Morning came too quickly.
The sliver of dawn crept through the blinds, casting soft lines across Elena's bedroom wall. Simon blinked awake, unsure at first where he was. Then he felt it—the warmth pressed lightly against his side. Her arm across his stomach. Her breath against his chest.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep beside her.
And yet… he hadn't wanted to leave, either.
Elena stirred slightly but didn't wake. Her fingers curled slightly against the hem of his shirt, as if anchoring herself to him. The sight of it—the quiet vulnerability of her sleep, the closeness of her body—tugged at something deep inside him.
And something darker too.
He stayed still for as long as he could, staring at the ceiling, trying to memorize everything—the rise and fall of her breathing, the scent of her hair, the low hum of the city beyond the windows.
Eventually, he slipped from beneath her arm, moving carefully so as not to wake her. He stood, breath catching in his throat as he took one last look before stepping quietly into the hall.
He paused at the bathroom mirror, splashing water on his face.
His reflection looked back at him with hollow eyes and flushed cheeks. His thoughts raced:
What are we doing? How far will this go? And what happens when someone finds out?
He didn't have the answers. Only the weight of the moment. And the memory of her fingers against his chest.
Elena didn't say much that morning. She emerged from her room wrapped in a towel, her hair damp, her eyes guarded.
"Coffee?" she asked.
"Sure."
They moved around the kitchen with quiet coordination. Simon grabbed two mugs while she poured the coffee, then leaned against the counter beside her.
The silence stretched, not awkward—but aware.
Like something had passed between them and neither wanted to touch it too soon.
Finally, Elena exhaled.
"Did you sleep okay?"
Simon nodded. "Yeah. You?"
She shrugged. "I think so."
He took a sip from his mug, letting the heat burn his tongue just a little—anything to focus his mind.
Elena glanced sideways at him. "You didn't… you didn't feel weird about it, right? Sleeping in the same bed?"
Simon paused.
"No," he said honestly. "I just felt… close to you."
She nodded. "Me too."
Then, almost too quickly, she said, "But we should probably not do it again."
Simon's heart sank, but he masked it with a quiet "Yeah."
Not because he didn't want it. But because he knew she was trying to protect something—herself, him, maybe both.
She set her mug down and disappeared into her room.
The door clicked shut behind her.
That night, Eddie came over.
Simon hated how the apartment changed when he was there—how Elena transformed just slightly. She smiled more, sat closer, her laugh a little louder. Her hands found Eddie's too easily.
Simon sat on the armrest of the couch, flipping absently through his phone, trying not to look at them—but unable to stop himself.
Eddie was telling some story about practice, how Coach nearly lost it when someone missed a pass.
Elena laughed. "You're so dramatic."
"I'm serious!" Eddie said, nudging her. "Coach nearly threw a water bottle at his head."
Simon forced a chuckle, but it felt hollow in his throat.
Eddie turned toward him. "You still planning to try out next year?"
Simon nodded. "Yeah. I've been working on my shot."
"That's good," Eddie said. "If you want, we can run drills sometime."
Simon's stomach twisted. He hated how generous Eddie was. How likable. It made hating him feel wrong.
"Sure," he said. "Maybe."
Eddie gave him a friendly pat on the back, then turned back to Elena.
Simon saw it—the way she leaned into Eddie's side, the way his hand rested comfortably on her thigh.
He couldn't breathe.
He muttered something about needing to study and disappeared into his room.
It was hours before the apartment went quiet.
Simon sat at his desk, textbook open, but his eyes hadn't moved past the same paragraph for half an hour. He heard the door close. Heard Eddie leave. Heard Elena's footsteps in the hall.
Then silence.
He stood, pacing his room like a caged animal. His thoughts were loud and restless, banging against the inside of his skull.
He wanted to confront her. Ask what all of this meant. Demand to know why she looked at him like she felt something and then acted like she didn't.
But he didn't move.
Until she knocked.
Soft. Hesitant.
He opened the door.
She stood there in one of her long sleep shirts, her hair in a messy bun, face clean of makeup.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"For what?"
"For being confusing."
Simon stepped aside. She walked in slowly.
She didn't sit this time—just stood in the middle of the room like she wasn't sure what to do next.
"I don't know how to be around you right now," she admitted. "It's like… everything's changed and I can't go back."
"You don't have to go back."
Her eyes found his.
"I'm scared of what forward looks like."
Simon closed the door behind her. The click echoed in the stillness.
Then he stepped toward her.
"Me too," he said. "But I'd rather walk through it with you than pretend none of this is real."
Elena's lips parted slightly, breath catching.
He took one more step.
And for the first time, she didn't move away.
Simon lifted a hand and cupped her cheek.
She leaned into it.
They stood like that—quiet, shaking, breathing the same air—before she whispered:
"If I let you kiss me… we can't undo it."
Simon swallowed hard.
"I'm not asking to undo anything."
Then he leaned in.
And for the first time, their lips met.
It was slow. Tender. Cautious at first, like two people testing the edge of something forbidden. Her hands slid to his shoulders. His fingers tangled in the ends of her hair.
They kissed like a secret. Like a confession.
When they finally pulled apart, both of them trembling, Elena looked at him with wide, wet eyes.
"This is dangerous," she whispered.
"I know."
But neither of them stepped away.