She lets out a little OOF! of surprise before she settles, her back melting into my bare chest in just a moment. A few minutes pass, her breathing evening out. She’s not asleep, but she’s close when I whisper into her hair: “You’re a menace, you know that?” She lets out a tired laugh. “But am I your menace? Because I think I want to be your menace, Andre,” she whispers. The words coat me like a balm, smoothing out the rough edges of the world, and though I don’t respond—I can’t really—her words run through my mind, driving through my dreams, a sentence said in the honesty of near sleep.
