When Brianna came home at 2 a.m., after yet another dinner-and-drinks night with Mallory, she found Barry soundly asleep on the bed, the lamp on the nightstand still on, and a book open on his chest. His face was resting on his elbow, mouth slightly open and glasses askew on his nose. His expression in his sleep was as placid and serene as a child's.
Brianna smiled and rolled her eyes. "Loser" she whispered. She had meant to be wry, but her voice, somehow, came out a hell of a lot sweeter than she had intended.
Good thing Barry couldn't hear her: he'd get the wrong idea. He might think that she was getting soft. He might even come to believe that she was, like, in love with him (ugh) or – dunno - that she got a warm fuzzy feeling in her stomach just by watching him sleep.
Ew. Can't have that.
She put down her Ralph Lauren bag, kicked her high-heeled stilettos off, and bent over him to remove his glasses, unhooking them carefully from behind each ear. As she was doing it, Barry winced and mumbled something in his sleep. Brianna smiled in spite of herself. She folded the stems and put them on the nightstand; she also pried the book – something called Chasing Lincoln's Killer by somebody named James L. Swanson - out of his hands. She took a quick look at the title and rolled her eyes again, but she fished the receipt of the restaurant out of her bag to use as a bookmark, so he didn't lose his page. She put the book on the nightstand, next to his glasses.
Then she went to the bathroom, where she wriggled out of her really tight red dress and really uncomfortable push-up bra (free boobs, at last!), put on a pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt, removed her makeup and brushed her teeth.
When she got back into the bedroom, Barry had rolled on his side and was hugging his pillow, snoring quietly; he usually waited up for her, but this time she had come home really, really late.
She turned off the lights, got under the blankets next to him, whispered "Nighty-night, nerd", closed her eyes and tried to sleep. It was kind of hard, though, trying to fall asleep without being in his arms. It felt… kinda lonely?
That was odd - she had never been a fan of the whole side-by-side, back-to-chest business: she always thought sleeping with the limp, sweaty body of a dude draped around her, with him blowing hot air into her neck and his arm around her waist feeling like a 50-pound weight after a couple of minutes, was low-grade torture. But Barry was such a snuggler, and she had to admit that, after a while, she had gotten used to the feeling – Barry's big strong arms around her, the solid warmth of his chest against her back, the calm steady sound of his breathing and all that.
Yeah, well. It was not that bad.
It was kinda nice.
All right, it was super nice, there was no denying it.
She opened her eyes and peered in Barry's direction. He – or, at least, the black silhouette of his body in the dark - was snoring quietly. "Barry?" she said softly. No answer. He was sound asleep.
Well, fine, whatever. Hugging was nice and all, but she'd have to do without for once. No big deal - she was a grown ass woman, she could sleep on her own. She's been doing it all of her life, after all. She didn't even like hugs that much.
… I mean, ok, sure, they were kinda nice.
She shut her eyes again. After a while, though, she re-opened one eye and peered in Barry's direction again. "Barry?" she whispered. This time he snorted lightly, but still didn't wake up.
Well, screw him. She was not going to go and spoon him like some needy fifteen-years-old.
Nope. Not gonna happen.
Brianna Hanson doesn't snuggle, she told herself. She might accept snuggles, all right, but she'll never, like, you know, start them.
Nope. Uh-huh.
She resolutely closed her eyes one more time, but sleep still eluded her. She tossed and turned, half-hoping Barry would wake up and put her out of her misery, but he didn't move an inch, and his breathing was slow and steady, indicating deep, sound sleep.
Ugh. Whatever.
She side-eyed him again. Maybe she could go and hug him. Like, just this once. A one-time thing. She wouldn't let it become a habit or anything.
He's sleeping like a rock, she thought. He won't even notice.
Well, he better not notice. It would be, like, super humiliating if he did. Tentatively, she outstretched an arm in the dark towards the dark shape of the man sleeping next to her, and put a hand on his waist.
No reaction. Good.
She wiggled nearer, then stopped for a moment to listen to potential changes in Barry's breathing rhythm. But he was still snuffling softly.
Great.
She scooched even closer, ever so slowly, one inch after the other, until her breasts were pressed, nice and soft, into his back. His body was warm under his t-shirt and smelled faintly like his aftershave. He always smelled so nice, damn him. Her arm slid around his waist.
She already felt more like sleeping. The operation so far had been a success, with Barry blissfully oblivious to her manoeuvres; she had been smooth as fuck, she congratulated herself. She nuzzled her face into the back of his neck and closed her eyes. In the morning, she thought, she'd pretend not to have any idea about how they ended up in that position. If he asked, she could always convince him he had been the one who crawled back into her boobs in his sleep. He'd totally believe it.
A moment later, though, she felt Barry's hand slip onto hers and squeeze it. "Love you, Bri" he mumbled.
She winced. Damn it!
Perhaps she hadn't been that smooth, after all.
"Love you, too, nerd" she sighed, as softly as she could, hoping he didn't hear it and knowing perfectly well that he did.