Louie.

I like science fiction movies. I love the action, the suspense, the aliens, the supernatural. I love the way it makes you feel paranoid, and aware. I like how they make you think.

So naturally, when Lorraine pressed play, I was completely engrossed in the cinema. For once my mind wasn't over analyzing my actions or life. For once my thoughts seemed stop.

All I could think about was what would happen next?

At first watching the movie had been easy.

For once I felt myself actually relaxing into the couch cushions. I was able to tune everyone around me out.

But I was sitting next to Rockwell.

The boy with the injured leg, who had to cover himself with a blanket.

And me, being engrossed in the film and the possibility of extraterrestrials along with suspenseful music, I shivered.

And Rockwell interpreted it as me being cold.

So next thing I know, I can't pay attention to the movie anymore.

When you sit next to someone, the air around you provides a barrier between both of your bodies. But when two bodies share a blanket, you can feel the body heat.

And fuck, Rockwell was so warm.

I could feel my self physically slouch back into the cushions. My head rested back and my whole body slacked. This boy beside me, is like a fucking heater. Rockwell felt hot, abnormally hot. And being next to him, under the blanket made me realize how cold I was.

But what was this coldness that I felt so deeply? Was it my body? or was it my soul?

I could feel something inside of me, yearning for my to move closer. Something inside of me longed to wrap my arms around this warm human being and thaw this side of me that was freezing.

I could feel my minds pulling back, my focus fading. I could feel myself beginning to mentally ask so many questions and form unwanted thoughts. But I didn't want to think about any of this. Of what my internal coldness could represent, about why I craved so much to relish in that boys warmth.

But he didn't give me much of an option.

Because Rockwell has a broken leg. . . and for some fucking reason he needs to lean on me to alleviate the pain he feels.

He mutters an apology and then he's leaning into me, his head on my shoulder. Hair tickling my face again, just like when I helped him up the stairs.

There I am, on a Friday night. There I am watching a movie with my stepsisters- with a boy leaning into me. And I can't stop myself from relaxing even more and inhaling.

I can't stop myself from enjoying the way his hair tickles my nose, or from noticing how he smells like chamomile tea. I relish in the smell, in the warmth of Rockwell.

I fall asleep.