Mr. Holland Said We Were Just Sleeping Together

The phone buzzed against the nightstand like something alive.

I didn't move. Oliver's arm was heavy across my ribs, his breath warm and even against the back of my neck. Sunday morning. The curtains were still drawn. I could feel the shape of last night in every sore muscle, every tender spot on my skin.

The phone buzzed again.

I reached for it without lifting my head. The screen said Mom.

"Geraldine." Eleanor Cooper's voice was already dressed, already caffeinated, already three steps ahead. "I'm picking you up in thirty minutes. We're going to the Holland estate."

"It's Sunday," I whispered.

"Oliver has a formal introduction today. His mother asked me to bring you along for support. You know how he gets — he'll need a familiar face in the room."

"A formal introduction," I repeated. The words didn't land right. They sat on the surface of my brain like oil on water.

"Thirty minutes. Wear something appropriate."

She hung up.

I lay there for five seconds, maybe ten. Then I turned my head just enough to see Oliver's face on the pillow beside mine. His jaw was slack, his dark hair pushed back, one hand still curled loosely against my hip. He looked like a painting of someone who had never hurt anyone.

"Oliver." I kept my voice low, almost a breath. "My mom just called. She says we're going to your family's house. Something about a formal introduction — she wants me there to help you through it."

He made a sound. Not a word. Just a low hum in his chest, the kind of noise a cat makes when you scratch behind its ears. His arm tightened, pulling me back against him. My spine pressed into his bare chest.

"Help me pick something to wear," he murmured into my hair. "And fix your hair before we go. It's a mess."

I went still.

Not the kind of still where you're thinking. The kind where your body understands something before your mind catches up.

Oliver's eyes opened. Slow. Green and sharp, even half-asleep. He looked right at me, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

"You didn't actually think I was going to marry you, did you?"

The sentence landed clean. No malice in his voice. He said it the way you'd correct someone who mixed up a date on a calendar.

I sat up and swung my legs off the bed. The sheets fell away from my shoulders. Cool air hit the marks on my collarbone, my neck, the places his mouth had been hours ago.

My bra was on the floor by the window. I picked it up, turned my back to him, and tried to hook the clasp. My fingers wouldn't cooperate. They kept slipping, the metal catching and releasing, catching and releasing.

The mattress shifted behind me. I felt him before I saw him — Oliver on his knees, his chest close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. His