Connor
The room was too warm and it smelled like Edward.
That was the first thing I noticed. The second was the weight of his arm slung over my waist, heavy and solid, like he'd decided in his sleep that I wasn't allowed to leave.
It was late. Morning light was pushing through the curtains in thin, gray strips. Cardiff rain on the windows.
We'd needed the rest. God, we'd needed it. After the match, after the pub, after everything. My body still ached in places I'd forgotten I had. My shoulders, my knees, the stupid bruise on my hip from where Isaac had "accidentally" elbowed me in the celebrations.
Edward was breathing against the back of my neck, slow and even. He looked wrecked. Hair everywhere, dark circles under his eyes, mouth half-open like he was still arguing with the ref in his dreams.
He looked beautiful.
"Morning, captain," I whispered.
