Tonight's a good night. It's a Wednesday, my favorite day, and only twelve hours before we leave for Oregon. It's my last shift at La Poubelle. After tonight I'll never have to see shitty Chef Dupont ever again. Better yet? I get the rest of my credits towards finishing my final program at ICE.

Yep, tonight's gonna be good.

"Clocking out, Pupoce?"

My head tilts up and back to grin up at Moreau. "For the very last time, Mo."

Moreau plants an exaggeratingly sad frown on his heavy-set face. "We are going to miss you," he sighs.

My fingernails click the electronic screen of the micros computer. "Ah, Mo—don't worry. I'll be having my own shop here soon and you're gonna be my head chef; remember?"

Moreau grins. "Yes, I know. I don't have any doubts that you'll accomplish all of that and so much more."

The churning noise of the receipt printer only makes me long for the soft whirring of Bucky's arm back home. The noises from the quiet kitchen are meek compared to the ruckus during our dinner shift today. It's past midnight now and cleanup is just finishing. The dishwasher boys must be exhausted—I know I am.

"Are you sure you don't want that position on the line?"

I laugh, "I'm sure, Mo. Stark's got enough work to keep me busy—especially with all of his summer parties coming up. Besides, I'd kill myself before working another day under Dupont."

Moreau gives me a crooked grin and a ruffle of my fluffy curls. "Okay, okay, I guess I'll let you go then. It really won't be the same without you though."

Katie, who wears street clothes now after her uniform change in the back bathroom, comes waltzing from behind. "That's an understatement. Maybe I'll actually get some work done without your constant storytelling." She shoots me a wink.

"Please—like you weren't begging for Avenger's gossip," I laugh.

"You never gave me Captain America's cell number like I asked, so I have a hard time forgiving you."

My favorite server Chris comes by. He smacks his greasy hands on his apron with a grunt. "Please, Katie. The last thing you need is to be dating a superhero. You can hardly handle any of the losers you pick up on Tinder."

"Ouch," I snort. Moreau rolls his eyes with an unhappy grunt. I'm really the only person he likes around here anymore. He could do without the others' banter.

"Sadie handles it just fine; and she hasn't had a real boyfriend in, what? Two years?"

"A year and a half, actually. And I handled the last one very well, mind you. It was his handle on the concept of monogamy that really fucked us up." I glance up to Moreau. "Pardon my French, Mo."

Katie pulls out her bag from the lockers we all linger by. "Here," she says with outstretched reach. There's a box in her hands. "From all of us." She smirks with those pretty teeth behind the bright red lips to contrast the black hair. "Besides Dupont; that ass couldn't care less."

My heart swells up a size. "Aww guys..."

"Don't cry on us, bitch," Katie chuckles. "Just take the damn thing and open it when you get home to that hot soldier boy-toy of yours."

So I hug each of them goodbye—lingering a bit longer with Moreau than the others. I make the big man a big promise that he'll be the first name on my list when I open that dream bakery of mine. He walks me to the door with a crooked grin and a tattooed knuckle wave. I send him off with a wave of my own before crossing to the other side of the street in the late night New York City darkness.

It takes a bit of digging around my yellow leather bag for my wireless headphones. I plop one in, keeping the left ear unblocked, and then start my throwback playlist. My baby blue Nikes avoid every possible puddle: they're new and I'd hate to soil them. While I'm changing the song I see Bucky's playlist at the top of the alphabetical chart. He made one on my phone for that one time he lost his phone in Quebec and needed something to take on a run. I hum to Frank Sinatra before clicking on his list—expecting to find similar oldies. But I'm shocked to see that most of it is rap tunes; everything from French Montana to Kendrick Lamar and Eminem. I only recognize a few of the titles. I guess this is what he'd call his "Pump-up Playlist". I smile a bit to myself while walking on.

A rather slow Dean Martin hit radiates through my right ear. With my left ear free and the soft song quite underwhelming I'm free to listen to the noises of New York around me. It's true that this city doesn't sleep. But on this side of town it's certainly dozing. Not a lot is happening besides the taxis that drive by and the lights on tall buildings that flash. I'm going to be heading towards the busier parts soon on my way back to the tower. Right now it's very calming: the slight drip-drop of dew from windowpanes, brakes squeaking, a splash of a foot into a puddle...

