Page 44 of Signed, I'm Yours!
I want to turn my back to sleep, but it’s as if someone’s holding a flashlight right in my face, and it’s impossible to do anything but follow it.
Who is this creature who believes he is a supervillain, and a good one at that, and how on earth did I end up in bed with him? And why is there something in the back of my mind telling me this is precisely where I’m meant to be?
A loud wheeze ruptures the silence in the room. Seojun’s lips trill. His nostrils flare. His chest expands. And he snores again.
“See? Human,” I whisper at him and finally find the strength to turn my back to him and shut my eyes.
When I open them again, my body is in agony. I shoot up, screaming in pain, and look beside me. Seojun isn’t there.
What the heck?
Where did he go? And why did he go without me? Most importantly, how can he not feel this horror through his own body? It’s like I’m being torn in two.
I scramble to the bedroom door and run from room to room, trying to locate him.
“What are you doing?” I ask when I finally find him.
I have to go through the kitchen, living room, and dining room before I find his office, and he’s slouching behind the desk as if nothing’s happening.
“Huh?” he looks up, and I take two more steps before the pain disappears.
“What do you mean, huh? Are you okay?”
He groans and sits up in his desk chair, which is way too large for him and looks as if it has two horns at the top, and grabs a cup of coffee.
“I’m fine, why?” he asks after taking a gulp.
“What do you mean fine? You left the room without me?”
“Oh.” He looks up at me with dark-slitted eyes. “I’m sorry.”
This guy is so confusing.
“What do you mean sorry? You don’t have to apologize. But didn’t you feel like crap when you left my vicinity?”
He shrugs.
“I always feel like crap in the morning.”
I bury my face in my hands and chuckle, shaking my head.
This guy.
“You forgot I was here, didn’t you?” I ask after a few more moments and gulps from him.
“I did not.” I raise an eyebrow. “Okay, I did. Sorry. Coffee?” He offers me his own cup, probably realizing if he suggests I grab my own it would mean having to drag himself to the kitchen too.
“Thanks.” I take it from him and give it a taste. I shudder and choke.
“What?” he asks when I give him the cup back.
I clutch my heart and take deep breaths before I can compose myself.
“Did you empty all the sugar into the cup, or are my tastebuds playing tricks on me?”
He rolls his eyes and twirls around in his chair.
“I like things sweet.”
