JUNE POV
By the ti I returned to class, my legs had more or less rembered how to function.
Mostly.
I’d counted to twenty like he told , adjusted my hair, straightened my skirt, and taken a deep breath before stepping inside. Thankfully, the professor was too busy blabbering about economic models to notice I’d disappeared for an obscene amount of ti—or that I ca back looking... significantly more flushed than I’d left.
I spotted him imdiately.
Justin was seated where I’d left him—leaning back like he hadn’t just completely destroyed upstairs. That sa relaxed posture, that smug little tilt to his mouth, the casual arm slung over the back of the chair beside him... mine.
Our eyes t.
And in that mont, there wasn’t a single teasing glint. Just sothing soft. Sothing quiet. Sothing that made my already-rattled heart stutter again.
I sat down beside him, pretending not to lt when he gently brushed his fingers along the back of my hand under the desk.
"You okay?" he whispered, close to my ear.
I nodded.
He didn’t press. He didn’t smirk. He just took my hand under the desk, laced our fingers, and squeezed.
And for the rest of the lecture, that was it. He didn’t push. Didn’t tease. No buzzing toys. No hidden remote.
Just his presence—warm and steady beside like a shield.
He even passed his notebook during the discussion when I got distracted tracing circles into his palm, and he leaned down to whisper the answer the professor was fishing for when I spaced out entirely.
Who knew Justin could switch from wicked to wonderful this easily?
Or maybe he was always both.
By the ti class ended, I didn’t want to let go of his hand. The buzzing ss from earlier had dissolved into sothing else—sothing softer. And I wasn’t ready for it to be over yet.
We stood together as students shuffled out around us. He didn’t rush , didn’t yank along. Just stayed beside like an anchor while I packed up my things.
Outside the building, sunlight filtered through the trees. Campus felt calm for once. Not heavy. Not loud. Just... peaceful.
"Your place or mine?" he asked casually, leaning against his car and twirling his keys in one hand.
I hesitated.
His place brought back the mory of that night—where things had first gotten ssy, raw, almost too real.
I wasn’t ready to go back there yet.
"My place," I said quickly. Maybe too quickly.
He noticed, but didn’t push. Just gave a small nod and opened the passenger door for . Gentleman through and through.
And when he climbed into the driver’s side, he reached over and placed his hand on my thigh again—right over the skirt he’d picked out this morning.
Not possessively.
Not suggestively.
Just there. Warm. Steady. A silent reminder that I wasn’t alone.
His thumb rubbed gentle patterns into my skin as he drove, music low, windows cracked. The city passed in golden streaks of light as we headed toward ho—my ho—and his fingers never left once.
It was the quiet kind of intimacy—the kind that crept into your bones without asking.
The kind that made you want more.
And for once... I didn’t mind the quiet.
I didn’t mind the stillness.
Because with Justin, even the calm was intoxicating.
"Let’s eat first," Justin said as he turned toward a different road than the one leading ho. "You barely touched your coffee this morning."
I opened my mouth to argue, but then my stomach growled—loudly.
"Point made," I mumbled, earning a warm chuckle from him.
He slid his hand over to rest on my thigh again, thumb drawing lazy circles as we pulled up to a small, tucked-away restaurant just outside campus. Warm light spilled out the windows, laughter leaking into the night air through open doors. It wasn’t fancy—just cozy, the kind of place where the waitstaff probably knew you by na.
Justin parked and glanced over at with that familiar smirk. "Don’t worry, no toys involved."
I rolled my eyes but smiled anyway. "I’m still checking your pockets."
He reached for my hand, interlocking our fingers as we walked inside.
We were seated near the window, tucked into a booth that felt like its own little world. The lighting was low, the table between us small enough that our knees brushed underneath. He didn’t let go of my hand—not even when we were given nus.
"You’re clingy today after you know what," I teased, but the words ca out softer than I ant them to.
His thumb brushed the back of my hand. "You’re my girlfriend."
I looked at him—really looked—and realized this was justin just not the rough sex one. It wasn’t the usual tension. It wasn’t about restraint or teasing or the silent war we played with our bodies. I was just... calm.
And so was he.
The waitress ca, cheerful and bubbly, and Justin didn’t hesitate to order for both of us—like he’d been watching what I liked. He added fries to my al, just because, and I didn’t even pretend to argue.
The food ca quickly, and with it ca the laughter.
