Reviving my degenerate fangirl era

The cotton sheets of the heavy four poster bed were entirely cold on the left side, smooth and undisturbed where he should have been resting hours ago.

Through the cracked sash, the distant, mournful wail of a brass saxophone from a jazz club down on Bourbon Street drifted into the room, accompanied by the steady, metallic clack-clack of a late night streetcar rolling down the avenue.

You tossed and turned in the dark, pulling the heavy patchwork quilt all the way up to your chin, burying your nose into the fabric to find any lingering trace of him.

But the comfort simply would not come. The space beside you felt echoing and vast. Without his slow, steady breathing to ground you, and without the familiar, reassuring warmth of his long arm draped across your waist, the bedroom felt far too large, suffocating, and entirely too quiet.

With a small, frustrated sigh that trembled slightly in the dark, you finally gave up on sleep. You slid your legs out from beneath the tangled blankets, the layered ruffles and delicate lace trim of your white nightgown brushing softly against your bare ankles as you paused on the edge of the high mattress. You sat there for a long moment, looking around the dim room, watching the shadows of the wrought iron balconies outside dance lazily across the floral wallpaper.

"Alastor...?" you called out into the dark room, your voice nothing more than a faint, hesitant whisper that barely carried across the floorboards.

Receiving no answer but the distant hum of the city, you hopped down from the bed.

Your bare feet made absolutely no sound against the polished, dark hardwood floor. The sheer, flowing fabric of your nightgown pooled around your feet, catching the faint, silvery moonlight streaming through the window as you began to move.

You slowly made your way toward the bedroom door and stepped out into the long, drafty hallway.

The house was a labyrinth of shadows, but down at the very end of the corridor, a single sliver of warm, golden amber light sliced through the darkness. It spilled out from the slightly cracked door of his study, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

The hallway seemed to stretch out endlessly ahead of you, mutating into a gauntlet of suffocating gloom. The further you stepped from the safety of the bedroom, the more the air changed, losing the sweet scent of jasmine from the courtyard below and taking on a heavy, cloying quality.

Underneath the familiar, comforting aroma of Alastor's expensive mahogany cologne, there was a sharp, metallic tang that made the back of your throat go dry.

It smelled distinctly of copper.. thick and unmistakable, masked poorly by the scent of heavy floor wax and stale tobacco.

It was the kind of smell that belonged in a hidden cellar or a back alley butcher’s shop, carrying a faint, sweet undertone of raw iron that made your senses prickle with a sudden dread.

The silence out here was broken only by the frantic, uneven thumping of your own heart against your ribs.

The towering portraits of ancestral families lining the walls felt like eyes, staring down at your small, pale form in judgment. Every shadow pooling in the corners seemed to reach toward the pristine white hem of your nightgown, threatening to stain the delicate ruffles with the darkness of the house.

You pressed a hand against the wall to steady your trembling frame, your fingertips tracing the cold wallpaper. You tried to call out his name a third time, but the word died on your tongue, turning into a breathless gasp.

You finally reached the very end of the corridor, your bare toes stopping just at the edge of the warm, amber beam of light cutting across the floorboards.

Your heart hammered violently against your ribs, a beat that felt entirely too loud in the dead silence of the house. You leaned forward slowly, your fingers gripping the polished wood of the door frame for support.

Peeking through the small crack of the door, you saw him.

Alastor was sitting at his grand, dark mahogany desk, surrounded by towering bookshelves that seemed to swallow the corners of the room in shadow.

His usually proud posture was broken, his long back was hunched deeply over a messy stack of papers. The sole source of light in the entire study was a single, green shaded banker's lamp.

He wore his thin, wire rimmed glasses, perched low on the bridge of his nose. The glass lenses caught the amber glow of the lamp, completely obscuring his brown eyes behind a reflective, golden sheen as he scanned the papers with unblinking focus.

