Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

57 | In The Backseat

LUNES
7:23 AM

Dahlia Gray

Harlow is sleeping soundly.

We spent last night with each other—nothing sexual—just taking in the moment together as our first act of purposeful intimacy.

I slip out of my shared bedroom with my mother and Claudia to head downstairs, meeting Harlow at the bottom of the steps. It felt like a symptom of teenage rebellion; sneaking off to see your boyfriend as the sun goes down and the lights were turned off, with the hyper-awareness to each creaking floorboards—but that wasn't the case. If it was, I would've brought a stolen bottle of Scotch to fulfill that fantasy.

Instead, it was me, high off the blissful estate that Harlow has officially surrendered our labelless relationship and asked me to be his girlfriend. Once I reached the end of the stairs, I fell into him, as he caught me, and we moved around the quiet living room, reaching the couch in a jumble of mess and laughs.

Spending the night trading tales of our testimonies—our time together.

No one told me being in love was so peaceful.

Morning peaks through the slits of the closed blinds, beaming a harsh ray over my closed eyes as I groggily stir awake, feeling the heat of large arms wrapped around my body firmly and the slight, subtle breathing of another human—my person—laying next to me.

I squint open my eyes, taking in the beam of the sun before seeing Harlow in front of me. Everything about him feels easy. The muscles in his face unwinds and the subtle crease of his jaw no longer holds a sharpening grip. Creases around his eyes brush away, and his lips pull into an ultimate flat—nostrils flaring steadily with no ulterior motive.

I stare at him for a couple more seconds, taking this all in, before I begin to lightly blow in his face. At first, he shakes his head, trying to disregard the sensation in his slumber, before he begins to peel open his eyes—brows immediately narrowing at the suspect.

Harlow looks down at me, and his features loosens on contact. An innocent grin makes its way to my lips, "morning," I greet, taking the opportunity to squirm a bit more in his hold.

He takes a second to respond. "Morning," Harlow returns, his morning voice husky and low, my eyes almost rolled back in pleasure. I contain myself, pretending the butterflies in my stomach didn't just erupt and kept my grin. "Did you blow in my face?"

I stiffen a laugh, nodding my head. "I know I probably have bad morning breath, but I didn't know how else to wake up."

"Probably try asking me to wake up?"

I tilt my head to the side, recognition dawns on me, "huh," I state unwittingly, "I didn't think of that."

A growing smile graces his face, and he pretends to shake his head in low disappointment to hide the expression. Harlow doesn't say anything for the next minute, his eyes set on my face, but his arms have yet to remove their grip around my waist.

"Hey, Harlow," I say, tapping my fingers on his biceps, "I don't know if you know this, but we have class in thirty minutes."

He stares at me, trying to decipher if I'm joking or not, and when he sees that I'm being completely serious, he tilts his head back in a tiresome sigh. "Fuck," he mumbles under his breath, with the same low voice, and I swear—if I don't get out right now, I will absolutely lose it.

Squirming in his hold, Harlow slowly begins to loosen his grip around my body and let me slip out. I almost fell off of the couch, but catching myself, I picked myself up and stood tall—extending my hand for Harlow.