Page 81 of While I’m Still Here

Danny pushes away from the counter. “Fletcher.”

“I don't like you very much right now.”

“That's fair.”

“I may like you less tomorrow.”

“Also fair.”

“And if she changes her mind at any point, you stop.”

Danny's amusement disappears. “Obviously.”

Colin pauses. Then, “Good, then help our girl check something off her list.”

My hands are trembling, and I know Danny can see it. But he doesn’t shut it down. He steps forward, fingers brushing the zipper at the back of my dress, letting it rest there.

“This is insane,” I whisper.

“We passed insane about ten minutes ago.” Danny’s breath is warm against my neck. “Do you want to stop?”

I think of cancer. Of later. Of the notebook at home and all the blank pages still waiting to be filled. And then I think of Colin’s voice in the speaker, patient and wanting and here, even when he isn’t.

“No,” I say. “I don’t want to stop.”

A voice comes from the door—Sarah from accounts—asking if anyone’s seen the milk. Danny’s hand freezes on my zipper. I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart hammering underneath, and call out, “Just a sec!”

My voice sounds foreign. Too bright. Sarah mutters something about the fridge and her footsteps fade down the corridor.

The silence that follows is thick enough to chew. Danny exhales, forehead dropping to mine. “That was close.”

“She’ll be back. She always comes back for her tea.”

“Then we’d better be quick.”

His hands find my waist, and he lifts me, just like that, like I weigh nothing, like my bones are made of paper. The counter is cold against the backs of my thighs. The biscuit tin rattles. I grip his shoulders for balance, and my dress rides up, pooling around my hips.

The phone sits on the counter beside me. Colin’s breathing is a faint static hum.

“Are you still there?” I whisper.

“I’m here.” His voice is tight. “Tell me what’s happening.”

I look at Danny. He’s watching me with an expression I’ve never seen on him before—hunger stripped of its usual humour, raw and patient and terrified all at once.

“He’s…” I swallow. “He’s lifted me onto the counter.”

“Good,” Colin says. “Keep going.”

Danny’s fingers hook into the waistband of my knickers. He doesn’t pull them down—just tugs them aside, the elastic biting into my hip. The cool air hits me, and I gasp. “Bea.” Danny’s voice is rough. “Look at me.”

I do. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, the usual cocky glint replaced by something desperate. He nudges my knees apart with his hips, settling between them, and I feel the hard press of him through his trousers. “This is what you want?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Say it again.”

“Yes, Danny. Please.”