Page 24 of His To Unravel (His & Hers Duet #1)
SIXTEEN
olivia
Soft morning light spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow across the vast, sleek bedroom.
I blink awake, momentarily disoriented by the luxury surrounding me.
The bedding beneath me are all crisp linen and understated elegance—cool to the touch, the kind of softness that speaks of things I’m not used to having.
The bed is empty and I’m caught off guard by the disconcerting emptiness in this otherwise opulent space.
Memories of last night rush in—warm, sharp and impossibly clear.
I’ve had sex before. But never like that. Never with someone who made me feel so known . So completely undone and yet somehow more whole than I’ve ever felt.
It wasn’t just physical. It wasn’t even just emotional. It was something deeper. Like every version of me—shy and bold, fragile and fierce—had been invited to the surface and held, reverently, by someone who saw it all and didn’t flinch.
And God, it was good. Better than anything I thought it could be. Not just the way his body moved with mine, but the way it felt afterward—like something in me had shifted. Like he’d opened a door I didn’t know I’d been knocking on.
I sink a little deeper into the sheets, still able to smell him on the pillow. It wraps around me, warm and familiar, and I can’t help but wonder where he’s gone.
The sound of faint sizzling coming from the kitchen nudges me fully awake.
Sitting up, I take in my surroundings with fresh eyes, noting the understated elegance woven into every detail of Nathaniel’s room. The silken gray sheets are impeccably smooth, coordinated with the muted tones that define his space.
The walls are adorned with abstract art, their colors subdued but striking, like whispers meant to be noticed only in passing. It’s all so meticulously chosen, so deliberate, and it dawns on me just how curated his world is—so unlike mine. The observation settles heavily in my chest.
I grew up in a small, cluttered home where the furniture was chosen for practicality, and the walls were plastered with family photos and memories, not commissioned pieces and high-end design.
Nathaniel’s world feels polished and imposing, a reminder of the distance between us.
He lives a life so far from anything I ever imagined for myself, a life I’m only just beginning to understand.
I feel a little like an outsider here, a guest intruding on a world that belongs to someone else entirely. But the promise of him waiting outside settles me. It’s enough to remind me that, despite all these differences, he chose me to share this space with him—if only for now.
I slide out of bed, the plush carpet soft underfoot, and cross the room, each step shaking off the hesitation that clings like mist.
The hallway opens into an expansive living area bathed in natural light.
Charcoal leather couches form a sleek sitting area around a low glass coffee table, perfectly arranged atop a patterned rug that looks like it belongs in a gallery.
A few rare books are stacked with casual deliberation beside a crystal decanter on a side table.
The room is anchored by large, steel-framed windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, offering a panoramic view of Boston’s skyline. The sight is breathtaking, making the city feel almost within arm’s reach, its buildings piercing the soft blue of the early morning sky.
For a moment, I let myself simply take it all in, my fingers grazing the edge of the sofa as I move slowly, afraid to disturb the pristine tranquility.
Each corner of the room carries his imprint—decisive, sharp, with an understated elegance.
Even the art on the walls speaks of his taste, abstract pieces that demand interpretation, much like him.
There’s no clutter, no mess, only the intentionality of someone who lives with purpose, who curates his surroundings as carefully as he does his life.
And yet, for all the beauty and sophistication, there’s something achingly impersonal about it.
This place is as much a fortress as it is a home, a carefully crafted image that keeps the world at arm’s length.
I wonder if that’s how he lives every part of his life—shielded, untouchable, never quite allowing anyone too close.
A sharp ache blooms in my chest at the thought.
As I make my way through the open expanse of Nathaniel’s penthouse into the kitchen, I find him standing by the stove, plating breakfast with the same precision he applies to everything else.
He glances up as I approach, his gaze warming when he sees me. He motions me over, his mouth tilting in a barely-there smile.
“Good morning, baby,” he murmurs, stepping closer to kiss me, the familiar brush of his lips sparking a comforting warmth in my chest.
“Good morning,” I reply, the words soft, shy .
