We've got history! He's the past that gives me nightmares.
We've got chemistry! He's the present that makes my skin tingle.
We've got a lot in common, a roof and music to begin with.
My friends are his friends.
We like the same things or at least he...
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Sleep eluded Iverson that night, even though he was knackered from the near thousand autographs and pictures he took at the charity ball.
He turned and flipped around in his bed but couldn't get rid of the voices and images chasing one another in his head.
Tunes and tones yet unmade bugged his restless mind, he could hear it like a distant melody and her laughter was the accompanying music.
Even after seven years, whenever he was alone in the sanctitude of his bedroom, everything felt fresh in his memory; her voice, her moans, her cries, her screams, her lopsided smiles.
Behind closed eyelids he could almost picture her honey caramel eyes staring back at him and just as he began to drift off with them, brown eyes turned to blue.
Mask disappeared and a stranger became a much too familiar face, blonde hair turned a very dark shade. Mrs. Micawolf turned to her, she turned to Mrs. Micawolf. Two different people strangely morphing into one.
He grumbled incoherently and flipped on his stomach, further tangling his legs with the sheet. He buried his head under the fluffy pillows in an attempt to block everything out.
Next, he was holding a baby in a cloudy hallway and looking into innocent blue eyes as the baby blabber on and happily claw at his face with her little fingers.
"Be a better man and an even better father."
The words resonated around him and he looked around for the source but everything was covered in mist, he could hardly see two feet in front of him.
When he looked back at the baby in his hands, she'd grown into a little girl dressed in a Rapunzel costume with soft golden hair that fell down her shoulders in long strands but her smile and eyes remained the same as the baby he first held.
"Bloody hell." Iverson sat up in bed and flung the sheet across the room, he checked the wristwatch he had gone to bed with and found that it was only 2:37am.
He got out of bed in a T90 track pant and no shirt, picking his guitar and phone from the bedside he sleepily walked out of the bedroom straight to the bar in the living room of his rental home and poured himself a generous amount of whiskey in a shot glass, throwing it back in his mouth at once.
The burn in his throat felt good and woke him up properly. He poured another portion and set it on the counter before hoisting himself on the bar stood with the guitar across his laps.
He began strumming quietly and soon formed a mindless tune he played with.
Of all the wonderful people he met at the ball, why was the obnoxious Mrs. Micawolf and her sweet daughter plaguing his mind and sleep?
