Devoid [Bruno Mars]

Chapter twelve

Chapter twelve

Immediately upon opening my eyes, I felt. It was foreign, and unfamiliar, and such a lovely thing. I believed, mostly because of college and my friends, that sex was just a casual thing you do for pleasure. Maybe it was, depending on the person in which you do it with or a certain mood, but I now think that if you share the strong intimate moment with someone you truly care for, it leaves something—something like an intertwining connection beyond levels of understanding—in its wake.

His body was pressed against my back, arm around my waist. I was curved into him, like some kind of mold. I could feel the warmth coming off his skin, and it made me feel hot. A good kind. The kind you wanted to close your eyes and sink into after being cold for a long time. It was tempting, but I forced myself not to close my eyes again and carefully shifted on my back. His arm now draped over my stomach and I faced the high ceiling. I waited a few long moments to twist over one final time. He didn't even stir.

The blanket only covered half of him, chest exposed. He snored lightly, the only sound in all the quietness. I paused, dreading this, then sighed defeatedly and placed one hand on his cheek, softly calling his name. His eyelids fluttered, opening slowly. His eyes searched for me. “Dri?”

“Yes.”

“What is it? Everything all right?” His voice was husky with sleep.

“Why wouldn't it be?”

He looked over his shoulder then back to me. “It's five in the morning.”

I hesitated before saying, “I have to leave.”

His head fell into the crook of my neck. “Please. Don't.”

I was disinclined to abandon this, this hold he had me in, and there was a pang of sadness in my side. “My friend is leaving for her flight today in a few hours.”

“What if I want to see the daylight in your eyes. Have breakfast. . .”

“I'm sorry.” I felt guilty. I'm trying to keep this a secret, and it was draining this moment. “Can I shower?”

“Of course you can,” he murmured, sliding his arms from me. I drew back, proceeding to climb out of bed until he reached over—armpit in my face (He shaves.)—and turned on the bedside lamp. “Wait. Your skin. It's beautiful.” I shook my head, as if opposing his words. I didn't have the clearest skin. What I most despised were the stretch marks. Though I accepted they're a natural part of me, they still earned my loathing in situations like wearing bathing suits, or this. “Every freckle, every mole. . .” he continued, fingertips faintly tracing along my arm. “They remind me of stars.”

I bit my lip. “Are you implying that I'm the sky?”

“Mmm.” He propped his head on his hand, smile lazy. “Vast. Love watching. Full of what the hell and things farther than my capability of understanding.”

I didn't ask him what he meant about the understanding. The moment was too good to pass up. “Implied: you fly in me.”

His head cocked to the side, eyebrows furrowed. When he suddenly got it he groaned, lacing it with laughter. He looked at me, eyes twinkling. “You're something, you know that?”

I lifted in eyebrow. “Am I?”

“You are.” He said it as though it was a fact, like stating the weather. “Let me just. . . c'mere,” he murmured, moving an arm underneath my neck. I scooted closer, placing my head where his shoulder met his chest, where it fit perfectly. “I'm glad to be feeling something again. To feel this.”

“Feels pretty good,” I whispered, allowing myself to close my eyes.

“It does,” he said, voice quiet. “It really does.”