That's not my foot. My shoes are still very dry. No, someone else is taking a very similar path to mine.

I keep walking on. Nothing strange about someone on the same trek, I tell myself. I keep repeating this until I take two turns and hear those same footsteps so very close behind still. That's when I position myself in front of a glass building—walking towards it with my hands deep in my pockets and ratty baseball cap hiding my hair.

There he is—the man with the same foot plan. Coincidently he walks very, very close behind. He's tall with long limbs like spider ligaments. He's wearing a cap a lot like mine, but his makes me nervous. I can't see his face.

I pick up my pace. So does the man.

I forfeit my original route. I start taking turns. This man, who now lingers a half a block behind, takes every turn that I do.

My heart is racing. I can taste bile rising in my throat. With my package tucked under my arm I move my arms to cross. That's when I decide to pull up my phone and send a text.

Sadie: I'm on my way home; I think someone's following me.

Short and sweet, I suppose. I can't think of anything else to say. I've sent it to the only person that really matters to receive it.

For a minute there's no reply, so I decide to send another.

Sadie: He's tall and scary looking and been following me for ten minutes now.

Still, no response. It's late so Bucky might be sleeping. Maybe a third text will wake him up.

Sadie: I could just be being paranoid because we both know that I do that a lot, but I honest to god think that he's following me. I really don't know what to do.

I clutch the slick phone in my fist with my heart hammering louder than the rapid steps I'm taking. Halfway down the next block and I'm beginning to lose hope that Bucky will respond. I think of the next person on my emergency list. Probably Natasha, then Steve... or I can send both of them one at the same time...

Finally my phone lights up with a response. My heart races and head pounds while I open up the reply.

James: Okay, I'm awake. Where are you?

My eyes dart to the closest street sign.

Sadie: Fourteenth. Near US Bank.

James: Is he still there?

I swallow heavily.

Sadie: I'm too scared to look. I don't want to stop.

James: No, no don't stop. Find someplace to go—a restaurant or something. I'll come pick you up in the SUV.

I subtly look around.

Sadie: Okay. There's a McDonalds at the end of the block.

Bucky's response is impeccably fast.

James: Good. Don't worry, I'm coming. You're gonna be fine.

With a shaky breath I decide that he's right. I'm going to be fine. Things like this only happen in movies, right? Girls being stalked on their way home... no; that's very real, Sadie—who are you kidding? The unrealistic part is the girl being saved by her superhero boyfriend before getting kidnapped and murdered. Yeah, that's more likely. I'm totally going to die.

My paranoia propels me to take a quick look behind.

There's nothing but an empty sidewalk.

"Oh thank god," I sigh. I pull out my phone again. I click on Bucky's icon, a picture of us together three weekends ago at the pier with two tall ice cream cones, and wait him to pick up. I stand outside of a closed used-bookshop with my back slightly pressed to the brick. I juggle the heavy box from Katie from one arm to the slightly less tired one—the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I wait. One ring goes by and he's on the line. He's very fast, I'll give him that.

"Sadie?" I can hear the stress dousing his voice. "Sadie, are you there?" He's hardly given me the chance to reply the first beckoning. I feel pretty rotten with how tense he sounds over the line.

"Yeah—it's me," I say. I push off from the side of the building to continue my trek home. "Sorry I worried you. I'm fine now. I guess I was just being paranoid, because the guy is—" Casually my eyes have drifted up. Sweeping along my path they land directly on the closest most threatening sight: the man is back, and he's standing not three yards ahead of me. No longer does he follow behind. He's emerged out of the fucking darkness like a shrouded smoke cloud now floating up to choke my senses clean away. My feet stagger then cement themselves in place.

"Sadie?" I hear Bucky say my name on the line.

The stalker must have taken a short cut. He's blocking my path. I feel no words rising in my throat and even if I could find the courage to speak, I wouldn't know what to say.

"Sadie!" Bucky's voice is loud through the speakers. The man across from me must hear it, too. For the next thing he does is lift his hand and press a long finger to his lips—smirking a bit as he begs me to stay silent.

That's when I catch the feral glimmer in his eyes. He looks at me like a cat looks at a fish in a bowl, except this is no sweet house kitty. This is a fucking rabies invested, scraggily haired, oily skinned predator.

All I can do is turn and run.