The sleeves of his crisp, white linen shirt were rolled up tightly to his elbows, revealing the lean, corded muscle of his forearms as his usual mahogany vest hugged his frame, oh so beautifully.

In the dim light, your eyes drifted to his right cuff. There was a faint, dark smudge near the hem of the fabric.. something thick, dried, and rust colored.. that looked chillingly out of place on a man of his standing.

The only sound in the room was the repeated scratch of his fountain pen dragging across the heavy paper. It sounded quite aggressive.. but the moment your shadow subtly fractured the light in the doorway, the scratching suddenly stopped.

Even with his back partially turned, he felt your presence.

He pushed himself off the desk, the heavy leather chair scraping softly against the floorboards as his tall, lean frame straightened to its full height. He turned toward the door, his brown eyes instantly locking onto your hiding spot through his glasses.

"Ma chérie...?" his voice broke the heavy silence. Oh how you could never get over his voice..

A soft smile tugged at the corners of your lips the moment his voice washed over you.

Slipping out from behind the safety of the door frame, you fully stepped into the warm glow of the study.

The delicate, layered ruffles of your pristine white nightgown whispered softly against your ankles with every step you took, cutting a fragile silhouette against the dark, heavy woods of his office.

"Good morning, Alastor.." you whispered as you padded further across the floor.

You stopped just a few feet away from his grand desk, clasping your hands loosely in front of your waist. You looked up at him through the dark fringe of your eyelashes, your gaze trusting, and full of an expectant warmth.

Alastor did not keep you waiting for even a single breath.

He bypassed the mahogany desk, his long strides closing the distance between you in a heartbeat.

"You should be in bed, mon petit ange," he murmured.

Before you could even form a response, his elegant fingers reached up, hands gently cupping both sides of your face, his skin feeling incredibly warm against your cool, sleep flushed cheeks. His thumbs began to trace tender, slow circles over your cheekbones, tilting your face upward so he could look directly into your eyes, searching your face for any sign of distress.

His thumbs continued their slow movement against your skin, his gaze scanning every inch of your face with an intensity that felt almost suffocating, though... you only ever read it as profound care.

You leaned into the heat of his palms, your hands reaching up to gently wrap around his wrists, feeling the steady, calm thrum of his pulse beneath his rolled up shirt sleeves.

"What are you doing up so late, Alastor?" you asked softly. Your eyes drifted past his shoulder toward the mountain of messy papers on the desk. "You promise me every night you will come to bed early, yet here you are, rewriting the same thing until the sun comes up."

He tilted his head slightly, his wire rimmed lenses catching a stray glint of light.

"Just some tedious work, ma chérie," he spoke out as he slid one hand down from your cheek to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch light, as if he were handling a piece of priceless, fragile porcelain. "Dry, boring work.. Nothing that should ever trouble your beautiful head, let alone keep you from your rest."

You pouted slightly, the gesture making his chest tighten. "But it does trouble me. The bed is too big without you. And it's cold."

Alastor let out a chuckle, though his grip on your wrist tightened just a fraction.

"Is that so?" he murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed against your forehead, his breath warm against your skin. "You cannot sleep a single hour without me to keep the nightmares away?"

You nodded slowly against his warm palms, your bottom lip trembling. Quite suddenly, and for no real logical reason at all, a sharp prickle of overwhelming emotion stung the backs of your eyes. The world felt a little too large, the house a little too quiet, and a few small, glittering tears threatened to spill over your lower lashes.

The very moment Alastor saw the watery, glassy sheen pooling in your eyes, his entire posture locked down. Nothing in the world unnerved him more, nothing shattered his composure faster.. than seeing a single tear on your face, especially when he pridefully considered himself the ultimate shield between you and the harshness of the world.

"Oh, regarde-moi—look at you, my fragile little bird," he cooed as he let out a soft, highly dramatic gasp, using the gentle pads of his thumbs to meticulously sweep away the moisture before it could even track down your cheeks. "Crying over a cold mattress? If I didn't know any better, I would think you were spoiled, ma chérie."

