"And if you have a minute, why don't we go talk about it somewhere only we know?"
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Maya Beaulieu, born and raised in Montreal, has heard the stories about Lance Stroll, the boy who grew up down the street of where she lived. All the reason to stay...
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December 2nd, Montreal, Canada
"Where are you going?"
"I'm sleeping on the chair."
"No, you're not."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Sleep here."
"What?"
"Next to me."
"Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure."
The lights from the street lights shine through the white shades in front of the window, causing a soft glow on my face.
I turn around, and feel a warmth radiating from next to me. I open one eye, just slight but enough to see a human body next to me.
Too tired to open my eyes further, I let my hand travel over their chest, and to their face. My fingers feel little hairs on his chin and cheek, plump lips.
"What are you doing?" His raspy morning voice busts through my ears, but contradicting enough, it is soothing and I fall back in sleep with a tiny smile on my lips.
I feel an arm tightening around me, and then a soft kiss on my temple.
The next kiss is on my forehead, and my eyes flutter open. The warmth next to me has disappeared and through my squeezed eyes, I see Lance walking to the middle of the room.
"Good morning," He says softly.
"Good morning," I mumble back.
Sleep has me on a leesh, and is eager to pull me back. I grumble when I turn around, tightening the blankets around me. Lance's scent fills my nose as I breathe in deeply.
"Did you know you talk in your sleep?" Lance asks, teasing.
"Hmm?" I am too tired to open my eyes or to answer his question in all seriousness. I turn on my back, eyes still closed and I sigh tiredly.
"Oh, nothing. Just a love confession."
I slowly crack open my eyes, squinting at Lance through the haze of sleep. His words register in my mind, and I raise an eyebrow at his teasing tone. My tiredness starts to give way to a mix of irritation and curiosity.
"A love confession, huh?" I mumble, trying to brush off his comment as a joke. However, my heart races a bit, wondering if there might be some truth behind his words.. "I'm sure you must have dreamt up quite the fairy tale."
"I always have the sweetest dreams. But I really want to know what you were dreaming about."
"Dreams are just dreams, Lance," I say, trying to maintain a nonchalant facade, though my heart keeps increasing its pace. "I don't know what I dreamt about."
