Cause a lot of you asked, and I had so many ideas, really loved this lil trio of stories!
Slightly NSFW(not safe for work)
Enjoy❣️
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The smell of coffee and the soft sound of music wakes you up and out of your slumber, your skin warm from the presumed sunlight beaming through the open window. Your eyes slowly peel open, closing and squeezing shut instantly as the luminosity of the room hits your pupils.
The bed you're in feels foreign, and leads you to believe that the room you're in, isn't your own. You sit up hastily, stretching out your tired limbs with a scrunched up face before letting out a just-waking-up sigh. Your eyes have finally adjusted to the sunlight, and as you look around the room, you realize that your suspicions are true.
You are in fact not in the guest bedroom that you have been occupying for the past four days. The room is large, shelves with rows of books set up against the wall in front of you, just beside the window. There is a walk in closet to your right, the door to what you're guessing is the bathroom, just beside it.
You glance down at yourself, suddenly remembering everything from the night before. You're not sure how you got here, but you're guessing he brought you when you fell asleep on the couch. You're not wearing your clothes either, actually, you're wearing your own underwear; but the large cotton T shirt draped over your body is definitely not yours.
You feel a wave of nostalgia wash over you, a feeling that brings you sudden comfort and tranquility. The shirt is soft, and smells like him, and feels warm and loose like your favorite nightgown. You notice that the sheets around you are messy and tangled, presumably from your kicking and restless limbs. Had he slept in his bed with you? Everything seems like a blur this early in the morning.
You slip out of the large, warm bed, your bare feet hitting the cold hard wood floor. Immediately as you stand, the soreness of your body makes itself known, especially between your legs. You take a moment to steady yourself, before cautiously making your way through and out of the room; walking as if you might break something.
The smell of pancakes and bacon leads the way, your feet padding against the staircase as you hang onto the metal rails. You're nearly all the way down, when you see him. A maroon towel is slung over his right shoulder, stained with white patchy flour. He's wearing fitted black jeans and a rust colored sweater, the outline of his white tank top underneath making an appearance near the exposed part of his collar.
He's preparing food, stirring and flipping and making sure everything is cooked properly. His hair is neatly styled back, though some of the strands come loose and frame his cheeks from looking down at the stove so long. Your feet are moving again, towards him. It's like he senses your presence, his head immediately turning and meeting your almost nervous gaze as he puts the food on a white plate beside the pan.
