I should move. Should peel myself away from him and remember all the reasons why falling for Finn Lennox is career suicide and emotional roulette and a bad, bad idea.
Well. Too damn late. I’ve already started rewriting the calendar. May’s not an end anymore. So I burrow closer. Because there’s nowhere else I want to be.
His thigh is snug between mine, scratchy hair against my calf. He does that thing again where he drags the tip of his nose along my neck.
‘You smell like my sheets now,’ he murmurs.
‘And you smell like last night.’
‘Mhm. That was a good one.’ Finn nuzzles closer, arm banding around my middle. He reaches under the hem of the shirt I’m wearing – his, obviously – and rests his palm against my belly. As if he’s checking I’m still there.
This is nice.
So, so nice.
My foot finds his under the duvet and we toe-wrestle lazily until he cheats and traps mine between both of his.
The alarm rings again.
Finn sighs, reluctantly reaching for his phone to silence it. ‘We have to feed your wee ginger demon.’
‘I know.’ I ease out from his arms, sit up, and push my hair back like I’m about to ask a serious question. ‘But… Didn’t you say something about one morning, two pussies?’
Yeah, I went there. This is what has become of me, courtesy of Finlay Lennox.
‘Aye.’ He beams as he pulls me up. ‘And one busy tongue.’
* * *
By the time I’ve come twice and am finally scraping tuna into Elvis’s bowl, my cat’s side-eying me as if I’ve committed high treason.
‘It was twelve hours. You had three hot water bottles.’
He sniffs, circles once, then grudgingly eats, showing me his little bum.
Finn leans in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his jeans, hoodie still creased from the car. His hair’s damp from the drizzle, and there’s a faint smear of toothpaste on his collar.
‘Is he always this dramatic?’ Finn asks.
‘He’s used to being the only man in my life. You’re encroaching on his turf.’
‘Tough shit. I’ve got better arms.’
I roll my eyes, but yeah. He’s not wrong.
Finn moves to the cupboard as if he’s lived here for years and reaches for the tin behind the oats without needing to check. Then he measures the leaves with precision, fills the kettle, and wipes yesterday’s tea ring off the counter with the hem of his sleeve.
‘You’ve memorised my kitchen.’
‘Not hard. You’ve got seven things in here.’
He moves through my flat with the same economy he carries on the pitch. As if he’s mapped every corner already.
I sit first on the couch, and he joins me without comment, stretching his legs until they press against the opposite armrest. His sock has a hole at the toe. I see it. He doesn’t bother to hide it.
We folded the sofa bed away ages ago. He’s stayed in my bed since that morning and hasn’t had a single nightmare.
‘This isn’t the worst place I’ve slept,’ he says calmly.
