“Nothing shy about you in bed,” I’d murmured, lifting my head to look at him.
He had laughed, low and unguarded, before rolling me gently onto my back so he could lie beside me. His fingers drifted over my stomach, drawing idle patterns that made goosebumps scatter across my skin.
“What are you thinking?” I’d asked when he just kept looking at me.
He’d hesitated, almost boyish. “My favourite band at the moment is Imagine Dragons. I’ve been listening to their song ‘Next to Me’ for the last few days. It reminds me of us.”
Before I could tease him for it, he’d started humming. Then singing, soft and unselfconscious in the dark. The lyrics about a man who keeps getting it wrong and a woman who stays anyway.
I’d understood.
His voice had filled the room, deep and steady, and for a few fragile minutes it had felt like we existed in a world no bigger than that bed. My chest had ached with it. A tear had slipped down my cheek before I could stop it.
He’d caught it with his mouth. Kissed it away.
And then he’d kissed me properly, like he wasn’t afraid of the weight of what he felt.
Now, in the grey light of morning, rain moves softly against the window. The cottage smells faintly of clean laundry and something warmer underneath. Him.
I tilt my head just enough to see his face. His hair is a mess, falling across his forehead. His features are relaxed in a way they rarely are during the day. He looks younger like this. Softer.
His thumb brushes lightly across my stomach before settling again.
His eyes open.
For a second, he doesn’t speak. He just looks at me, as though confirming I am still here.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep.
I smile. “Morning.”
Neither of us moves away.
He studies my face, searching. Doubt. Fear. Hope.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
The question is careful, not panicked. He isn’t asking out of regret. He’s asking because he needs to know I’m steady.
“I’m more than okay,” I tell him.
Relief passes through him in a quiet shift of muscle and breath. His shoulders loosen. His hand settles with more certainty.
He leans forward and presses his mouth gently to my shoulder, unhurried and sure.
I close my eyes again and let myself stay there, wrapped in the warmth of him, in the memory of his voice in the dark, singing about staying next to someone even when it’s hard.
The Cricketers smells like damp coats and fried onions, the windows fogged from too many bodies and not enough air. Someone has claimed the corner table with the uneven leg, and Emma is already there, waving me over with the exaggerated urgency of someone who has nothing urgent to say.
I shrug out of my coat and hang it on the back of the chair.
“Wine?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Large. I’ve earned it.”
She snorts and turns back to Alex, who is standing at the bar, to pass on my order.
Phil stands beside him.