The streets are filled with passing cars that ride bumper to bumper or I'd dart there first. The only place to go is backwards. I turn and run so hard that my feet instantly ache from the pressure of the cement underfoot.

I've always prided myself on being fast. Now the only thing that matters is my ability to be fast. My legs may be short but I push them hard. My breaths grow ragged and my phone conversation has long since been forgotten. I threw the box behind me at some sort of lame attempt to slow my pursuer down—maybe it'll work like a turtle shell in Mario Kart.

It doesn't. It only angers my assailant further as he dodges the package and growls low and mean.

I go to every door of every store that I pass. I pull and pry on the handle only to find that each of them is locked. It's late at night—no one is around. I shoot quick, worried glances over my shoulder between every stop. The man's still jogging to keep up. He's hardly winded. He could probably catch me now if he wanted to, but he seems to be enjoying this part. I can see a sinister smile stretching across his face. The thought of what else he'd do for enjoyment at the cost of my misery makes my heart shrivel up into stone.

"No, no, no, no," I pathetically chant mid-run between stores. Just when I'm about to give up and run straight into traffic, which doesn't seem like a bad idea considering my options, I spot a bright red OPEN sign flashing just half a block down. For once my heart soars up with hope and I take off running with renewed ambition.

My stalker must see the sign, too. He's not about to quit the game, so he puts those long spidery legs to work and terrifyingly arrives at my side in no time. I scream when I first feel him grab the slack of my jacket. Instantaneously I try to push and pry him away. I even attempt to wiggle out of the coat, but the buttons are too damn tight. It's by his firm hold on my garment that he drags me back the way we came—kicking and screaming all the while.

Then I'm tossed to the ground. My screams are cut short as the wind gets knocked out of me. I roll to my side, feeling the cement scraping up my torso and down one cheek, before shakily bringing myself to my hands and knees. When my eyes finally adjust to the eerie darkness I see that the stalker is no longer empty handed. He holds a gun, and he holds it out towards me.

"Shut up or I'll shoot you now," he says to me. His voice—I'm hearing it for the first time, mind you—sounds like something that would come from any little girl's worst dream. He even sounds like a serial killer (not that I've met a lot, but you get the idea).

"As opposed to later? I think I'll take my chances," I stupidly decide to spurt.

My sass grants me a swift kick to the gut. I tumble forward to spew on my own saliva. Amidst my coughing and choking I can hear his vile demand: "Get on your feet. We're going on a trip."

My head whips up while my eyes strain wide. Immediately my mouth opens to argue (or maybe cry) but I'm silenced yet again by a blow. This time he's kicked me so hard that I fall back against the closest brick wall. My hands struggle to catch myself before I can collide with the metal garbage cans. They clatter and crunch as my body tumbles between them. Glass shatters all around me.

The click of a loaded gun resonates strongly in my mind. Looking up at my assailant, I know that I've got virtually no choice.

"Get. Up."

I squeeze my eyes shut. My legs quiver precariously. I want to force them to move, but for some reason my whole body has turned to stone.

"Do you want me to put a fucking bullet in your head?"

My voice trembles, "N-no."

"Then get your ass moving!"

Eyes still shut tight, I swallow long and hard. My legs stiffen as if preparing to lift me up.

Then I hear the bullet blast.

A scream, cut off by my own hand covering my mouth, ricochets around the walls of the alley.

Shock like nothing else courses through my veins when I realize that I'm not the one whose been shot. My eyes wildly take in the scene before me—the stalker man with the raggedy hair and oily grey skin now akin to a roadkill rat. His body lays atop the alley floor with dark red blood splattered in abstract patterns all around him. Mouth and eyes slightly agape as carnage pours out of the hole in his brain.

"Oh my god, oh my god," I chant. I stay rooted in my pile of literal garbage with my head in my hands and a sob threatening to break through me.

Rapid footsteps are approaching. No words are said by my savior, but none have to be. I know without looking—I know who it is.

I feel his metal hand on my shoulder and that's when I lose it. I roll into myself in a ball and simply start sobbing for all that I'm worth. Warm, familiar arms snake around me in the most beautiful yet heartbreaking way. Bucky rocks me back and forth while I try to forget the pure agonizing fear that had just led me to believe I was going to be raped and murdered in an alley on West Sampson Street.

