I stare at the ceiling and let the memory play without touching it. His laugh, a bit too quick. His hands braced like he needed the support. The way the air changed when I teased him and he went very still.
He never said it was me.
But he also didn’t deny it.
I shift slightly on the bed and the bedding rustles. My stomach flips, sharp and unwelcome. It’s not arrogance. It’s pattern recognition. The way his body reacted when Imoved closer afterwards. The way his breath caught when I swallowed the cream.
I roll onto my side and pull one of his pillows against my chest before I can stop myself. It fits there far too easily. My cheek sinks into the fabric; the scent is stronger now, intimate in a way that makes my throat tighten.
If it was me.
If, somewhere in his head, without permission or planning, his mind went there with me.
My fingers curl into the pillowcase. I don’t smile. I don’t panic. I just lie there and feel the weight of it settle, warm and dangerous.
A noise outside makes my heart jump. Nothing comes of it. Just the building settling. A car passing. Life continuing to mind its own business.
I exhale slowly and sit up, pulse loud in my ears.
I place the pillow back exactly where it was, smooth the duvet until there’s no sign I’ve been here at all. I straighten the shirts once more, unnecessarily.
At the door, I pause and glance back at the bed.
I don’t look long.
Some spaces aren’t meant to be lingered in. Some thoughts don’t need saying yet.
And some men leave their scent in places that make it very hard to pretend nothing is happening.
I’m chopping fruit like it’s preventative medicine.
Apple. Banana. Grapes, because Geoff will absolutely notice if none of the fruit has been eaten. He does this infuriatingly casual glance at the bowl when he comes in, like he’s checking the vibe, then later asks if I’ve had any fruit today. As if it’s a coincidence.
I tip everything into a bowl and rinse the knife.
See. Balanced. Thriving. Nothing to discuss.
The doorbell rings.
I glance at the clock. Too early for Geoff. Ivy would’ve texted.
I wipe my hands and open the door.
“Christa! It is so lovely to meet you in person, my dear.”
I blink.
That’s all I get before she’s inside the flat, handbag already on the console like it’s always lived there, coat halfway off, smile wide and triumphant. A mountain of shopping bags discarded in the middle of the room. Mrs Corbin moves with the confidence of a woman who considers front doors a polite suggestion.
“Oh,” I manage. “Hello, Mrs Corbin.”
“Pish posh, call me Elizabeth. I’m Mrs Corbin when commanding the WI. For family, I’m Elizabeth… or Mum.” I nearly choke.
She cups my face immediately. Both hands. Warm. Maternal. Decisive.
“Yes,” she says, nodding to herself. “Much better than a video call. Screens flatten people. And I don’t trust them. You can’t tell if someone’s eating properly through a phone.”
Before I can reply, her attention drops.
