“No,” I say. “Someone who counted. A significant other.”
She considers it, body heavy against mine.
“There were others,” she says. “None particularly significant. There was one I thought might be.”
My hand keeps moving, steady, giving her space to decide how much she wants to say.
“I met him travelling,” she continues. “He lived in Dubai. Expat. We were very enthusiastic about each other. I moved there to give it a proper go.”
“And.”
“And it didn’t,” she says simply. “Turns out enthusiasm in your twenties doesn’t make up for not actually being emotionally compatible.”
I nod. That tracks. Too well.
We sit in silence for a bit. Comfortable. Warm. The sort of quiet you don’t rush to fill.
Then I murmur, “Hadrian is watching me.”
She laughs, the sound sudden and bright. “You’re imagining it.”
“I am not,” I say. “I can feel the judgement.”
“He does not judge.”
“He absolutely does.”
She just hums, not disagreeing. Her warmth seeps into me, steady and grounding, making me relax, making me feel like I belong right here, and that’s a thought I am not allowed.
“Are the rubs helping?” I ask.
She hesitates. “They are. And it is a miracle. I’ve only ever known one thing that was guaranteed to help.”
I glance down at her. “And what’s that?”
She goes very still. “I’m not telling you.”
“Why?”
“It is mortifying.”
“Well now you definitely have to tell me.”
“Absolutely not,” she protests, shifting forward and slipping out of my arms. The loss of her weight against me is immediate and unwelcome.
“Yes, you do,” I say, grinning despite myself, and before I think better of it, I reach out, fingers skittering lightly at her sides.
She yelps. “No. Don’t. Absolutely do not.”
She tries to squirm away and I let her go the moment I register it, hands up in surrender.
“Why,” I ask, amused.
“Because,” she says, breathless now, “this could cause a crimson flood.”
I freeze. “A what?”
She sighs. “Sneezing. Coughing. Excessive laughing. Sometimes it feels like the Red Sea parting.”