"I've got you, I've got you doll." His fingers stroke my back. I reach up now to shakily wrap my arms around his neck. He pulls me closer by keeping a hand on the back of my capped head to cement my face against his chest. "Don't be scared, love. I've got you. You're alright now."

I nod as if trying to convince myself. My sobs shift to hiccups. I can smell the body that lies just behind us.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Bucky holds me a bit farther back for close inspection.

"I'm fine," I croak. "I'm fine."

The expression on Bucky's face doesn't exactly relay that he's convinced, but he nods anyway. "Good." I close my eyes again as I feel him kissing my temple. He holds me there, both of us relishing the moment, before he pulls away to softly speak. "Come on, angel. I'm gonna take you home."

Again I nod. I pull away just enough for Bucky to start to stand. He doesn't make it far before I'm picked up in his arms with my face yet again pressed into his breast. I hold tight onto his neck and try to focus only on the reality of being saved rather than the other possible outcomes.

He takes me to a dark windowed SUV that's been raced up halfway on the sidewalk and half on the street. It's clearly in a no-park tow zone, but clearly Bucky doesn't give a fuck.

Bucky opens up the passenger door and helps me inside. I wipe my face with the back of my shaking hand and manage to try and smile as he pushes some of the loose hairs out of my eyes. "You good?" he asks rhetorically.

"Yeah, yeah I am now." I fiddle with his shirt collar and watch as his pupils widen to take in my eyes in the dark. "Thank you, James."

I don't know why, but he always has a reaction when I call him James. He always looks so surprised at first—pleasantly so—before taking a hard swallow with a bit of blush on his cheeks. Now is different, though. His face is very stoic and his cheeks are tan but pale. He nods, saying not a word in response, and then cups my cheek. A sort of hiss comes from my lips and he realizes now that I've been scraped along the side of the face by the cement. He frowns and carefully moves his hand away.

"You're a little banged up, but we can fix this. I've just gotta make a call and then we'll go home."

"Okay." I pause. I can't help but glance back at the alley. "Are you going to get in some type of trouble for this?"

Bucky shakes his head. He's already digging out his phone. He stays outside of the car while I'm in—the open door our portal to one another. "No. Stark's friends with Shield, and I'm friends with him. Sort of, I guess." He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. I know they'll deal with this."

"How did you find me?"

Bucky's eyes dart up to me momentarily from the phone screen. "Finding people is kind of my specialty, babe. I'm just glad you got ahold of me when you did."

I shrug, shuffling back farther into the leather seat. "You're the only person I would ever want to call."

"Good," Bucky breathes. He hands me the keys to the SUV from his pocket. I stare at them for a moment before grabbing them out of his clutch. "Go ahead and turn on the engine. You're freezing—get the heat going. I'm just gonna take the call right out here," he stops to gesture to a spot on the sidewalk under a NO PARKING sign. He must see the reservations on my face because then he adds, "Don't worry. I won't be far and I won't be long. Lock the doors if it makes you feel better." Bucky steps back, readying to close the passenger door. "Okay?"

I nod and he forces a teeny smile to paint his thin, pink lips. "That's my girl," he hums. He steps back to carefully shut my door. The moment it's closed I lock it; watching as he turns and heads towards that spot a little bit away so that he can make the call.

I have to lean over the console, but I manage to get the car running. The warm air pools out of the vents and I let out a dedicated sigh. I watch the windows start to fog. Bucky's out there, wearing his grey sweatpants and black t-shirt, and looking absolutely nothing like a trained assassin who has just heroically saved my life. Absentmindedly he weaves some hair back behind his ear mid-phone conversation. With each word his mouth takes on a subtle, particular shape. His darkened blue eyes purposely scan the empty sidewalk around us. He's clearly on edge.

I know he's made promises to always protect me, but I guess I never took it so seriously. Makes sense when you think about it though. He is an Avenger—even if I forget that fact 99% of the time (minus the bits I see plastered on TV and newspapers with his face and name—that's always quite humbling).

It's now that I realize I don't have my phone or my bag. I must've chucked them behind me or dropped them during my run. The package is gone, too. I guess I'll never know what was in it.

It hardly takes two minutes for Bucky to finish his call. Then he's striding back to the SUV on those long, beefy legs that I adore. He watches patiently while I fumble with the buttons to unlock his door. Finally it clicks and he is free to join me in the cab up at the driver's seat.

