❃𝙺𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚊❃
We're seriously doing it. Spending a whole week at Noah's. Our son wanted it, and I guess we both kind of have a hard time saying no to something we could easily do for him. Especially when it comes to us as a family.
It's not like I don't want to be here. I actually like it when we're spending the night at each other's houses. It's nice and cozy to have someone else in the house with us.
The daytime is just as great as nighttime. I get to watch Cameron bond with his dad during the day, and at night when it's past his bedtime, I get to sit on the kitchen floor beside his dad eating ice cream. I've actually come to really like both sides of it.
Nighttime used to be lonely. Even before Cameron was born, I always felt so alone. I've never really done well with the quiet, always waiting for something to harshly interrupt that quiet. But now, I know there's nothing to interrupt my quiet time. And it's not too quiet that it hurts, because I can easily turn to look at who's beside me. Or I can pick up the phone and call, knowing that someone will answer. He always answers.
Tonight, my day is ending with a dark room illuminated by the tv screen of our movie. I almost feel too hot, cuddled up against Noah's side with a blanket he threw over me. We haven't spoken for nearly an hour now, letting the movie fill the silence.
It's nice. That's all I can really say about it. It's just nice. It's nice to be tired after a long day of work and come home to two boys playing like they're both eight-years-old. It's nice to have a short conversation about whose turn it is to make dinner tonight. It's nice to be told to go sit down even though he's clearly had a long day too just because he wants to.
And at the very end, after dinner and after I've gotten Cameron ready for bed, it's just us. My sleep schedule has shifted a bit since there is now someone there for me to hang out with or talk to after Cameron goes to bed, so I stay up a lot longer than I normally do with Noah. Which helps with us getting to know each other better and expanding our relationship that we still have yet to label. For now, we're just us.
Us who happen to have a kid together.
There are a few things I've learned about him tonight alone. Like, for one, he likes slice of life movies more than any other genres. He also likes cuddling as much as I do. And he has a love hate relationship with the puppy sleeping down the hall with Cameron.
Apparently, the dog thought his name was Fucker. Which means Noah called him that enough times, that he started actually responding to it. That's actually what leads to the fourth thing I learn about him tonight alone. He likes to curse a lot more than I thought. Especially when he's alone, apparently.
The dog thinks his name is Fucker because there was nothing else Noah thought to call him. Not even Rex which was his temporary name. It doesn't mean Noah's been screaming at the poor puppy twenty-four/seven—No. He admits awkwardly that sometimes, he lovingly uses the name as if it's an actual name.
The dog's name is now Gus. Not Fucker, not Rex, Gus. Neither of them are happy I've made the final decision, but by the end of the night that's what everyone is calling him anyway.
I try to be mad about the fact that Noah let that poor puppy think his name was Fucker, but he makes it really hard to stay mad at him. Especially when the lights go out and it's just us on the couch. Because at that point, I remember what kinda guy he is.
He's a dork. He's a dork and he likes the little life lesson in our slice of life movie. He likes the fact that we don't really know what the ending is, just that the main character was happy with it.
It's not my favorite movie. I'm left unsatisfied, wondering why the writers decided to do that to us. But he seems to love movies like that. "Why?" I have to ask. "Why do you like movies that have open-ended endings?"
He hums and shrugs, still watching even though the credits are rolling now. I watch his profile, enjoying the subtle way the light of the tv casts on his face. "However their life continues, they're happy anyway." He reasons as he looks over at me. "Does it really matter what the ending actually is?"
"I guess not." I acknowledge. I could argue and insist that it's unsatisfying to not know for sure, but it's kind of pointless. He likes movies like these. I might not understand it, but at least I know it.
I like knowing him. I may not agree with him or understand him, but I like at least knowing about it. All the things he likes, dislikes, doesn't care for, all of it. I'd like to at least know about it.
I cuddle myself up closer to him even though the movie's over. He shifts his position as a result, but doesn't take his arm off from around me. "Want me to put on another?" He asks, assuming that's why I'm getting comfortable.
"You can." I shrug, uncaring either way. I probably won't really be watching it.
"I can." He repeats thoughtfully. "Or..." He murmurs as his hands start to move. I think I know where they're going before they make it there. I let him. I let him put his hands wherever he wants, which ends up being curling around my waist to pick me up.
I laugh and struggle to keep it quiet while he urges me up onto his lap. "I hate you and your one-track mind." I decide. But I'm the one who leans in closer. Drag my arms back against the back cushion of the couch on either side of his head. He grins back at me because he knows it isn't true.
