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There is little worse in the world than being completely comfortable while also having a full bladder.
Slowly, I rise into wakefulness, drawn there by the pressure that demands I use a toilet. When I blink my eyes open, I realize the delicious warmth that surrounds me isn’t from a mound of pillows.
It’s a man.
Specifically, it is Cole Allemand.
I know this because the arm draped across my chest has a colorful dragon twisting down it. We must have fallen asleep while watching the movie. At least, I did, because I have no recollection of seeing the ring get tossed into the fires of Mordor.
I wonder if we naturally ended up in this position, our bodies seeking each other out during the night, or if Cole gathered me close to him when he realized I was dead to the world. Either way, this is too decadently comfortable to be legal.
And yet, as I realized the second I woke up, I need to pee.
With a level of regret I decide not to ponder on, I slide out from underneath Cole’s arm and tiptoe to the bathroom. After flushing and washing my hands, my eyes snag on the Mardi Gras cup with a toothbrush resting in it. My mouth is fuzzy from a night of sleep, and I’m vain enough to not want to risk anyone catching a whiff. Two minutes later and I’m minty fresh.
Once my bathroom business is done, I’m left with a conundrum. It’s seven a.m., which is technically late enough in the morning for me to reasonably get up, get dressed, and get out.
But I don’t have work today, and I’m not meeting my mom until later, so I could easily argue for another hour or so in bed. A little bit longer in Cole’s arms.
Friends don’t usually sleep wrapped around each other. I didn’t spoon with Jasmine the couple of times I crashed at her place after a bar crawl. She slept in her bed, and I bundled myself up in a blanket and passed out on the couch.
There was no mention of a couch last night.
But what if friends don’t spoon because society tells us we can’t? What if there can be a perfectly platonic spooning?
I decide to spurn society’s rigid dictates. My returning to Cole’s bed is tantamount to a protest. I’m standing up for my right to spoon a friend. Or, rather, I’m lying down for my rights.
With the excuses made, no matter how flimsy they are, I cross the bedroom and carefully crawl onto the bed, trying my hardest not to jostle the sleeping temptation of a man.
Now, I could easily stretch out in the empty space next to him. There’s plenty of room.
But that’s not a true protest, is it?
So, pretending my fingers exert no more pressure than a butterfly’s wings, I grip Cole’s wrist, lifting up his arm as I roll into his chest.
Success!
All that librarian ninja training has paid off. Not that my job has taught me how to sneak into men’s beds. That’s not a necessary skill for my profession.
“You came back.”
All the loose relaxation I was trying to ease into evaporates.
Cole is awake.
My logical brain cells tell me I should climb out of the bed. I should leave. But those other brain cells, the ones that have a close relationship with my heart and my vagina, beg me to turn in his arms and face him.
The win goes to group number two.
When I shift enough to gaze into the cool blue of his morning eyes, I want to whimper at how delicious and sleep mussed he looks.
He watches me, lids heavy, but still seeming to see so much.
“I was comfortable,” I whisper, wondering if I should’ve just left. But he was the one who wanted a birthday slumber party. Not that post-morning cuddling is a normal occurrence at those.
My hands seem to have their own worries of him backing away because next thing I know, I have a hold of his waist, pulling myself closer to him. There must be a medical reason my body is not responding to logic. If he asks, that’s what I’ll tell him. Just need to go to the doctor and set myself to rights. Nothing to worry about.
Cole dips his head, and to my shock, he traces his nose along my hairline, then down near my ear, until he reaches my mouth and breaths in deep.
