Celestial Worlds

Chapter Twenty-three

His bedroom is neat. Not like his room.

    I’m at the doorway, examining his bedroom’s state. There are hundreds of books stacked in the shelves and out of it just because of lack of space. Books at the desk, beside his bed, on the dresser, everywhere but neatly stacked. His bed is made, the comforter folded neatly and placed at the corner, his bedspreads neatly tucked at the edges. I sit down on his bed. He goes in his walk-in closet and comes back with clothes.

    “Here,” he says softly. “Put these on. Those clothes are filthy.”

    “Thank you for letting me stay here,” I say. “And sleep here, in your room.”

   “It’s fine. You need some sleep anyway. Go on and change, I’ll spread the sheets.”

    I go in his bathroom, which is exceptionally neat and smells of vanilla, just like him. I change into blue striped flannel pyjamas which are loose and long and into a huge t-shirt he supplied me. These are clothes of him and I’m happy he didn’t give me a bikini.

    When I go back, the comforter is spread out and he’s wearing his glasses, lying on his bed reading a book. He sees me and frowns a little. “Can you sleep in those? Are they too…loose?”

    “Hell yeah they are. But I can sleep in them,” I say, sliding beside him, keeping a safe one feet between us. Only the lamp is turned on so the room is dimly lit.

    “Do you want something to read?” he asks me, smiling his smile again. Suddenly, his smile isn’t so rare anymore when I’m around. It only turns off, like a switch, if we go out and meet other people.

    “No thanks, I’m tired.” I yawn and snuggle up in the comforter. I tur away from him, facing the white walls.

    He clears his throat.

    I tense involuntary as he turns off the lamp, shifting until he gets comfortable. I’m getting a little too cold so I shift, this time facing him. He faces me this time, his eyes closed. I close mine before he even has the chance to see me looking at him. In the dark. In his room. That’s the last thing he needs. I get a little curious, so I spare one last glance.

    He’s staring at me.

    Even at this dark night, a little moonlight escapes his curtains. I see his eyes, gleaming brown like newly melted chocolate. I’m breathing so hard.

    “Are you cold?” he whispers, his lips only moving.

    “Not really.”

    “Are you sleepy?”

    “Not at all.”

    He continues to stare at me with a faint smile.

    “Can I—”

    “Yes,” he says breathlessly. So breathlessly that it comes out in a whisper.

    I wrap my arms around him, he’s still for a moment, but he eventually relaxes. He puts an arm around my neck, causing my face to bump into his shoulder. My hands cling to his back

    “You’re so warm,” I say in a whisper. I say this like I’m talking to myself. Like I doubt if I will let him hear me say it.

    “So are you,” he says, removing his arm around my neck and placing it on my waist.

    My breath catches.

    “I’m sleepy,” he mumbles against my hair. “Good night.”

    His breathing becomes even. My breathing matches and I sleep too, beside this guy whom I met just at the bookstore, but has now became my story.