My Mouth Before 14

I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep in his arms until I woke up to an empty bed and the crushing realization that morning-after awkwardness waits for no one.

A tray of neatly folded clothes sat beside me like some kind of post-sex room service. Towel, shampoo, lotion, even a fucking toothbrush—laid out with the kind of precision that suggested this wasn’t his first rodeo.

There was something weirdly tender about the gesture that made my chest do this annoying ache thing. Like he’d actually thought about my comfort instead of just wanting me gone before sunrise.

I ran my fingers over the lace bra from last night, now clean and folded beside black leggings and a T-shirt that definitely wasn’t mine. The fabric was soft, expensive. Probably cost more than my grocery budget.

I had just stepped out of his ridiculously fancy shower—the kind with like seventeen different settings that rich people apparently need—when there was a knock at the door.

“Get dressed. I’ll take you home.” Adrian’s voice came through the wood, steady and completely emotionless.

My stomach twisted into something resembling a pretzel.

“Okay,” I called back, though my voice barely made it past my throat.

I wanted him to say something more. Anything. Like “last night was incredible” or “I can’t wait to see you again” or even just “thanks for not being weird about this.” But his footsteps retreated down the hall, leaving me standing there dripping wet and wondering what the fuck last night actually meant to him.

Because to me? It meant everything I couldn’t put into words.

The car ride was a masterclass in uncomfortable silence. No music, no conversation, not even a goodbye when I climbed out at the coffee shop like some kind of discarded one-night stand.

But here’s the thing—his silence didn’t feel cold. It felt deliberate. Like we’d communicated everything we needed to with our bodies, and words would just fuck it up.

Still didn’t stop me from overthinking every microsecond of it during the walk home.

My thoughts were a complete shitstorm, too big to process, too fast to organize. I felt cracked open in the best possible way, like I’d been sleepwalking through life until last night. But I also felt terrified. Not of Adrian—of myself. Of how much I wanted more of whatever the hell that was.

The apartment was blissfully quiet. Cleo wasn’t home, which meant I could spiral in peace without her running commentary on my obvious post-dick glow.

I dropped my bag and wrapped myself in my softest blanket, curling up on my bed like a human burrito. My mind kept wandering back to his hands, his voice, the way he’d looked at me like I was something precious and dangerous simultaneously.

I could still feel him everywhere. Like I was marked without any visible proof.

“Soph? You home?” Cleo’s voice shattered my reverie.

Fuck.

I scrambled to check my reflection because I probably looked like I’d been thoroughly fucked—which, to be fair, I had been.

I padded out to the hallway just as she opened the door with Ayden attached to her hip like a designer accessory.

“Well, well, well,” Cleo grinned, dropping her bag with theatrical flair. “Someone had a dick appointment last night.”

“Oh my God—” I groaned.

“With Mystery Daddy?” Ayden asked, eyes wide with the kind of fascination usually reserved for train wrecks.

Cleo’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “I fucking knew it. He’s the one, isn’t he?”

My silence was apparently loud enough to be heard in the next zip code.

“Sophie!” Cleo shrieked, throwing her arms around me like I’d just announced my engagement. “How was it? Wait—don’t answer. I can see it. Your skin’s glowing, your knees are wobbly, your entire aura is basically moaning.”

I laughed despite myself. “It was… above expectations.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Cleo squealed. “Finally! I’m so glad your pussy is getting the princess treatment it deserves!”

Ayden raised his hands in surrender. “Nope. This is where I tap out. I am emotionally unprepared for this level of intimate sharing.”

“Grow a pair,” Cleo shot back, dragging him toward the kitchen.

But even through their ridiculous banter, my mind was still stuck on Adrian. On what we were. On what we weren’t. On whether I’d completely fucked up my life or finally started living it.

The next day, walking into his classroom felt like entering a parallel universe where everything looked the same but nothing actually was.

I sat in my usual third-row spot, but my palms were sweating like I was about to take the SATs again. My notebook stayed closed because there was no way I could concentrate on Victorian literature when my brain was stuck on replay from last night.

Adrian walked in wearing that same black button-down that should be illegal in academic settings, sleeves rolled up to show those forearms that had been wrapped around me twelve hours ago.

He didn’t look at me. Not at first.

He set his folder down, wrote something on the board, and launched into his lecture like nothing had changed. And I sat there trying to remember how to breathe like a functional human being.

But the moment his eyes finally met mine—just for a split second—lightning shot through my entire nervous system.

Heat flooded my cheeks. My thighs pressed together involuntarily. All I could think about was his voice whispering “good girl” and the sound of leather against skin.

I couldn’t concentrate on a single word he said. Didn’t take notes. Barely blinked. Just sat there reliving every moment while trying not to spontaneously combust in public.

He didn’t acknowledge me after class. No secret glances, no subtle signals, nothing.

But I knew he’d seen me. And somehow, that was enough to keep my world spinning off its axis.

I left the room in a complete daze, clutching my folder like a life preserver, when I crashed straight into someone outside the door.

“Sorry,” I muttered, trying to steady myself.

“Sophie Hale, isn’t it?”

The voice was cool, feminine, and carried the kind of authority that made my stomach drop into my shoes.

I looked up to find Dr. Vaughn studying me with the intensity of a scientist examining a particularly interesting specimen.

She was immaculate in a black dress shirt and slate-gray skirt, red hair swept into a chignon that probably required professional assistance. Her glasses perched perfectly, lips painted dark and sharp.

She definitely wasn’t smiling.

“Can I have a word with you, Ms. Hale?”

My voice caught somewhere between my brain and my mouth. “Um… yes. Of course.”

“In my office.”

She turned on her heel without waiting for confirmation, and like an idiot, I followed.

Because apparently making questionable decisions was my new specialty.