leave grandma alone

When his eyes break open, Davrin is all too aware that he hasn't slept enough. Sunlight pours in through the thin curtains he had been convinced to buy for the aesthetic. To this day, he can't fully understand their purpose, especially when they clearly don't do very much. He can feel his pulse pounding against the inside of his skull. That, though, he knows is not from the minimal booze he consumed the night before but might have something to do with the crick in his neck from sleeping sitting up on the couch. By the time he successfully dragged his blind date back into his house and finally settled in on the couch with a mugful of Gatorade for her–which, he notes, was met with nothing but complaints for being “yellow flavored” and sugar free–and a plate of grocery store brand mozzarella sticks that she explained were a disgrace to mozzarella cheese.

Yet when he rolls his neck to the side, he finds her fast asleep, wrapped up in the blanket that usually sits on the back of the couch. The one his mother sent him off to college with and has somehow lasted all these years. Her mouth sits slightly ajar, and a half dried string of drool graces the soft point of her chin. Makeup from the night before is smudged around her eyes, dragging ever so slightly down her cheek. Rays of light skate through the fine strands of silver hair hanging all around her face. Glitter on the still oil painting of her form. Faint and white, he notices a thin scar running over her cheek and onto the corner of her lips.

It takes all his strength not to run a finger over the length of it, wondering how she acquired what must have been such an angry wound. Tracing over her cheek bone, just below her eye. Across the constellations of freckles that litters her skin. Dipping down into the hollow of her cheek. Brushing over to her lips. Full and pink.

He thought about kissing her at the bar, and maybe he should have. Pressing his mouth up against herself. Soft and warm under the shitty bar lighting. Truthfully, it's been on his mind since he laid eyes on her. “The little one that's not Lace,” Taash had explained, having caught sight of them sitting at the bar when they walked in. "That's Silvia. She's a little bit of an asshole, but I trust Lace. She thinks you might like her.” Even if he didn't, he thought he might get to hook up with a pretty girl.