It was late at night and he was up again, in the room adjacent to our own, the computer room. Even though the sound the fast, heavy keyboard tapping woke me from a gentle slumber, I was hardly mad, because if I closed my eyes and just listened, I could see exactly what was going on in that room.

The computer would be emitting a blinding white glare as he stared straight ahead, hunched slightly, words emerging fast on the digital page. His slender, pale fingers would be relentless in their key tapping, pausing only every now and then to take a sip from the mug filled with his drink of choice, or to crack the strained knuckles. Those raven locks I adore so very much would be a mess, and his eyeliner would be smeared heavily around those jade eyes of his. But he could hardly care less; the only thing that could possibly matter at the moment was getting it all down, the perfect story.

But of course it was perfect, for he was Vanete Druse, the celebrated author. His skill laid purely down in those long, slender fingers of his, fingers I kissed and rubbed after a long days work.

Opening my eyes, I turned on the bedside lamp, knowing not to bother him in his almost zen like state. I yawned, and stretched, rubbing my eyes and tousling my own dirty blonde curls. Not a sound was made as I pulled on a comfortable pair of worn jeans, the closest Volcom shirt, and my shoes. My skateboard was grabbed, and I tiptoed my way downstairs, as to not disturb the genius in making.

My board hit the slab of concrete with a waking slap, and my foot gently started to guide it to the neighborly skating rink, which was deserted at this time of night. With the chilly night wind racing through my layered hair, my skating went on autopilot as I let my mind wander.

We were definitely an odd couple, the professional skater and the critically acclaimed author. I was tall, lean, slender, the boy you’d find skateboarding on a California board walk. He was slightly shorter, skinny, and with his girl jeans and black eyeliner, along with the perfectly messy black hair, he could easily be mistaken as a rock star. And yet, here we were, together, living in the same house, sleeping in the same bed.

And I was loving every minute of it. Sure, there were his late nights, and also when he accidently woke me up in the middle of the night, like so. However, that hardly affected anything. I was very forgiving, especially since the deserted skate park and the cooling air was so very relaxing, some kind of safe haven where I could come and not run into anybody, not have to sign autographs, and just think. Think about my relationship. My next tour. Everything that could stress me out somehow didn’t when I was here, in my element, in my freedom.

Panting, I stopped and sat at the edge of the bowl. I had no clue how long I had been there, or if Vanete would be done whatever typing he had to do. I shook my head, feeling slightly overheated, the warm feeling you get right after you throw up and you’re leaning against the cold porcelain of the tub beside you.

My hands were now slightly shaking, and I was unsure whether it was because the cold was now setting in or because of exhaustion, but it made me decide that going back home would be best. Of course, since I was now sweaty from my skating I’d probably have to take a shower first before returning to the now cold bed. I could only hope he’d be done by then, knowing that if he was he’d be my human teddy bear, someone to hold and cuddle up against, our hearts beating against each other’s chest.

Even authors needed affection, and as I was stripping to get into the shower, I realized that I will always be there to shower love onto my own otherwise isolated author.