He leaned down further, tilting his head with an exaggerated pout that made his lenses slide slightly down his nose. Then, he pressed a loud kiss right to the tip of your nose.

"Must I hire a personal fireplace just to keep your side of the bed warm while I work? Or perhaps I should purchase a dozen hot water bottles to line the sheets?" he chuckled, his rich brown eyes crinkling warmly behind his spectacles as he looked down at you, his smile wide and infectious.

"Or perhaps I should simply banish these boring scripts straight into the Mississippi River so they stop stealing me away from my most demanding, beautiful judge."

The heavy dread in your chest vanished, coaxing a tiny giggle out of you and effectively chasing the tears away before they ever had a chance to fall.

"Ah, merci Dieu," he muttered under his breath.

Without another word, he slid his hands down from your cheeks and wrapped his long arms completely around you. He pulled your frame tight against his chest, tucking you securely under his chin.

You buried your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the deep, comforting scent of his cologne, completely oblivious to the faint, metallic tang of copper that lingered on his skin.

"I am so sorry, mon ange," he murmured into your hair, his lips brushing against the locks as he held you close.

He began to rock you gently from side to side. "Je suis désolé, ma petite. Je te promets, I did not mean to leave you in the cold. Tu es tout pour moi, you know this, yes? I am here. I have you."

He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of your head, his chest rising.

"I really need to get these tedious scripts finished by this morning," he whispered softly as he pulled back just enough to look down at you. "Otherwise, I will get into quite a bit of trouble with the directors at the studio, and we wouldn't want that, would we?"

You smiled up at him sleepily and gave a soft, understanding nod. Seeing your compliant expression, he assumed you were going to turn around and head back to the warm blankets of the bedroom. Satisfied, he turned his tall frame around and began to stride confidently back toward his grand desk, adjusting his spectacles.

But just as he took his seat and thought he had successfully separated himself to get back to his work, a sudden, soft breeze shifted through the room. He caught a heavy, intoxicating whiff of your scent.. that sweet, comforting mix of clean linen, vanilla, and the fresh lavender soap you used before bed.

Before he could even process the sudden wave of your scent, a hand reached out from the shadows. With stubborn determination, you forcefully pushed his right arm away from the surface of the desk, effectively interrupting his reach for the fountain pen.

Alastor blinked, completely caught off guard as you smoothly stepped into his space, turned around, and planted yourself right onto his lap. The voluminous white ruffles of your nightgown spilled over his dark trousers like a cloud of lace.

He froze for a fraction of a second, his arm suspended in mid air where you had shoved it.

"Well..." he murmured, his brown eyes gleaming with amusement as he wrapped his hand around your lower back to keep you from slipping. "I suppose the directors will just have to wait... not sure if they will though.."

You simply rested your head against his shoulder, letting out a sigh as you settled into his warmth. Content to stay glued to him and watch him dip his pen into the ink to work for the rest of the night.

The grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked, matching the steady silence of the early morning hours.

Instead of drifting back into a deep sleep, you felt completely awake, a spark of playful mischief entirely replacing whatever exhaustion had pulled you out of bed in the first place.

You shifted your weight on his lap, making yourself entirely at home, your bare feet dangling off the side of the heavy leather chair. You had absolutely no intention of being a quiet, comforting presence. In fact, your main goal for the rest of the night was to see exactly how long it would take to break his unshakeable concentration.

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, looking up at him with a wide grin. Then, you intentionally blocked his view of the papers. You reached out with one finger and tapped the very top of his fountain pen, causing the sharp metal nib to skip slightly on the rough paper.

Alastor paused, his hand freezing mid stroke. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting out a sigh that vibrated deeply against your back. When he opened his eyes, he tilted his head down to look at you over the silver rims of his glasses.

"Mon amour.. just what are you doing..?" he asked, his slight accent slipping as he gently nudged your hand away from his pen.

