SEVEN YEARS AGO
I open my eyes to a face entirely too close to mine. I can’t take in the full picture, but I catalog the features I see. A large nose. Morning stubble. A firm mouth that’s partly open, releasing small, warm breaths that puff against my skin.
The room is dark, but there must be light filtering in from somewhere because it’s reflecting off of something. Glitter. Specks of gold. Something that sparkles in a streak down the curve of his throat.
A very attractive throat.
I register the too-warm blanket on top of us, or maybe it’s the heat radiating off of him. His leg’s thrown over both of mine, and my body’s tucked against his, his hand resting on my hip.
I don’t want to move. I want to stay here, all wrapped up in him. But my eyes are so dry it hurts to blink. And my mouth tastes like cotton.
Water. I need water.