My eyelids grew heavy, as did my chin. The next time I jerked awake, I was on my side, still tucked into the comforter, Harvey’s arm loosely wrapped around my side.
“Hey, there she is.” He stretched out.
“Shoot, what time is it?” I hissed, grappling for my phone.
“Almost ten.”
I gasped and turned around. “I’msosorry.”
He scratched his head, looking fairly scrumptious with messy hair. “For what?”
“For keeping you hostage, forcing you to take care of me like that.” For wasting our date on cartoons and coloring.
He snorted and closed his eyes. “You weren’t as much trouble as I expected.”
I huffed and pushed his chest. “I’m not any trouble."
“Yes, you are.” Smirking, he threw one arm over his forehead, his shirt rising just high enough to preview a trail of soft-looking body hair. I wanted to rub my face on it. He peeked at me, his eyes glinting.
Would he rub his face anywhere on me? His declaration from earlier on our date replayed in my head: ‘I want to look at, touch, and taste every inch of you.’
Desire flared through my body, much different than the warmth of adoration. I fluffed out the comforter to make room for both of us under it and wrapped my leg around his. “Okay, I haven't been much troubleyet. But I’m not Little right now if you want to do grown-up stuff.”
He rubbed his foot against mine. “I can tell. Your voice and whole demeanor is kinda different when you slip into that headspace.”
“Oh, gosh, that’s embarrassing.” I pulled the covers up to my nose and braced for more teasing.
He brushed my hair away from my face. “It’s kinda sweet, actually.”
So was he. I rubbed his calf with my foot. “So, do you want to?”
He stroked my cheek. “Of course I do. But should we talk for a bit? Don’t we need to ease out of it?”
“Ease out of what?” I tilted my head.
His gaze darted to Mr. Waddles and Doggie, who we’d sat at the edge of the bed to 'watch' TV. “Uh, our nap,” Harvey said.
Maybe we could use a smidge more separation. The role was different for him than it was for me. “Okay. I should check on my sweater, anyways," I said, rolling out of the delicious warmth to pad to the kitchen.
Thankfully, the sauce had come out of my shirt. But it was still too wet to put on, and Harvey didn’t have in-unit laundry. No hair dryer, either, though he got a good chuckle out of my asking.
I nudged him with my foot. “Come on, Mr. Manager. Problem-solve with me.”
“You don’t want to wear my clothes home?” he asked.
I bit my lip and hugged my sweater tight enough his shirt clung to my skin. “I do, but my Mom tends to give away or sell stuff she doesn’t deem worthy.”
“Even if it’s yours?” He frowned.
“Yep.”
He hummed, furrowing his brow.
“I know it’s kind of weird. But hey, the less stuff in our house, the more room for Jesus,” I joked.
He shot me a funny look and got up.
“Sorry,” I said, wringing my arms in the sweater. “I’m glad my mom has her faith and the community. But sometimes it’s more like she’s trying to smother any semblance of individuality. Everything I do has to ‘serve’ somebody. Mostly our family.”
