My body was enveloped in a warm cuddle, a comforting one. My head was filled with a prolonged affectionate atmosphere. My eyes were blank; no beer or blur. I nuzzled her messy hair (which I messed yester night) and she exhaled heavily against my hairy chest with her eyes still closed.

She was as bare as me, only her cotton blanket gave us dignity. My heart’s rhythm tuned normal after my brain acknowledged that I was no longer in hospital bed. A good morning had found me in a new place where a golden clock read ten o’clock on the pink wallpaper. I had overslept, likewise Fiona whose clothes topped mine on the timber floor.

I walked around clothes-less, admiring the interiors of her bedroom; mostly pink and coffee. I stopped by a Popstar! Magazine lying next to a desk lamp. The magazine’s cover depicted Fiona as a rising pop star. My jaws dropped (it was the moment I got the picture that Fiona was a pop star). My fingers paged down the magazine with excitement until the sound of doorbell came as an eardrum banger and made me jump back into the bed in which I was unsure whether Fiona was having a hungover or just a normal sleep. I massaged her cheeks.

“Someone cannot stop ringing the door bell,” I whispered into her oily face, and adjusted her blanket to keep her warm.

“Hmm,” she murmured weakly, then yawned. Our eyes met hence a shy smile run across her pink cheeks. “How are you?” she mumbled.

“Excellent and you—.” The doorbell sound again made me jumpy.

“That’s quiet annoying,” whined Fiona, “let me check it.”

I watched her pull on her last night’s dress, and off she went. Less than a minute, a familiar, aggressive male voice echoed through the lounge. I wore Fiona’s pink pyjamas amid my mind having a sense of belonging in her house.

Confidently, I set my foot in the lounge and saw a mad Dr. McCain criticizing Fiona. I was undecided whether to greet him or embrace silence. I chose the latter.

“You know nothing about a heart failure patient,” continued Dr. McCain, “tell you what, his mother can sue you if anything bad happens to him. You’re totally wrong, Fiona.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I’m evil,” reacted Fiona, almost sobbing.

“You’re not evil. You did a good thing by initiating an online fundraiser for him, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you can keep him out of the hospital. If you like him, why not wait patiently for his treatment to pass and have him in the end?” Dr. McCain was loud and clear, I understood he had exhibited his wisdom.

“Sorry, I’m reckless,” said Fiona, “you can take him back.”

“No, I’ll stay here until the day of the heart transplant.” I interfered with their conversation. They both gaped at me.

Dr. McCain let out an irritated sigh and stared back at Fiona. “Let me leave it here, you discuss the way forward with your stubborn boyfriend and send me the outcome via email. Good-bye, I’ve so many clients to attend to this morning,” he said, and stormed out in his white coat.