"You said it was boring work.. or something.." you replied, tone bright and unbothered as you reached up to adjust his glasses, deliberately tilting them crooked on his nose just to see him frown. "I am simply making it more exciting for you. You should be thanking me, love."

He didn't bother to fix his glasses, leaving them crooked as he shook his head in disbelief.

"Is that so?" he huffed. "And what happens if I decide to punish my lovely saboteur? What if I banish you back to the cold bedroom for your crimes?"

You reached out and mindlessly flicked the silver button on his shirt cuff, absolutely content to stay right where you were, disrupting his serious night with your presence.

You hummed a little tune under your breath, unbothered by the warning tone in his voice. Your fingers danced across the desk, your eyes locking onto a stack of crisp, neatly organized papers that he had spent the last three hours meticulously sorting.

With a slow, deliberate movement, you reached out and flicked the edge of the top sheet, sliding it completely out of alignment until it fluttered off the desk and drifted onto the floorboards.

Alastor’s jaw tightened.

The scratch of his fountain pen cut off with a sudden snap against the paper. The playfulness in the room shifted instantly into something cold.

"Do not touch that," he said. "I need those records pristine by dawn... this is not a game."

Instead of shrinking away or apologizing, you let out an annoyed huff, leaning back against his shoulder.

"Oh, look at you, getting all serious and scary." you cooed as you reached up to tap the tip of his nose with your index finger. "Are you actually going to raise your voice at me over some silly scripts, Al? Go on, let's see how mad you can get."

He couldn't hurt you... he couldn't even stay genuinely mad at you, and it clearly annoyed him to his very core.

He looked away, his grip loosening on the fountain pen as he slumped back slightly in his heavy leather chair.

"Va t'en faire foutre... tu es un casse-pieds qui m'agace au plus haut point." he muttered under his breath, the French phrases tumbling out in a rapid, annoyed string of curses that he kept low so you wouldn't fully understand the colorful vocabulary.

"What was that?" you asked, leaning closer to his ear. "Speak up, Alastor!"

"Nothing.." he hissed, turning his head back to look at you. "Don't worry about it."

"Oh come on!" you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest as you settled firmly back onto his lap. "Whatever... now, pick up your papers and get back to work."

"Mon Dieu, give me strength," he whispered to the ceiling.

He leaned down with a heavy sigh, his frame bending as he reached toward the floorboards to rescue the papers you had flicked off the desk. He tapped the sheets against the surface, trying to bring some semblance of order back to his neat stacks, but you were already moving on to your next method of distraction...

"You know, while I was tossing and turning in that bed, I was thinking about the wallpaper in the dining room..." you started, your voice bright and completely energetic for four o'clock in the morning. "It really is a dreadful shade of green.. It looks like swamp water. Don't you think it looks like swamp water? We should change it to something from Paris. Or maybe a nice, deep velvet. Oh, and that reminds me!"

He dipped his fountain pen back into the crystal inkwell, his eyes locked onto a column of figures. He was actively trying to tune you out as he focused entirely on the script.

"I saw Madame Laurent yesterday at the market," you continued right over his silence, swinging your bare feet back and forth against the leather of his chair. "She was wearing the most ridiculous hat. It had three entire feathers on it, Al. Three! And one was molting. I wanted to tell her, but she was too busy gossiping about the mayor’s nephew.. Do you know the mayor's nephew? The one who bought that flashy new Ford automobile? He drives it entirely too fast down the avenue. It woke me up on Tuesday. Or was it Wednesday...? No.. I'm sure it was Tuesday.."

The scratch of his pen was getting louder and sharper with every sentence you uttered. A small twitch under his left eye began to appear.

"And then," you barrelled forward, leaning back against his chest and twisting a lock of your hair around your finger. "I realized we have completely out of vegetables. So I think I'll have to go buy some myself. But if I go, I want to stop by the boutique on Royal Street because they have this new lace trim—oh, it's almost exactly like the trim on this nightgown, see?"

