“Stop hitting me.” I grumbled.
I’d come home late and tried to manoeuvre my body into the bed without waking you. My reward was a dozen open palm slaps to the chest. While sleep-addled, you had the tendency to treat any foreign object in your bed as a threat, and in your mind, an enthusiastic, clumsy offence was the best kind of defence. The one time I tried to surprise you, fuck you awake in the early hours of the morning, you’d ended up kneeing me in the stomach.
You yawned and turned your back to me. You said, “sorry, Bunny.” And snuggled back under the covers.
‘Bunny’ was one of the nicknames you used for the cat. A chunky orange stray we found on the tarmac outside our apartment complex. An absolute bastard, he liked to bite our ankles if we didn’t feed him dinner fifteen minutes early.
“Not a cat,” I said.
“Sure.”
I huffed a laugh, drew close, wrapping my arms around your middle. My arms sunk in slightly, where the soft skin of your stomach turned into love handles. I kissed your nape, and watched a shiver wrack your body.