‘Yeah, I remember.’
Being close to him is a bad idea, I know that. My body doesn’t. It perks up like it’s been waiting for this. Silly body. This isn’t about wanting; it’s about work. Practice.
I shuffle closer until my hip is pressed against his. He lifts his arm, and I lean into his side, resting my head on his shoulder. He drapes his arm around me, his fingers toying with the sleeve of my jumper.
It’s awkward for all of ten seconds.
Then he settles, and I settle. The blanket is cosy, and the room is quiet except for the opening credits of the film. He strokes hypnotising, soothing circles on my arm with his thumb.
Elvis leaps onto the sofa, pads directly onto Finn’s lap, circles twice, and collapses into a purring ball of fur. I’m flabbergasted. My traitorous cat is now seriously snuggled up with the intruder. Finn lets out a content little rumble, a low vibration that I feel through my entire body. He shifts slightly to accommodate the cat, his arm tightening around me.
‘See? The whole family’s here.’
My brain fumbles for a foothold, for an argument, a reason to pull away. This is not real. It’s a means to an end. But my body isn’t listening. My body is sinking into him, lulled by the movement of his thumb and the rhythmic purr of my cat.
Humans benefit from occasional, non-threatening touch. It’s a socio-biological fact. I’m merely fulfilling an evolutionary need. It’s safe, I tell myself. It’s safe because it doesn’t mean anything.
On the screen, a man is being hailed as the fake messiah. Here on my sofa, I’m being held by a real man who feels like salvation, and tonight, I let myself believe the lie.
* * *
The credits roll, the jaunty whistling tune that feels entirely too cheerful for the sudden silence in my living room. I am no longer just a woman watching a film; I am a woman watching a film with Finlay Lennox sprawled on her sofa bed, my cat asleep on his thighs, my hip welded to his.
I untangle myself, the loss of his warmth is immediate and unwelcome. ‘Bedtime, I think.’
Finn stretches, and it makes the muscles in his arms bunch under his T-shirt. Elvis grumbles in protest.
‘Aye, captain.’ Finn gingerly moves the cat onto a cushion. ‘Bathroom’s free?’
‘All yours.’
He nods, gets up, and disappears inside, closing the door behind him. I start folding the blanket to restore order. I hear him moving around in there, the dull clack of the toilet seat, the squeak of a tap. It’s all so normal. So domestic. And slightly weird.
The bathroom door opens, but I don’t look up from my vigorous cushion-plumping.
‘I was looking for the towels.’ His voice is different. It’s laced with a specific kind of amusement.
I turn slowly.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, holding my Rabbit as if it’s a priceless archaeological find. It’s bright purple, unmistakable, and currently the sole cause of my impending death by spontaneous human combustion.
My brain ceases all function. My mouth opens, but only a small, strangled squeak comes out.
‘Found this little fella in the drawer under the sink,’ he continues with that smug, shit-stirring sparkle in his eyes. ‘Seems friendly.’
‘Give. Me. That.’ The words are a low, furious hiss. And the heat on my face could power the whole grid.
He doesn’t move, just inspects it with a connoisseur’s eye. ‘It’s a classic. Good choice. Reliable motor, I’ve heard.’ He throws me a gaze with an infuriating glint that means he’s having the time of his life. ‘Self-care is important, Theo. Good for you.’
He says it with such breezy sincerity that I’m momentarily disarmed. There is no judgement in his tone, only cheeky approval. Gil would’ve recoiled, wounded pride and quiet disappointment. He’d have said something like, ‘I didn’t realise you needed that sort of thing.’ Followed by sighs and a silence that said I’d let him down. It would’ve become another thing I kept hidden.
God, I’m so glad we never lived together.
But Finn’s acceptance invites closeness I am not prepared for.
‘It’s for…muscle tension,’ I ramble.
‘Aye, I bet it is. The best kind of muscle tension.’ He strolls forward and places it gently on the small coffee table, as if it’s a perfectly normal appliance. ‘Night, little guy.’
