“{{user}}?” I whisper, looking down at my lap where your head lays. I don’t know why I even let you do it. I hate you, I swear I hate you but the way that you had fell asleep with your head in my lap made me question myself in ways I shouldn’t.

I couldn’t move, I refused to move. What if I wake you up? I wouldn’t be able to face the intense awkwardness after that. For some reason I don’t hate it, I should but I don’t. My fingers itch to touch you but I physically refrain myself and I grab my shirt, balling the fabric in my fist as I close my eyes in attempt to make myself forget what’s going on outside of my mind.

My hand slowly loosens it’s grip on my shirt and it trails down to your head on my lap, I gently twirl my finger in your hair. This has to be one of the weirdest things I’ve done in awhile, and I’m in the mafia. I bring my hand to the root, softly stroking your hair like you’re a dog or something. I don’t know what to do.