CAMPUS KING COLD HEART : A DARK COLLEGE REVERSE HAREM BULLY ROMANCE. (Scholars of Sin) by CRIMSON V

Author:CRIMSON, V
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2025-08-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13: Aftercare

Morning arrived warm and ordinary, the kind of light that doesn’t brag about what it saw the night before.

The apartment smelled like basil and clean cotton and the ghost of a record that had fallen asleep on an old song. Curtains breathed. Pipes murmured. Somewhere a kettle argued softly with itself. I woke under a quilt that looked like it had been bought for comfort, not photographs, and for an indulgent moment I didn’t move. The body does its own inventory when it’s been worshiped carefully—heat banked in the hips, a sweetness at the throat, muscles humming like a choir that liked rehearsal. No pain I hadn’t invited. No surprises. Just the soft ache of being very, very alive.

A glass of water waited on the nightstand with a folded card that said drink me in neat, unfancy letters I recognized as Cassian’s attempt at restraint. I drank. Cinnamon ghosted the air even before I heard the quiet pad of feet and the clink of cups. Somewhere beyond the bedroom door, low voices practiced civility, like men reminding one another which parts of themselves were for the kitchen and which parts were for the river.

“Morning,” I said to the ceiling, because addressing the sun felt less dangerous than addressing the door.

“Consent to knock?” came Kai’s voice, careful as always, and the word put heat in places that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with trust.

“Yes,” I said, and sat up, cinching the quilt under my arms out of habit, not shyness.

He opened the door just enough to slip a tray through—tea, toast, a little jar of honey, a bowl of cut fruit too pretty to be accidental, a clean ribbon coiled beside the spoon. He didn’t look past the angle. He didn’t have to. “Hydration first,” he said. “Then sugar. Then we talk.”

“Technically, you already started,” I said, smiling into my cup.

“Technically,” he said, and I heard his mouth curve. “We’ll be in the kitchen. No audience. Just us.”

The door closed with a soft click that wasn’t a goodbye; it was a promise that doors would do what they were told. I tied my hair into a low knot with the ribbon he’d chosen—useful, not decorative—and borrowed the crisp shirt Cassian had left folded on the chair like a suggestion. It fell to mid-thigh and smelled faintly of lemon and something clean, like an apology done properly. I left my legs bare, because I could, and walked out to find the life we had just decided to practice.

They made a small, domestic painting I didn’t know I wanted: Cassian at the stove in a threadbare college T-shirt, turning eggs with an attention that would have won a treaty; Rhett leaning against the counter, damp hair, clean jaw, an ice pack tucked at his shoulder where a blade had been unforgiving yesterday; Lucian sitting cross-legged on the floor where the sunlight pooled, reading the back of a tea box like it might reveal a scandal; Kai at the sink, washing his hands as if the city would behave if his fingers were honest.

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