"Are they going to help?" I question.

Bucky glances over at me. He seems to have intentions to make it a fleeting glance, but for some reason his gaze cements on me and his eyes gloss over momentarily. "Who? Shield?"

I nod. "Isn't that who you called?"

Bucky breaks his stare. "I called Stark. He says he'll handle Shield. Sounds like he doesn't have any doubts that they'll deal with it."

"And you won't get into any trouble?"

Bucky goes to put the car into drive. He realizes I'm not wearing my seat belt with a low grunt. He reaches over my body with that lovely metal arm—snatching up the belt and dragging it across my waist before I can even protest. I hear it click in place. "Don't worry so much about me. You're safe, that's all that matters."

"No, what matters is that you killed a man in order to save my sorry ass and that you might get some sort of punishment for it," I argue.

The vehicle groans in protest when Bucky drives us down from the curb. "Not the first person I've shot, honey, and certainly not one I'm going to regret." He looks away from the road momentarily. Someone honks at us but he ignores it. "Like I said, don't worry about me. The only thing that matters here is you. I made a promise to you that I fully intend to keep." His grip tightens on the steering wheel while his eyes stay cemented on the slow moving road. "I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."

Bucky drives with his metal hand. The warm, rough callused one rests idle on the middle console. I reach over to thread my fingers through his. He responds by turning up his palm and squeezing back—not looking away from the road, but swallowing stiffly as he notices my stare. I'm watching the way the street lights are reflected in his sapphire eyes and how his dark brown chin hairs are now growing into a beard fuller than I've ever seen him sport.

"Why were you walking by yourself anyway?" Bucky swallows stiffly as he keeps his eyes on the road. "I thought we agreed that until this thing with your dad is cleared up that you'd drive."

"My carpool plans fell through. I've walked home every night since I moved here. I didn't see anything wrong with walking home one more time in the dark..."

"It might not have been a problem before, but it's too dangerous now." Bucky's eyes dart to me swiftly. "Between your dad and that man you saw outside your window, we can't risk it." He pauses to watch my face. "Okay?"

I only nod.

Neither of us says anything more on the way home. We arrive at the Tower just before two a.m. and the sun still has yet to rise—it won't for 4 more hours, at least. We tote ourselves out of the car then meet around the front of it: hands automatically linking together. In the elevator I stand impatiently waiting for the numbers to click by. Sighing, I walk into Bucky's arms and press my face into his chest. His hands gently push into the small of my back.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" I mumble. My words are slightly muffled, as my mouth is catching the fabric of his fresh-smelling t-shirt.

Bucky's metal fingers trail gingerly up my back then back down. "Sure, doll."

So we go to his apartment. I'm doused in a thin layer of sweat, blood, and garbage. Bucky leaves me to run a bath while he digs around the apartment for the antiseptics he'll need for my wounds. When he knocks on the bathroom door I'm collar-bone deep in bubbles from the masculine smelling body wash he had sitting on the shower floor.

"Bubbles?" Bucky can't help but smirk a bit.

I shrug. "Bubble baths make everything better." A smile crosses my own face when I see that Bucky's brought a coral colored mug in with his first aid kit. I hold my hands out and he passes it over. "Tea?"

Bucky nods. "Peppermint with two teaspoons of honey."

I blush and take a careful sip. It's not too hot, not too cold. "You remembered."

"'Course I did." Bucky sits down on the closed toilet seat just beside the bathtub. "Now let me see your face. I wanna clean that up." He points to the jagged cement burn just beneath my left eye. I readjust myself in the porcelain tub, water splashing around, and turn my face towards him. Bucky carefully inspects my cheek with his eyes and ginger fingertip. "You got lucky," he hums thoughtfully.

"Yeah," I agree, "I was almost the next star of Dateline's murder mystery Friday."

Bucky's frown is deep and jagged. He doesn't think I'm funny tonight, apparently. "I meant," he goes on strictly, "You just barely missed your eye."

"Oh. That too, I guess."

Bucky huffs heavily. He grabs a washcloth and some sort of white solution. "Alright, this might sting a little."

"Can't hurt any more than being shot," I go on to joke again.

Bucky scowls. "Seriously, Sadie?"

A laugh bubbles out of me this time. "Sorry, I'm sorry. I'm just trying to lighten the mood, Sergeant."

