ocean eyes || c.evans

vii.

It was rare but not unheard of, power outages in the Hollywood Hills.

Many of the houses – if you could even call them that, those absurdly large homes of the elite dwarfing any and all buildings in your old neighbourhood – ran on on-premises generators.

Chris’ place – your newfound home – was halfway to being one such house. He had a generator, but it was a manual start-up should the grid fail.

And fail the grid did, but only while it was well late into the night.

The temperatures in California were not particularly forgiving, even in summer. During the day, the heat was oppressive. But during the night…

It was the heating dying that had woken you up. The room still held some warmth, but your sheets were already starting to cool, causing you to withdraw your knees to your chest.

Another contributor to the fast lowering of temperature was the open en-suite bathroom door. The tiles were warmth’s enemy, leeching all of it from the coziness you had enjoyed. In spite of your reluctance – horror movies had really done some permanent damage to your nighttime paranoia of psycho killers residing in the darkness – you agreed to keep it open after one specific night.

Chris had been home for a while at that point – around a week – and Dodger had spent almost every second at his side aside from quick good morning greetings to you or the numerous kisses you’d get on the grass of the expansive garden should you be around long enough to join the inseparable duo.

At some point, your morning routine had become sleeping in – until Chris began the ritual of letting Dodger into your room to drag you out of bed.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he’d smirk from behind his cup of coffee, watching as you groggily stumbled – looking fifty shades of bedraggled – into the kitchen, eyes squinting into the light.

He was almost always met with a sarcastic smile, and sometimes – if it was a particularly good dream you’d been “kissed” awake from – you’d even flip him off.

But at some point, Dodger started to miss you a little too. You could hear him pawing insistently at your bathroom door – having escaped Chris for the night and deciding to room with you for the remainder of it – begging to be let in.

You hadn’t responded one night, guilty in your selfishness. Exhaustion had weighed you down, and you didn’t want to leave the comfort of your bed. That was when Dodger started whining, howling for your company.

So you and Chris had agreed to keeping the doors open to the conjoining bathrooms, only at night. And, should you require it, closing the door as quietly as possible so as to not awake the other person. It was a respectable enough arrangement, and it didn’t come without its perks.

One such as now.

Deciding the cold was too much to suffer alone, you sat up and patted your bed. Your movements were exaggerated, loud enough to alert the pup, but hopefully not loud enough to wake his owner.

You heard Dodger shift on Chris’ bed, head raising from where it rested on Chris’ shoulder, the charm on his collar tinkling with the movement.

“Dodger,” you whisper-yelled. “Come here, boy.”

You heard something else move – something bigger. Chris had slung a protective arm over Dodger, preventing his exit. “Don’t you dare, bud,” you heard Chris sleepily mumble.

“Dodger,” you called louder. Your voice had taken on a sing-song quality, one you knew he responded well to.

“Dodge, buddy, stay here with me. You know how much I love you, bud, stay. Don’t listen to her, ignore the siren song, bud.”

It was now a battle for Dodger’s affections – but, more specifically (at least at that very moment), the heat Dodger radiated on a regular basis. He was a hot water bottle on legs, often keeping your feet toasty while you immersed yourself in whatever book you were currently reading.

“Dodger, baby!” you sang out.

That was enough to do it. You heard some shuffling, and then the sound of victory as Dodger’s paws landed on the wooden floors of Chris’ bedroom. Every clack of his claws was a punctuation of the fact that you had won, and Chris had lost.

He scampered through the bathroom, and happily hopped onto your bed, circling his favourite spot – curled up right next to you – into a comfortable little patch. He flopped onto you with a huff, looking up at you with those adorably large eyes.

“Good boy!” You scruffed his head in praise.

Chris groaned. “Traitor!”

———————

It took twenty minutes, which surprised you. You didn’t think he’d last fifteen, but after twenty minutes, you heard him.

Bare feet hit the floor in the other room, padding silently on the wood, before slapping grumpily onto the tiled floors of the bathroom, getting louder as he drew closer.

He paused in the doorway, and you feigned noticing him for the first time although you had been expecting him for at least five minutes.

You turned your head, eyebrows raised expectantly. Innocently, you batted your lashes. “Yes?”

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight you saw. It took everything in you not to laugh.

Chris stood in your doorway, blankets draped over his shirtless figure, clung tightly by dejected hands. His head was hung, lips pouty, eyes bleary with sleep. His hair stuck out every which way, and he was toeing the ground, almost shy in his sleepiness. His grumbles were husky, barely audible. “You stole my dog. Temptress.”

And, without invitation – although it had already been on your lips, waiting to be extended – Chris stalked grumpily toward you, peeling back the covers on the other side of Dodger and clambered into your bed.

“I’m sleeping here,” he stated simply. “And if you don’t like it, there’s an empty bed through there.”

He had lazily gestured towards the bathroom, in the general direction of the room in question, before snuggling up to Dodger again.

“Fine, but only for tonight,” you giggled softly. He was acting like such a spoiled little kid who had just lost his favourite toy, and it was highly amusing.

“You steal my dog, I steal your bed. Fair exchange.”

“I mean, it’s only logical. Preserving body heat.”

He hummed in agreement, eyes already slid closed, breath already evening out. You weren’t sure if he had even heard you.

He looked so peaceful when he slept.

The sight was almost enough to make you ignore the thousand butterflies that had suddenly come alive in your stomach, stoking the fire in the pit of your belly, at the thought – now made tangible – of Chris Evans in your bed.

Almost.