“Would I?”
“Yes, you would. But you won’t, or I will hurt you.”
“Yeah? How?”
“Next time Gemma calls I’ll tell her you’re at the clap clinic.”
“You f—”
I laughed. Quietly, because of the creeping stiffness at the back of my neck. “I think we understand each other. Night, then.”
I shivered on entering the bathroom. Or maybe it was a shudder, born of nervous energy. I’d escaped but only momentarily. The guy was living here now and I’d been unable to come up with any excuse to say no, strike him off the list, beyond, “He distracts me from getting shit done.” So I’d remained silent as I signed the paperwork, told myself to think about the rent money.
The twink. The twink in accounting. Ask him out. If—when—it all goes tits-up, you won’t have to see him nearly as much as you do Steven.
This could not end well.
I told myself the slight trembling in my hands as I opened the bathroom cabinet was down to the migraine aura, the premonition, the calm before the storm. If I took enough painkillers, got enough peace and quiet, there was a chance I could avoid the worst of it.
“Fuck.” Even removing the strip’s backing was a bit too much for me to manage, and I sank onto the edge of the bath, waiting for my head to stop spinning.
“You okay?”
I lifted my head and the stiffness in the back of my neck became an ache. “Yeah.” It was a lie, but he didn’t know the exact truth of what I felt.
“I was just on my way to my room to make a start on sorting all my things out. Thought I heard you say something.” Steven leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, and the sight of his muscles tautening made me feel sick.
“Just said ‘fuck’, that’s all.” I hung my head, reasoning it was better than looking at him, and fiddled with the peel-off backing on the damn painkilling strip. The nausea was completely unrelated to the burgeoning migraine and no amount of medication would cure it.
“You often swear to an empty room?” His voice neared me; funny how I was more aware of that than his footsteps.
“Yeah, when I can’t get this fucking thing sorted,” I muttered, wishing he’d back off and stop making me want him. Maybe it was because it had been an embarrassingly long time since I’d got laid. I’d barely know what to do if he came onto me no matter how much I wanted him to. I wished he wouldn’t, though. Prayed he wouldn’t.
“Here. Let me.”
“No, it’s fine, I—”
But he sat beside me on the edge of the bath and took the strip out of my hand. “Tiff’s hands always go a bit funny when she’s ill as well.”
“Tiff?”
“My sister. Tiffany.” Steven frowned as he used a fingernail to separate the strip from the peel-off backing. “There. Done it. Yeah, her hand-eye coordination’s shot when she gets a migraine. You put this on the back of your neck?”
“Thanks. I’ll—” I shivered as soon as the cooling gel touched my neck and Steven’s hand curved against me, pressing the strip into place.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered, like we were in a library or hospital waiting room, rather than a bathroom. His voice was so low it didn’t even echo against the tiles and porcelain.
“Cold. It’s…” I stared at my feet, willing him to lift his hand away, but if he kept it there, I’d start to get used to it, start to want other things. I didn’t deal well with wanting. It always left me unsatisfied. “Cold.” I rolled my shoulders, but his hand stayed put.
“Does this stick to your neck, then? I’ve—”
“Yeah, it…” I made the mistake of watching his mouth. “It’s all right, I’ve got it. You can…”
“Need anything else?”
“No. Yes.” What the fuck did you say that for?
Steven laughed, a close-lipped huff, barely more than a smile with the quietest of breaths behind it. “Make up your mind.”
“I have trouble thinking straight when I’m distracted.”
“You’re distracted? I thought you said you didn’t have a migraine? This was just a precaution?”
“Yeah, well, sometimes worrying about something happening makes it come”—my speech slowed when his other hand snaked round to the back of my neck— “about.”
Steven inhaled deeply. Held it. “You seem…” He cocked his head and breathed out just as slowly. “Tightly wound.”
“You’ve got both hands on my neck.”
“Am I hurting you?”
“No, but…” Every muscle in my body wound itself even tighter. The position I was in, made awkward by such tension, ensured I’d have some sore spots in the morning unless I moved or relaxed soon. The first option wasn’t all that attractive; the second, impossible. I gripped the edge of the bath with both hands, knees pointing forward but head turned towards Steven. I could have balanced myself more comfortably by leaning a little closer to him, but if I even brushed his leg accidentally, I’d not stop there.
“Kit.” He cocked his head further, his brow furrowed in scrutiny. “Why don’t people call you Chris?”
“Do I look like a Chris to you?”
“No, you look like a bad-tempered so-and-so.” But he smiled as he said it, then leaned in closer. “Grumpy.”
“Why have you still got your hands on me, then?”
“I’m being the Good Samaritan.”
“By holding my head up?”
“Yeah.” He pressed his lips together, nodded and said again, so quietly, “Yeah.” He trailed his thumbs lightly over my jaw and I startled, though not enough for him to break contact.
“Steven.”
“What is it?”
“You’ve only lived here five minutes. This is a bit…”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“No, but you…” Those thumbs, that light trace, the electricity under my skin, none of that came from Steven being the Good Samaritan, the helpful housemate, the guy I could count on in a crisis. And if he didn’t fucking stop, it’d become even more obvious what he did to me.
“I’ll admit I was thinking of it,” Steven said.
“Why haven’t you done anything about it? If you were thinking about it, I mean?”
“You seem a bit jumpy to
