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“Were you always this cautious, before you were ill?”
He thinks again for a moment. “No. I wasn’t ever brash or cocky or anything. But I had enough confidence and self-belief to train to become a surgeon. I worked all the hours and took the first set of exams. I secured a place on a training programme, beating a lot of other people to get it. And then…and then all the chemicals in my brain decided to fuck with me. When I finally crawled out the other side, I was still me, but taking things carefully and living a different life. I reassessed.”
“Different or worse?”
He studies our hands. “Not worse, no. Different. Who knows? I might have hated surgery after ten years or burned out from it. This life is much quieter, a lot slower, and more thoughtful. But still mostly good. I have friends, an interesting job, and a nice flat.”
Fuck it, I’m going to cuddle him. From the way Luke’s inching his way towards me, he wants one, too, but he hasn’t the balls to initiate it. Bridging the gap in one move, I snake my arm around his waist and tug him into me. “Well, now you have a visually impaired admirer to add into the mix. What more could a guy need? This cuddling okay?”
“Yes.”
I press my lips to his nose, because he’s all snuggled up, and there’s very little other exposed skin I can reach. “You sure?”
“Yes. You…you somehow help me forget to be anxious.”
I swear parts of me thaw I didn’t know were frozen. “Any more of those kisses left?”
“Bucket loads,” he whispers.
CHAPTER 14
LUKE
The unmistakable and comforting aroma of frying bacon filters down to the very bottom of my lungs, pulling me from a deep and dreamless sleep. Already, my morning is better, and that’s before I remember where I am. Curled up snug in Neil’s bed, smelling Neil’s smell, his pyjamas in a heap on the pillow next to mine.
He cuddled me as I fell asleep. Hugging myself—a poor substitute for Neil—I replay the feel of his warm body enfolded around mine. Naturally, the risk-averse part of me, the part hoping for the best but always preparing for the worst, has questions. Where is this going? What if it doesn’t last more than today? What if it lasts long enough to hurt me? Is this personal growth, being here with a man with a reputation for emotional avoidance, or absurdity?
In the quiet intimacy of night, Neil spelled out his own vulnerabilities. I identify with many of them, but let’s not forget I’ve also seen him disappear into the toilets with more than one guy during the course of a single evening. Reconciling that version of Neil with the person who fed me Maltesers in thecinema and gifted me with the most sensational kissing session of my entire life will take some work.
After freshening up in the bathroom, I pluck up the courage to follow my nose into the kitchen.
“Hi, sleepyhead. Aww. Two minutes too soon. You were almost going to get breakfast on a tray in bed. I was planning on joining you.”
My bacon frying host has his back to me. Also, his legs, his shoulders, and most of his arse. I give myself whiplash with the speed I exit the kitchen. Neil is, well, he’s?—
“Hey! Where did you disappear to? I was just about to ask you how you like your eggs!”
I manage a noise, not a word, as my neurons short-circuit somewhere between the smooth planes of Neil’s back muscles and another, lower shadowy place my hands and mind haven’t yet dared contemplate. You thought the devil had horns? So did I. Turns out we’re wrong. He fries bacon on Sunday mornings, fresh from the shower and practically naked.
“Um…not as scrambled as my brain?” I croak.
Neil saunters to the archway, leaning against it. I peek at him through my fingers. He’s all heat and skin and confidence. Smirking. He knows exactly what he’s doing. My face must be scarlet.
“You don’t normally wear pyjamas in bed, do you?”
“No. I kicked them off in the middle of the night. I find them too hot and itchy.”
Fleetingly, I imagine how falling asleep cuddling him naked might feel. He glances down at himself as if reading my mind. “Are you not enjoying the view?”
I stare at a patch of wall adjacent to his head. “You’ve got nothing on.”
“The radio is on,” he says, reasonably. “The bacon, too. So, how do you want these eggs? Fried or poached?”
I dare another peek. “Fried, please.”
It’s a jock strap. White, low on his hips, and in terms of underwear, not much more than a suggestion. I’ve never seen a man wearing one in real life. Not ever. I’ve thought about it, though.
“You’re wearing almost nothing,” I correct. His right nipple has a silver piercing. Over his shoulder hangs a red tea towel. A greasy wooden spatula dangles from his hand; I switch my focus to that. “Which is worse than nothing.”
