Eleven
Cleo
He snores.
See, I shouldn’t know that he snores. I shouldn’t know that he mutters in his sleep. I shouldn’t know what his touch feels like.
But now I know.
And I have no idea how to feel about it.
Naturally, rather than actively dealing with this, I continue reading my book as if nothing has changed. I was once told I have an avoidant attachment style. I’m starting to think that may be true.
I turn the page, attempting to focus on the story, ignoring his quiet breathing and warm, soft skin entirely.
Sure, I’m no stranger to physical contact, but that doesn’t mean I’m keen on it. A touch is a touch, nothing more. I’m practically numb to it. Although this is arguably more innocent than the sensual interactions I’ve had before, it’storturous.
I should’ve kicked him out of my office when he was still upright.
What was I thinking? Inviting him to sit with me? Has my sanity gotten that far away from me now?Whydo I continue to compromise my standards for this man?
Suddenly, he buries his head deeper into my waist and wraps his arm—somehow even more sculpted than I expected—around me tighter, pulling me against him. My body jerks away instinctually at first, but then involuntarily leans into his. It’s more comfortable leaning into him than the armrest at the moment, that’s all.
I continue reading, absorbing the story as much as possible, when my eyes grow heavy. I rub them and press on. I’ve grown used to the weariness.
No matter what I do or where I go, I never seem to get a solid night’s sleep. Sleeping in my haven is a pain; the afterlife is supposed to be peaceful, but at night, it’s anything but. When I can’t fall asleep there, I often walk to my office. The loveseat isn’t nearly as comfortable as my bed, and the pillow is worn out, but it’s better suited for someone like me.
I’m exhausted. So damn exhausted.
I thought angels weren’t supposed to tire this easily, but I’m an anomaly, I guess. I’m sure that watching all my troublesome Guardians has worn me out over the years. I smile to myself before remembering.
They aren’t your Guardians anymore.
You have no one.
It’s what you deserve.
I abruptly close the book and rub my temples in response to the voice taunting me from within.
It’s true, though—thisiswhat I deserve.
Being a Watcher was fulfilling for a while, but that fulfillment was never meant to last. I was the catalyst for my own demise.
A nose nuzzles into my side, and I allow myself to sneak a glimpse down at him. His full lips are parted, breath hot and steady on my waist. His long, dark eyelashes nearly touch his cheeks, and up this close, I can see a faded mole near his nose. A thick lock of tousled light brown—almost blond—hair falls on his forehead, just above his full eyebrows. His face, completed with a sharp jawline and high cheekbones, appears calm.
Fine. I’ll admit it. He is objectively a striking man.
He’s even sort of… beautiful, in a way.
But he’s maddening.
My eyes linger on his resting face a tad longer than necessary before my lids lightly flutter shut, giving into the siren-like call of sleep.
Then, and only then, do I let my body fold into his fully, choosing to ignore the way my arm drapes around his back and how my body molds into his so well.
Something jagged pushes into my side, abruptly waking me. I drowsily blink open my eyes, slowly noting a bright beam of sunlight pouring in through my window, which shines on my desk and books.
Great.I overslept.
