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He shrugs and goes to pick up the ss again. "It''s just how it is."
I shake my head and move the ss out of his way. "No more of this tonight. You''ve had enough.
Arthur pouts, actually pouts, which confirms my suspicion that he''s drunker than he''s letting on. "But how will I sleep?"
The question leaves me taken aback. I know what he''s asking, what he wants, and part of me wants it too. After the events of
today, the idea of falling asleep in Arthur''s arms is undeniably appealing.
But it''s also dangerous. We''re still figuring things out, still rebuilding trust. Jumping back into bed together, even just to sleep, feels like we''re skipping some very important steps.
And yet, looking at him-at the dark circles under his eyes, the weary slump of his shoulders-my heart aches. How can I send him back to the too-small couch when I know he''ll just lie there awake, missing me and drinking himself into oblivion?
"Just for tonight," I finally concede. "You can sleep in my bed. But just sleeping, Arthur. Nothing else."
I lead the way back to my bedroom, hyper aware of Arthur following close behind me. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, and for a moment, I want to continue what we started at the g.
Even more so when he slips off his shirt and climbs into bed beside me.
For a moment, we both lie stiffly on our backs, a careful few inches separating our bodies. This is ridiculous, I think. We were
practically tearing each other''s clothes off a few hours ago, and now we''re acting like awkward teenagers.
But then Arthur shifts slightly, his arm brushing against mine, and something in me gives way, I turn onto my side, facing away from him, and scooch my hips back against him. His breath hitches slightly in the quiet room as I press my back against his side,
an invitation, just like I used to do so many years ago.
"Hold me," I whisper. It''s more of a conamand than a request, and Arthur obliges without hesitation.
He moves closer, turning, and presses his bare chest to my back. His warm, muscr arm wraps around my waist, his body
curving to fit against mine like we were made for each other. Which, ording to fate, we were.
The familiar weight of him, the warmth, the scent-it all floods my senses with memories. Hundreds of nights spent just like
this, wrapped in each other''s arms, safe and content. My eyes prickle with unexpected tears
We don''t speak after that, but we don''t need to. The rhythm of Arthur''s breathing gradually slows and deepens as sleep finally
ims him. I stay awake a bit longer, savoring the feeling of being held by him again, before drifting off myself.
I haven''t slept this well in five years.
The following morning, I wake to sunlight streaming through the curtains and a small, bony knee digging into my back. Blinking sleepily, I turn to find Miles sprawled across the middle of the bed, one arm flung over his head, the other dangling off the edge.
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He must have climbed in sometime in the carly morning, as he often does when he wakes up before me.
Arthur, however, is nowhere to be seen.
I sit up, careful not to disturb Miles, and listen for sounds in the apartment.
Nothing. The clock on my nightstand reads 8:17 AM
-notte, butter than I usually sleep.
Sliding out of bed, I pad to the kitchen for coffee, still groggy and slightly
disoriented. The events ofst night feel almost
dreamlike in the morning light.
I stop short, staring at the wall where the dent should be. The empty frame is
gone, and the wall is smooth, pristine. No dent, no
cracks, not even a mark to show where my bat connected.
Moving closer, I run my fingers over the surface. It''s been patched and painted,
the repair job so perfect it''s like the damage
never even happened. Arthur must have fixed it while I was still asleep, somehow finding the exact shade of paint to match the
rest of the wall
I can''t help but smile. And suddenly, I think I''ve got an idea for my next painting.