Mess To Be Made

44

Rays of sun beamed through my bedroom window—the same way it did every morning. The cold air nipped at the skin on my exposed face—the same way it did every morning. My body was perfectly warm under my soft sheets and heavy duvet—the same way it was every morning.

Everything about this morning was like any other morning. Except for one thing.

I had a guy in my bed.

A guy. In my bed. In the morning.

Every muscle in my body stiffened—from my center core to my tips of my fingers. The contraction of my chest in on itself shrunk me, causing his hand, which had been peacefully resting on the ridge of my waist, to slip.

My temple began throbbing almost instantly—a mixture of obnoxious alarm bells and too much vodka from the night prior. Never have I ever, ever, woken up with a guy in my bed in the morning. They were always gone. More often, they were gone before I even fell asleep. Most often, they weren't ever at my house to begin with—I usually went to theirs.

But Tyler being in my bed this morning wasn't like those other times. We didn't have sex. He didn't even come over for sex.

We were just... sleeping together.

Panic encapsulated me like a suffocating wetsuit, and I was suddenly grateful his hand was no longer touching me. Thank God we hadn't cuddled.

My muscles remained rigid, but my blood coursed with a chaotic, almost painful pressure as I tried to breathe as quietly as possible. I needed him to stay asleep until I could calm myself down. So I didn't move an inch and stared at my simple, cream-colored ceiling.

That's when the events of last night began to trickle in. I cringed, almost letting out a horrified whine, at the thought of how we talked about liking each other.

I never wanted to stop hearing you say it.

Kill me. Bottle me up and throw me to the bottom of the ocean. Please.

"Al?"

Shit. I knew my breathing was too loud.

My head turned to my right to see him—chin crinkled, arms stretched out, eyes squeezed shut. Yawning. He looked surprisingly comfortable. So casual.

My stomach twisted at how cool, calm, and collected he was.

Meanwhile, in the fakest voice I've probably ever heard come out of my mouth—high pitched and squeaky—I cooed, "Good morning."

Tyler's eyes snapped open at the sound and my nose twitched with embarrassment. God, I was pitiful around him.

Then again, he was a guy. In my bed. In the morning.

This was a unique circumstance.

His head fell lazily to the side in my direction. Eyes hazy with a drowsy fog, they met mine and the tiniest smile tugged at the corners of lips. Despite heavy eyelids, he was straining to scan every inch of my face, every exposed piece of skin he could find, like he was gathering valuable intel.

And under his gaze, my breathing pattern slowly became steadier. The consuming worry, fear, self-doubt, catastrophizing, future-mongering...

It all slowly dissipated with each exhale as I honed all my attention on him—his hazel eyes. Browner than usual and tired this morning, no doubt from how late we'd stayed up.

"Sleep well?" I croaked. An unknown feeling continued to fester in the pit of my stomach.

Tyler's lips turned up even further. I couldn't pinpoint if he was appreciative of my lame attempt at a conversation or if he was just enjoying watching me unravel.