The alarm goes off and I drag myself out of bed and into the kitchen. 7 am and I’m starting my daily grind once again. I shuffle through making coffee; the only variance from routine is deciding whether it’s a nine scoop day or a ten scoop day. In the end, I decide ten. I root around in the cabinet and find the cereal almost gone. Stupid roommates. I’ll have to grab a bagel before class.
The coffee finishes and I pour myself a cup. I lean against the counter and sip, waiting for the next part of my morning routine to play out, the only part I actually look forward to: my roommate coming in from his morning run.
Like clockwork, I hear his key in the lock and I instinctively stand up a little straighter. You might wonder why the bright spot of my day is seeing my sweaty roommate get back from his run? It’s because my roommate is Edward Cullen.
Like he heard me thinking about him, Edward rounds the corner into the kitchen. He’s still panting, his chest heaving as he drags in big lungfuls of air. His chest… it’s all sculpted and sweaty, and draped with a clingy, threadbare old Forks High gym shirt. His basketball shorts are barely hanging onto his hipbones. His russet hair is damp and sticking to his forehead. Little rivulets of sweat run down over his cheekbones, past the hollows underneath, over the hard ridge of his jaw, down his neck, to join the rest of the sweat soaking his shirt. Did I mention that his shirt is wet? Because it is.
“Hey, Bella,” he huffs.
I swallow hard and try and erase the lust off my face, because lusting after my entirely platonic friend when all he’s doing is working out is uncool.
“Hey,” I mutter, trying to look away from all his chiseled, sweaty perfection, but failing miserably.
Every day, I get up earlier than I need to, and I loiter around the kitchen drinking coffee longer than I should, just so I can stare at panting, sweating Edward for five minutes before he gets in the shower. Every morning for a year, he chats with me pleasantly as I gape at him and try to hide it. And every morning, once he’s left the kitchen, I groan and kick myself and tell myself sternly to just get the fuck over it. We’re friends. We’re roommates. That’s all. Yes, I want to touch him so badly that some mornings I think I might spontaneously combust, but I never do, because that would ruin everything. Our friendship, our very convenient roommate set-up… everything.
So I suffer through being in lust/love with Edward in silence, and ogle him over the rim of my coffee cup while he remains blissfully unaware…and sweaty.
That’s what I’m doing now, taking long slow sips as he crosses to the fridge for the next, totally awesome part of my morning routine. The part where Edward Gets a Drink. My eyes are wide and I’m clutching my coffee cup in a death-grip as he opens the fridge. He reaches in and pulls it out; the orange juice carton. He unfolds the top and raises it to those perfect lips and tips his head back. The tendons in his neck stand out and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows back several deep pulls. I know it should be gross that he drinks the orange juice straight out of the container, and if it were anybody else, it totally would be. I’d kill Emmett for doing it. But never, ever in a million years, would I tell Edward to stop, because then I’d deprive myself of the wonder of watching him do it.
His eyes are closed and his chest heaves as he drinks. My mouth goes dry. I blink and then I hiss as I realize that I’ve tipped my coffee cup and spilled it all over my hand.
“Goddamn!” I shout, dropping the cup into the sink. Edward startles, too, and practically drops the orange juice. I snatch the dishtowel off the counter and dry my hand.
“Bella, are you okay?” he says.
“Yeah, fine,” I mutter. Then I chance a look up at him, hoping I’m not blushing. He’s got a rivulet of juice running down the side of his chin. A thin, orange streak, ending in a droplet on his jaw. I’m entranced by it. Hypnotized. That’s the only thing to explain the insanity that happens next.
Before I even register what I’m doing, my hand reaches out and I press the tip of my index finger to the drop. Edward freezes and his eyes go wide. I don’t look away as I slowly drag my finger up the side of his chin, wiping away the juice as I go. His dark green eyes are staring straight into mine when my finger reaches the edge of his bottom lip. His lips are so pretty. I pull my damp finger away from his face and bring it to my own lips. He’s still not looking away and my heart is pounding as I slip my tongue out over my bottom lip and lick away the juice. I see Edward swallow hard.
“You missed a spot,” he mutters. His voice makes all kinds of parts of me clench up in delight. I have no idea what the hell is happening between us right now, but whatever it is, it’s the best morning ever.
“Did I?” I whisper, and I reach out for his face again. I put my fingertips back on his jaw, still all damp with sweat. “Here?” I ask.
Edward’s arm shoots up and his hand clamps down around my wrist. I gasp. He reaches up with his free hand and points at the corner of his mouth. “Here.”
“Oh,” I say. He still doesn’t glance away from me as I slowly lean into him. When I’m close enough to feel his breath on my face, I snake my tongue out again and brush it against the spot he pointed at. “There?”
Then he turns his head and his mouth crushes down on mine and oh… my… god…
As one hand is fisting into my hair and the other is wrapping around my back, he pulls back just long enough to mutter against my mouth. “What the hell took you so long, Bella?” before he slams his mouth down over mine again.
Breakfast is officially my favorite meal of the day.
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