Find My Way Home [m×m; mpreg]

sixteen

I curl up against the arm of the sofa and throw the warm blanket over my feet as I reach for my soda. Ian plops down on the other side, the bowl of freshly popped popcorn filling the empty space between us.

The silence hangs in the air as he searches for a movie, the only sound is the clicking of the remote before he settles on an action film. It's one of the Fast and the Furious movies.

Occasionally I reach for some popcorn, but half way through the film I start yawning. My eyes grow heavy with each minute that passes by as I snuggle deeper into the blanket now up to my shoulders.

I've never liked action films, they're always so boring and repetitive and frankly, unrealistic.

Still, I wouldn't trade this moment for anything else in the world.

Because I'm with Ian, and he's here.

It's more than I could've asked for a year ago when I felt so hurt and betrayed by his sudden disappearance. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't still bitter and filled with resentment.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, heart slowing down compared to the nervous jitters I felt when the movie barely began.

A while later I feel a warm weight land on my arm, a soft voice smooth like rich chocolate calling to me, "Morgan."

It almost feels like I'm dreaming, but his breath is warm and his voice urges me awake.

"Hm? What?" I mumble sleepily, eyes fluttering to look around.

The TV screen is blank, the bowl of popcorn is filled with unpopped kernels, and our glasses of soda are now half empty.

"Com'on," Ian says, "don't fall asleep here, at least go to bed."

I frown slightly.

I feel too comfortable in my cocoon of blankets and throw pillows to actually move or even make an attempt.

My body feels tired, bones weary, and mind numb with too many thoughts.

"Come on, Morgan," Ian orders, voice growing a bit firmer.

I huff, untangling myself from my safe haven and sitting up. I grimace when my spine cracks and bones pop as I stretch.

Ian is cleaning up silently and he looks just as tired and weary as I feel. I reach for the empty bowl of popcorn and follow him into the kitchen where we lapse in silence as we wash the dishes from dinner and movie night.

When we finish, I hover at the entrance of the little kitchen unsure of what to do while Ian dries his hands.

It's still awkward and I still can't quite meet his eye, but my heart is ready to burst.

I lean against the wall and close my eyes for a brief moment before allowing myself to look at him.

Ian's eyes are on me, his expression unreadable but passive and calm.

It makes my heart ache with longing.

"Thank you," I finally whisper before elaborating, "for movie night."

He nods, body tense and unsure of himself. He looks like he wants to ask, to say something. But he holds back. And he does so because I know what it is, because I begged him not to mention it. Even if it's for tonight.

He finally settles on a quiet, "You're welcome."

I nod a bit tersely before turning away and heading toward my room.

As soon as I'm inside, I flop onto the bed and take a deep breath.

My eyes are glued to my closed, yet unlocked, door. I hold my breath when I hear his footsteps approach.

Rationally, I know he has to walk past my room to get to the master bedroom. Irrationally, my heart panics and still yearns for something more.

His steps falter at my door though, and he stops.

I bite my lip with bated breath and wait.

"Good night, Morgan," comes his muffled voice.

My response dies in my throat as his steps resume and disappear with a thud of a door closing.

I swear I can almost hear the sound of the lock sliding into place.

I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling, mumbling a tired, "Good night, Ian."