Even as I sleep, I can feel her poking into my consciousness. It’s almost as if her force is probing the base of my skull, winding through my brain and waking me up. I’m exhausted, and I just want to not think. Unfortunately, quantum entanglement is ruining that. I’m sure fate is laughing at me, as it usually does. With an exasperated sigh, I allow myself to hear her message.

“I miss you,” her voice whispers in my mind, and I cover my head with a pillow. I can almost hear her voice washing over, can almost feel her fingertips dragging along the ridges of my spine. I groan again, and release the pillow as I flop onto my back, ever so gracefully. I glare up at the ceiling of my flat as I respond. “Stop fucking with me. I want to sleep.” I communicate, via our mental bond. I still don’t totally understand how it works.

To be honest, I suppose I don’t care all that much because I think sitting still through another one of Moses’ explanations sounds like hell itself. But I know how to use it, so at least there’s that. I hope whatever she hears is telling of how irritated I am. She keeps me up frequently, asking to come over and fuck me. Most of the time, I let her. I might be angry, but I’ll seldom pass on the opportunity to ride someone’s face.

“Don’t be like that, Saf.” She replies, and I can practically feel the pout I know she must be wearing. I take stock of myself, and come to the conclusion that I could use a little loving tonight. So, against my better judgment, I say what I know she’s hoping to hear. “Come over, then, if you miss me so much.” I respond, and sit up in bed. I turn on my lamp, and get up.

Twenty minutes later, I’m letting her into my flat. She has a smile on her god forsaken face and a duffel bag in her arms. We have a quick moment of passion on the couch, then decide to be done for the night. She sits next to me in my bed, now, hair falling into her face and glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose as she reads her book. I’m laid next to her, hugging a pillow with my nose tucked into the collar of the shirt I stole from her.

It smells like detergent, the natural musk of her, and smoke. As much as I hate it, she smells good. She makes a soft groan and adjusts the pillows propping her up as her glasses slide further down her nose. God; guess this is what I’m looking forward to when I turn thirty. I’m twenty-eight now, and she’s thirty-two. It also doesn’t help that she spent her teen years partying and doing a whole host of likely illegal activities.

As beautiful as Vermont is in the winter, it’s still damn cold. I know my heat is supposed to be on, but my building is old and the heat is a little wacky. I shiver slightly, deciding the next thing of hers I will repurpose as mine will be a hoodie when she gets up and digs in her duffel before throwing one at me. I don’t catch it or thank her as she crawls back into bed and I put it on. I push her glasses on the bridge of her nose before they can slide off, then turn my back to her again as I tuck myself in.