DYLAN
She was wearing my shirt.
That should've been a crime.
Not because she looked bad in it—hell, it was the opposite. It hung off her frame in a way that was far too tempting for a Saturday morning. The hem skimmed the tops of her thighs, her bare legs stretched out as she sat on the countertop sipping coffee, pretending not to know she was driving me insane.
And I was pretty damn sure she wasn't wearing anything underneath it.
Her nipples peaked beneath the thin cotton, and I could imagine—no, I knew—that if I slipped my hand under that shirt, I'd find nothing but warm, bare skin.
She didn't even know she was undoing me. One sip of coffee, one smug smile, and I was halfway to dropping to my knees for this girl, we barely just started dating even though have never dated anyone before. I don't do dates i fuck hard not date that all but this girl infront of me is different i want her to myself a lone and i dont belong to anyone before her —but somehow already belonged to her.
I hadn't even kissed her properly until a few weeks ago, and now here she was—barefoot, braless, in my shirt, acting like she belonged here.
Because she did.
Hermione Vale had taken over my home without even trying. And I didn't want it any other way.
I leaned against the marble island, arms crossed, watching her. Sunlight spilled across the countertops, catching the golden tones in her skin as she brought the mug to her lips. Her brows furrowed slightly, like she was analyzing the taste. She always overthought things, even coffee. And I loved her for it.
"You're judging my coffee," I said flatly.
She looked up, lips twitching. "I'm tasting your coffee. There's a difference."
"I walked you through every step. The exact ratio."
"And still," she said slowly, "it's too bitter."
I narrowed my eyes. "It's supposed to be bitter. It's coffee. Not dessert."
She grinned over the rim of the mug. "You sound defensive."
"Because I am. You're insulting a tradition. My morning ritual."
Hermione hopped off the counter, her feet making a soft sound against the hardwood. She came toward me with her mug in hand—and my cock, already semi-hard from the sight of her legs, twitched in my pants.
Goddammit.
"Well, your ritual could use a little sugar," she teased, offering me the mug like a peace offering.
I took a sip—just to prove a point. Still perfect. Still mine.
"Try it with oat milk next time," she said, reaching up to brush a crumb from my jaw.
I caught her wrist before she could pull away. Her skin was soft, warm. She looked up at me, eyes wide—caught off guard, like every time I touched her it surprised her somehow.
"You like teasing me," I murmured.
She smirked. "You make it too easy."
I tugged her closer, her body flush against mine, that damn shirt riding up higher as her legs brushed mine. Her scent was everywhere—coffee, sugar, sunlight, and something deeper. Her.
"Careful," I warned, voice low. "Keep talking like that and I won't let you leave the kitchen."
Her breath hitched, just slightly. But she didn't back down.
"Who said I wanted to?" she whispered. Her eyes flicked downward—then back up. "And looking at the prominent bulge in your pants says otherwise."
God help me.
I kissed her then—slow, claiming, the kind of kiss that demanded silence and made time slow. Her fingers slipped into my hair, tugging slightly, and my hands gripped her hips, anchoring her to me like she was mine.
Because she was.
But I wasn't going to take her yet.
Not like this.
Not rushed.
Not just because my body wanted her—because it always wanted her.
I pulled back, resting my forehead against hers as we both caught our breath.
"We're not going anywhere today," I said. "No meetings. No calls. Just you and me."
Hermione nodded, her breath warm against my lips. "Sounds perfect."
And it was.
Because she was here.
And for the first time in a long time—so was I.
I told myself I was in control.
But with her, control was just an illusion I liked to pretend I still had.
And I knew better than to trust things that felt this good.
Because perfect mornings like this don't last forever.