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“Moved here over the summer from Australia,” he answers, which is super great for me. Go ahead and give the sexiest man I’ve ever seen the sexiest accent. Why the fuck not?
I stare at the ceiling for what feels like an eternity, before I decide to say fuck it and sniff the pillow. It’s not like anyone but me will know, anyway.
I shake my head, unable to fathom the level of chill one must operate at to not feel the need to double- or triple-check things.
Sleep seems like a distinct waste of time. Particularly when the hours could be better spent by lying here staring at him; hearing the rumble of his voice.
I want to be awake when he drifts off. When his breathing evens, and all remaining tension bleeds from his limbs. I want to create so many new, warm, safe memories that I never have to think about the bad ones again.
