Penalty Kill

Jake

There's an unusual racket coming from what sounds like my kitchen that wakes me up a good hour before my alarm is supposed to go off. At first, I'm swearing to myself, tugging the covers over my head in an incredibly feeble effort to block out any of the clanking, and opening and shutting of drawers and cabinets. Then, as my brain cells start to wake up one by one, my eyes slowly blink open as confusion sets in.

My arm shoots out instantly to where where Harper should be next to me. The bed is painfully void of an adorable, cuddly woman dressed in my Storm gear—the only suitable option for comfortable pajamas outside of, well, nothing at all. I'd managed to wrangle her up some of my older stuff, well worn, soft, and perfect for her wonderfully curvy frame.

Laying in bed trying to puzzle out why she's currently either destroying my kitchen or just simply attempting to use it without asking me for any help at all, I take a second and absentmindedly scratch behind Huey's ear as I revel in the perfection that was last night.

While I'd been unbelievably tempted to push Harper on the conversation with her mom a little further, since I'd overheard some definite swearing and exasperation on her part, seeing as she was only a handful of feet away from me at the time, I settled for just making sure she was okay when she'd come back to me on the couch.

It took only a matter of minutes for her to fall asleep on my chest after she'd curled up next to me. As I found my own eyes starting to close watching ESPN, it dawned on me that it was pretty damn late, and I hadn't asked her if she planned on staying over or not. While I had managed to find out over our dinner that she had tomorrow off, that didn't necessarily mean she wasn't looking to go home.

Clicking the TV off, I try to gently give her shoulders a shake as slowly as I can without startling her awake. When that doesn't seem to work, I start giving her thigh some quick rubs and pats. After a handful of seconds and not so much as the slightest damn movement or sign of life, I have to try and talk to her.

"Harper, honey, hey—you gotta wake up for a sec. Harrrrperrrr."

Finally she starts to stir, her head moving slightly as she grumbles into the fabric of my shirt. As her body starts to stretch, I jump on the chance to try and get a coherent answer out of her.

"Do you want me to take you home? It's late, baby." I rub her back up and down, matching the pace of my hand on her thigh as I try to keep her with me for just a few seconds longer. I'll carry her to my car if she tells me she wants to head home—that's no problem at all. I just need an answer to a question I should've asked before she hit her REM cycle.

Just as I'm about to try and tilt her face up to mine so I can try one last time to get her attention, I feel her arms wrap around me tightly, her leg even moving so she's clung to me similarly to that of a sloth.

"I wanna stay, Jakey."

I can't help but chuckle at her brand new nickname for me, straight out of her sleep-fogged brain, and I rub her back more as she keeps her grip on me much like her jungle-dwelling, slow-moving mammal counterpart. Bending down to whisper in her ear, I give her a few firm pats to prepare her for what's about to happen.

"I'm gonna carry you back to bed, Harper, okay? You just gotta hang on." I hear what I think are a few grumbles of reluctant acceptance in return, and I do my best to get my arms securely under her legs and around her back without disturbing her too much.

"Alright, Chirpy, in one, two, three, here we go."

In one smooth motion I'm standing upright, Harper cradled perfectly in my arms, her head resting peacefully against my chest as her arms reflexively wrap around my neck—she's either just awake enough to know to hang on, or she's that desperate to stay clung to me. Either way, I'm smiling to myself as I walk through the living room, turning off lights as I go.