𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊

𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐘

"𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄," 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐘𝐒.

He gives me a swift kiss to the side of my head before he pulls off the blanket and stretches, taking him and his body heat away from me. I move over to where he lay, to where his head had warmed the pillow, and his body, the sheets.

I curl into a ball as Beau notices.

He stands up and turns, still gloriously naked, and runs his hand through my hair, tucking it behind my ear. I feel a string of emotions subvert my system as his touch slowly falls away, but I know it won't be forever when he smiles at me. 

"I'll be right back," he says quietly.

With that, Beau walks into the bathroom, keeping the door slightly ajar, probably for my sake over his own, and starts the shower. I wait until steam begins to billow into the room to relax in my spot, to be certain that he's not leaving me any time soon.

Once I know it, I let my eyes wander.

The clock reads 2:52 A.M. in bright red digits. 

The moon has long descended from its height in the sky and now rests evenly in a place I cannot see, likely tucked behind a cloud. The darkness of the room paired with the still ongoing storm and the noise of the shower makes me feel at home—at peace.

I give myself another few minutes of passing time before I slowly peel the comforter off my skin and move to the edge of the bed. I fish Beau's t-shirt from the mess of clothes we made and pull it over my head, letting it hang past my knees, leaving myself bare everywhere else.

Gradually, I begin to move around.

The four days I had spent in Beau's room while he slept, while he recovered from his withdrawals, were four days I spent in anxious worry that he would not wake. Because of that, I didn't have nearly as much time as I would have liked to understand his dwelling.

Now, as he showers, I have the chance to lay him bare.

Black walls showcase the shadows magnified by the onslaught of the weather. His four-poster bed sits misshapen and undone while the smell of sex permeates the air. A small blush crawls up my face as I nibble on the nail of my pointer finger, remembering again.

The area between my legs is sore as I walk around the structure and head to the other side of the room. There's not a single spectacle of dust lining the tops of his dressers and bureaus as I drag my fingertips across the mahogany coloring.

I hum until I reach the corner of his room, the one furthest from the bathroom, and I come across his personal desk. A simple tune falls in vibrations from my lips as I pull out the chair and plop inside of it, spinning so I'm sitting face-first.

I pick up his pen and spin in between my fingers, wondering what it's like to be the head of a mafia, signing papers underneath the deity of a thunderstorm and the pressure of maintaining such an absurd amount of people. I let it roll across the flat top as I run my hands over scores of papers with bills and other mathematical logistics I can't comprehend.