Grooving to Life's Beat

His Side of the Bed

I splashed cold water on my face, blinking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My hair was a mess, my skin a little blotchy, and yet, there was a glow, something I wasn't sure came from the gin or... well, from him. God, this was a disaster. Not last night, of course. Last night was perfect, but now what?

What do you say to someone after the best night of your life? "Hey, thanks for the life-altering experience, want some coffee?" Or worse, what if he woke up, mumbled something about needing to be somewhere, and just... left? I didn't know how one was supposed to act the morning after, but I was pretty sure pacing around and overthinking wasn't in the guidebook.

I pressed the towel against my face, sighing. I didn't regret a second of it; not the way his hands felt on my skin, or the way he'd looked at me like I was the only thing in the world. But now, in the harsh light of day, reality was creeping in. What was he thinking? Was this just one night to him? And more importantly, why did I feel like I wanted so much more?

I grabbed my toothbrush, trying to focus on the steady motion as my thoughts unraveled in a dozen directions. It wasn't like we'd made any promises. I'd been the one to say no expectations, no strings. So why did I suddenly feel like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, hoping he wouldn't walk away?

When I finally worked up the nerve to head back to the bedroom, my heart clenched the moment I saw him. He was still asleep, lying on his side, his hand tucked under his head, the sheet tangled loosely around his hips. His short-cropped hair was slightly mussed, and his face, softened in sleep, looked younger, almost boyish. Vulnerable.

I leaned against the doorframe, my breath catching in my chest. Marshall Mathers, the guy who stormed through life with rough edges and sharp words, looked completely at peace. And for a second, I felt overwhelmed. I didn't just want this moment; I wanted every moment. I wanted to freeze time, to keep him here, to wake up to him every day.

The thought startled me. When did that happen? When did I stop wanting to stay away from him and start wanting him to stay forever?

The second his eyes fluttered open, I froze. It was like being caught stealing cookies from the jar- only this jar was a sleeping man, and my crime was staring at him like a lovesick lunatic.

Great. Just great.

He blinked, his blue eyes hazy with sleep, and I felt my face heat up as he caught me mid-psycho. "Morning," he mumbled, his voice deep and gravelly, the kind of sound that could melt butter. Or hearts.

"Good morning," I squeaked, my voice embarrassingly high-pitched. Get a grip, Emma. He just woke up, not proposed marriage.

"Figured you'd still be asleep after last night." He propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before he asked, "You alright?"

Was I alright? Absolutely not. I was a mess. But I nodded anyway, crossing my arms over my chest like it could somehow keep my emotions in check. "Me? Oh, yeah! Perfectly fine," I said too quickly, nodding like a bobblehead. "How about you?"

He gave me a slow smile, that boyish one that turned my insides to mush. "I'm good." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his baggy sweatpants on the floor. As he pulled them on, I caught a glimpse of the tattoos on his back, and I had to physically bite my lip to stop from sighing like a Victorian maiden.

Focus, Emma.

"I'm just gonna..." He gestured toward the door. "Bathroom."

"Sure! Yeah, go ahead!" I said, maybe a little too enthusiastically, waving him off like I was shooing a pigeon. The second the door clicked shut, my panic hit me full force.