-high of 17 degrees today, with a slight chance of showers. The breeze down by the wa-
I mumble nonsense to myself as my cell phone alarm goes off, playing the radio. Why do I always forget to turn it off on the weekends? I don�t give a shit about the weather at 6 AM on a Saturday. Without opening my eyes I roll over onto my back and reach around until I find it, sitting on a table. Eventually my fingers find the button that stops the chattering, and the morning drifts back into silence. My head already hurts, and waking up this early after falling asleep so late doesn�t help at all.
I turn back over and let my arm flop across the bed, except it�s not blanket my hand lands on like I expected. It�s soft and warm, but it�s also rising and falling underneath my arm, and as I listen close I realize that the room is not silent at all. As I start to wake up more I remember that I don�t have a table beside my bed� and oh, for the love of Alpha, this is not my room at all. Shit.
I feel fingers brush against my back and a shiver races up my spine as a blush spreads across my face. Gods, I hope he�s not looking at me. I can just feel my hair sticking up in every direction, and I know my face is all red now, and I�m sure I look like crap. Cautiously, I open my right eye, and I see that my head is resting on an arm, rather than a pillow. His arm. I open my other eye, and even though I haven�t got my contacts in, it�s painfully obvious that this isn�t my bed. He doesn�t move, so I know he�s not looking at me, even if he is awake, which is a relief for some weird reason. It�s not like I care what he thinks I look like, right? Right.
I know now that I�m in The Author�s room, because it�s brighter than mine, even with the lights off and the blinds closed. I know there are papers pinned to every centimeter of the gold-coloured walls, on the desk beside my bed, and scattered around the hardwood floor. All the writing he does goes from his neat cursive into that illegible chicken-scratch that he uses when his mind is working too fast for his hand to keep up. I doubt even he can read it, even though he keeps every single thing he writes in unorganized piles all over the room.
After what seems like forever � which is a suitable amount of time for me to work up the courage to see whether or not he�s awake or not � I tilt my head upwards, and my breath catches in my throat. His face is about the only thing that�s in focus, but he�s still sound asleep, mouth slightly ajar. I wonder briefly what time he fell asleep, because he�s usually awake way before me, even during the week. The sun is up just enough to peek in through the cracks in the blinds, and they cast stripes of shadow and light across his face. There�s a band of light across his lips and they look so soft, but fuck, why am I looking at him like this? The redness of my face intensifies because the only thing worse than being here is not minding that I�m here, and I need to find a way out of this before he wakes up.
Unfortunately, as though he�s taking cues from someone on when exactly to jump in and mess with my brain just a little more, his brow twitches and he groans sleepily, about to wake up. For fucks sake, is he psychic or something? The fingers on my back, which I forgot about, press gently into my skin, and I know for sure he�s awake now because the corners of his stupid pretty lips are working their way into a smile. He doesn�t even open his eyes as he runs his fingers up my side, and his touch reminds me why I�m in here in the first place. I involuntarily make a weird squeaking sort of noise. Oh, no. Please no. Please let this be some sort of twisted dream and let me wake up in my own bed, or on the couch, or even on one of the fucking moons � just anywhere that�s not here. I can�t escape now, and to my horror that�s the idea that�s freaking me out more than the reason I�m stuck in his bed in the first place.
His hand has made its way up my side to my head, and he�s twisting his fingers into my short hair. I squeeze my eyes close before he opens his, hoping he�ll think I�m still asleep and just go away or something. I know my breathing is fast and irregular though, and it�s obviously giving me away, but there�s nothing I can do about it and pretending this will work just makes me feel better anyway. The stupid Author is always so calm. I hate that nothing ever seems to bother him, and that he�s always so understanding and sweet and I hate him.
After a while he stops fiddling with my hair and I open my eyes because I think he�s fallen back asleep and I can get out of here. This, like everything that involves The Author, is a bad idea, because he�s still awake. Those strange blue-green eyes of his are half open and looking up at the ceiling, but when he turns his head to look at me I can tell he still does want to be asleep. I make a mental note to disable the alarm on my cell phone, because it�s way too good at waking people up.
That sleepy smile reappears on his face and I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling back, because he�s just so damn cute when he�s all quiet like this. I can practically see the gears working in his brain as he prepares to say something.
�Hullo,� he eventually whispers. A pause, and then, ��yeah, hullo.� I guess those gears aren�t on at full speed just yet. His voice is raspy like it always is when he just wakes up, because he sleeps with his mouth open. I don�t bother saying anything back and just look at him. He still looks like he�s concentrating very hard on something, although he doesn�t look too serious because his hair is sticking up all over the place. Not that he ever looks too serious anyway.
He shifts over a little so he�s lying on his side, and his leg brushes against my toes, poking out from under the gray comforter. Blinking sleepily, he tilts his head down and kisses me softly on the forehead before putting his free arm around my shoulders and burying his nose in my hair. He�s asleep again within seconds and my heart is pounding again because I can hear him breathing quietly into my ear, and while it�s absolutely horrifying that he�s so close, it�s also really, really nice. The insane part of my mind that�s enjoying this seems to have taken a cheap shot at my common sense � who would like to just punch The Author in the kidneys and run away � because it has won this battle. I guess it�s just because I�m still tired, or at least that�s what I tell myself as I close my eyes again with my hand still on his waist, and fall back to sleep.