But I’ve got nothing. No escape route. No clever excuse. I’m standing in my neighbour’s bedroom with sex-mussed hair and my bra still missing, and my mother is downstairs with his mother, and they both know exactly what’s been happening. There’s no way they can’t. Struan’s naked—it’s a bit of a giveaway.
Slowly, like a condemned woman walking to the gallows, I step out onto the landing and peer down the stairs.
There’s Struan, stark naked, hands cupped in front of himself. And there, beside him, are Helen and my mum, both looking up at me with expressions of pure, undisguised glee.
“Er...” My voice comes out strangled. “Hi, Mum. Hi, Helen.”
The mums exchange a look—one of those loaded looks that says more than a whole afternoon’s gossip.
“Well!” Helen clasps her hands together. “We’ll... leave you to it.”
“Aye,” Mum agrees. “We’ll pop to the Lighthouse Café for a cuppa instead. Give you two some space.”
“Right.” Struan clears his throat. “Just... maybe keep this to yourselves, aye? It’s early days and?—”
“Of course, of course,” Helen says, waving a hand. “Not a word.”
“Lips sealed,” Mum adds, miming a zip across her mouth.
They leave, pulling the door shut behind them with a decisive click. And then—because apparently they think a wooden door is soundproof—their voices drift back, clear as anything.
“Looks like we won’t need to play matchmaker after all!” Helen exclaims.
“Iknewthere was something brewing between them,” Mum replies. “Did you see her face? Flushed as anything?—”
Their voices fade as they move away.
Struan turns and looks up at me, an amused smile playing at his lips. Like this isfunny. Like our mothers didn’t just catch us post-sex. Like the entire situation isn’t an absolute nightmare.
“Well,” he says, “that was?—”
“Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
His smile falters. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
My skin is cooling now, and as the mortification of being discovered by our mums fades, reality creeps in.
This isn’t just between us anymore.
Struan starts up the stairs towards me, no longer bothering to cover himself, far too at ease for a man whose mother was here moments ago. Normally, I’d find the view—and themovement—distracting, but panic claws at my chest, shame burning through every nerve.
When he reaches me, he pulls me into a hug, wrapping those strong arms around me and pressing me against his bare chest.
No, no, no, no. Our mums know, and that means?—
Skin. Heat. So much of him, everywhere, when what I need is space to breathe.
I stand rigid in his arms, my heart hammering against his ribs. Can he feel it? Can he feel how fast I’m spiralling?
“Hey,” he murmurs into my hair. “It’s okay. What’s wrong?”
“Could you... put some clothes on?” The words come out sharp.
He pulls back, eyebrows lifting. “Oh. Shit, sorry. Of course.”
He strolls into the bedroom, grabs his boxers from the floor, and pulls them on. He gives himself a quick absent-minded tug, like he’s making sure everything’s sitting right, then turns back to me with an easy smile.
“What’s up? It’s just our mums. Bit embarrassing, aye, but?—”
