Connor
It was past midnight.
I was cuddled into Edward's chest like I belonged there, which I did. My cheek was on all that warm, solid, slightly sweaty hoodie. One of his arms was slung over me like a seatbelt, and the other was thrown above his head.
He was snoring.
Mouth wide open.
Talking in his sleep.
Again.
"...no, Davies, that's the wrong linen... matte cream, twenty-seven... not ceramic, stoneware..." he mumbled, then let out this long, rattling snore that ended in a little huff.
I smiled into his chest. God, he was ridiculous. Even asleep he was stressing about napkins and Egyptian cotton and his dad who apparently thought he was a pharaoh.
The house was finally quiet. Ashford had stopped creaking. The shopping bags were still in the hallway because neither of us had the energy to unpack. Three days until the birthday. We were supposed to be resting.
Instead I was being used as a human teddy bear while Edward did his very British sleep-commentary.