He told stories about his school days after the rescue—chaotic, rule-breaking, and so painfully Justin that I couldn’t stop laughing. I countered with a few of my own: sneaking out of sleepovers, my failed attempt at baking a birthday cake in sixth grade that exploded in the oven. It felt... real. Simple. Ignoring all the bad mories all together.
And for the first ti, I saw what it might be like to do this often.
To eat with him. Talk with him. Laugh until my cheeks hurt and lean over the table to steal fries off his plate while he fake-glared at for it.
He wiped a crumb from the corner of my mouth without hesitation, and I didn’t even flinch when he did. There was nothing calculated about it. No setup. No seduction.
Just care.
The check ca, and before I could reach for it, he slid his card onto the table like it was muscle mory.
"Seriously?" I raised an eyebrow.
"I wrecked your body today, angel," he said, giving that lopsided grin. "The least I can do is feed you."
I rolled my eyes again, but the warmth blood in my chest anyway.
We walked out into the night air, the stars clear above us, the restaurant’s lights glowing soft behind. I clutched the takeout box he’d insisted we bring—"for midnight cravings"—as we made our way back to the car.
When we slid back in, he reached for my hand again. Instinctive. Effortless.
The drive to my place was quiet. Not heavy. Not awkward.
Just... content.
His hand on my thigh again, grounding . His profile soft in the streetlights, mouth curled faintly in the corners like he didn’t want the night to end.
I didn’t either.
By the ti we reached my apartnt, the sun had dipped low enough to cast a dusky golden wash across the sky. The light painted the hallway in soft amber as we walked toward the door, his fingers still laced loosely with mine.
He hadn’t said much during the drive.
But then again, he hadn’t needed to.
His hand on my thigh had said it all. Protective. Steady. Present. Nothing about him scread mischief or danger or chaos—not like before. This version of Justin was quiet. Composed. And it stirred sothing in I wasn’t expecting.
Sothing deeper than arousal.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The familiar scent of lavender and old books hit first—my place was small, cozy, filled with pieces of myself. He stepped in behind and quietly shut the door. Didn’t speak. Just took in the space like he was seeing it for the first ti.
I turned to say sothing, but paused.
He was just... looking at .
Not like I was his toy, or his conquest, or his favorite distraction.
Just .
"Want sothing to drink?" I asked, suddenly needing to break the silence before it swallowed .
"Sure. Whatever you’re having."
I moved to the kitchen, still feeling the echo of his hand on my leg, and grabbed two glasses of water. When I turned around, he was standing at the edge of the living room, one hand casually in his pocket, the other holding my throw pillow like it was made of glass.
"You like it here?" he asked.
I blinked. "What do you an?"
"Your place. It feels like... you."
I nodded, watching him as I passed him a glass. "It is. I like it quiet. Simple. Safe."
He took a sip, then set the glass down and stepped toward .
And this ti when he touched , it wasn’t desperate.
It was reverent.
His hands slid along my arms, fingertips brushing lightly before coming to rest at my waist. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there and let him trace like a sculptor morizing the curves of sothing sacred.
"It’s different tonight," I whispered without thinking.
His eyes lifted to mine. "You want it to be?"
I swallowed. "I don’t know. I just... you feel like another person."
He didn’t smile. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t do the thing where he cocked his head and turned it into a ga.
He just leaned in and kissed .
Not like before. Not deep or possessive or teasing.
Just soft.
Lingering.
Like he ant it.
His hand cupped the back of my neck, thumb stroking gently behind my ear. My heart lted, spine softening, and I leaned in without even realizing it.
And when he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to mine.
"I can be rough. You know that," he murmured. "But I can be this too. If you let ."
I couldn’t speak.
So I nodded.
He took my hand again and led to the couch. We sat close—so close I could feel his breath against my cheek. And we just... talked.
About music.
Books.
Embarrassing childhood monts.
Nothing heavy.
Nothing loud.
Just us.
At so point I curled into his side, head on his shoulder, legs tucked under . He pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over both of us like he’d done it a hundred tis before.
His hand played with strands of my hair. Mine rested on his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath my palm.
And in that mont, I didn’t miss the tension. The chaos. The gas.
Because this quiet? This softness?
It was everything.
Eventually, I started to drift off. His fingers traced slow lines down my arm, over my hip, holding like he wasn’t ready to let go.
And just before sleep pulled under, I heard his voice—low, steady, right by my ear.
"You feel like ho."
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