Brewing Storm

He looks angelic while sleeping. I keep gazing at his naturally long and curled lashes and his peaceful breathing. My pointed finger has a mind of its own as it slowly traces the shape of Atlas's face. He is real. I'm in his arms, and we are cuddling.

Last night was beautiful, but it didn't end the way it probably should. I gently kissed his forehead and moved out of my bed. I picked up my sweater from the wooden floor and went out of the room. I didn't bother with my pajama bottoms since the sweater reached my knees. I tied my head in a messy bun. I removed my sling last night. My wrist was doing fine so far. The physical therapy Craig insisted on doing turned out well.

I busied myself with the kitchen, stopping myself from thinking about what happened last night. My eyes were still red from it. Actually, I don't want to recall how I almost became a side chick in all sense. I almost sleep with Atlas last night.