Chapter Seven

Your bedroom is little more than an overly-glorified closet, its paper-thin walls erected by you as a separator from the now mid-size living(and kitchenette) room.

The door was even worse, merely a hunk of wood that you've installed a doorknob and lock mechanism within; if you were ever to trip, you'd bring the whole thing down and with it, hours of work.

But it's enough, granting you a semblance of privacy from the rest of the household, the door swinging open with a rough push of your hand, only for it to bounce off the single bed nestled within its narrow confines, bouncing off your shoulder in the process.

"Fuck."

Hissing out a curse, you try and ignore the stinging discomfort and numbness that arises from having a doorknob smash into your elbow, instead focusing on pulling at your bed sheets, your movement sluggish, already your body has begun powering down, HUD dimming as your knees hit the edge of the bed.

Yet, there is another; a figure resting within your nest, her generous curves outlined beneath the thin sheets of your bedding; on her side, the woman is oblivious to the world around her; seemingly unconcerned by the fact this is not her bed.

But, this is usual; is it not? That she seeks the comfort of another, a practice habituated by a decade of the same pattern and behaviour that served as a balm to her otherwise aching soul.

It is something you have become accustomed to, the careful navigation of your exhausted limbs; the restrictive space of a single bed, your bodies are smothered against one another; your chest pressed against her back, your arms; instinctually wrapping around her stomach, legs entwining with her own; the woman shifting ever so slightly in response to your tightening grip.

There is something very taboo about your actions, the unsaid barriers that exist between the two of you, having been worn away through your youth; your groin pressed against her soft buttocks, your chin, carving a space to rest atop her head, pushing her lower into your embrace; if she is awake, she does not make any response to being the little spoon.

You feel the warmth of her body, the comforting repetition of her breathing, the rising and falling of her breasts against your arm, and the smell of cherry in her raven-black hair that spills over your limbs; you feel safe.

After all, you've always been a bit of a momma's boy