She closes her eyes. I tell myself not to look at her thick, dark lashes floating against her slightly pink cheek. The way her hair falls perfectly at either side of her face. The little spattering of freckles across her nose. Which obviously means I look. Justbriefly. Jesus. This is exactly why I pulled back. Because my brain still does this. Still notices the details it shouldn’t. The soft curve of her mouth when she’s relaxed. The way she curls up slightly when she sleeps, making her look extra cute.
The coach hits another bump. Her head tips sideways onto my shoulder. For a second my brain stops functioning entirely. Freya is asleep on me. She jolts slightly like she’s waking up, probably realising what’s happened, and instinctively I shift just enough to steady her instead of letting her fall away.
“It’s okay,” I murmur quietly. “You can stay.”
The words come out softer than I intended.
She goes still again. Then slowly her cheek settles properly against my shoulder.
I stare straight ahead at the motorway. This is fine. I can absolutely sit here for the next however long with the woman I am trying very hard not to want resting against me like she belongs there. No problem at all.
Her hair brushes against my jaw when the coach turns. She smells like clean soap and vanilla.
Don’t think about it. Donotthink about it.
My arm is resting along the armrest and every now and then the movement of the coach shifts her slightly closer. Which means every now and then I become very aware that she fits there. Like she’s always fit there.
I spend most of the journey looking out of the window watching the motorway give way slowly to the green folds of the Welsh countryside, telling myself repeatedly that this is normal. Friends sit next to each other. Friends fall asleep on each other. Friends definitely do not spend twenty straight minutes trying not to notice the warmth of someone’s body against theirs while willing their dick not to grow while on a bus full of kids.
Her breathing evens out properly after a while. She’s completely asleep. I should wake her when we get close but Idon’t. Because she looks exhausted and deserves the rest. But also because if I wake her, she’ll move and that thought irritates me more than it should.
The driver eventually calls back that we’re ten minutes away. Freya stirs slightly against my shoulder. Her eyelashes flutter.
“Morning,” I say quietly.
She blinks up at me, confused for a moment before awareness floods her expression.
“Oh my god.” She jerks upright instantly. “I fell asleep.”
“You did.”
“On you.”
“Also true.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
Which it is. Which is exactly the problem.
The coach pulls into the gravel car park of the outdoor centre and the children erupt instantly like someone has set off fireworks.
“WE’RE HERE!”
Teachers start herding them off the bus with the strained patience of people who know the next few days will be chaos. Freya stands to grab Theo’s bag from the rack above and our hands collide reaching for the same strap.
“Sorry,” she says again.
We step down from the coach into cold Welsh air that smells like damp earth and wood smoke. The kids immediately scatter across the field like caffeinated squirrels.
“Stay where we can see you!” someone shouts.
Theo runs straight over carrying his bag like it weighs nothing.
“Mum! We’re in tents!”
“I’m aware.”
