Waking up should've been normal.
You know — that slow blink into sunlight, maybe stretch a little, groan, check your phone, contemplate the meaninglessness of existence, and maybe eat cereal.
Not for me, I woke up to thighs.
On me.
Warm, bare and velvety-smooth thighs.
My eyes snapped open.
Celestia Valentina Moreau was straddling me.
In my bed.
Smirking.
Wearing one of my old T-shirts and absolutely nothing else I could see.
"Oh good," she purred. "You're awake."
I opened my mouth, but my brain refused to load language.
She leaned forward, elbows on my chest, chin in her palms. "I was cold. You're warm. This was logical."
"This is—this is not logical," I croaked.
"You're lucky I'm too sick to do anything," she added, grinning like she wanted to do everything.
I stared up at her. "You look fine to me."
She coughed.
Innocently.
Like the world's cutest pathological liar.
"Right," I muttered. "Sick. How could I forget."
She kissed my forehead. "You should thank me. I didn't do anything inappropriate in your sleep."
I blinked. "Wait, you've done that before?"
She shrugged.
I didn't ask again.
---
She did the usual after that. Wandering around my apartment like she was on a tragic luxury safari.
"Is THIS your bathroom?" she called out, horrified.
"Yes," I shouted from the bed. "It has plumbing. It works."
A pause.
> "It smells like public school trauma in here!"
I groaned into my pillow.
Five minutes later, she was in the kitchen.
"Wow," she said, poking around. "It's so… small. Intimate. Rustic."
"It's a kitchenette."
> "It's a survival challenge."
She opened the fridge. "You own six eggs, expired ketchup, and sadness."
"Don't judge me."
She turned, holding a knife like a chef preparing for war. "Move."
"What?"
> "I'm cooking."
I blinked. "You can cook?"
She raised an eyebrow. "I'm a billionaire's daughter. Not a feral raccoon. I had private tutors for everything."
"You had a cooking tutor?"
"Of course. I used to make soufflés at nine. It was adorable and psychotic. Like me."
And then she proved it.
Fifteen minutes later, the place smelled good, like, suspiciously good.
I sat at the wobbly table while she served something fluffy, golden, and beautiful — like a frittata made by angels who read Michelin guides in their free time.
I took one bite and Holy. Hell.
"This is... incredible."
She beamed. "Say that again."
"No."
> "Say it or I'll straddle you again."
"…This is incredible."
> "Good boy."
---
After breakfast, she plopped down beside me on the couch with her head on my shoulder.
"So," she said. "Let's go out."
"Nope."
> "Let's go to the movies. I'll buy all the popcorn."
"Still no."
> "Walk in the park? I'll hold your hand and not poison anyone."
"Tempting. Still no."
She pouted, full force. "Come onnnn."
I turned to her. "I thought you were sick."
She blinked then paused.
> "Well, I'm feeling slightly better—"
"Great. Then you can go home."
A moment passed —then she coughed.
Pathetically, innocently, like a kitten with bronchitis.
I stared.
She smiled sweetly. "Might be a relapse."
"You're unbelievable."
> "Unbelievably cute, I know."
---
We stayed in.
I caved, obviously.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of movie marathons, more food (she made grilled cheese like she was auditioning for Top Chef), and me trying not to lose what was left of my brain from all the casual touching.
She cuddled. A lot.
Arm around me. Legs over mine. Head on my chest.
She laughed at my jokes. Stole the blanket. Threatened to stab the remote when Netflix asked if we were "still watching."
And all the while, I kept sneaking glances at her.
Not because of her looks (though yeah, she was still stunning even in sweatpants and one of my old anime tees). But because of how... normal she seemed.
Just a girl, smiling through a cough, making food, teasing me like we'd known each other forever.
She looked… happy.
Like she belonged here and that was dangerous.
Because part of me — the really, really stupid part — kind of wanted her to stay.