Forever: CH. 1

CHAPTER ONE: THE THING ABOUT MORNINGS

It started with the rule being broken…the only rule. The one that wasn’t meant to be broken.
Rules like that feel solid in the dark. They sound responsible. Clean. Temporary in a way that lets you sleep.
But mornings don’t care about rules.
They only care about what’s still there when the light comes in.
By the time you’re watching the clock instead of the door, the breach has already happened.

You just haven’t said it out loud yet.

The rule was always: no staying past seven.

That was his rule, technically. Patrick’s. Said he didn’t want to be that guy who lingered. Said he hated feeling like a burden. Said 7:00 a.m. gave him just enough time to shower, grab a coffee, and pretend none of this ever happened by the time he reached the nurses’ station.

That was the rule.

But it’s 7:42 now.

And he’s still in my bed.

Still shirtless. Still half-wrapped in my navy throw blanket like it’s his. Legs tangled in mine, breath slow and even, like he has nowhere else to be. Like this is just a normal Monday morning, and not the moment I realize I’m in trouble.

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I’m wide awake. Have been since 6:40.

I didn’t nudge him. Didn’t say his name. Didn’t mention the time when I checked my phone, again, at 7:03. I just watched him shift closer in his sleep and rest his palm on my chest like it’s allowed.

And that’s on me.

Because I could’ve ended this an hour ago. I could’ve cleared my throat, made some noise, something. Instead, I laid here. Still. Stupidly still. Letting his fingers twitch against my ribs. Letting his foot slide across mine like he was dreaming about me.

I don’t even know if he’s awake.

I don’t know if he knows he’s breaking the rule.

I just know he hasn’t left.

And I haven’t asked him to.

The thing is, I like my mornings.

Not just for the quiet—though that’s part of it—but for the ritual. Wake at 6:45. Shower. Coffee. Eggs if I’m hungry. Read through my outlines. Check in with the part of me that has to perform all day. The Aiden who raises his hand in class and doesn’t flinch when someone tries to one-up him. The version that has his shit together. The one who never forgets what he came here to do.

And it’s not a long morning. I leave by nine.

But I need it.

Except this morning, there’s a 5’11 problem snoring softly into my shoulder.

Patrick shifts—just a little—like his body is waking up before he is. His palm spreads over my chest, and I can feel his fingers twitch, reflexive and warm. I tell myself I’ll wake him in two minutes. That I’m just giving him a moment. That this isn’t weird.

But it is.

Because this isn’t part of the agreement.

He never stays this long. He always pulls away first. Last week, he was halfway out the door before I even made it to the kitchen. Hoodie on, bag slung over one shoulder, muttering something about shift reports and caffeine dependency before disappearing like he hadn’t just moaned my name half an hour before.

That’s how this works.

Sunday night: hookup.

Monday morning: reset.

No mess. No weight. No moments like this.

But right now, Patrick is still here. Still in my bed. Still asleep. And I’m not resetting.

I’m watching the sunlight crawl across his shoulder blades and wondering how long I can keep pretending that this is nothing.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. 7:54.

If I don’t get up now, I’ll lose my window.

Patrick murmurs something—maybe my name, maybe nothing at all—and tightens his arm around me like it’s automatic.

I swallow hard. My voice is somewhere under the blanket. My boundaries, too.

I should wake him.

I should want him gone.

But I don’t.

And that scares the shit out of me.

Patrick stirs again, this time with more intent.

His breath shifts—less sleepy, more aware. He adjusts against me, arm tightening for a second before sliding down.

And that’s when it happens.

Just the graze—the side of his hand brushing across me, light and accidental. But I flinch anyway. Not from pain. From how fast it changes me.

Just like that, I’m awake in a different way.

Nerves snapping to attention. Heat blooming low in my stomach.

Betrayed by my own biology.

I shift slightly, just enough to create space, just enough to pretend it didn’t happen. But Patrick doesn’t move away.

He stills, just for a beat. Then—

“Mm,” he murmurs, sleep still clinging to the edge of his voice. “Is that for me?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

No. Maybe. Doesn’t matter.

His hand curls, this time deliberate. Knuckles grazing again, a little firmer now. Like he’s waiting for me to stop him.

I should.

I really, really should.

But my skin’s already buzzing.

And his touch is lazy, coaxing. The kind of contact that feels less like permission and more like inevitability.

My jaw tightens. “Patrick.”

He hums—low, almost smug—and presses his lips to my neck like punctuation. “You’ve got time,” he says.

“I don’t.”

“You haven’t said stop.”

“I didn’t say start.”

