Word Count: 3,280

(*This takes place in my CR*)

Why did I think taking a summer course would be a good idea.

This one class so far has taken up nearly half of my week. The rest is my job that doesn't even give me enough work to stay until four.

What's so important about writing technical documents anyway? I'm a writer, not a manual instructor. I write stories that make someone's heart ache. That make someone yearn for a world that is not their own. To remind someone that in another universe, someone would love them no matter what happens.

Technical writing is the literal opposite of my being.

And I fucking hate it.

Why do I need this degree again?

Emily has enough degrees and masters to carry the family pride and legacy. I can be the happy second born that locks themselves away in the family fortune and drinks wine while writing away in their study, a challenge to all bachelor's that dare to chain me down with marriage.

I sometimes feel like no matter what I do, nothing will compare to her achievements. She is the golden child that made my parents want another one just like her.

Only for them to end up with a fucked up pancake with mental disabilities and anxieties.

I couldn't help but think about all this as I stared at my half-done assignment. I was due three days ago and I haven't been able to finish it in days. Is it even worth it?

For once in my life I was relieved to hear a distraction of my phone ringing beside the bed. There's only one thing that could make me literally run to my phone when it's ringing.

"Hello?"

"Good, you're awake." His raspy voice came through the speakers clear and crisp. "I'm close. Need some midnight company?"

I should have said no. I should've given him the 'homework' excuse and make him go home. Out of sight, out of mind. Like putting your phone on silent, or sitting in a secluded study booth in the library. No distractions.

Then again...I deserve a break every now and then.

"I should really say no..." I sighed.

"But...?" He tried to coax an answer out of me.

"I should take a break. I've been spending all day working on my assignments and editing my book."

"Does that break involve take-out and cuddles?"

I straightened up at the sound of food. "You got food?"

"See you in five."

"Wait. Peter—"

The line went dead and I groaned into the phone. He always had a habit of blurting something at me, leaving me on the hook, then hanging up so I had to sit and wait in panic.

It was 11:30 p.m. and my parents were already asleep next door. They were pretty hard sleepers when they've had two or three of my mom's famous margaritas.

A small smile spread across my lips at the realization of what was about to happen.

A pretty boy was about to crawl through my window with take-out and a promise of cuddles and affection.

Life is good.

The echoing sound of a motorbike's engine shrilled over the quietness that was outside. My heart sped up with its engine. I made sure to stay cemented on my bed as the sound came closer. I listened intently to the engine as it echoed down the street, and then...stop.

I waited until the sound of pebbles hit my window to sit up and peek around the yellow scarf.

The neighbor's window was a tiny orange light in the darkness. At 11:30 p.m., it was still faintly light with the dusk silhouetting the trees and houses neighboring us. Bats fluttered like butterflies in the sky and crickets chirped and purred like a woodsy orchestra.

A shadow stood between the trees. It's body bulky and ruffled from the leather jacket and hood drawn over his face. A backpack was tightly strapped to his back, probably where he stored the take-out, amongst other things.

"With separate 'I' and 'thou' free love has done," the shadow began to recite, "For one is both and both are one in love: rich love knows naught of 'thine that is not mine;"

The silhouette dropped the extra pebbles and leapt onto the oil drum roof like a stray cat. I was always impressed with his agility and flexibility to climb things without making a sound.

"Both have the strength and both the length thereof," My breath hitched in my throat as he kneeled before my window. The emeralds in his eyes sparkled as he grinned wickedly, "Both of us, of the love which makes us one."

I wanted to scoff at him for being so literary, but couldn't help the smile that spread across my lips. It was so cheesy, so fucking cheesy, that I couldn't help but swoon.

"Who was that written by?" I asked him.

""I Loved you first: but afterwards your love" by Christina Rossetti." Peter answered, opening the screen. I plopped back on my bed to allow him space to crawl through the window. "There's more, but I prefer that one because it means that nothing money can buy can even come close to the happiness I feel when I'm in love with you."

