And entirely real.
After dinner, we settle down to watchBand of Brothers,though our cuddles are cut short halfway through when Mum and Ellenor get home.
“Hi, lovers!” Ellenor greets.
We draw apart hastily, only for her to beeline to the couch, zero hesitation, and wedge herself between us with all the grace of a Soviet tank.
Mum joins us, though she’s far more civilised than Ellenor, who spends the rest of the excruciating forty-nine minutes of the film waggling her eyebrows, making pointed remarks at our expense, and occasionally praising the drill sergeant as he yells at the soldiers.
“I think I missed my calling.” She sighs wistfully.
When the credits finally roll, Brandon makes his escape. I stay and chat with Mum and Ellenor over mugs of hot chocolate, then I wait until I’m certain they’ve gone upstairs before padding down the hall.
He’s already in bed, reading a novel by the bedside lamp.
He looks up when I enter, offering me a smile before returning to his book.
It feels like something we’ve been doing for years, getting ready for bed. I brush my teeth and change into pyjamas in the bathroom before joining him. He sets his book aside as I slip beneath the covers.
The light flicks off.
I curl up, head on my pillow, listening to Brandon settle comfortably as well.
The earlier shower helped me feel like a brand-new person. My hair is washed and blow-dried, my legs are smooth again, and I’m tucked into the soft satin pyjamas I bought recently with the fantasy of a night like this in mind.
Except in my fantasy, I was a little more risqué.
“Goodnight,” he says.
“Goodnight,” I murmur.
Then silence.
We’re careful to keep our distance, both of us determined not to blur lines or make things harder for ourselves.
That brilliant strategy lasts about five minutes.
Before I even realise what I’m doing, I shift back towards his warmth, drawn in by the rise and fall of his breathing. He goes still for a moment…then his arm slides around my waist, hesitant at first, then certain.
His breath fans the nape of my neck, slow, carefully even—like he’s fighting to stay calm.
“Brandon?” I whisper into the dark.
“Mm?”
“Earlier, you asked how I pictured us…”
“Yes. I’d still like to know.”
I press my lips together in a smile. Instead of answering, I ask, “How didyoupicture us?”
Because I’m assuming that, surely, he must have.
There’s a long pause. Then, with absolutely no shame: “In many ways.”
Heat blooms across my skin, but I ask bravely, “Is that…in different rooms, or different positions—?”
“If this line of questioning continues,” he warns, voice rough, “I’ll have to leave the room.”