To demonstrate, you lifted the hem of your gown right over the papers, completely blocking the next three lines of dialogue he was trying to rewrite.

Alastor stopped writing. He slowly set the fountain pen down in its brass cradle, the click of the metal echoing loudly in the room. He closed his eyes, taking a long, deep breath through his nose. When he opened them, he didn't look at the paper.. he looked directly at you, his eyes wide with exhaustion.

"Are you entirely incapable of silence, ma chérie?" he asked. "Is there a mechanism in your mind that simply forces words out of your mouth until my ears bleed?"

"I'm just keeping you company.." you replied with a smile, patting his cheek affectionately. "You looked so lonely in here with your big scripts. Anyway, as I was saying about Madame Laurent's hat, the third feather was completely bent at the tip, Al. It looked like a broken bird wing," you babbled on, shifting your weight on his lap again. "I told her that if she went to the milliner on Chartres Street instead, she could get proper ostrich plumes, but she just sniffed at me. Can you believe the nerve of that woman? And her husband is just as bad, always smoking those cheap cigars that smell like burnt cabbage—"

"Enough!"

The word slammed into the quiet room like a gunshot.

In one explosive, fluid motion, his hand gripped your waist and lifted you completely off his lap, setting you down hard onto the floorboards beside his chair.

The heavy desk rattled as his palms slammed flat against the wood. He stood up, leaning over the desk as he glared down at you.

"Silence! For one fucking minute, shut your mouth!" he hissed. "I have had a lifetime of your ceaseless, mindless chatter tonight! Get the fuck out of my sight before I lose my mind!"

The sudden, violent shift in the room was deafening.

But you just blinked at him.

You crossed your arms over the ruffles of your white nightgown and let out a loud, irritated huff.

"Gee... so bossy," you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes dramatically as you took a slow step backward toward the door. "Fine. Keep your stupid, boring papers."

The heavy atmosphere of the study instantly locked behind you as you stepped back out into the corridor.

Instead of turning left to go back to the cold bedroom, your stomach let out a tiny, demanding rumble. If he was going to be a miserable man, you were going to indulge in the best parts of the house without him.

You navigated the dark, winding hallway, turning toward the back of the house where the kitchen lay tucked away.

The kitchen was cool and quiet, illuminated only by the faint, pale blue light of the dawn beginning to break through the tall windows. The sweet, lingering scent of powdered sugar, vanilla bean, and baked butter instantly enveloped you, completely washing away the bitter tang of stale ink and copper from the study.

You padded over to the large, zinc topped island where a beautiful ceramic dome sat over a silver platter. Lifting it with a quiet clink, you grinned. There they were: a fresh batch of calas.. traditional fried rice pastries.. and a couple of flaky, fruit filled turnovers that Alastor had prepared late yesterday afternoon.

You grabbed a large pastry with both hands, took a massive, deeply satisfying bite, letting out a happy hum as the sugary crust crumbled all over the lace collar of your nightgown. You chewed slowly, taking your time. You didn't care if the sugar got on the floor, he could sweep it up later.

By the time you finished the first pastry and licked a stray dollop of fruit jam off your thumb, the silence of the house felt peaceful rather than scary. You dusted the loose sugar off your hands and decided your petty mission for the night was officially complete.

You slowly made your way back up the stairs and into the master bedroom. The heavy four poster bed looked incredibly inviting now. You slid beneath the tangled patchwork quilt, curling yourself into a tight, warm little ball right in the very center of the mattress, taking up his side of the bed, too.

But sleep wouldn't come. Your mind was buzzing with indignation, and the quiet room only made your thoughts louder.

"The nerve of that man.." you muttered aloud to the empty bedroom, staring up at the dark wooden canopy above you. "Who does he think he is? I was doing him a favor!"

