Hello, Sleepy Head

"Wow, you looked very bruised up, battered, and given the fact that I haven't seen you here, you must be new or you don't usually get into fights like this," said an unknown voice.

As I roused, my body ached. Each bruise and bandage told a silent story of my recent dance with Sonia's fist. In the movies, they would usually say, "you should see the other guy". Well, it is very apparent that I am the very other guy they referred to. Disoriented and still groggy, I slowly shifted my bandaged neck, attempting to locate the source of the calm voice that had addressed me. With some effort, I adjusted my position to face the figure in the white coat who seemed absorbed in his work.

Sunlight flooded the room through opened windows, creating a warm and serene atmosphere. Blinking against the brightness, I squinted until my eyes adjusted to the scene. There he was—the rumored cute doctor who supposedly graced the infirmary twice a week. The tales, it seemed, were not mere fables.

Standing confidently in front of the open window, the doctor's silhouette was framed by the radiant sunlight, highlighting the rich tones of his complexion. Despite my battered state, I couldn't help but appreciate the striking contrast between the brightness of the room and the shadows that danced subtly around him.

Unbeknownst to him, my eyes had finally opened, fixated on his frame as he diligently scribbled notes on a form. The rhythmic motion of the pen painted a captivating picture of dedication and skill.

Lost in the moment, he looked up from his notes, his deep baritone voice breaking the stillness. "Ah, you're up. I almost thought you wouldn't make it," he said with a warm smile. In a futile attempt to appear composed, I struggled to sit up, my body protesting every movement. The room seemed to brighten even more as he approached, his reassuring presence casting a comforting glow amid the aftermath of my recent ordeal.

"I don't suppose you want to give me a little rundown of what exactly got you in this shape, 2105?" The room held a heavy silence after his inquiry. The mention of my inmate number, "2105," hung in the air, a reminder of the detachment that had become second nature to me. "Or would you rather I called you by your name?" he offered, a gesture of familiarity that I met with a pained response.

"2105 is fine," I replied, feeling the sharp twinge of discomfort shooting up my throat. "It's better not to get attached."

His response was casual but swift, "Well, aren't you moving ahead of yourself?" A playful smile traced the contours of his face. "No one said anything about getting attached, and i know the names of all my patients." he retorted, his expression unburdened by hidden intentions.

That demeanor triggered memories of Michael, his genuine nature, and the absence of ulterior motives. However, I was not about to be swayed by a smile, especially one that echoed the very reason I found myself in this predicament.

"A little brush with destiny has me in this present shape," I finally answered, the harshness in my tone mirroring the tension in the room. I reclined back, shutting my eyes as if seeking refuge from the memories that lingered.

But contrary to the escape I had in mind, my thoughts drifted to the exact same scene with Michael instead of this doctor fellow whose name I did not know and did not care for. 

It was late December, and college had just about rounded up for the session, giving all students a break for the Christmas holidays. Michael had invited me over and this was not an out-of-the-blue invitation, as I had already spent several days and nights shacked up with him at the house. He wanted to spend some time before we each went back to our families for the Christmas holidays, and it was a good idea.

The night before, we stayed up late watching movies, talking, sharing stories, and losing ourselves in kisses. I can't fully recall the exact moment we fell asleep, but when I woke up, he wasn't lying next to me. As I think about it, I seem to remember that he didn't usually sleep for extended periods. He always rose before me, and as I stirred awake, we were always entwined in cuddles, and I'd find him gazing at me.

This particular morning felt different; he wasn't by my side, gazing at me as usual. I got up and approached the kitchen, lured by some noise. There he stood, in his 6'2 glory, shirtless and in shorts, wearing an apron tied around his chest. I stood quietly at the door frame, captivated as I watched him mix pancake batter with full concentration. The early morning sun highlighted each muscle, bicep, flicker of eyelash, and breath. I stared at him, secretly marveling at how fortunate I was to be there, with him.

"Hello, Sleepy Head," he called out upon noticing me by the door. "Someone is finally up; I wondered when the gods of sleep would deliver my girlfriend back to me." "I didn't want to wake you, but I was hungry." Yes, at this point i was his girlfriend  and we were officially dating. To be honest, I could never quite recall how he asked, but I said YES.