Tangled In His Sheets Mga Nobela at Kwento

Naked except for the sheet tangled around his waist. His eyes met mine, wide and stormy gray in the harsh morning light. “Uh,” he said, voice rough from sleep. “Morning?” I nodded once. My throat felt like gravel. He sat up slowly, clutching the sheet to his chest like I hadn’t memorized every inch of him hours ago. His curls were a disaster, sticking up in every direction, and there was a faint mark on his collarbone that I’d put there. Heat flashed through me again, uninvited.

Every‌thing smells like medicine. Con​ra​d was s‌ta​nding‍ near⁠ the wa​ll. His hospital gown h‍ung‍ loosely on him. His arm w⁠as wrapp​ed with a ban​dage where the​ d‍r‍ip ha‍d be​en. Hi⁠s fa⁠ce was hard, jaw tight. ‌When he s​a⁠w⁠ Stefa⁠n, h⁠is eyes dar⁠kened.

“Fuck… what time is it?” The room is washed in morning light. Too much light. I turn my head— And there he is. Asleep. Completely out. The sheets tangled low around him, barely covering anything, his body stretched out like he doesn’t have a single care left in the world. Sunlight spills through the windows, sliding across his chest, catching along his face, gilding him in gold.

The space beside him on the mattress was entirely vacant, yet the pristine silk sheets were a chaotic mess—the dried, telltale crimson stain starkly visible against the white fabric. Liam sat up abruptly, completely ignoring the sharp spike of pain in his skull. His heart suddenly hammered against his ribs as a wave of suffocating panic washed over him. His mind spun frantically, fighting through the lingering fog of high-potency alcohol to reconstruct the fractured, chaotic memories of the previous night.

He is dead to the world. I open one eye, squinting against the glare. The room is a disaster zone. The mirror in the corner is still fogged and streaked. My shirt is on the lampshade. One of Kieran’s boots is on the mantlepiece, though I have absolutely no memory of how it got there. The sheets are tangled around our legs in a complex knot that would baffle a sailor. It looks like a hurricane hit this room. And looking at the sleeping man on top of me, I suppose one did.

He was dying. Misha was dying and I couldn’t even keep my grip on a towel. I stumbled back into the bedroom, arms overflowing, heart threatening to crack my ribs open from the inside. He was still on the bed, barely upright, barely conscious. His face looked wrong. Pale, waxy. Lips cracked and blue-tinged. Eyes half-lidded and glassy. Blood soaked the sheets. Soaked him. I couldn’t even tell how much was left in him. So, I dumped the blankets and tore into them, wrapping him with frantic, clumsy hands. My voice shook, cracked, even as I tried to sound firm.

Somehow, impossibly, it was over. I blinked slowly, letting my eyes adjust. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. White sheets, crisp and cool, covered me, tucked neatly around my shoulders. My hair was tangled and messy, but there was no smell of smoke, no trace of the chaos from last night. Only the faint lingering scent of him—Xander. Clean, sharp, unmistakably him.

He also changed the bedsheets, which were messy and smelled of sx. A velvet sheet is draped over me, positioned across my backside; I am lying on my side facing him, so my brasts aren't very visible. He, on the other hand, is in front of his canvas. He isn’t wearing any clothes either, so his Greek god-like physique is on full display. His cck is beautiful just like him—fully erect and looking ready for another round. He’s focused on his work, and I’m just basking on the bed as if I haven't a care in the world.

Red_Two pulled the blanket closer around himself in his sleep. The bedframe was still grey.

Renders the hard edges of furniture and walls into sleep-blurred shapes. His shadow is sprawled across the sheets like spilled ink. He’s not under the blanket—just lying on top of it, in a loose cotton shirt and those pale blue shorts that barely reach mid-thigh. Legs curled slightly. One arm draped over his chest. The other folded underneath his pillow. His hair’s a mess. Silky platinum blonde curls tumbling into his eyes. His ears—those soft, downy bunny ears—twitch once, lazily, then still. I don't breathe for a moment.