I've always been interested in Peter's obsession over poems and literature. He's far more into that kind of literature than I am, being that we were both English majors. I would rather read stories about High Lord and Ladies of the Night Court, or stories about a certain boy that stayed a child forever instead of those poems about nature and babies and death.

Peter was more into literature poems and sonnets. Preferably he's been getting into poems about love and longing. Every time he came to my window, he'd recite the newest poem in his findings in an attempt to flirt with me.

It was working.

"I've never heard of that." I said as I watched his body emerge from the darkness and flop down on my bed, careful to not to let his back pack get underneath him and crush our midnight feast. "Is the author popular or no?"

"Obviously not because you don't know them." Peter shedded his backpack and then his boots, keeping them by the window and finally getting comfortable. Something crinkled in his bag, like the sound of a candy wrapper or crumpled up papers of his own poems and sonnets.

He grabbed the bag and unzipped the pouch, revealing the source of the crinkling.

"They were better when I got them." Peter grumbled as he held the flowers aloft. "You know, less bent and wrinkled."

Never in the entire world did I want a pair of wrinkled and bent flowers than I did now. I happily took my 'bent' flowers and kissed the boy's forehead. His arms immediately snaked around my hips and waist in an attempt to pull me closer, or to make me stay.

"I love them." I smiled at droopy orange petals wrapped in newspaper. "They're my favorite. Bent or not."

"You deserve something better than just flowers," Peter muttered into my neck. The solid weight of his arms snug around my waist made it feel like nothing in the entire world could hurt me.

I laid the flowers next to us on the bed and settled myself on his lap, letting my fingers peak around the collar of his jacket and up into his hair. "I deserve these flowers just as much as you deserve these cuddles that you desperately want."

Peter sent me a dark glare under his lashes and I found it adorable. Even though he glared at me, he pulled me up further in his lap and laid his head on my head. Not arguing or pulling away.

"Aw," I wrap both my arms around my stray cat of a boyfriend and kiss his hair. "All you had to do was ask, lovie.

If men had the power to purr, Peter would be doing it right now. His entire body was slouched and hunched into me. Arms tight around my waist, crawling up my back and peaking under my shirt.

His cold fingers slowly went up my spine and to the back of my neck, where he unclasped the hooks that kept my bra straps from falling. Peter raised his head and smiled faintly as he gently slid the straps down until I sipped my arms through.

My entire body was on fire.

"It's late," He whispers into my mouth. "Why do you still have your bra on?"

"I'm working." I whisper back.

That was an open lie. I called staring at my laptop screen while thinking about getting work done, work. I also call creating scenarios in my head writing.

"Yes you are." Peter agrees with my open lie. His fingers twist and my bra snaps open. He grabs the grey memory foam material and pulls it out for me to see. "Wanna see a magic trick?"

I scoff at his attempts of flattery. "Perv."

"Yup."

He tastes like minty mouthwash and spicy cinnamon. No doubt he probably shaved before driving to my window. His chin and jaw were soft and smooth and smelled incredibly of his aftershave. It was intoxicating.

The strands of his hair fell between my fingers like expensive silk, damp from a quick shower or lack thereof. I honestly didn't care. I had some dry shampoo in my bathroom if it became a problem.

"My parents are in the other room." I said between his lips.

"Oh, stealth mission, eh?" Peter pulled away enough to speak without choking me with his words. "I guess we should be quiet."

"They're probably knocked out by now."

"Then we should feast." Gently pushing me off his legs, he grabbed his bag and pulled out a rolled up paper bag with grease stains on the bottom.

The contagious smell of Chinese food filled my bedroom and my mouth watered. Breaking apart a set of chopsticks, Peter handed me a utensil and spread out his feast of food.

"You know me so well." I grab a container of pork fried rice and dig in, making sure not to spill any on my comforter.

Peter grinned wickedly and ate a mouthful of savory noodles. "Thought you might like it."