But I’m not moving. Not pushing him off. I’m hard now, and he knows it—his palm flattening against me like he’s testing my resolve, not my body.

And the worst part?

It works.

Because even as my brain screams that this is a bad idea—that we’ve already blurred too many lines—my hips are shifting toward him. My hands are finding the soft curve of his waist beneath the blanket.

I don’t want this.

Not like this.

Not this morning.

But I do want him. And wanting wins.

His mouth is at my neck now. Lazy, open kisses. A little too warm. A little too familiar.

His hand is already under the blanket, fingers curling around me with that frustrating kind of confidence—like he knows I’ll let him. Like last night never ended. Like the rules were always just suggestions.

I should stop this.

I should say no and mean it.

But my mouth is heavy. And my body—my stupid, half-asleep, half-hard body—leans in instead.

Patrick shifts, sliding over me now, one knee between my legs, his chest pressed to mine. His hand still working slow, unhurried strokes, like this isn’t complicated. Like this is just what Sunday people do on Monday mornings when they’re not thinking clearly.

“You’re quiet,” he whispers against my jaw.

“I’m trying to leave.”

“You’re trying not to.”

He kisses me then—finally—and it’s soft. Softer than I expect. His lips don’t ask for anything. They offer.

And I take it.

Because I’m tired. And warm. And horny.

Because the moment already owns me.

Because stopping now would mean admitting I should’ve stopped earlier.

I let him roll his hips against mine, let the blanket slip lower, let the sound of skin and breath fill the room like it’s allowed to. Like it belongs here.

And for a few minutes, I forget that it doesn’t.

The water runs too hot.

I don’t turn it down. Just let it sting my hands as I splash my face, twice, then grip the sink and stare at the faucet like it might say something helpful.

Behind me, the bedroom is quiet again.

Patrick’s probably stretching, or scrolling, or humming that stupid song he always hums when he’s too pleased with himself.

I exhale slowly. Try to press reset.

But my chest is tight, like my body knows what I’m doing and isn’t on board.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not today. Not like that.

It was too… something. Too soft. Too slow. Too intentional.

It felt like morning sex. Not just sex that happened in the morning.

And I let it.

I reach for a towel and pat my face dry, avoiding the mirror.

Because if I look too closely, I’ll have to admit that part of me liked it. The way he held me after. The way he didn’t rush. The way it didn’t feel like a mistake until now.

I glance at my watch. 8:19.

Still time to get out of here. Still time to salvage what’s left of the morning.

Still time to pretend this was a one-off.

If Patrick brings it up later—and he won’t, he never does—I’ll shrug.

I’ll say, “You got carried away,” and he’ll laugh.

And it’ll be fine.

Until it’s not.

By 9:12, I’m seated in Contracts, second row from the front, still damp from the shower I barely had time to take. My laptop’s open, cursor blinking. I haven’t typed a single word.

Professor Levine’s pacing.

“Let’s talk about breach,” she says, like it’s a threat. “Specifically, anticipatory breach. Who remembers what that is?”

Someone to my left answers—wrong, but confidently. The way first-years do when they’ve skimmed the reading and think tone will carry them.

Levine shuts it down fast. “Nope. Try again.”

I tune out after that. Not on purpose. I just can’t stop thinking about the way Patrick kissed me this morning—like it meant something. Like we hadn’t spent the last three months building a structure made entirely of boundaries and well-placed exits.

Anticipatory breach.

When someone doesn’t break the contract outright, but you know it’s coming.

A text not answered. A rule ignored.

A morning he doesn’t leave when he’s supposed to.

It’s not the breach that gets you.

It’s the moment before.

When you know.

I click my pen against the edge of the desk. Once. Twice. Hard enough that the guy in front of me shifts like he can feel my tension through the chair.

I used to think contracts were rigid. Safe.

They’re not.

They’re held together by agreement. By choice. By mutual understanding that neither party’s gonna fuck it up. But if one person does—or even thinks about it—the whole thing unravels.

Like fabric.

That’s the metaphor, isn’t it?

Contracts are fabric. You stretch them too far, they tear.

You patch them too many times, they fray.

And once a thread starts to pull, you can’t just tuck it back in.

You feel it. Every time you move.

Patrick and I—we stitched this thing together out of convenience and craving and the illusion of control. And now he’s tugging at it.

Softly. Repeatedly. Like he wants to see how far he can pull before it gives.

And me?

I’m letting him.

I stare down at the blank document. Cursor still blinking.

We talk so much in this class about what contracts protect.

But maybe breach matters just as much.

Because it tells you something the agreement never could.

It tells you what a person actually wants.

What do you think about friends with benefits—let me know in the comments!