killer instinct - || h.s. ||

58

" home is wherever you are tonight "

---

aurora astor.

I slowly stirred back awake to the sensation of a gentle caress of my messy hair from my face and that unsettling lack of warmth. But satin lips seal to my temple, drawing a sleepy hum from my chest with my eyes still shut and my head still nuzzled into the plush pillow beneath me.

"I'll be back tonight," his accented voice mumbles, stained with the morning's rasp before I perceive him tug the warmth of the comforter further up onto my body to buzz softly in my transition state between sleep.

Eventually, I give back into the unconscious, numb realm where nothing could hurt me. I sleep in until the morning light flooding through his skylight above pierces through my retinas, forcing me to awake to the lack of typical warmth squished on top of me.

But finally, I manage to roll myself out of the comfort of his bed and stumble into the bathroom to clean myself up. I brush my teeth and tie my hair up into a lazy bun with pieces of my raven hair askew.

I wander around for my clothes with my toothbrush hanging from my mouth before settling on my old baggy blue overalls, splattered in smudges of colors of paint. I glide my legs into the denim to pull over Harry's loosely fit plaid boxers and crimson Chicago Bulls t-shirt on me to clasp the overalls over my shoulders.

I wander back across the cold tile to spit out the minty foam from my mouth before quickly washing my face in hopes of ridding the exhaustion I feel all the time. I sigh softly, patting my face dry before rubbing in moisturizer to leave my skin sheen.

I tuck my hands into my pockets, only to rediscover a pair of wired headphones dwelling untouched for years within one. I slowly descend the stairs to the smell of coffee wafting through the air.

As I walk through the unfamiliar quiet, it only reminds me of my own lonesome in my old apartment.

I step into the kitchen, grabbing a mug from his cabinetry to pour out the dark roasted coffee that he left out for me. I stir in sugar and a bit of oat milk creamer before looking around for food in his fridge.

I make what I used to which simply consists of buttered toast and sunny-side up, fried eggs. I eat by myself this morning, dangling my feet from the stool as my mind wanders in the placidity of his loft.

There, laid across my mind, is a plethora of ideas I've withheld for years just locked up within the confines of my head. I dwell on each other in passing as I slowly eat with sips of coffee, and none of them truly scream to this feeling within me.

So as I clean up the sheer mess I made to create the simple, late afternoon breakfast dish, my mind continues to reel before the idea hits me like a train. I quickly set the clean dishes on the drying rack, and pour more coffee from the pot into my mug before trekking to the brand-new room in his loft.

And the second I opened the door, I swear I fell more in love with the space I knew I'd grow attached to. To see it in the afternoon's daylight affection is simply perfection before me as I journey in.

I set the mug down in the little space at the top of the cart he put together for me. I wander over, glancing up to only find my first painting out on that field with him bathed in golden sunlight.

My lips curve upwards as I shake my head softly, rummaging through the different sized canvases to find a medium-sized one to take over to the easel. I rip open the plastic wrap to crumble in my hand. I prop the fresh canvas up on the easel and sigh softly as I stare at it with the light hitting the canvas directly from all around me.