NECROMANTIC

seven.

“I would call this meeting of Rob Crawford’s first annual book club a success.”

I snorted, simultaneously pressing my face further into the crook between his shoulder and neck, and playfully shoving a hand against his other shoulder.

He chuckled, the arm he had around me, cradling me to him, pulling me in just that bit closer, and adjusting the covers around us just a little more. A hush descended, so that for a little bit, the only sounds were our breathing, which got just that little bit softer as our bodies calmed down. And I opened my eyes, which I’d had shut for the past couple of minutes as I’d cuddled into Rob, and peeked at him. His hair was fluffy disarray, his eyes wide and thoughtful, his lips parted slightly as he lost himself in a daydream. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and his Adams apple bobbed every now and then when he swallowed. I smiled, using the pointer finger from the hand of the arm I had draped around him to begin to swirl, on his bicep, lazily writing my name.

He let out an involuntary snort. “That tickles, Sarah.”

“I’m nearly done.” I said, as I did the arch of the ‘h’. “There.”

He chuckled, softly, running a hand through his hair, then over his jaw, which was rough with oncoming stubble (I may have a little bit of stubble rash on my chin and neck from him kissing me later), before sloppily scrawling M-I-N-E on my arm with his finger. “Ok. I don’t know about you, but I could really go for some pizza. Smothered in cheese, the most delicious barbeque sauce, plump little kernels of sweetcorn…”

“Oh my god,” I buried my face further into him, my mouth filling with salvia as he spoke, my stomach choosing then to let out a nasty little growl. Southern sweetcorn pizza was our joint favourite, especially the one from Dominos (the only difference being that Rob’s also had on little chunks of chicken, which, obviously, due to my vegetarian status, mine did not. On the pizza they looked delicious as all sin, and sometimes made me reconsider my ethical beliefs, but so far, I’d managed to stay firm and stick to them) “We’re ordering two then. I honestly don’t think I have it in me to share now.”

“Deal.” He grinned. “Curly fries, garlic sauce, and a two litre coke?”

“Diet coke.”

“I honestly don’t understand what beef you have with regular. But fine. Diet coke.” He paused. “How far along are you with Breaking Bad now?”

“Episode six, still season one. Dude, I only got off my lazy butt to start watching it three days ago. It’s good, though, so far.”

“God, you’re killing me.” He exaggerated his groan. “You need to get that shit up to date. It’s so hard not to give you any spoilers.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” I said, in warning.

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” he gave me a wicked grin, arching an eyebrow.

“You do that, and I’ll tell you everyone who dies in Game Of Thrones. And The Walking Dead. Remember, dude, I’ve read the books and comics.”

He gasped, eyes widening, and though he wanted to retort, he snapped his mouth shut again, and grumpily muttered “Ok, fine. I won’t spoil it.”

“Good.” I giggled, poking his chest playfully. “Now … we’re both on the same episode of American Horror Story: Coven, right?”

“Think so. I haven’t watched any since last time you were here. You?”

“Nope.”

“Then I know what we’re watching.” He began to shuffle up, into a sitting position, and I followed suite.

“We’re weird, you know. It’s usually pizza, then sex.” I noted, giving myself a little stretch, as Rob got to his feet and began searching for his boxers, socks and jeans. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, successfully hooking his boxers on, and throwing me my bra and panties. “I don’t know, sex has made me work up at appetite.”

“I guess so.” I said, in agreement, pulling my bra on, reaching behind me and latching it up. Or attempting to. My fingers did that wonderful little thing where you just can’t quite get it – you either miss the clasp altogether, or you accidentally clasp up the bottom hook to the top latch (surely, I cannot be the only female in history to experience the sheer frustration of this?!). On about my fourth or so pitiful endeavour, my teeth unable to contain the groan of irritation I’d gritted them against, I felt fingers over my own, and I lowered my hands to let Rob take over, and successfully fasten me up.

“What would you do without me?” his voice chuckled in my ear in amusement, and he pressed a kiss to cheek, before straightening up and going back to sorting himself out.

“If we’re being technical,” I pulled my panties over my feet – thankfully, I could do that by myself – and wiggled and shimmied my hips until they were on. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have needed help there.”

Rob didn’t have any retort to that – rare, for him, to not have some witty and sassy words to shoot back – so he simply scrunched his nose up at me, and stuck his tongue out.

About ten minutes later or so, we were both dressed again, and had ordered our pizza, and whilst we were waiting for it to arrive (Rob, wonderfully, lived only a couple blocks from the nearest Dominos, so we never had to wait more than ten minutes, usually), I spooned chocolate powder into two cups, and poured milk in, making us milkshakes, whilst Rob sat eagerly awaiting said milkshakes, shaking his hips ever so slightly and singing along under his breath to the Fall Out Boy song playing from my iPod on his dock.

The milkshakes were finished in about five minutes, which was approximately two minutes before our pizza arrived, and we spent the rest of the evening cuddling, marathoning AHS: Coven, and when we came to the end of the series, we talked about what we thought of it (Rob reckoned it was wrapped up too neatly, just like the last season, Asylum, and he wanted the bittersweet kind of ending Murder House had had. I, however, liked the way it ended and thought that the hopefulness was good – proving that despite all the horrors of what they had been through, and would likely go through again, it at least proved things could get somewhat better.) Then we disagreed about which season was second best (we both agreed nothing had yet matched Murder House’s magnificence) – he argued that Asylum perfectly blended the supernatural demonic elements with the sci-fi aliens, whereas I thought that it was too all over the place and should have just stuck to either aliens or demons, not both – and Coven was, in my opinion, super badass. And finally – at about ten past twelve in the morning, we agreed to disagree, and flicked through the TV until we landed on a channel that was playing the third Pirates Of The Caribbean, and we fell asleep to that.

I wondered, after, if that was the last time I was truly, unaffectedly happy.