Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere (Camren Fanfic)

Chapter 8

That morning, Camila awoke to a giant heap of entangled limbs and mussed strands of hair that didn't belong to her shrouding her vision. She sleepily moves a hand to the afflicted area, gently brushing aside the debris. Still in a dazed state of incoherence, she turns her head, finding a sleeping Lauren, her hair strewn across the pillows - and, previously, Camila's face - and her lips quirked in a content smile. She mumbles something unintelligible and burrows her face into Camila's neck, and the brown eyed girl's heart swells about ten times the standard size. It's so unfamiliar and she's afraid that it might just inflate so quickly that it'll rip her skin open and leap out of her chest, but the last thing she wants is to leave that bed. Her heart could shatter every single one of her bones and incise her insides beyond repair and she would still do everything within her power to stay the way she is now. With Lauren's leg between hers and her arm looped around her waist and her face snugly buried into her neck and her hot breath on her skin and her intoxicating smell and just her. 

And she wonders what Lauren's dreaming of, because she feels the outline of the sleeping girl's smile pressed against her and she's holding onto Camila so protectively. It's stupid, uncouth, completely unrealistic, but she can't help but hope that Lauren's dreaming of her. Or, at least, that she's somehow a small piece in the scheme that's evoking such happiness in her most vulnerable form. But Camila's just a small, insignificant little blade of grass, and Lauren, she's the entire garden. Beautiful and big important and everywhere.

If she miraculously managed to spontaneously generate a spine in the time it takes for Lauren to wake up, she might ask her about it. But grass doesn't have spines. And beautiful gardens don't waste their time with meek, cowardly slivers of grass.

So Camila takes the time to drink in the sight she may never have the privilege to witness again. Sure, Lauren had been the one to suggest - or rather, demand, taking into consideration how utterly powerless Camila is against that voice and its mind's requests - that they sleep so closely together. She'd even taken the initiative of wrapping her arms around the smaller girl, holding her close throughout the night. But Lauren is still Lauren and there's no guarantee that this, whatever it is, is going to last very long. When she wakes up, she could very well revert to last night's anger, or adopt her initial sultry ways with all of the innuendos and bold moves. This moment is probably temporary, and Camila wants to do as much as she can to savor it.

She reminds herself of that as her eyes slowly canvas every piece of Lauren's sleeping form. The blanket tucked neatly beneath her, outlining her curves, the bandaged hand, resting possessively on the small of Camila's back, her tousled hair spread across the sheets, the creamy expanse of exposed skin, the feeling of her clothed breasts pressed firmly against Camila's own, the smoothness of her leg between the younger girl's. She can't help it. She sighs. A blissful, content, totally freakin' happy with life sigh. One she's certain has never, ever come out of her mouth before.

She wishes she hadn't, though, because she feels Lauren stir, and she wishes she could have at least a few more minutes to drink in the sights and sensations before they're gone. But she doesn't need to, because when Lauren lifts her head from its nest in Camila's neck, she doesn't move away. On the contrary, she actually holds the younger girl closer, their faces a tantalizing two inches apart.

"Good morning," She husks, and Lauren's morning voice is definitely being filed in Camila's 'sounds I'd like to play on a repeat forever and ever' category.

"Good morning," Camila's so proud of the steadiness in her voice that she gives herself a mental high-five, making a note to pat herself on the back once Lauren's not looking.

Good job, Camila. Now try and not make yourself look like a complete loser for the rest of this conversation.

"So, about how long have you been staring at me for?"