Raising a Psychopath

THIRD

Ethereal peacefulness suffused the room, a tranquillity that seemed almost sacred in its purity.
This serenity was not born from the company I kept, though it was a welcome presence in the silence of the morning. Beneath closed eyelids, consciousness fluttered within me, a gentle awakening to the day's nascent promise.

The sensation of an arm encircling me, its placement calculated to be just shy of intimacy, coaxed my eyes to flutter open.
As his hand began its leisurely ascent, seeking to rouse me from the remnants of slumber, I instinctively drew the sheets higher, a silent plea for modesty in the morning's tender light.

"Morning, beautiful," came Greg's greeting, his voice a soft murmur still tinged with the grogginess of sleep. His hazel eyes, clouded with the haze of dreams not yet forgotten, locked onto mine, a gaze as warm as the sun's first rays.

I returned his smile with one of my own, a gesture born of affection and the quiet joy of shared mornings.
"Morning, handsome."

"Breakfast?" he proposed, his hand retreating in a gesture that spoke of respect and a shared anticipation for the day ahead. The suggestion was met with a nod, an acknowledgment of the hunger that whispered promises of satiation soon to come.

The aroma of the morning's repast wove through the air. Freshly brewed coffee, its rich, dark fragrance promising warmth and clarity, mingled with the comforting smells of eggs, toast, and bacon. Each note of the breakfast ensemble played its part in orchestrating a perfect start to the day, filling the space with the kind of homely charm that whispered of simple pleasures and moments worth savouring.

In this domestic tableau, Greg's insistence on lending me one of his oversized shirts became a garment of leisure, transforming my posture and pace. While my own jeans and shirt lay folded, residue of the previous night's choices, slipping into his shirt was an embrace of the unhurried morning. It draped over me, soft fabric against skin, an emblem of intimacy and the quiet assertion that time, for now, was ours to command. In its folds, I found a semblance of sensuality, an unspoken acknowledgment of the shared night that lingered in the air between us.

Greg's motives, though tender in their execution, were transparent in their intent.
It was Monday, a day marked by routine and obligations, yet his subtle strategies aimed to tether me to the tranquillity of the morning, if only for moments more. His desire to extend our time together spoke of more than just affection — it was a testament to the gentle gravity that pulled us into each other's orbits, even as the world awaited beyond the threshold of his door.

The weekend had passed in a cocoon of silence from the hospital, a rare reprieve that allowed the illusion of normalcy to settle around us. My fabricated emergency at my mother's house served as a convenient pretext for my absence, a lie that wove itself into the fabric of our weekend. Greg and I had found ourselves entwined in the rituals of dating once more—another red rose, another evening filled with conversations that skimmed the surface of depths unexplored, and another night where desire found its expression in the quiet surrender to physicality. The decision to bridge the gap between dinner and dawn in each other's arms was not a given, but a choice made in the pursuit of connection, a mutual seeking of solace in the other's presence.

In the quiet unravelling of the morning, as the light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow on everything it touched, the question of labels hung between Greg and me, unspoken yet tangible. We existed in a nebulous space, somewhere between companionship and commitment, a delicate balance that neither of us seemed eager to tip.

"When will I see you again?" Greg's question laced with a hint of longing as his hands found their place on my hips, a gesture of familiarity and affection. I was already slipping back into the confines of my own shirt, the fabric feeling foreign after the warmth of his.