra. Every touch was a spark. When the shirt fell open, he didn't immediately move to my bra clasp. He just looked. His gaze traveled over my stomach, my ribs, the swell of my breasts above the lace.

"You're so beautiful," he said, and it didn't sound like a line. It sounded like a discovery.

He lowered his head and pressed his mouth to my stomach. I jolted at the sensation, his lips hot through the lace. He kissed a slow, torturous path upward, over my ribs, until his mouth found the edge of my bra. He hooked a finger under the strap and pulled it down, following the path with his tongue.

I was writhing beneath him, my hips lifting off the mattress, seeking friction, seeking him. My fingers scrabbled at the hem of his shirt. "Off. Please."

He sat back, pulling the shirt over his head in one fluid motion. And oh, God. He wasn't bulky, but he was defined. Lean muscle carved from what I later learned was years of rock climbing. A light dusting of hair trailed from his navel down into the waistband of his jeans. I reached out and splayed my hands across his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady thud of his heart under my palm. I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his sternum, tasting the salt of his skin.

A low groan rumbled in his chest. His hands went to my bra clasp, and with a deft flick, it was undone. He peeled the lace away, and the cool air hit my skin, followed immediately by the heat of his gaze. He wasn't in a hurry. He took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue circling, flicking, while his thumb teased the other. Pleasure, sharp and bright, shot through me, and I cried out, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle the sound.

He looked up, a wicked glint in his eye. "Quiet," he murmured against my skin, his breath hot.

He was driving me insane. The sensory overload was incredible. The smell of us, of rain and sweat and arousal. The sound of our ragged breathing and the soft, wet sounds of his mouth on my skin. The sight of his dark head against my pale breast. The feel of his calloused hands roaming my body, mapping every curve and dip. I was lost in it.

I pushed at his jeans. "Your turn."

He stood up, and I propped myself on my elbows to watch. He unbuttoned his jeans, pushed them and his boxer briefs down in one go, and stepped out of them. He was fully erect, beautiful and straining. He stood there for a moment, letting me look my fill, completely unselfconscious. Confident. It was the most erotic thing I'd ever seen.

Then he was back on the bed, kneeling between my legs, pushing my own jeans and underwear down my thighs. He tossed them aside, and suddenly I was completely bare to him. He ran his hands up my calves, over my knees, along the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. He pushed my legs apart, and I let him, my body humming with anticipation.

He didn't enter me right away. He just looked, his gaze intense, drinking me in. Then he lowered his head.

His mouth. Oh, God, his mouth. He didn't just go down on me. He worshipped me. He used his tongue like he was trying to learn a new language, tracing every fold, circling my clit with a lazy, maddening pressure before sucking it gently into his mouth. I bucked beneath him, a strangled moan escaping my lips. I tangled my hands in the sheets, my knuckles white. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful, a coil tightening deep inside me.

"Leo… I'm… I'm going to…"

He didn't let up. He slid two fingers inside me, curling them, finding a rhythm with his tongue that had me seeing stars behind my eyelids. The orgasm crashed over me, a wave of pure, unadulterated sensation that ripped a silent scream from my throat. My body convulsed, and he held me through it, his mouth gentle now, soothing, drawing out every last shuddering ripple.

Before I could even come down, before my breathing could steady, he was moving up my body. He kissed my stomach, my sternum, my throat, my mouth. I could taste myself on his lips, and it was primal, intimate, and so fucking hot.

He positioned himself at my entrance. His eyes found mine, a question in them. I nodded, wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him into me.

The feeling of him filling me was exquisite. A perfect, stretching fullness. He sank into me slowly, letting me adjust to every inch of him. When he was fully sheathed, he stopped, buried deep inside me, and we just stayed like that for a moment, foreheads together, breathing the same air. Connected.

Then he began to move. It wasn't a frantic, pounding rhythm. It was deep, rolling, deliberate thrusts that hit a place inside me that made my toes curl. Each stroke was a promise. Each gasp was a confession. My earlier orgasm had made me hypersensitive, and every movement sent new shocks of pleasure through my system.

I met his rhythm, rocking my hips against his, our bodies finding a syncopated beat that was ours alone. The metal bedframe began to creak in a steady, rhythmic protest.

"The… bed…" I gasped between thrusts.

"Fuck the bed," he growled into my ear, his voice thick with desire.

He shifted angle slightly, and it was all it took. A second orgasm began to build, faster and more intense than the first. It wasn't a slow coil this time; it was a wildfire, spreading through my veins. I clung to him, my nails digging into the muscles of his back. My legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper, as if I could somehow fuse us together.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough.

I forced my eyes open, meeting his burning gaze. Seeing the raw need in his face, the sheen of sweat on his brow, was my undoing. I came apart, my orgasm tearing through me with a force that left me breathless and shaking. I buried my face in his neck to muffle my cries, biting down on the soft skin of his shoulder.

Feeling me clench around him sent him over the edge. His rhythm broke, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate. With a guttural moan that was the most honest sound I'd ever heard, he came, pulsing deep inside me. He collapsed on top of me, his full weight a comforting, grounding pressure.

We lay like that for a long time, a tangled, sweaty mess, listening to the sound of our hearts slowing down. The rain had softened to a gentle patter. He nuzzled my neck, placing a soft, lazy kiss there.

Eventually, he rolled off me, but immediately pulled me into his side, my head on his chest. His arm was heavy and warm across my back. He reached down and pulled my comforter over us.

We didn't speak. There was no need. The silence was comfortable, filled with the aftermath of what we'd shared. I traced idle patterns on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart under my ear. I inhaled his scent, now mingled with my own, and felt a possessiveness I hadn't expected.

He fell asleep first. His breathing evened out, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. I lay there for a long time, just watching him. The way his dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. The slight part of his lips. The peaceful, unguarded expression on his face. In sleep, he looked younger. Vulnerable.

This. This is what they never capture in movies. It's not just the sex, though the sex was mind-blowing. It's the after. The intimacy of sharing a single dorm bed that's too small, of feeling his body heat seep into you. The way he, half-asleep, pulled the blanket up higher over my shoulder when he felt me shiver. The unspoken agreement that he would stay.

It's 3:02 AM now. He's still here, asleep beside me. His arm is thrown across my waist, holding me close even in his dreams. I can feel the gentle puff of his breath against my hair.

I have a 9 AM class. I should be exhausted. But I've never felt more awake. Every cell in my body is alive, buzzing with the memory of him.

This room, this shoebox with its cinderblock walls and groaning bed, has always been just a place to sleep. A temporary stop. But tonight, with the rain on the window and the weight of his arm around me, it felt like something else entirely.