Morgan Rielly Imagine

Part Fifteen

I'm nearly suffocated by his smell. But all I can think while I sit there, my face pressed against the solid body beside me, is that if I were to die right now by suffocation I would be completely okay with it.

Morgan doesn't press me to keep watching with him and I don't attempt to. Instead, his hand stays against my shoulder, his thumb making small circles on the outside of my arm. One of my arms is between me and the couch, the other I bring up to my face as well. Double protection from the images on the television screen.

However, I can still hear the suspense music and the talk of the 'survivors' so instead, I try to focus on Morgan's breathing. I count silently in my head the moments between breathes and try to match my own to his. It's extremely calming.

Until I hear the music go quiet and he tenses below me, expecting the sudden appearance of an image on the screen. And come it does. He jerks beneath me and I yelp in surprise, throwing my arm across his stomach and press myself all the more closer.

"Morgan, if you get scared how could you possibly expect me to watch this?" I complain, my voice sounding muffled against the fabric of his clothing.

He chuckles and brings his hand to the side of my head, brushing strands of my hair away from my face. "It was just a suspenseful part. You would know that if you peeked every once in a while."

I don't have to look at him to know he's grinning down at me. I just shake my head in response, too afraid I'll let out a purr like a cat because of the small strokes he's currently giving my hair. No one has played with my hair in ages, Nick used to when we first started dating because he knew how it would relax me. I can already feel my eyelids getting heavy as the moments drag on.

-

I wake up with my bottom half feeling like it's been in a furnace. I'm laying across the couch, my head against the arm rest and my blanket pulled up to my chin, but that's not what's making me warm. It's what, or I should say who, is under the blanket.

In the dim light of the morning coming through my windows, just past dawn, I tentatively lift the blanket to peek under. And there's Morgan, his body between mine and the back of the couch, on his side and his head resting on my belly. I inhale sharply in surprise at seeing his arm draped across the waistband on my sweatpants.

I stare at the floppy mess that is his hair and wonder how in the world he is sleeping under the blanket, against my already too warm body and there isn't the faintest residue of sweat anywhere on him.

Friends definitely don't do this.

The thought comes barreling into my head like a freight train and it hurts. Guilt, hot and weighted, floods my veins at the thought of my boyfriend several states away and what he might think should he see what's happening right now. But it's Morgan.

He's my best friend. There is no doubt about it.

But, as much as I would like to stay here and let him sleep, I really have to go to the bathroom. I look around, trying to think of the best possible way to get up without disturbing him. However, the second I move my hips to shimmy to the edge of the couch, he reacts. He inhales deeply, his nose level with my navel and reflexively, his arm pulls even tighter against me. As if I was a pillow.

I freeze and after a few moments, I try again.

This time his eyes flutter open and I decide to play dead.