As he hands me a plate, I realize he’s made my favorite—pancakes, perfectly golden, just like that first night when he took me to the diner. The memory rushes back, bringing a smile to my face.
There’s something profoundly intimate about the domesticity of this moment, as if the world has narrowed down to just the two of us and the unmistakable care in his gesture.
We settle at the kitchen island, the city stretching out before us.
Nathaniel’s voice is steady and soothing as we chat about the day ahead.
It’s a relief that the conversation flows easily, as if I’ve always known this version of him—the one who remembers the small details, who cooks breakfast and turns simple moments into something deeper.
For a while, it feels almost normal .
Almost.
Then I sigh, nudging my plate away, and say, “I should probably get back after this. I’ve got a pile of assignments waiting.”
His entire body stills.
When he speaks, his voice is a gentle command—low, edged, final. “You’ll be staying here this weekend.”
Not a question, but a foregone conclusion.
“You will study here, where I can take care of you.”
The authority in his tone sends a thrill through me, even as I blink in surprise at his directness.
It’s rare for anyone to make decisions on my behalf, let alone with such certainty.
And yet, there’s an unexpected comfort in his resolve, in the idea of surrendering, just this once, to someone else’s direction.
I clear my throat, instinctively reaching for a protest, but Nathaniel’s eyes pin me where I sit, the slightest tilt of his mouth daring me to argue.
“Okay. Just let me run back to the dorm quickly and I’ll come back later with my stuff.” I offer, though the words feel flimsy the moment they leave my lips.
Nathaniel’s eyes lock on mine, steady and unwavering. “No,” he replies mildly, but with finality. “I’ll take you.”
He lets that settle, then adds, “I’m not letting you out of my sight, Olivia. Not this weekend.”
The possessiveness in his words should unsettle me, but instead, a small flutter of anticipation sparks within me.
His voice is so sure, so assertive, that a part of me—the part that’s always been responsible, always been independent—relaxes into his command, feeling a welcome sense of ease in the release.
“All right,” I hear myself say, my voice softer than usual, but steady.
Nathaniel’s eyes darken with satisfaction, and just like that, the air shifts—thick with the inevitability of us.
It’s like I’m drifting through a dream this weekend—folded into Nathaniel’s world, held in place by his attention, his steadiness, and the way he’s always just within reach.
The hours blur together, each moment layering over the last, forming a vivid, unforgettable picture of what life could be like with him.
Nathaniel is relentless in his care, though he disguises it as a casual routine.
Meals appear as if conjured: plated perfectly, flavors rich and nuanced, every dish made with an attention to detail that feels extravagant, intentional.
He even takes the time to prepare coffee from scratch, using some high-end contraption that looks like it belongs in a science lab more than a kitchen.
When he hands me a steaming cup, his eyes gleam in anticipation of my reaction, and the first sip spreads warmth through me, all the sweeter because he made it.
Even studying becomes an intimate experience .
I sit across from him, textbooks and notes spread between us, and he shares his knowledge freely, his notes impeccably organized and his insights sharp.
He anticipates every question before I can ask, explaining things with such clarity that, for the first time, I actually feel ahead instead of buried.
With Nathaniel, studying feels less like a chore and more like a collaboration.
He never misses a chance to encourage me, either—slipping in compliments, brushing my hair behind my ear, glancing up at me with a gaze that seems to say I can do anything.
But it’s the way he touches me that undoes me the most. Each kiss, each lingering caress, each gentle press of his hands against my skin tells me exactly what he sees when he looks at me, and it’s more than I’ve ever dared to hope for.
I’ve always been painfully aware of my body—the curves I’ve tried to embrace but have never quite loved. I’m not the smallest, far the most sculpted. There’s softness to me that I’ve spent too much time wishing were anything but.
Yet with Nathaniel, that shame fades like mist under the weight of his gaze.
He looks at me with a hunger, like he wouldn’t change a single thing about me.
He touches me like he’s memorizing me, his fingers mapping me with a tenderness and desire that feels transformative.
Every time he touches me, I feel myself unfurl, like he’s slowly peeling away each layer of doubt, replacing it with something firmer: a confidence that is foreign but welcome.