We had a brief moment's pause in our conversation as we ate our midnight meal. The moment dawns on me again as I watch Peter pop open a crab Rangoon and lick the cream cheese filling.

Twelve-year-old me would have to pick her jaw up from the floor is I ever went back in time to tell her who this mystery boy was in my bedroom. I never would have believed you for a second if you told me this would be my future; eating Chinese food in my bed with my boyfriend after he had climbed in through my window. Sneaking out late at night and driving his motorcycle to my house to willingly spend his night with me.

I would flat all call you a lunatic.

"How was Boston?" I decided to break the silence and open a new container of fried dumplings.

Peter's eyes fluttered in an eye-roll at the mention of the city. "Don't remind me. It was bullshit. The traffic was awful and I nearly got ran over by an ignorant couple who thought they owned the entire fucking street."

"The awful sacrifice of motorcyclists." I teased. "But was the convention good?"

Peter dropped his chopsticks in the chop suey and reached for a dumpling. "It was alright. Most of the people there were try-hards thinking they were the next Walt Whitman or Emily Dickinson." His jaw flexed and he then said softly, "You would've loved it..."

I sigh at his complaint and remind him, "I had class! I couldn't just skip it, not when I'm so close to my degree."

"It was one night!" Peter exasperated, then grinned when I hissed at him to keep quiet. "You couldn't have just skipped one night to be with me. I had a hotel and everything for us."

"Peter..." I begged him to stop.

I hated that I sent him away on a 'romantic trip' to Boston alone. He claimed that it would be an amazing adventure to run away to the city for a night and go to his writing convention. (Not an official one. A poetry reading at some underground coffee café that most of his literature friends went to. They treated it like a Fan Expo.)

"Next time." Peter dropped the conversation at my plead. "Which is in two weeks."

"What?" I accidentally dribbled ginger sauce onto my sheets and I scowled.

"It's just a small get together." Peter reached for the nightstand and shimmied out a tissue from under my stack of books. "It's at a book bar in the city. And it's on a Friday, so no sneaking back to your house at five in the morning."

I cringed at the last time I was caught walking into the house at six in the morning. I was able to get away with saying I wanted to go on an early morning walk before the sun came up. (I had to smuggle my bag into the window. Not a fun night for my anxiety. But a glorious night for my imagination.)

"What? You wanna drag me into a city two hours away to talk about books and drink alcohol?"

Peter paused in his chewing and nodded. "Yeah."

Oh, then I'm in.

Is what I wanted to say.

"C'mon, darling." Peter set his noodles aside and leaned forward, his fingers dancing over my bare knees and my goosebumps flared. "We can run away together. I'll even talk your parents into letting you go."

"My mom hates you."

"Yeah, well no mother hates her daughter dating a literature biker who climbs into her window at midnight." Peter reminded me of his being and I agreed.

Mom never liked Peter and said he was a tragedy. Dad liked him for his motorcycle and his similarities with me; but he also agreed he didn't like the whole climbing-into-my-window-without-them-knowing thing.

"Maybe they would like you if you didn't do that." I offered, knowing fully well I didn't want him to stop.

"Then who will recite poetry about love to your window at the faded light of dusk?" Peter asked with a brow raised in question. "Who will get you Chinese food at midnight when you're craving pork fried rice and dumplings?"

"Probably Door Dash." I muttered.

"But do they recite poetry?"

"I could ask for it in the description."

Peter glared at me while I snickered. "You make it sound so difficult to woo you."

"I'm a picky person." I bit my dumpling with a smile.

"So am I." Peter agreed.

"Oh yeah? What's you're type then?"

The boy set down his box of noodles and shrugged. "Oh, I mean, the usual stuff men want in women; loving, sweet, kind..." He licks his lips and grins. "Thick thighs that could choke me. Freckles on her arms and only on her arms..." He leaned forward, gently pushing down my plate of dumplings, giving extra caution to the staining ginger sauce. "Silver eyes. Auburn hair. Smells like roses and chamomile after a shower. Loves literature like me..."

