We take our plates to the couch. I open the back door and the cat strolls in, sniffing the sausage-scented air.
I’ve been the victim of his drive-by swipes too many times to let that shit slide. I move my foot to nudge him out, but Ludo’s frown stops me. “He’ll jump you,” I warn.
Ludo shrugs. “I don’t mind.”
The cat wins, and he beats me to the couch, settling into my spot as though he’s been there all along. He leans against Ludo and nudges the hand holding his fork. It’s sweet, but I know what’s coming. Still. At least it’s not my dinner under attack.
We eat in companionable silence. I’ve overcooked the chips, but Ludo doesn’t seem to mind. He makes thick sandwiches, dripping with butter and ketchup, and eats every crumb.
“God, that was good.” He flops back on the couch, rubbing his stomach. He’s saved a tiny sausage morsel for the cat and holds it out. “Is it yours?”
“The cat?” I shove my last bite into my mouth. “Hell no. Little shit just comes in every day begging.”
“But you have cat food in your cupboard.”
“He’s very efficient.”
“Oh wow.” Ludo grins as wide as I’ve ever seen him. “Youareway nicer than you think.”
“Shut up.”
Ludo yawns. “I might have to. You’ve put me in a food coma.”
“It’s about my turn, but don’t go to sleep yet. I’ve got something for you.”
I take the plates to the kitchen and fish a plastic pot from the back of my fridge. It’s the most ridiculous thing, but I wasn’t able to leave the shop without buying it, a state of affairs I usually reserve for Stella Artois. I return to the couch and hold it out. “Here you go.”
Ludo sits up and plucks the pot from my hand. “Fudge flavour? That’s amazing. Where did you find it?”
“In the offie. They get random shit in sometimes. Surplus stock, I reckon, not like all that fancy pants avocado stuff you get at the co-op.”
“I’ve never bought an avocado in my life, and I only go to that shop because it’s closest to my house.” Ludo shoots me a faux glare and tears the yoghurt pot open. “I can’t believe you remembered.”
I don’t tell him that I held an actual conversation with crazy-pen-lid man across the aisle to secure the pot I gave him in hospital. Smiling, I watch him eat, much like I did then, but it’s different this time because he’s in my house. He’s with me because he wants to be, not because we’ve been forced together by blood and pain.
You morbid fucker.
Not on purpose.
Ludo finishes the yoghurt and gets up to throw the pot in the bin. When he comes back, he surprises me by sliding closer on the couch than he was before. His thigh touches mine, and he leans on me, eyes closed, his limbs liquid.
“I’m so tired,” he says. “I could fall asleep right here.”
I drop a cautious arm around him. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“I have to get back for Bella.”
“How about a little nod? I’ll wake you up in a bit and walk you home.”
Ludo makes a sound I take as consent and presses tighter against me. I hold him close as the cat that isn’t my cat looks on and wonder if I’m dreaming.
* * *
Ludo
I wake up with a crick in my neck, and three things strike me all at once.
One: my chest isn’t gripped with the crippling anxiety I usually wake with. Two: I’m not at home. Three: despite his promise to wake me up and walk me home, Aidan is fast asleep.
