Walking The Line | ✓

Chapter Thirteen

When I woke up it was dark.

The blinds on my bedroom were slightly narrowed, enough for me to know it was still night outside. I let out a yawn, stretching my arms over my head and then snuggled deeper into the covers, relishing in the warmth of my bed for a few more seconds.

It didn't take me long to identify what had made me awake.

My throat was dry.

A *freaking* again.

Even though I'd slept for hours non-stop, I wanted nothing more than to roll over and fall back asleep until all this shitty symptoms left my body for good.

I was feeling slightly better than the day before, but my body still felt drained of its usual energy. I wasn't used to sleep for longer than eight hours a day though, so I felt this slight headache at my temples as a result of spending the entirety of yesterday and part of today lying horizontally.

Turning on the bedside lamp, my eyes drifted over the discarded tissues in search of the glass of water Kühl had left there before I fell asleep.

Empty.

My throat made a sound of complaint.

It took all my nonexistent willpower to tug the cream plaid striped duvet down my body and slip my legs off the bed. My feet shuddered as they made contact with the cold tiles.

After putting on my slippers and shrugging on a warm woolen coat, I made my way out of the bedroom.

The screen of my phone doubled as flashlight as I made my way through the apartment. Besides the low hum of the electrical appliances, all around was eery quiet. Not even the constant sounds of the city could be heard at this hour.

It wasn't till I reached the living room that the soft light caught on a limp form laying on my sectional sofa.

Something inside my chest constricted painfully.

It was the German.

The picture he made sprawled over the arm of the sofa was as comical as it was heart melting.

He had stayed the night.

I'd explicitly told him to go home and he had stayed the night. I'd actually thought he would leave without even looking back.

I should have known better.

I had been told many times that I was stubborn by family and friends, even I had started to accept it.

But him?

He took stubborn and hard headed to a whole new level.

In some other situation I'd have ripped him a new one for ignoring my words, but now, looking at him, all his rough masculinity displayed there for my eyes to feast on, gratefulness slipped through my pores.

It was nice knowing I wasn't alone.

My gaze traveled over the length of him taking the opportunity to eat him with my eyes.

One of his arms was tucked under his head, doubling as a pillow. I could hardly imagine the pain he'd be in when he woke up in the morning if he spent the night with his neck twisted in that angle.

Those beautiful amber eyes of his were closed, brows hanging low over them. My gaze continued it's path down his handsome features and I restrained the urge to reach out and caress the five o'clock shadow that covered his jaw.

We hadn't talked much after he came into my room offering me Lady Witherspoon's chicken soup. Mostly because I'd slept the day away. My body was bone tired in a way that I suspected had more to do with the cold I was battling than the extra exercise I put up on Sunday. I'd taken another Advil at night to try get the fever down and soothe the aches and it looked like it had worked.