I was now laying on my back in bed, staring up at him as the Christmas lights hanging behind my bed sparkled behind his head. I kept my hands tucked in my chest as he continued naming off traits of 'his type.'

"She sounds nice," I said.

Peter huffed and sighed, "She's one of a kind."

I shrugged with his affections, "I mean, my sarcasm is impeccable—"

Peter quickly shut me up with his mouth and his laugh echoed in my bones. Being caged under his body was a feeling that always made my heart flutter like a captured butterfly. I wasn't nervous to be pinned under him, legs hanging limply around his hips and fingers plucking at his heavy jacket and hoodie strings.

The weight of him on top of me was what my body craved. He was like my own personal, beautiful weighted blanket that came scented with aftershave and cinnamon. He kept me warm at night, even if it was summer and every single fan in the house was running. He soothed my nightmares away and lulled me to sleep with his kisses and poetry.

He was my melatonin in the perfect douse.

I could barely open my eyes when he pulled away and kissed my temple. The reality of the time hit me like a wave and suddenly I was craving sleep.

"Tired?" He asked, brushing whisps of hair from my eyes.

"No," I lied. "I need to finish my assignment before I can sleep."

"You mean the one that's on your laptop?" Peter slowly got up from my body, leaving it cold and floating, and walked toward my desk. "The one I'm about to close out of?"

"Peter..." I whined.

"Darling..." He echoed back. "You need to go to bed. Seriously, it's past midnight."

I helplessly watched him shut down my laptop, saving my work, and close all the Chinese leftovers, stuffing them back in his bag. I laid in bed and watched him move around the room like it was his. Knowing where things went and digging under the bed to find his duffel bag he stashed there.

Peter threw on a new t-shirt after shedding his jacket and hoodie. I forced myself to look away when I saw the muscles of his back flex with his movements.

Damn.

"You're staying?" I half whispered as he clicked off the lights one by one, leaving the one by the far window on. The bedroom was half lit by the orange-ish rainbow glow.

"Of course." Peter said with the gentlest smile I've ever seen on a person's face, as soft and as sweet as the flowers wrapped in newspaper on my desk. "I'll stay, darling."

"Yay..." I reached up and tugged on his shirt.

"Hold on." Peter gently pried my fingers from his shirt and kissed my knuckles. "I gotta take your jeans off, baby. Okay?"

I nodded and lifted my hips. His thin warm fingers gently pried open the button and unzipped my jeans, giving them a tug one or twice before sliding them down my thighs, kissing the tops of each one, and pry the hems from my ankles. The weight of his hands felt comforting on my thighs and legs, and in no way did my heart race with adrenaline.

Just heavy comfort.

I was left in my thin silky white shirt and grey panties. Peter kissed my hip and pressed his warm, flatten palm on my stomach.

I would normally get uncomfortable with people touching my stomach. I never touched my stomach. I hated touching it. But when Peter touched my stomach, my heart fell into it's socket and breathed a sigh of relief. His touch has healing magic.

No one has ever touched me like he has. With nothing but love and promise in his eyes. Not a single nerve in his body makes me on edge, or makes me scared to say no.

His touch leaves nothing but love and comfort in his wake. I can fall asleep anywhere, anytime when he touches me like this. Like he has a secret sleeping spell at his fingertips and he uses it when he knows I've been straining every day on theses assignments.

I have never been touched like that before. And now that I have, I yearn for it every fucking second of the day.

Peter climbs into my full bed and drapes the jersey sheet over my, as well as him. I don't have to pull him close. He gathers me in his arms and splays me on top of his chest, lifting my leg over his hips and curling me into his shirt.

I am wrapped in cinnamon and warmth and aftershave and cheap Chinese and leather. His shirt is limp and soft in my hands and his limbs squeeze me gently.

"Go to sleep, precious." Peter coos, pressing sweet kisses to my head and eyes. "I'll be here when you wake up."

"Promise?"

He holds me tighter. "I promise." 

I miss him...