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. "You really are somethin' else," he murmurs—mainly to himself. His eyes widen with shock when he feels the clump of bubbles I've just blown at his face. He wipes them away with the back of his dark-haired arm while I smirk. He smiles a bit now, too.

"But you love me," I tease.

Bucky gives his head a small, disbelieving shake. "Yeah, sunshine. I really fucking do." He grabs my chin again and coerces my face in his direction. "Now let me clean you up."

I let the stubborn man do as he wishes. He dresses my wounds, the ones on my face and my side, before telling me that he's done. Bucky's eyes, which I've noticed have struggled to stay on my face and not wander down, dance to the bits of my body that are covered by water. He takes a hard swallow and I can see the lust flickering in his eyes. For a moment the emotion is there and then he squashes it with a cough. "I'll, uh, be in my room. I left some clothes for you on the counter."

I take a deep breath once he's gone. I lie back in the sudsy water and stare at the tiled ceiling. My fingertips trail over my cheekbone even though I've strictly been told not to touch any of the cuts.

He's right, and I know it. It could've been a lot worse. So many terrible things could've happened... but they didn't; all because Bucky Barnes loves me. He killed someone for me. Granted, the guy wasn't someone I'm going to mourn, but still the thought churns my gut. There's a dead body out there somewhere. Worse yet, Bucky had to add another to his kill-list because of me: because I'm stupid and naïve and can't take care of myself.

Sighing, I drag my tired body out of the water. I dry with a dingy white towel with faded bloodstains and think to myself that Stark could really afford to buy Bucky more linens. Bucky's left one of his long sleeved shirts and a pair of my very own underwear—ones that I'd worn to his apartment not very long ago; ones that he'd torn off before plunging his fingers inside of me. That'd been just before another jelly-legged shift at the restaurant and I'd had to go home and change clothes. He must've found my old panties here and laundered them for me.

I wander out of the steamy bathroom to a nearly pitch black apartment. I follow a trail of light and intuition towards Bucky's bedroom. The door is cracked and there's a single lamp on. My slightly moist feet paddle inside until I see that he's already on the bed waiting for me—his back propped up by a stack of pillows and his nose in a leather bound journal. He looks up at me over the binding and winks without a shift in expression beyond that. His pen pauses in its movement across the page.

"You look good," he hums. He sounds honest yet I still have a hard time believing it.

"I look about as good as I feel," I argue weakly. I carry myself to his bed and then flop onto the mattress. "And I feel like shit."

I feel his warm palm drawing circles on my back. "Get some sleep then. You'll feel better in the morning."

"How am I supposed to sleep after tonight?" I ask honestly. I peer up at him from where my face is halfway turned into the pillows.

Bucky sighs. He moves—setting the journal on the nightstand and then reaching out to help me under the covers. I wiggle and shuffle until I'm comfortable next to him between the sheets. "You've got nothing to worry about here, doll. I'm not going anywhere and I won't let anything happen to you."

"Right," I breathe. I turn on my side to face him. He's still propped up against the headboard. "Are you going to sleep, too?"

He shrugs. "Maybe. I got a few hours earlier. I don't really need a lot of sleep."

"Right, right—my own Edward Cullen, I remember," I jest lightly. Bucky's left side of his mouth curls up in a small smile. I like how the low, warm lighting makes his tan skin glow.

"You go ahead and get your sleep though. We've gotta get on the plane by noon if we want to make it to your mom's house before dark."

He's right. I've nearly forgotten about the out of town wedding. I was so excited for it before... now I've hardly got the brain capacity to recall what I'd been thinking about before being chased: thinking back only brings me to the most disturbing memory.

"Okay, Buck. I'll try." I push myself upwards with my elbows and he's smart enough to get the hint. His hand lingers on my jaw while his lips press comfortably to mine. After a brief pause in time he pulls away. "I love you."

He smiles thoughtfully. "And I love you, sweetheart."

My head hits the pillow and from there I choose to stare up wistfully at my dear Bucky's face while he goes back to writing in his journal—the pen making scratching sounds that are surprisingly very soothing. He pretends not to notice that I'm staring, instead going about his business with those adorable spectacles on and his legs swung over one another under the duvet. With a sigh I finally decide to close my eyes; knowing that as long as he's here beside me, I'll be okay.