My Love (Bwwm)

Making Amends

Two weeks had slipped away since Artie and I had that talk in the kitchen. Nights had taken on a different feel for me, with secret meetings under the moonlight with Floyd. There was something about him that drew me in, and I couldn't help but feel a gradual warmth growing in my heart.

Artie, too, seemed to change. His usual stoic demeanor softened, and he became unusually kind. Every evening, when he returned home, he'd ask to fall asleep on my lap. It was a peculiar request, but it seemed to bring him some sort of comfort.

So there we were, night after night, Artie finding solace in the warmth of my lap, and me caught in the middle of this intriguing dance between Floyd's mystery and Artie's unexpected tenderness.
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As Artie lay in a deep slumber on my lap, a peculiar serenity settled upon his features. The stern lines that etched his face during waking hours seemed to melt away, unveiling an unexpected vulnerability. The room was bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, casting a gentle light on the man who, at this moment, appeared remarkably serene.

Caught in the quietude of the evening, I found myself observing Artie with an unintentional appreciation. His rugged exterior, softened in repose, revealed a different facet of the man I thought I knew. It was an unforeseen revelation that made him oddly endearing, a departure from the stoicism that defined his waking hours.

Unable to resist, my fingers lightly traced the contours of his face, lingering over the subtle nuances that became apparent in this unguarded moment. As my touch grazed his lips, a realization dawned upon me—Artie, in his vulnerability, was undeniably beautiful. The sheer handsomeness of this man, it's like God himself took time to perfect him.

With a gentle curiosity, my fingers lingered, tracing the lines of his lips, and I found myself marveling at the wonder of it all. How could one man embody such strength and grace simultaneously? As the room held its breath, I wondered about the untold stories that sculpted the contours of this man's existence.

As Artie continued to rest peacefully on my lap, the tranquility of the evening was disrupted by a sudden shift in his dreams. His serene expression twisted with the emergence of a tumultuous scenario, and his murmurs escalated into shouts. "Jimmy, no! Don't..." his voice echoed through the room, carrying an urgency that mirrored the distress playing out in his dreams.

In that moment, I couldn't help but be drawn into the mystery of Artie's subconscious. The lines of his face, once softened by sleep, now tensed with an intensity that hinted at a struggle beyond the realm of his waking reality. The unexpected turmoil in his dreams painted a vivid picture of emotions he seemed to guard fiercely during daylight.

The name "Jimmy" hung in the air, and it was clear that this figure held significance in Artie's inner world. Questions lingered—was Jimmy a friend, a foe, or perhaps a chapter from a past that haunted his dreams? The shouts and pleas for someone named Jimmy created a poignant backdrop, unveiling a side of Artie that was raw, unguarded.

The room held a palpable tension after Artie's sudden awakening from a tumultuous dream. Concern etched my features, and I couldn't help but voice my worry, "Artie, what happened? Who's Jimmy?" His dismissive response, a curt "It's nothing," hung in the air, leaving us both entangled in the aftermath of his vivid dream.

Silence settled, heavy with the weight of unspoken emotions. Seeking refuge from the lingering distress, Artie, in an unexpected turn, decided to break the ice. "Tell me about your family, Dorothy. What was it like back home?" His voice, surprisingly gentle, invited me to share, and I found solace in the opportunity to steer our conversation away from the unsettling dream.