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“I thought I’ve told you to go sleep early.”
Looking up, I found his accusing glare. His glasses was reflecting the kitchen’s light and his arms were crossed in front of his chest. He wore one of his button up, the navy blue one–my personal favorite, and two of the upper buttons were open. I was on the floor, on my lap was my laptop and beside me was my phone, vibrating every now and then with messages from my manager/secretary. I jutted my lower lip, hoping that it did something to him like it always do.
Unfortunately, not today.
He huffed and crouched down, setting my laptop into sleep and put it away from me. He took my phone and held me down with his fore and middle finger by forehead, calling my manager/secretary. “Hello. Yeah, I’m very sorry but can you give her a break? She has fever at the moment and you know how she is. I knew that she doesn’t tell you. Hm, okay, I’ll tell her. Yes, thank you very much.” He then pocketed my phone and proceeded to arrange me and my blanket so that I became a burrito–a human burrito, before picking me up bridal style.
“You’re the uncoolest boyfriend ever,” I huffed. He was raising his brow over me, I knew it, and snorted a laugh, “You’ll see how uncool it is when you can’t do anything right for the next few days.” I chided and felt my cheeks heat up as he chuckled lightly. He set me on the crème sofa that we had and left me there while he went to the kitchen, fetching a tablet of ibuprofen and a glass of warm water, I guess. I snuggled deeper to my burrito, freeing my arms and let the blanket covered my head as I stared at the blank tv. The blank suddenly filled with moving people and colors. I turned my head as he gave me his open palm and a glass of water in the other.
Sniffing noisily, I took the both of them on my hand and gulped it down in a matter of seconds. He let out a small laugh before taking the glass from my hand and delivered a noisy smooch on my temple. I glared at him, disgusted at his sometimes affection, “You’re disgusting.” He let out a boisterous laugh–another sometimes, as he sing-songed, “You love me, don’t you.” It’s a fact not a question and that made me cringe, just a little.
“You cook.”
The smell hit me gently and I woke up with bleary eyes, the tv was blank once again. I was still a burrito but the tortilla-blanket was a little messy. I shuffled and sat up, finding my feet covered with a pair of my fuzziest fuzzy socks. I looked around while stretching my arms upwards and sniffed, the slight smell of sauce hit me although there was mucus slotting up my nose.
“Babe?” I called and sniffed. “Are you in the kitchen?” A slight hum was heard and he asked back, “Are you feeling alright? I can serve the dinner for you.” I shook my head, not minding that I knew he didn’t see me, and walked to the kitchen, leaving my blanket cocoon. I dragged my feet and tried a little hard to get on the high bar stool that we invested. He turned off the stove and placed pasta on our plates; his a little over the top. A waft of tomato sauce and spices swam through my nose, avoiding the mucus around my nostrils, and made my stomach hummed curiously.
“I love you.”
He raised a brow and placed a sleek looking plate was placed in front of me, “You love me for my cooking and my face, don’t you?” I swept the pasta with my spoon and inhaled it quickly, “Both.” He laughed and swept my hair out of my face, chuckling at my messy eating when sick. He delivered a single, once again loud, smooch on my right cheek, puffy with the amount of pasta I inhaled earlier. I made a sound and stared at him accusingly, he chuckled with an adoring look in his eyes.
I felt weak and betrayed.
My cheeks felt hot and I turned my attention to my dinner. Wow, the pasta looked attractive, and he laughed adorably. His fingers, rough and calloused, rubbed on my left cheek and he said, calmly, “Love you too, Sweetpea.”
Ugh, affection.
The room was dark and our sheet shuffled.
“Oh, no, no, no–I’m sick for goodness sake,” I protested but didn’t have the energy to push his arms that made their way to my back, rubbing circles there soothingly. His face was inches from mine and the moon hit his face angelically. He was smiling down, his lips were quirking upwards and his eyes just screamed adoration and purity that even I, the satan that I was, didn’t have the guts to do it.
“You’re gonna get sick,” I mumbled and curled to him, couldn’t take his adorableness much more (or I’ll die, literally). His laugh rumbled from his chest and warmed my body against the cool sensation of the air conditioner. “I don’t really care,” his voice went into a low whisper; the fucker knew I was a sucker to that voice. I hit his chest lightly, feeling my cheeks burning with sensation, “Stop it. I’m sick.” He answered with a snort that contained laughter, “I know, I know. What? My voice gets you going?”
I shrieked and pushed his chest away, trying to scramble away from his grip. He threw his head as he laughed boisterously and tightened his hold against me. He drowned my face to the conjunction of his neck and shushed, I could still hear his smile, “Okay, okay. Sorry, babe. You’re just too cute.” I harrumphed in protest and embarrassment. “Yeah, babe, sorry.”
The silence came and it was comfortable. I fiddled with the hem of his sweatshirt and heard his ex and inhaling process. He traced his fingers over my arms causing me to shiver slightly and he switched to his palm until it reached my hair. Combing gently, he tilted my chin upwards and gave a quick peck to my lips. I hummed and snuggled more closely to him, tangling my limbs against his.
“Hope you get sick, fucker.”
He laughed.