sit down in it, before sorting out mugs, and selecting teabags. "You feeling okay?"
I nod.
"What did you want to see me about?" I ask, clawing back a thread of what we were meant to be doing. "Something you got in the post, from Oz, or whatever."
"It can wait until tomorrow," he shrugs, and leans back against the counter, folding his arms and tapping on his own shoulder with a teaspoon. "I think you could use a decent night's sleep before then."
"Yeah, I know," I sigh. I feel embarrassed about crying, and awkward that he feels responsible for me. "Sorry about earlier, I don't know…"
"No, it was me," he interrupts. "I wasn't thinking before opening my mouth."
"It's no big deal, you could have dropped me off home."
"I didn't want to."
I stop before protesting any more, because he looks at me steadily for a moment, and I feel suddenly like an animal does when frozen in front of car headlights. Knowing that something is coming fast, but not what it is. The kettle boils on cue, and he looks away again to make the tea.
I get to my feet, not sure whether I want to try and escape or what else is bothering me, but he's already ahead of me in that sense.
"You can watch me make it," he says calmly, pouring out the water. "I won't put anything in it. Not even aspirin."
He turns to the refrigerator to get the milk out, and looks me in the eyes again briefly. I sense an unspoken challenge.
"It's okay, I'm just going to the bathroom," I say, taking a deep breath. "You go ahead, I trust you."
I don't wait for a response, but head through the living-room, towards the small downstairs shower and toilet next to the study/office. I shut myself in, lean on the sink, and breathe slowly until I feel calm again. Then I shed my work blazer, use the toilet and wash my hands.
The stupid thing is, I don't even know why I'm panicking, unless it's just because he's seen me cry, which is new. I feel more vulnerable now because of that. But it's true. I do trust him. Whether that's wise or not, I don't know yet either.
I just don't seem to have any control over my adrenaline response.
I emerge from the bathroom carrying my jacket, just as he's switching off the kitchen lights, holding the two mugs of tea in one hand. He crosses the living-room towards me, takes my hand with his free one and gives me a kiss on the lips. It feels like a silent thank-you.
"Bedtime," he says. "You can borrow my t-shirt again."
I just nod, and follow him upstairs.
"You know, I have seen your underwear once already," he says, teasing, emerging from the walk-in wardrobe wearing pyjama bottoms and nothing else. Which I try not to notice, as I push my clothes out from under the bedcover where I'm hiding modestly, and quickly pull his t-shirt on over my head, wriggling it down my body under the covers. He clicks his tongue theatrically, picks my stuff up from the floor beside the bed, and puts it on a nearby chair. "Shouldn't have done that. Out of reach now for the morning."
"I'll just have to make sure I get up before you."
"Like to see you try," he chuckles, and stands by the edge of the bed, draining the last of his tea, before putting his empty mug down next to mine. "No bets, I am actually getting under the covers this time. Is that okay with you?"
"It's your bed," I mutter, feeling myself colour slightly, and mentally measuring the amount of space likely to be between us before he gets in, wondering if I should inch back a bit to make more room. When he picks up the corner of the duvet and sits down, I scoot back automatically, worried that the mattress might suddenly dip in the middle, pitching me into an involuntary tangle. But he's careful, pulling the covers up to his chest once he's settled, and we're lying side-by-side quite platonically. Again though, with the adrenaline problem. My pulse feels like it's going to blow my eardrums if it doesn't slow down.
"Do you want me to leave the lamp on?" he asks, indicating the bedside light.
"Maybe for a
I nod.
"What did you want to see me about?" I ask, clawing back a thread of what we were meant to be doing. "Something you got in the post, from Oz, or whatever."
"It can wait until tomorrow," he shrugs, and leans back against the counter, folding his arms and tapping on his own shoulder with a teaspoon. "I think you could use a decent night's sleep before then."
"Yeah, I know," I sigh. I feel embarrassed about crying, and awkward that he feels responsible for me. "Sorry about earlier, I don't know…"
"No, it was me," he interrupts. "I wasn't thinking before opening my mouth."
"It's no big deal, you could have dropped me off home."
"I didn't want to."
I stop before protesting any more, because he looks at me steadily for a moment, and I feel suddenly like an animal does when frozen in front of car headlights. Knowing that something is coming fast, but not what it is. The kettle boils on cue, and he looks away again to make the tea.
I get to my feet, not sure whether I want to try and escape or what else is bothering me, but he's already ahead of me in that sense.
"You can watch me make it," he says calmly, pouring out the water. "I won't put anything in it. Not even aspirin."
He turns to the refrigerator to get the milk out, and looks me in the eyes again briefly. I sense an unspoken challenge.
"It's okay, I'm just going to the bathroom," I say, taking a deep breath. "You go ahead, I trust you."
I don't wait for a response, but head through the living-room, towards the small downstairs shower and toilet next to the study/office. I shut myself in, lean on the sink, and breathe slowly until I feel calm again. Then I shed my work blazer, use the toilet and wash my hands.
The stupid thing is, I don't even know why I'm panicking, unless it's just because he's seen me cry, which is new. I feel more vulnerable now because of that. But it's true. I do trust him. Whether that's wise or not, I don't know yet either.
I just don't seem to have any control over my adrenaline response.
I emerge from the bathroom carrying my jacket, just as he's switching off the kitchen lights, holding the two mugs of tea in one hand. He crosses the living-room towards me, takes my hand with his free one and gives me a kiss on the lips. It feels like a silent thank-you.
"Bedtime," he says. "You can borrow my t-shirt again."
I just nod, and follow him upstairs.
"You know, I have seen your underwear once already," he says, teasing, emerging from the walk-in wardrobe wearing pyjama bottoms and nothing else. Which I try not to notice, as I push my clothes out from under the bedcover where I'm hiding modestly, and quickly pull his t-shirt on over my head, wriggling it down my body under the covers. He clicks his tongue theatrically, picks my stuff up from the floor beside the bed, and puts it on a nearby chair. "Shouldn't have done that. Out of reach now for the morning."
"I'll just have to make sure I get up before you."
"Like to see you try," he chuckles, and stands by the edge of the bed, draining the last of his tea, before putting his empty mug down next to mine. "No bets, I am actually getting under the covers this time. Is that okay with you?"
"It's your bed," I mutter, feeling myself colour slightly, and mentally measuring the amount of space likely to be between us before he gets in, wondering if I should inch back a bit to make more room. When he picks up the corner of the duvet and sits down, I scoot back automatically, worried that the mattress might suddenly dip in the middle, pitching me into an involuntary tangle. But he's careful, pulling the covers up to his chest once he's settled, and we're lying side-by-side quite platonically. Again though, with the adrenaline problem. My pulse feels like it's going to blow my eardrums if it doesn't slow down.
"Do you want me to leave the lamp on?" he asks, indicating the bedside light.
"Maybe for a
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