You aggressively kicked the heavy blanket off your legs, rolling onto your back as you let out a sharp huff, staring at the floral wallpaper. But as the minutes ticked by, your anger started to lose its edge, replaced by a sudden realization. Your stomach gave a small, demanding twitch. The single pastry you had eaten earlier hadn't been nearly enough to satisfy your cravings.

"Wait... there has to be more cake.. right..?" you whispered to yourself, your eyes widening in the dim light. "Or pastries in general. I know he made a pecan praline tart yesterday afternoon. Where did he hide it?"

Determined not to let his bad mood ruin your late night feast, you decided your mission was not yet complete.

You threw the covers off entirely and slid out of the bed for the second time that night. Forgetting all about trying to be a quiet, comforting presence, you bolted out of the bedroom door. You intentionally ran on your very tip toes, lifting the ruffles of your nightgown up to your knees so you wouldn't trip on the hem. Your bare heels were still thudding against the old hardwood floorboards, and the heavy, layered fabric of your gown was rustling loudly through the drafty corridor. Down at the very end of the hall, Alastor was sitting in silence, trying to recover his sanity after his outburst... meaning he could clearly hear you stomping and scurrying back toward the kitchen.

You busted right back into the kitchen, the heavy wooden door swinging shut behind you with a loud thud.

"If he thinks a little shouting is going to ruin my appetite, he has another thing coming." You muttered to yourself, your voice echoing in the vast kitchen.

You aggressively yanked open the doors of the painted wooden pantry, your fingers rummaging through jars and tin boxes until... aha! Your hand closed around a small, wrapped plate holding the rest of the pecan praline tart. Without even bothering to find a fork or sit down, you broke off a massive, sticky chunk and stuffed it entirely into your mouth, the rich brown sugar and buttery pecans coating your tongue.

"Mmph... so good..mhhhhhm!" you chewed heavily, talking around the food as you began to pace around the island, your eyes scanning the dark counters for any other hidden treats. "He can stay in that dusty old office until his eyes pop out. More cake for me. I'll eat the whole pantry."

Holding the rest of the tart in one hand, you turned away from the island to inspect the lower bread boxes near the back door. The kitchen was pitch black now, save for the weak, ghostly silver light of the predawn fog creeping through the windows. You took another huge, messy bite of the pastry, distracted by your own internal grumbling.

"Silly man.. he can't even—"

BUMP.

Your bare knee slammed hard into something dense.

"Ow!" you gasped, losing your balance entirely as your feet tangled in your nightgown.

The plate flew out of your hand, shattering against the floorboards with a sharp crack as you went down, landing hard on your hands and knees. The remaining praline tart crumbled onto the floor right beside you. You let out a whine of pain and frustration, rubbing your bruised knee as you looked up in the dark to see what you had run into.

Your breath hitched completely in your throat.

It wasn't a piece of furniture. He had quietly slipped out of his office and was standing in the pitch blackness of the kitchen, waiting for you.

Panic flashed through your chest.. not because you were truly afraid of him hurting you, he'd never do that.. but because you had just been caught red handed talking mad shit about him with a mouth completely full of stolen pastry.

"Oh, shit!" you squeaked.

Before he could even reach down a hand to grab you, you scrambled back onto your feet like a startled cat. You didn't even care about your bruised knee. You forcefully kicked a piece of the broken ceramic plate out of your way, spun on your heel, and bolted through the back pantry, tearing a path straight toward the dining room.

"Wait! Cher, stop!" His voice boomed behind you, his heavy leather shoes immediately giving chase, the sharp click-clack of his soles echoing dangerously right on your heels.

"Go away!" you shrieked.

You vaulted around the long mahogany dining table, knocking two heavy velvet chairs entirely out of alignment to create an obstacle course for him.

You could hear him letting out a sharp, frustrated French curse as he had to swerve around the furniture. You sprinted out into the main foyer, your bare feet making loud sounds against the cold floor as you desperately looked for a place to hide from him.

"Love.. please, don't do this!" He shouted.

