The morning suns reflection hits the top of his face, illuminating it. His eyelashes flutter, signaling that my time as a creep is coming to an end. The hair seems almost golden as he basks in the sunlight.
My sleeping beauty seems almost unreal, and I think back to months ago, when this feeling was treated as a fantasy. How could things turn around so quickly? Usually a 360 means tragedy, and an unwelcome manic episode.
But as I stare at the man who created so much light for me, in what seemed like a bottomless pit- a sense of excitement overcomes me. For what the future may hold for us. My thoughts wander to my own happiness, and how his presence alone brought me hope.
Quickly, I am reminded that I cannot depend on him completely. I'm obligated to pick up my own broken pieces- even if he's the one who created them in the first place.
I'm drawn from my thoughts when his soft groan startles me. He's awake.
I let out the breath I wasn't aware I was holding, and let my shoulders relax. The peace he brings me leaves me flabbergasted. How could one reunion awaken the life in me I thought was lost forever?
"Good morning," he grumbles. He's never been much of a morning person. The hoarse tone in his voice brings back countless memories of us wasting away days in our old apartment, laying in bed with our cats and binging That 70's Show.
"Morning, how did you sleep?"
The bed creaks as he rolls over to face me, his eyes not open quite yet. "The best in a while. Though I must say, you're still a bed hog," he complains.
I can't argue with him, he's right. Instead, I laugh softly. History repeats itself when I go mute.
With his gentle coaxing the night before, I began speaking a little more freely. I admit it was nice to almost time travel back to a time where all there was between us was love. Though sometime in the night my confidence disappeared and left occasional stutter in its wake.
I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and ponder the fight or flight conflict stirring in my brain.
"What?" He snaps me out of my thoughts, by literately snapping his fingers. His annoying tendencies feel nostalgic and I have to stop my thoughts from spiraling into recollections of toxic memories.
I gain the courage to speak, and clear my throat heavily. "Nothing, just processing all of this still."
He shifts on the bed, and scoots closer to me. "I know it feels strange, but it also feels right." I feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to make contact with them.
"I love you," he shocks me by saying. It shouldn't- we exchanged those words throughout the night prior like it was routine.
And it was- just not anymore. Now it creates an unwelcome feeling in my stomach. One that consists of uncertainty and fear.
My emotions keep duplicating, faster than I can keep up with, and I know he can sense this. He knows me too fucking well.
"You gotta breathe." He says it carefully, and I'm grateful, because I'm overwhelmed and I don't want to freak out and push him away again.
My fingers trail across his chest. I find comfort in his permanently warm skin, and reminisce about the times we shared one bed, and planned to do so forever. My fingers twitch as I resist the urge to lay my palm flat to feel more of him. I want to throw myself at him completely.
He grabs the fingers inching across his skin, and guides me to wrap my fingers around one of his own. My heart flutters at the fact he remembered how much I loved that.
We aren't too far off in height, maybe five inches- though he towers over me with his masculinity. His fingers are thick and long, scarred from repeatedly, breaking open his knuckles over the years, while my own are tiny, frail, and cluttered with rings and tattoos.
I can feel him watching me as I bring his hand to my chest. Dopamine floods my brain. I can FEEL him. Finally.
"I love you." He repeats. This time I only suck in a tiny breath of air.
"I love you more." He grins at this, and I can't help but smile back at him.
Pleased with our cheesy exchange, I sheepishly dig my face into his chest.