I like his one-track mind. Just like I like the fact that he sat here and watched a movie quietly with me and somehow managed to keep his mind focused on one thing long enough to finish it. But now that the movie is over, he gets us off the couch and urges me to stumble our way backwards down the hall, being extra careful down that way until we're in his room and he's shut the door behind us.
I like the way he kisses me when the door's closed. He kissed me the whole way here from the living room, but it's different once the door is closed. He kisses me deeper, holds my face close to his and shuffles his way backwards further into his room.
It's rushed, but at the same time it's not. It's not really. I mean, we move fast to get all the fabric between us off—but it's not so rushed that I don't feel it. Really feel it. The way he kisses me, the way he touches me, holds me, cups the back of my head as I'm pushed against the wall so I don't hit my head. The way he sinks to his knees in front of me after untying the drawstring of the pajama pants I threw on when I got here after work makes me feel something more than a growing, warm puddle at the bottom of my stomach. It makes me feel lightheaded—sure—but there's something more there that I can't quite find the words for to describe.
I chase whatever that feeling is though. I can't describe it, but I want it. Crave it. I've never felt it before, and it's a little scary. Even though my instincts scream at me to leave that feeling the hell alone, I have to search for it and chase it. I just have to.
I chase that feeling all the way down until I'm lying under him with his hand clasped over my mouth and my arms hooking around his. Even though my eyes fall shut and squeeze shut at the feeling of him rolling his hips against mine constantly, the way he hugs my body almost completely off the mattress and against his own is what builds up that feeling that I'm chasing. It almost starts to feel like a little too much, but in some way I still want more.
Even when that feeling starts making it hard to breathe, climbing its way slowly up from my belly to my chest, I want more of it. A weird part of me wants it to overflow like I'm afraid of. I want it to be too much. I want it to almost hurt, and I don't understand why I'd want that. Why would anyone want to have this awful, awful feeling like this? Would he even understand it if I told him about it?
The worst thing about this feeling is, is that it makes me feel like it'd be okay if I told him about it. It tells me that he'd assure me that feeling is okay even if it isn't because that's just what he does. He'd say he has it too even if it it's not true. He'd lie.
I know he lies to me, and that painful feeling tells me not to run away from him just for that. So what that he lies to me, it says. He lies about stupid shit that doesn't matter, that feeling adds dismissively. The fact that he lies doesn't deter me from...this. Lying in bed with him on top of me, kissing up my throat and whispering praises in my ears. It doesn't deter me from pressing myself up against his bare skin like he's the warmth of fire in a snow storm.
"Please," I whisper, muffled by his hand still pressed against my mouth to keep me quiet. He hushes me breathlessly and reminds me to stay quiet for him, adding that little pet name he keeps bringing up for me.
That name only makes it worse. Every little thing he does makes it worse.
By the time the other feeling—the pooling one at the bottom of my stomach—has dwindled down, I'm out of breath and staring up at the ceiling.
He chuckles that chuckle that would probably make any girl smile. The gentle, lightly amused chuckle. And he says something, but I don't process it. I'm not listening. I don't even try to guess what it is.
He lays with me for a minute longer before he gets up, slips on a pair of boxer briefs discarded on the floor, and leaves. He comes back with a towel. I'm still staring up at the ceiling, breathing heavily while I still try to process what's building up inside.
A little part of me wishes he wouldn't touch me so gently like that. That he wouldn't clean me off with that towel. That he wouldn't tell me to sit up and put the shirt he takes out of his drawer that smells like him on me. Because all of that just slowly makes that heavy, almost painful feeling sitting right there in my chest just keeps...building. It builds off of itself, up and up and up until I can't think anymore.
By the time he comes back to bed, I'm beginning to overflow. He pushes me to the left side of the bed and mumbles something about his bed not being against the corner like mine is. It's a one off comment that I'm sure he doesn't mean to make out loud, but it makes me look to my left at the wall that the bed isn't sitting against. But it's where mine does, and it's where I like to sleep. Against the wall.
He knows it, but the best he can do about it is give me the same side of the bed. He reaches over to guide me into his bare chest for good measure. He probably doesn't understand my love for sleeping against the cold wall, but neither do I. He makes up for it anyway. And while I lay here in his arms, naked but not cold, I find myself unable to breathe. It's that stupid feeling that I still have no name for in my chest.
It's overflowing, all the way up my throat until some of it has to come out through my mouth.
"I love you."
I want to close my eyes, but I can't do it. Not even when I feel his arm around me tense. Not even when he turns his head to look at me. Instead of shutting my eyes like I ache to, I turn my head to look back at him.
He stares silently back at me, brows furrowed, and lips parted. He sucks in a breath like he's going to say something, but nothing comes out.
It was nice while it lasted.