Then I remember. Finn’s flat. Last night.
He’s sprawled on his back, the pillow above his head, one arm tucked beneath mine. Even asleep, there’s an intensity about him that makes the room seem fuller.
My eyes adjust to the half-light filtering through a bent blind.
Oh yeah, I’m in Finn Lennox’s actual bedroom.
I attempt a reconnaissance mission without disturbing him. The wall behind his bed is painted matte black – bold choice, but unsurprising considering his hair – with a framed 90s Chicago Bulls jersey mounted in the centre. Signed by Rodman and likely worth more than my monthly mortgage payment.
An impressive collection of trainers lines the wall opposite, each pair squeaky clean and arranged by colour. His rugby kit occupies a corner.
The sheets beneath me are crisp linen. No satin or silk or anything that screams ‘I seduce ladies here on the reg’. They smell of fabric softener and him – that addictive combination.
A weighted blanket sits folded at the foot of the bed. For his nightmares? That night on the sofa, when his panic unlatched something between us, I stayed because I couldn’t leave. That night was the start of it, and I’ve been catching up ever since. I fell bit by bit and didn’t feel the drop until now.
My gaze drifts, searching for something to hold on to.
No photos or plants. No pieces of himself or his past on display. Two full bookshelves, though. I squint to make out titles. Looks like sports autobiographies, yes, but also fantasy paperbacks with sprayed edges.
I’m still tracing the way his breath moves under my cheek when his phone’s alarm blares, a jarring electronic jingle that shatters the quiet.
Finn groans, burying his face in the pillow as he fumbles for the snooze button. ‘Hngh. Five more minutes.’
‘No rest for the wicked.’
He pulls me closer and finds the curve of my waist. ‘Morning, List Girl.’
‘Morning, Rugby God.’
‘Don’t call me that.’ He presses his nose into my hair. ‘It’s weird.’
‘You are weird.’
He grins, his breath hot against my ear. ‘But you like it.’
‘Maybe.’
’And I like you here. In my bed, in my shirt, with your hair all witchy.’
‘It’s not witchy!’ I don’t argue further, mostly because I’m suddenly too aware of the way we’re wound into each other and how lovely that feels. I let my eyes roam again.
‘You cataloguing my possessions?’ His voice is sleep-rough and amused.
‘I’m merely assessing the environment. Didn’t really get the chance last night.’
‘And what’s your assessment?’ His mouth curls upward.
‘That you’re surprisingly tidy for someone who oozes so much chaos.’
He draws his fingertips up my back along my spine. ‘Chaos has its place in the world.’
‘And that place is everywhere except your bedroom?’
‘This room is for sleeping.’ He opens one eye, a startling shade of sky blue in the dim light. ‘Usually.’
‘Oi! We did sleep.’
‘Aye, eventually.’ There’s that smug little smirk in his voice again.