You dove behind a heavy velvet sofa, using the high back as a shield. Alastor burst into the room a second later, his shirt sleeves still rolled up, his tie completely askew, and his hair... usually perfectly tousled over one side... sticking up in multiple directions. His eyes darted around the shadows until they locked onto the top of your head peeking over the cushions.

He lunged to the left. You immediately scrambled to the right.

"I am warning you.." he panted, his hands gripping the armrest of the sofa as he glared across it at you. "You have tracked sugar across my hardwood, broken my favorite ceramic dome.. what more trouble are you going to cause?"

Before he could jump over the couch, you spun on your heel and bolted toward the staircase. You took the steps two at a time.. as careful as possible so you wouldn't faceplant on the carpet. Behind you, you heard the steps of his leather shoes pursuing you with terrifying speed.

"Tu me rends fou! You are driving me insane!"

"You love it!" you called back, practically cackling as you reached the top landing.

You lunged for the master bedroom door, throwing your weight against it, but just as you reached out to slam it shut behind you, an arm jammed itself into the doorway.

He stood in the doorway, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

"Now," he panted, before crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I surrender!" you panted before you collapsed backward onto the high mattress of the bed, your arms and legs sprawling out like a starfish right in the middle of the sheets.

"Whatever shall I do with you.. hm?" he hummed under his breath.

He closed the heavy bedroom door behind him with a soft click, locking out the rest of the dark house and the looming morning. He walked over to the side of the bed as he reached down to unbutton his damp linen cuffs, tossing his ruined, askew necktie onto a nearby chair.

"Look at this," he scoffed softly, staring down at his dark trousers, which were now thoroughly dusted with the powdered sugar you had transferred onto him during the chase. "You have completely vandalized my clothes. I am supposed to go to work in two hours.."

"You smell better than stale ink," you retorted, rolling onto your side and propping your chin up on your hand.

He didn't bother to change into his proper sleepwear, he simply kicked off his heavy leather shoes, and climbed onto the mattress.

"Now shush, no more talking.." he murmured as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender, vanilla, and pastry. His grip was an iron band, pinning you safely against his warmth.

Just as he pulled you tightly against his chest and let out a long sigh of relief, a loud, clear sound echoed through the quiet house.

The heavy mahogany grandfather clock down the hall struck six times. Right on cue, a bright, blinding beam of the morning sun sliced directly through the gaps in the window curtains, painting the entire bedroom in a brilliant, inescapable gold.

The dawn was officially over, the city was waking up, and the birds outside the window were chirping entirely too loudly.

He froze. His face was still buried in your neck, his body going still beneath the heavy patchwork quilt. He didn't move for three whole seconds, processing the tragic reality of the universe. The exact moment he finally finished his paperwork and decided to go to sleep, the clock struck six.

A deeply miserable groan rumbled from the very depths of his chest. He had to be at work in less than two hours, and then he had to do his real "work"..later that evening. He was looking at a straight twenty four hours of no sleep.

Before he could even wallow in his self pity, you gave him a bright smile. With a sudden burst of energy, you placed both of your hands against his broad chest and forcefully pushed him away, sliding right out from under his heavy, tired arm. You hopped down from the bed, your ruffles flaring as you smoothed down your sugar dusted nightwear.

"Well, time to start the day, darling!" you chirped, your voice entirely too loud and awake for his miserable state.

He rolled onto his back, tossing a long arm over his eyes to block out the offensive sunlight. "I am going to burn that grandfather clock to ash," he muttered.

You paid him no mind, already padding confidently toward the bedroom door to head down to the kitchen for round three of your morning routine.

But just before you stepped out into the hallway, you paused, gripping the doorknob and poking your head back inside.

"Oh, by the way!" you called out cheerfully, tapping your chin. "You might want to get up a little earlier. There is a massive mess of broken ceramic plates and smashed pecan praline tart all over the kitchen floorboards. Oh, and I checked while I was down there... we have completely ran out of your favorite chicory coffee. Have a great day at work!"