Any more than that, and it’s over for us. I don’t even think we’d need to wait for this place to have a bed back in it.
Invading my inappropriate thoughts, Kyran comes down the ladder and takes in his work. Tugging on the fabric, he makes sure the swing seems stable, then he slips his shoes off and climbs right inside.
I stare as the ice-blue material swallows him up in a cocoon. Teardropped, he sways there, only his face poking out. It spins, slowly, and he takes in his vacant bedroom, which has become wholly brighter since we started this project, and not just because I banished his black-out curtains so I could paint…and conveniently ordered only pretty, lacy, icy blue ones to replace them.
This place is no longer a sad boy cave. The sun is his friend, and he will rise and fall with it.
Or, I hope so, anyway.
Because while this whole “punishment”hasbeen therapeutic for me in ways I didn’t expect, I started it on a gamble to try and get him some better sleep. Ever since he told me that he has legit insomnia, I’ve been researching methods to help. I got a therapy lamp in his collection of new furniture. I bought some sleep-aid sprays for his pillow. I’m coating every inch of his space in new memories far from the things his parents saddled him with.
I’ve noticed that some days he’s been able to get better sleep lately.
I’ve also noticed that, usually, they’re the days I find him on my doorstep in the evening instead of at home streaming.
The conclusion I’ve come to is probably self-centered, but while he’s still stuck on this idea that he’s in love with me, I seem to bring him peace.
I’d like him to keep that peace for as long as possible and continue getting the rest his body needs.
When the swing twirls his face toward me again, his head has nodded forward. Eyes closed, he sits there in a bundle, drifting off toward that rest, reminding me that last night he wasn’t on my doorstep with some newget to know each other betterprint out. He was here in his gaming room. And I was watching his stream late into the evening.
Setting my paint things down, I inch across the white wood flooring to him.
Carefully, I stop the swing from spinning, take in his dark lashes as they kiss his cheeks.
His eyes open, partly, remaining low. They close again, and he snuggles. Voice deep, he says, “Love you.”
My heart skips a beat.
Breath moves him, and he murmurs, “Like you.”
Heat settles in my chest as my toes curl.
“Want you.”
Yeah. Ditto.
Sighing, I wrap him up in a hug, letting the tension out of my muscles. My cheek settles against the top of his head, and I smile into the scent of his shampoo. Masculine. Warm. Night.
“Want to climb in with me?” he murmurs.
I hum. “Nah, I do not yearn to return to my experience of being in the womb, but I will take my turn after you.”
“Once it smells like me. An excellent scheme, mistress. If only I’d thought of it first.”
I free a short laugh and let myself indulge in the scent of him until I find the strength to drag myself away and finish painting.He helps, then we clean up the painter’s tape and the plastic we put down to protect the floor.
After lunch and some other chores, the paint has dried enough for us to dare dragging the new furniture in, so we take the rest of the evening to get his space all situated.
Plush.
Soft.
Warm.
Cozy.
And, okay fine,cute.
